I opened my mouth, but Lorelai hushed me. She restated what I had said at the ball and told me I had offended her by presuming to know what was in her best interest. She said, “How dare you cast preconceived notions upon me. I know my own mind. I decide what brings me happiness. And despite your ignorance and dismissal, I am certain of my love for you.”
She revealed she had loved me since our arrival at Cadwallader. Nevertheless, she refused to wait another day, for I had proven my inability to view her as anything more than a friend. She vowed neither to nurse my devotion to you nor stay where she was not welcome.
Her declaration and, frankly, her insults rendered me speechless. I closed my mouth. I stared at her face, spotting hints of you, not in her features, rather in the steel that supported them. She understood how I worked, saw me like gears and cogs behind a clockface.
We had become such dear friends.
Lorelai acknowledged my bond with you. She said, “I do not wish to replace her in your heart, rather join her there. People cannot love everyone the same, for no two loves are the same. Love her the way you need, but I ask—and I humble myself with these words—if you could love me in a different way. I think you do, but regardless of your feelings, I pray you will remember what I have said. I pray you will realize you are worthy of good things.”
Memories seemed to awaken within my head, gaining a fresh slant. I recalled the afternoons I had spent with Lorelai in my study, how she read on the settee while I wrote. I remembered the way she peered over my shoulder as I painted your portrait, our quiet evenings in the drawing room when we played cards and told stories. From the moment she and Arthur first entered my house, she lingered nearby, waiting for me.
I daresay we were contented all that time.
Lorelai turned to leave, but I stopped her. The idea of loving someone other than you seemed like heresy, and yet I asked her to stay. I am not sure about love, but I know I am not indifferent toward her. Indeed, much can grow from lack of indifference.
This event appears the denouement of a lifelong quest. I am not sure where to go from here or if I made the right choice. At present I sprawl within my gorse alcove while Lorelai unpacks her trunks indoors. She will stay at Cadwallader, and I will ponder what best to do.
Her family will expect an offer of marriage soon.
I shall not propose to Lorelai unless my feelings change, for the girl deserves someone who returns her affections in full. I will endeavour to make amends, however, during which time I’ll cling to the hope that one day, after such a strenuous wait, I shall hold you in my arms and whisper against your lips, “My dearest, you were worth every second.”
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I shall ride to Morpeth tomorrow.
TWENTY-TWO
THE NOVEL
News of Sebastian and Widow De Clare’s elopement left Cadwallader Park in a sullen humour. The manor’s occupants sulked about. They dined in their chambers. They whispered about Josephine’s health, for her flight to the moors had caused quite a stir. Their mood infused the house with a frigid dampness, its presence enhanced by the ash-grey dimness of a winter sun. Indeed, the Christmas ball seemed deep in the past, buried under snow and ice, snuffed by a sense of dread.
Elias ascended the staircase and wandered toward his study. He buttoned his jacket over a white waistcoat, his breath like steam in the corridor. He despised the cold, for it reminded him of Josephine’s shivering body, her final words as he carried her across the snowscape. Only a few hours separated him from that memory. A few hours of waiting and praying. A few hours spent in darkness, then at a vacant breakfast table.
A kindled fire and cup of tea would revive him.
He entered the west wing as Mr. Darling’s valet attempted to haul a portmanteau—a chest embossed with the letter J—to the servants’ stairwell.
“What are you doing with Miss De Clare’s trunk?” Elias asked.
“Lady Welby told me to carry it downstairs.” The valet tilted backward to balance the luggage on his chest. He staggered forward, ramming against a door frame.
“Downstairs?” Elias tasted the word’s connotations. He cleared his throat and waved at Anne, who crouched on the floor with a bucket and rag. “Do you know what’s happening?”
She rose onto her knees and dabbed sweat from her brow. “I overheard Josephine tell Mrs. Darling she plans to return to her mother’s cottage in Morpeth.”
“What?” Elias tensed. Josephine wouldn’t leave Cadwallader, not when she was engaged.
“The girl hasn’t recovered from the shock of . . .” Anne resumed her scrubbing, perhaps worried the butler might find her idle. “Talk to Miss De Clare. She’s in your library.”
Elias hurried to the annex. He barged into his study, the door swinging open with a clap.
Josephine sat at his desk, clothed in her mother’s grey bombazine gown and black velvet pelisse. Mrs. Darling had insisted she wear the clothes, for the heavy fabric provided more warmth than muslin.
“You’re leaving?” Elias said.
She looked over her shoulder and nodded. Her skin was like the moon. Her eyes were veined with red. “There’s nothing left for me here,” she whispered. “I must go someplace else.”
“But we’re engaged.” He crossed the room, where they’d built forts and talked for hours on end. His chest ached as though to warn him of coming pain.
Josephine rose from her chair. She gazed up at Elias’s face, her nose reddening. “Your father won’t let you marry me—”
“I’ll speak with him.” Elias cupped the back of her neck. He wanted to beg her not to lose hope, for
