No lady should feel obligated to bathe a gentleman or empty his chamber pot.
Four days ago, I regained total consciousness. My fever broke, and my breaths grew deeper. The doctor said I shall not fully recover for a month or so, but I am fortunate to be alive. Few people who contract winter fever regain their health.
I must draw this letter to a close, for my hand trembles with fatigue. I cannot sit up for long periods of time. Even the simplest movements exhaust me.
Josephine, the fever played tricks on my mind. I saw you at my bedside and heard your voice. I dreamt of you whenever the illness trapped me within sleep. Once I saw you reading in my alcove. I called your name, but you did not hear me. In that moment I wondered if death would end our separation. I inched closer to that promise of peace.
My agony seemed endless. I shook with chills. I ached and gasped, the pain so intense I experienced it even in slumber. And yet the more I suffered, the more vivid you became. I touched you, felt your cheek against my fingertips.
Truly, I would repeat the illness if it meant I could hold you again.
A letter arrived from Bath. Josephine De Clare no longer resides at 11 Great Pulteney Street. According to the current resident, Miss De Clare travelled north to her family home in Morpeth. The village is but a half-day’s ride from Cadwallader. Once I am well and liberated from this dismal bed, I shall venture there and determine whether Miss De Clare is you.
I pray you’re in Morpeth.
Elias
November 20, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I grow stronger by the day. Although I cannot walk more than a few steps, I sit up and eat on my own. The progress satisfies me, for I loathe constant attention.
Lorelai continues to tend to my needs. This past week she helped me eat, drink, and perform other human functions. The doctor told her such care was unsuitable for a lady. However, she disagreed and continued to nurse me, stating that sensibility, when chosen before the needs of others, resembled impudence. Mrs. Dunstable even offered to relieve her so she might wash, but Lorelai refused. I must credit her—she has more gumption than I believed possible.
Mrs. Dunstable and the maid brought a chaise lounge into my room. Each morning they guide me to the chair so I can lie near the window. Sunlight does wonders. It brightens my mood and keeps the chill away. For hours I bask in its warmth and watch blackbirds swoop across the grey sky. I gaze at frost as it paints small silver branches on the windowpane.
Lorelai reads to me until I doze. Then she needlepoints or watercolours. She prods me awake for afternoon tea and forces at least two scones down my throat, claiming I look gaunt. We share memories of Arthur and discuss literature until dinner.
Nothing could repay her kindness. When I thrashed with fever, she slept on my bedroom floor. She filled a vase with heather and put it on a side table to lift my spirits.
I owe her a great deal.
She cried when I first regained consciousness, then made me promise not to die. Now, before I retire each night, she visits my chambers and refuses to leave until I restate that promise.
Her sister died from consumption at age thirteen, a tragedy which resulted in Lorelai’s aptitude for caregiving. She worked as a nurse until the disease caused her sister to waste away. Indeed, life and loss go hand in hand.
The weather seems pleasant from my window. I sit with a quilt tucked around my legs and a pillow nestled against the small of my back. God willing, my strength will return before Christmas. I should like to host a gathering, perhaps invite the Glas and Banes Families.
Lorelai just entered the room with a tea tray. She insists I finish this letter and eat a scone before I—as she lovingly puts it—shrivel into an emaciated raisin.
Yours ever,
Elias
November 26, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I went outdoors for the first time in ages. Lorelai and Mrs. Dunstable helped me descend the staircase, an endeavour which consumed half an hour. They guided me into the herb garden, to a bench situated among rosemary plants.
My legs shook from the exertion. Since the fever I have walked no farther than a few yards at once. Sweat poured down my face, and a dull beat sounded in my ears. However, the discomfort faded once I submerged myself in the crisp breeze and idyllic quiet.
Winter arrived during my illness. Ice glossed the estate. A dusting of snow coated the ground, making the hills appear as though they were powdered with confection sugar.
Lorelai sat with me while I enjoyed the fresh air. She mentioned her family, no more upstanding than my own. Her brother lives in London with his slew of improper relations. Her parents reside in Dover and prefer social functions to the companionship of their children.
I was not the only child exiled by his father. At seven years old, Lorelai was sent to live with the Banes Family so her parents could travel abroad.
When we are children, we see our parents as moral authorities. We believe them all-knowing and unafraid, perhaps even blameless. But as we get older, we realize our mothers are just girls with babies, and our fathers are boys who do their best.
All children bear the collective weight of their parents’ behaviours, their upbringing, every praise and criticism. We are moulded by our circumstances, but we are not our parents’ mistakes.
We are not the errors inflicted upon us.
The past few weeks have opened my eyes. All this time I sulked and brooded though joys surrounded me, waiting to be chosen. I overlooked the blessings in my life, for they were not the blessings I desired.
