I have not proposed marriage. However, the notion seems less foreign now. Weeks ago Lorelai said people cannot love everyone the same, for no two loves are the same. I must agree. The affection I have for Lorelai is unlike what I feel for you, but it is here, within me.
She has been my constant friend since our arrival at Cadwallader.
A groundskeeper made known the bog outside of Atteberry has frozen over, causing everyone within a five-league radius to flock the glassy banks. I invited Lorelai and the household staff on an expedition to the quag. They seemed eager for recreation. At this time of year, my estate offers little amusement. One can find themselves quite bored.
Lorelai purchased skates from a village shop and distributed them among the staff. We took a carriage and sleigh across the countryside, a light snowfall adding to our enjoyment. Mrs. Dunstable made us all sing a chantey. The cook distributed fairy cakes, potted paste sandwiches, and syllabub flavoured with nutmeg. A festive outing, indeed.
We reached the bog around mid-afternoon and joined the crowd of people on its shore. At first I refused to skate, for I am not versed in the art. Lorelai persuaded me otherwise. She helped me onto the ice and held my arm as I wobbled across the frozen surface.
She glided in circles until snow plastered her fur stole. Then we locked arms with Mrs. Dunstable and the farmhand, and we skated across the bog in a single line. I only fell thrice.
My knees and backside are moderately blue.
Life has not been gentle with me, Josephine. I have lost a great deal over the past nineteen years. Through it all, I have learned to appreciate the wonderful days. I want more of them, to know what it is like to live alongside people who care about me.
Words provide splendid company, but they cannot love.
Perhaps I shall post the letters.
Elias
TWENTY-FIVE
THE NOVEL
It had been four months since Josephine left Cadwallader Park. The Darlings remained at the estate, for its seclusion offered haven from Sebastian and Widow De Clare’s scandal. Of course, society grew bored with the affair and substituted it with more relevant headlines. All impropriety seemed to have been forgiven or forgotten, whichever came first.
And the memory of the girl damaged by the indecent elopement fell by the wayside.
Elias did not witness the reinstatement of normalcy. He returned to Windermere Hall soon after Josephine’s departure and occupied himself with Lord Welby’s assignments. He had only resided at the house a fortnight before Joshua Heyworth came to call.
Mr. Heyworth practiced law in Durham. A revered barrister, Heyworth had managed to grow his income to thirteen thousand pounds per year, an accomplishment which earned him notice from the country’s nobility.
The barrister took a liking to Elias and invited him to join his travels, for he found the road dull without intelligent conversation. Elias agreed. He wished to learn from Mr. Heyworth in hopes of securing a position with the man’s practice. An income of more than one hundred forty pounds would allow him to renew his proposal.
Josephine might resent him, though. He had not written to her despite her request. Whenever he lifted a pen, his mind went blank. He could not muster a cordial greeting without balling the stationery and tossing it to the floor.
Elias despised himself for letting her go. Over time the self-loathing poisoned him like strychnine, withering his body into someone he didn’t recognize. His skin looked whiter than porcelain. His eyes appeared matte and lifeless. Perhaps his worst alteration was his expression—a chiselled grimness much like Lord Welby’s.
His father swore he would forget Josephine, for his heart was young and malleable. Elias considered such remarks a grave insult. He could not forget her any more than he could forget a knife in his side. Indeed, he was young, but even the young felt pain.
And they felt it the longest.
Josephine figured prominently in his dreams, her bumblebee dress fanning around her legs as she twirled across a dance floor, as snow drifted from a fictitious sky. Elias craved the sight of her face. He could live without her, but he wished not to, for living without her was like living in a world without colour, like eating a meal without taste.
She was his world’s vibrancy.
Before his departure from Cadwallader Park, Mrs. Capers told him prosperity involved a balance of love and fortune. Neither element possessed in isolation provided the least bit of satisfaction. Elias realized Lord Welby’s ultimatum had crippled him. He accepted that he and Josephine would not secure prosperity without each other.
Money would feed their stomachs while their hearts grew thin.
The Mowbray Family invited Mr. Heyworth and Elias to dine at their home in Consett. News of the barrister’s travels went ahead of him, prompting gentlefolk to offer their generous reception. Such invitations seemed a relief. Elias preferred to take more delicate meals with others who would engage Heyworth, for the food of public houses unsettled his stomach, and he could no longer devise new topics of discussion.
One more conversation about King George IV would surely bore Elias to death.
“Mr. Welby, what brings you to Consett?” Mrs. Mowbray asked. She perched on a chaise lounge and sipped ratafia from a crystal goblet. Her milky complexion gave her a youthful appearance, quite unsimilar to her husband, who showed premature age.
Elias straightened in his seat. He glanced around the drawing room—a chamber decorated with Chinese wallpaper and oil paintings. A portrait of Mr. Mowbray hung over the fireplace. Its artist had taken liberty to give the man an athletic build.
Heyworth answered for him. “I hate to travel alone, so Mr. Welby offered to accompany me. I am a social creature. Without conversation, I go quite mad.” He lingered near the hearth and puffed on a cigar. “Welby, you must tell Mr. and Mrs. Mowbray about
