What’s the matter with me, Josie? Why can’t I put my fears aside? Noah wants marriage because he loves me, no strings attached. That’s just it—we shouldn’t love someone for what they give us, but because they are. We just love.
And if I love him, shouldn’t I want marriage too?
Maybe I’m afraid something bad will happen. I don’t want to get hurt, and when you love someone, you choose to be hurt by them. You give consent to the pain.
You open your heart and let the break inside.
On a lighter note, your knitting club sounds like my worst nightmare. I went to dozens of family reunions when I was a kid, and they all ended with Uncle Sal drunk-singing Mariah Carey. I’m proud of you for knitting a scarf, though.
Whoa, I didn’t notice the time. I need to wake up in six hours.
Good night, Josie. Text me when you learn more about Elias or if he makes a miraculous appearance. And finish reading his novel. It may surprise you.
Don’t forget the real people.
Faith
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Wednesday, September 6, 8:41 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Oliver McLaughlin, aka Firewood Boy
I think Oliver likes me, Faith.
Last night I went to Norman and Martha’s home for dinner. They live in a stone cottage surrounded by garden boxes and pastures. It’s a lovely house, the kind that makes you want to wear a soft jumper and drink milk tea. The whole place smells of fresh wood and scones. Ivy clings to the stone exterior. A ribbon of smoke always curls from the chimney.
Martha greeted me at the front door and led me into their sitting room—a low-ceilinged chamber with armchairs and a roaring fire. Norman sat near a bookcase, reading a hardback on World War II. He motioned for me to sit next to him. After a few minutes of hearing his stories about Oliver, I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Oliver leaned out of the kitchen and begged his grandfather to stop. He smiled at me, then returned to his cooking. He made the entire meal—Lancashire hotpot, which consisted of lamb cooked in rich gravy and covered with golden potatoes, followed by a treacle tart for dessert. Blimey, his tart was scrumptious. (It was shortcrust pastry with a lemon-ginger filling.)
We gathered around the dining table like a family. Martha and Norman talked about my father, their children and grandchildren. Oliver mentioned our efforts to collect info on Elias Roch and looked at me with the faintest smile. That’s when I knew.
He doesn’t see me as just a friend.
Ugh, I’m such a fool. I should’ve noticed the way he grins when I enter a room or how he goes above and beyond to help me. I mean, he brings firewood to my house every morning. I have so much firewood. Stacks and stacks of firewood.
On the weekends, we do renovations or road trips to various castles. We visit the pub once a week. Sometimes Oliver pays the tab.
I’ve led him on, Faith. What should I do? I don’t want to lose his friendship, but I don’t view him that way. He’s nice-looking and perfect by most standards . . .
Just not perfect for me.
Why can’t I do one thing right? I’m a mess. A lovesick, emotionally disturbed mess who hurts everyone she touches. Did I tell you about my recent madness? I strung gorse into garlands and draped them from my bedroom ceiling. I took the portrait of me from Elias’s studio and hung it downstairs like a self-obsessed heiress.
Oliver cares about me. He attended the last two knitting club meetings, perhaps to show his interest in my affairs. First time, he brought Martha’s needles and a steak pie. He charmed everyone with jokes as Clare taught him different stitches and Stuart raved about the food. No wonder Lucille begged him to return. He’s like a knitter version of Cary Grant.
To answer one of your questions, nothing is wrong with you. Explain your feelings to Noah. If he doesn’t understand, then perhaps you aren’t right for each other.
Elias fell in love with Josephine after one meeting. Norman and Martha have stayed married for over forty years despite their differences. I guess love isn’t time. It’s not past or present, here or there. It doesn’t rely on convenience or agreement.
Love—the real kind—outlasts the hard days.
Cadwallader Manor seems restless tonight as if something disturbed it. I sit on the main staircase while Nan snoozes in the foyer and floorboards creak overhead.
OMG. Nan stood up and started barking at the drawing room.
I’m scared.
Josie
(Sent from iPhone)
EIGHTEEN
ELIAS
November 8, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Winter fever came for me with a vengeance. It drained the life from my body until I stood at heaven’s doorway, a mere step from Mother and Arthur. Somehow I did not cross the threshold. I defied medical prognosis and survived. However, the illness did not depart without repercussions. It left me weak and short of breath. Even now I struggle to hold my pen.
Lorelai discovered me unconscious near my study’s fireplace. She and Mrs. Dunstable managed to carry me to my bedchamber despite their slight builds. They sent word to Atteberry’s doctor, who came post-haste. He feared I would not recover, for my lungs were flooded with bile, and no amount of coughing brought relief.
I spent weeks in a feverish sleep, my respiration so impaired my fingernails turned blue. According to Mrs. Dunstable, Lorelai decided to prolong her stay at Cadwallader Manor until I convalesced. She remained at my bedside. She washed me, gave me
