I shall miss her company, for the estate seems large and desolate when I am alone. Perhaps I shall travel next year. Edward and Mary Rose invited me to tour with them for the social season, attend parties, stay with affluent connections. I am inclined to accept.
No reply has arrived from 11 Great Pulteney Street. I check the post each afternoon, hoping for news of you. Lorelai tells me not to worry. She believes I shall receive a response despite the social season’s end. Oh, how I pray you are the Josephine De Clare in Bath.
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I still wait for you.
October 11, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
There’s a stack of letters in my desk drawer. It grows a bit higher each month, the papers various sizes, all sealed with red wax and addressed to you. Although no word has arrived from Bath, I cannot help but wonder if sending the letters, reintroducing myself in such a manner after nearly a year apart, is a wise decision. You may have forgotten our meeting or secured an appropriate match.
Beyond those concerns, I worry you will not fancy me. I am not a brawny man, nor do I speak how I write. If you recall, I am rather diffident, perhaps even comical at times. Arthur and I got on for that reason. I muck about more than I should. Truly, my pen gives me a bold persona, but I am known for being quiet and sarcastic. I would never dare make these sentiments known if not for what you said that night. Indeed, unrequited emotions best suit me.
I cannot sleep, hence my sudden apprehension. Not even a spot of brandy calms me. I crouch on the floor of my chambers, surrounded by papers and books. For hours I worked on my novel, but the story only magnifies this ache—this desperation—within me. I fear you will deign to consider my proposal, but I also cannot stomach the notion of never speaking to you again.
You have haunted my thoughts for months. I think about your wild hair and your ridiculous laugh, how you spoke as though we have been friends since childhood. I still remember the patter of your feet as you grabbed my hands and forced me into a country dance.
My life revolved around formalities until I met you. Then, I met you, and my heart was yours. Completely. In a moment. I was yours.
Shakespeare mastered the art of romantic declaration, but I am quite poor at it, and no amount of practice seems to mend the inadequacy. Instead of endeavouring to craft an orotund sentiment, I shall state myself with plainness.
Josephine, regardless of my faults, I have one detail in my favour. I love you most ardently. If you accept my offer of courtship, and if we find ourselves inclined to marry, I promise to stand by you all the days of my life, to be your friend—the boy who kept you company that fated night—first and foremost. Upon these words, I swear it.
We met for a reason, one that must extend beyond this lopsided correspondence. Some opportunities present themselves but once, and if not seized, they are lost forever. I cannot miss this chance, so I will post the letters. Yes, I have made up my mind.
A place is only good if we keep good company there. No amount of rain or fog could dim that goodness, for the good is not contingent on circumstance, rather on the people who fill it.
I want Cadwallader to be a safe place for us, where we can grow old and be happy. I wish to show you the gorse alcove, take you on walks across the moors.
Even if you refuse my proposal, you are welcome here.
The autumn weather has caused me to develop a cough. I feel ill, another reason for my lack of sleep. Mrs. Dunstable claims my late nights will prolong the illness and prompt listless behaviour. She is likely correct. I should retire.
My novel keeps your memory close, Josephine. I hope you might read it one day. Whenever I sort through its chapters, I am reminded we are on the same page in different books, together in spirit despite our separate lives.
I anticipate a day when our stories collide again.
Yours ever,
Elias
October 13, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I am most unwell. My body rebels against me, shivering as if cold pierces my skin. I lie near the study’s fireplace, wrapped in quilts, for I cannot seem to get warm.
Rain beads on the windowpanes, and a blue haze spools between curtains, brightening the gloom like cream poured into a cup of black tea. I can almost see the cerulean pigment swirling above me. Indeed, to perish from illness while surrounded by books seems fitting, for I am more ink and paper than skin and bones.
I fear this letter may be my last. I cannot stop coughing or shaking. Earlier today Mrs. Dunstable brought me a bowl of white soup. I could not eat it, not even a spoonful. Mother experienced these same symptoms when she contracted winter fever. She struggled to breathe for two weeks until her lungs filled with bile.
I may join Arthur and my parents soon.
Lorelai packed her trunks and hired a coach to take her to London. She departs tomorrow. I do not wish to further postpone her travels, so I fake good health in her company. The charade grows challenging to maintain, for I cannot walk more than a few steps without fatiguing.
She may detect my sorry disposition when she bids farewell. What then? Will she forgo her plans to look after me? No, no. I shall not subject her to further impropriety. Perhaps Mrs. Dunstable will devise an excuse for my poor state. Already I implored her not to say a word about my illness. I told her about the letters in my desk.
Mrs. Dunstable
