Our type of boy.
I’ve attached a photo. What do you make of it? Doesn’t the guy resemble Ian Wyatt from third-period arithmetic? Same pale skin and angular features. But this boy looks mature, almost serious to a point of sadness.
He seems devastating in every way.
The portrait inspired me. I decided to write a few thoughts about him into my notebook, but my pen ran out of ink, so I opened the desk to search for one. I pulled too hard, and the drawer popped off its tracks. That’s when I found the weirdness—a bundle of unopened letters tucked behind the compartment, each addressed to a Josephine De Clare.
Should I read the letters? Dad might’ve left them for me. Probably not. I mean, they look rather dated. The paper is brown and brittle, and the handwriting is faded.
I want them to be from Dad. After everything that happened, I just want to make sense of the pain, understand why it happened to me. Maybe I need to find myself, or something cliché like that. But I feel lost at sea, and I’m not sure what being found even means.
Thanks for staying friends with me. I won’t get oversentimental because tears—even a drop—might dissolve these letters. Just know Dad loved you. I love you.
Please tell me to read the letters.
Josie
P.S. I also found a box of old papers beneath the bookcase!!!
(Sent from iPhone)
TWO
ELIAS
April 15, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Not a day passes without thoughts of our fortuitous meeting. I think fondly of that night and the conversation we shared. Despite its brevity, our dialogue left an impression on me, which I cannot forget. I understand we have not engaged in an environment deemed socially appropriate. However, I feel the need to propose we begin a correspondence. Your wisdom and frankness lead me to believe only you can understand my situation. This was proven by your astute observations during our time together.
My father died a month ago. I barely knew him, yet I mourn him with a ferocity that makes little sense to me. I loathed his estate and his widow, hence my quick departure from it. Indeed, I disliked every aspect of him, from the smell of his library to the way he sliced his venison.
I now reside at Cadwallader Manor—my father’s northernmost property. Arthur Banes, my closest friend, and his cousin Lorelai Glas join me here. Their company eases the ache of grief or loneliness—or whatever emotions linger after a parent’s death. In truth, I thought myself immune to the loss of Father. I thought myself immune to most emotions, especially those attached to such a man.
The Roch fortune belongs to me—Lord Roch’s bastard. Though not quite nineteen years of age, already I am considered the richest man north of Newcastle. The wealth should appease me, for I spent my childhood preparing for it. I attended Eton College and obeyed my father’s commands. Not once did I rebel against his wishes. Even when my mother—who served as a maid in the Roch household—perished from winter fever, I remained at school in submission to Lord Roch.
Fortune has not satisfied me. Rather, it has created an emptiness. Perhaps I am ungrateful. The inheritance provides status and opportunities a bastard should not be allowed. Tell me—what do you think of my situation? I would appreciate your candour regarding this matter, for you are the first lady to address me with plain, honest speech. No practiced formalities. No wary application of the etiquette that governs relations between men and women.
Recently I have found myself in an ill humour far more disagreeable than my usual temperament. I suppose the moors have altered me. Cadwallader Manor, large and dreary, receives a great deal less sunlight than my father’s home in the south. Cigar smoke from a previous owner clings to the walls. Candles burn tirelessly in a waged war against the darkness. Often I find the night more amicable, for at least the stars offer some consolation.
My housekeeper, Mrs. Dunstable, insists I replace my city clothes, which she starches and presses each morning, with wool garments. She fears my health declines, for I have not a dry head since my departure from the Roch estate, and my clothes remain in an almost-constant state of dampness. Outdoors the mud runs deep enough to swallow one’s ankles. Inside, however, the fires burn smoky and weak. I must admit—a splash of brandy from time to time seems to best ease the chills.
At present, Arthur plays his violin in the parlour. He prefers to practice after breakfast, when Lorelai retreats to the drawing room for an hour of watercolour. His music echoes up the stairwell and fills my study with squealing notes. Rapturous songs do not appeal to him. Instead, he performs melancholic pieces, which magnify the house’s already haunted ambience.
He and I became friends during our time at Eton. You may recall a few of the stories I shared, ones about secret parties in the boarding house and night-time trips to the local tavern. Arthur was involved in all misadventures. Of course I would like to blame him for our frequent punishment, but I must accept responsibility. I was rowdy and liked to anger the headmaster, for he treated me poorly due to my illegitimate birth.
Eton College prides itself on rearing boys from distinguished families. The school offers a superior education and lack of coddling—qualities which attracted my father. Lord Roch wanted me to grow into a strong man, not spend my youth in the servants’ quarters, where people showed affection. Roch men, even the
