Your question caught me off guard, for it defied all formality. I grinned—I had not done that in months—and told you about my exploits with Arthur. You laughed and introduced yourself as Josephine De Clare. Then you shocked me with a handshake. “What’s your name, Bag Head?” you asked. “And what brings you to the pit of despair?”
For over a decade, I had kept such feelings a secret even from Arthur. But you were different. You behaved as though we had been friends for years.
And I loved you for it.
You moved with a bounce, like the world was a stage and you were the featured performer. Your facial expressions filled me with warmth, for they reflected you, your fun and sincerity. Of course I must also comment on your manner of speaking. You talked so much. The words flew from you. Brilliant words. Hilarious words.
And I loved you even more.
We sat on the assembly room’s floor and chatted for ages. I told you everything, about my parents, Eton, and the inheritance. I mentioned my recent panic episodes, and you said you suffered them too. You shared about your father’s passing, your estranged relationship with your mum, and your aspiration to be a schoolteacher rather than a titled lady.
You confessed that grief had driven you to the assembly room too.
The hall was enormous compared to us, but it felt like home as I sat across from you. We played noughts and crosses in the floor’s dust. We swapped embarrassing stories, mine being far more humiliating than yours. Then, during our second hour of captivity, you cupped your mouth and shouted for help. No one came to our rescue, for Arthur’s violin drowned out all sounds.
I stood and offered you my hand, and you flashed a smile. Next thing I knew we were positioned across from each other on that massive dance floor.
Music filled the chamber, its melody dulled by the closed door. You snickered as we followed the notes into a country dance. Rightly so. We were bloody awful. I bumped into you at least twice. You gave up halfway through the routine and improvised your own steps, twirling, looping your arm around my waist, ruffling my hair when I bowed.
We endeavoured to make the most noise possible. You stomped and jumped, your heels pounding the floorboards. I tilted back my head and screamed. The sound amused you, to put it mildly, for you laughed so hard, you collapsed into a puddle of skirts.
The music stopped, yet no one came to our aid. I found out later Arthur stumbled back to the inn in a drunken stupor without me.
Another hour passed. We sprawled on our backs and gazed at the rafters, imagining constellations in the darkness. The room was ours—our kingdom, where decorum no longer mattered, a gap between your life and mine.
You said this, and I shall not ever forget it: “Nobody talks about the other loss, the loss that happens within us. We lose people and things, but we also lose parts of ourselves. We grieve those missing parts too. We grieve them, and we grieve us. But I think losing those parts creates space. For newness. For understanding others’ hurts and welcoming them into our free spaces. There is no shame in brokenness, Elias. Maybe we met tonight because God knew we needed to be broken together. Maybe wholeness comes not from healing, but from being together.”
I slid my hand across the floorboards and touched your wrist. You laced our fingers, your grip firm with resolve. At that moment propriety did not exist. Neither did Widow Roch or the inheritance. Everything faded into a dark room where I sat alone with you, holding your hand, surrendering the weight I had been carrying for years.
The proprietor liberated us around midnight. He and another gentleman managed to break open the door. Apparently your travel companion finally noticed your absence when she visited your room at the inn. She went to the pub and demanded a search.
Our parting happened in an instant. You were there beside me, and then you were out the door. We stood face-to-face before distance, timing, and whatever else separated us. I held you in my arms, but then I made a mistake. I hesitated. I let you walk away, and I told myself we would see each other again.
Arthur and I departed Ryton the next morning. I asked the innkeeper to give you a message, but he said you departed before dawn. And such was our good-bye.
You were my bright spot in a dark place, Josephine. I fell in love with you then, for you were everything I lacked—a sense of belonging, the freedom to feel and break and laugh regardless. We were young. We are still young.
But I shall love you always.
The past few months have forced me to evaluate what I desire from life. No longer am I lost, for I have friends and a home to call my own. Having met you, I feel whole for the first time.
Perhaps meeting you was enough.
My letters may yet find their way to you. If so, please heed this advice. Forgive your mum for her neglect. Let your pain yield to brighter days so you can flourish wherever you are planted. And live always with the wind against your cheeks and buds of gorse tucked into your hair.
Live always, and never forget where you belong.
Yours ever,
Elias
December 20, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
The messenger did not find you in Morpeth. He visited the De Clare estate and learned a Josephine—perhaps you—had returned to London. He brought me an address. Now I must decide whether to post my letters or put an end to this pursuit.
Breathing comes easily to me now. I no longer require a nurse or cane, for I am in good health. I ride Willoughby and take walks with
