The dream frightened me, so much so that I decided to visit Lucille’s knitting club. Human interaction seemed a cure for such things.
Lucille’s club meets at the Knitting Emporium on Glebe Street. They gather in a back room filled with inventory, sip tea, and gossip. They’re a pleasant bunch, hardly the old folk I expected. Members include Lucille, Dorrit, Clare, Margery, and Stuart.
Dorrit immigrated from the Scottish Highlands. She speaks with a thick accent. Really, I don’t think anyone understands her, but they all play along. Margery doesn’t look older than forty. She wears colourful bandannas and pins back her curls with knitting needles. Stuart is Lucille’s younger brother. He’s retired, but he volunteers at the local radio station. And I can’t forget Clare—the eldest of the group. She’s charming, truly a precious lady. Her parents died in the Blitz when she was five years old.
I went to the club after work. (My boss insisted I stay late to bake tarts.) A bell chimed when I entered the emporium. Lucille rushed to greet me, her wardrobe more eclectic than usual. She wore a furry jumper, lilac trousers, and bedazzled trainers.
Social media would fall in love with her.
Once I purchased red yarn and a pair of needles, Lucille walked me to the back room, where everyone sat in a circle. They introduced themselves, then asked what brought me to Atteberry. I told them about Dad, the estate, Mum’s new boyfriend. Perhaps I should’ve withheld my personal woes, but they didn’t seem to mind. They rose from their seats and surrounded me in a group hug. Not a pity hug. A sincere welcome. And for a moment I felt at home, like they wanted me to be a part of their mismatched family.
Stuart placed a foldout chair between Clare and Dorrit. I joined the circle and wound my yarn into a ball while Margery joked about her ex-husband. Clare taught me basic knitting stitches. (I may finish a scarf by Christmas.) Lucille gave an overview of the last romance novel she read and explained how to make the perfect steak-and-kidney pie.
The club meeting steadied me. I plan to go back next week. Yes, Cadwallader Manor still creaks and groans, but I feel better. Elias may sneak into my dreams. (I almost want him to find me in that hallway.) But who cares if I fancy a dead author? I have Oliver, Norman and Martha, a job, the knitting club, and I have Elias.
My existence seems rather balanced now.
Josie
P.S. Please talk to me!! I’ve had a taste of my own medicine, and it’s bitter.
FOURTEEN
ELIAS
September 24, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I write to you from a corner table within Atteberry’s public house. Night dims the bustle to smouldering conversations. Patrons bask in the amber glow from oil lamps while imbibing both ale and poor company. At this late hour, no one bothers to approach me, which seems a comfort after such a horrid day. I wish to write and sip my tea in absolute peace.
Please forgive the abrupt end to my previous letter. Mrs. Dunstable barged into my study while I wrote to you, her intrusion forcing me to stuff the papers into a drawer. I am not ashamed of my attachment to you. However, my housekeeper seems keen on me finding a wife. She demands her participation and introduces me to every young lady in her acquaintance. Although I value her opinion, I wish to avoid further involvement.
The court reconvened this morning and debated for hours. Barristers argued. Thomas Roch yelled accusations. Admiral Gipson watched from the audience, smirking as though my opposition has already won the case. His expression taunted me. It resembled the arrogance of my headmaster at Eton, the gentlefolk who called me a “leeching bastard,” and Father on multiple occasions.
All my life, someone has looked at me the way Admiral Gipson did today. I am done with it—the whispers and sneers, being treated as a pawn. Indeed, in that moment the need for an end swelled within me until I could’ve burst from it. I washed my hands of the silence.
I wanted to fight.
My barrister addressed the magistrate and pleaded my case. His words echoed through the room, muted by the audience’s murmurs. I could not bear to let another person speak on my behalf, so I cleared my throat and stood. My sudden willingness to address the court caused surprise, for everyone grew quiet. Even the admiral leaned forward in his chair.
The judge motioned for me to speak.
I said, “Your Worship, I refute the accusations made against me, for they were issued by an avaricious relative with whom I first made acquaintance in this very room. Mr. Thomas Roch did not attend family gatherings, nor did he offer his condolences after my father’s passing. In fact, I was unaware of the man’s existence until I received a court summons. He wishes to profit from my father—his distant uncle—by charging a bastard heir with fraud.
“Regarding the disputed matter of illegitimacy, I am a Roch, the only son of Lord William Catesby Roch. I was born in Durham and have resided in Atteberry for almost a year. My cousin wishes you to believe me the uneducated child of an improper union. With little civility, he attempts to slight my honour and reputation by resting his charges on my birth.
“Sir, I am an Englishman and the named heir to William Roch’s fortune. I beseech you to consider the charges against me without discrimination. I will not challenge your verdict, nor will I restate my defence. May the court judge me fairly.”
Objections rose from the crowd, followed by shouts of protest from Thomas Roch. My barrister forced me to sit and mumbled
