I did the same thing with Dad when he was sick. I pretended my life wasn’t falling apart. I waltzed into the hospital every day, wearing outrageous clothes and offensive smiles. I brought cupcakes to the nurses and watched sitcoms with Dad for hours. I acted as if he would get better and the whole cancer mess would fade into the past. I wouldn’t acknowledge the truth because it hurt. I wouldn’t let go, not even when I stood at Dad’s grave.
To be honest, I think part of me never left that hospital room, and I’ve been waiting all this time for my life to begin again.
Searching for Elias gives me hope. It makes me wonder if miracles do happen. I mean, what if Dad’s death led me to Cadwallader for a reason? What if someone can love me and not leave? What if “happily ever after” does exist?
Faith, I’m scared to open my eyes. Atteberry has given me so much, but I’m afraid of what’ll change or be lost when I stop waiting.
I’m afraid to close the book.
Josie
TWENTY-FOUR
ELIAS
December 3, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I did not go to Morpeth. When I awoke this morning, the trip seemed wrong. It created a knot in my stomach, added an extra weight to my legs. I just knew I was not meant to search for you in that village, perhaps because you are not there. Perhaps my soul sensed your distance. Perhaps my heart was afraid to search and not find, to love and not be loved in return.
Whatever the reason, I remained at Cadwallader. I sent a messenger instead, and I spent the rest of the morning with Lorelai. She wished to help my farmhands herd sheep into the north pasture.
Confusion plagues me. I tell myself to wait for you, but what good is waiting if you are not approaching? I wish to yell, “Come back to me,” but you have never come at all.
Oh, I must know you exist in this world. If you are a ghost, then haunt me. If you are a figment of my imagination, do appear once more, for I long to hear your voice. I need evidence of you, so I still hope for news, a day when I can post my letters.
I hope to receive your response. Truly, if you told me to wait another day, I would wait a lifetime. I would continue to write, for it was through words I found you. Through words, I reach you. And through words, I beg to keep you close.
But perhaps some loves must remain on the page.
Nothing could dim my memory of that night. We were destined to meet, for no other encounter has left me so changed. Regardless of what occurs hereafter, I want you to know why I fell in love with you, how that night—those few hours—restored my faith in the future.
Arthur and I left the Roch estate soon after Father’s death. We travelled from Durham, intending to meet Lorelai at Cadwallader. The journey was most unpleasant. Our driver elected to travel back roads riddled with holes. The carriage bounced. Then a storm came and spooked the horses. We had no other choice but to stop at a public house in Ryton.
Once we rented a pair of rooms at the inn next door, Arthur and I went to the tavern, ordered beer and meat pies, for such was our habit. He played his violin. I draped a feed sack over my head and danced to earn a few laughs. Something happened to me, though. My vision blurred, followed by a ringing in my ears, then a drumming in my chest. I yanked off the sack and stumbled toward the pub’s exit. I could not breathe. The air seemed thick in my throat.
My absence went unnoticed. Arthur continued to play his music as patrons laughed and toasted their ale. To this day, I can still hear the fuzzy echo of his merriment accompanied by my jagged breaths, the grating thrum of my heartbeat.
I turned down a corridor and ended up in a vacant assembly room. The hall was dark, illuminated by ribbons of moonlight that streamed through four large windows.
Memories struck me like waves breaking against a cliff. I saw Mother’s name engraved on a headstone and Father’s coffin lowering into the earth. I remembered Widow Roch’s veiled face, the hiss of her voice when she whispered, “You got your wish, little parasite.”
The images harrowed me, and I tried to run from them. I had shut the hall’s door, however, its lock clicking into place. I joggled the handle. It would not turn. Then your voice echoed through the room, saying, “Sir, I do believe you trapped us in here.”
By sharing this report with you, I wish to prove my attention to even the smallest detail. Indeed, you saw a boy at his wits’ end, but I beheld the most brilliant girl, who became so very dear to me. One glance at your face, and I knew there could be no moving on from you.
Such an attachment seems illogical, but when has love ever made sense?
You stood near the farthest window, dressed in a muslin gown embroidered with gold and red threads. The garment surely cost a substantial amount of money and hinted at your high birth. You also wore a crimson redingote with lopsided buttons, obviously handmade, a testament to your unpretentious nature. A bumblebee brooch adorned your lapel, and your hair dangled loosely above your waistline, damp from the rain.
The sight of you paralyzed me. You had been crying. Tearstains dotted your collar, and your eyes were puffy. Still, even in the dimness, you appeared more interesting than anyone in my acquaintance, not merely beautiful, rather astonishing.
To be alone with you threatened our reputations, so I turned and pounded the door. You joined my efforts, shouting for help, beating
