off a cliff?

I knew this day would come. Even when I sat in that hallway and prayed Elias would find me, I knew we wouldn’t meet on this side of eternity. Yes, I’m glad he didn’t wait. (I’ll tell myself that until I believe it.) I wasn’t meant to end up with him but to know him.

Knowing the right person changes everything.

Elias met Josephine De Clare. Perhaps she was real, and their encounter was nothing more than serendipity. Regardless, Elias brought so much good into my life. We didn’t get our happily ever after moment, but our love won just the same. It won because we tried.

Oh, what I would give for a kiss good-bye.

The final chapter was cliché, and I liked every bit of it. I don’t see how it makes sense of my situation, though. Elias hasn’t ridden through Cadwallader’s gates or swept me off my feet.

Maybe I’ll gain clarity once I read the epilogue and his final letter.

The novel gave me a life with Elias. In those pages I belonged to him, and regardless of time and place, I’m confident he was mine. Perhaps we never stop loving someone. We just learn to move forward. To live without them because of them.

Perhaps we let go to hold on.

I must start the next chapter of my life. No more crutches. I’m on my two feet. A little wobbly but standing.

Oliver invited me to go into town with him and his grandparents tonight, so I need to mend my blotchy face. In conclusion . . . I think I’m ready to close the book.

Josie

TWENTY-SEVEN

ELIAS

January 1, 1822

Dearest Josephine,

This message shall end my correspondence, for I have decided to quit Atteberry and forsake these letters. I will not finish my novel, nor will I continue the pursuit of you. All my words shall remain in Cadwallader’s study, where they will gather dust and pay tribute to the redemption that occurred. Meeting you changed me. Writing to you added to my wholeness.

Perhaps these letters brought you to me despite our distance.

Forgive my abysmal penmanship. I find this task more than difficult. Never would I have thought myself capable of parting with you by choice. Indeed, I believed our lives so intimately woven together, fated to result in more than one evening at a public house. My soul was made for your soul. A love like that cannot be forgotten.

Lorelai visited my study not long ago. She perused the bookshelves and insisted I hang her portrait of me over the fireplace. When I agreed, she mentioned the farmhands, how she wished to give art lessons to their children. She asked if we could host a party for the estate’s workers to thank them. At that moment I realized I loved her in earnest, for she thought of others, she found joy in the simplest things. I understood my love for her was gentle and steadfast, one of admiration. Maybe the revelation would have come sooner if I had welcomed it.

I married her yesterday. The ceremony was held at a local church. Lady Seymore, Edward and Mary Rose, and my household staff were in attendance. Lorelai wore a white dress and flowers in her hair. Afterward everyone came to Cadwallader for an extravagant breakfast.

We leave for the coast tomorrow. I purchased a property with ocean views and a cottage, a house much cosier than Cadwallader Manor. Lorelai and I fancy the idea of painting seascapes and tutoring young people. We wish to open a conservatoire. Mr. O’Connor even offered to put in a good word with the Royal Academy’s board.

“Farewell” seems crass, but I must conclude this pursuit so I can focus on the present. Not all loves end with together. Some last only a season or a day, but they matter—they have purpose. After everything that has happened, I believe the miracle I needed was not to find you.

It was to know you in the first place.

You are rare, my darling friend. So effortlessly yourself. Wherever you go in the world, I am certain people will adore your everything. Let others accept your brokenness like you accepted mine. Find someone who loves you the way I love you. And perhaps one day, after we conclude our separate journeys, I shall hold you in my arms and whisper against your lips, “My dearest Josephine, you were worth every second.”

For a moment with you, I wait an eternity.

Yours ever,

Elias

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE NOVEL

Elias and Josephine got married with haste. They resided at the De Clares’ cottage, where Josephine schooled local children for a modest wage. Elias accepted a job from Mr. Heyworth and worked as a clerk. Although the position required much travel, Elias managed to spend half the year in Morpeth and help Josephine maintain the property.

Two years after their union, Josephine bore a daughter, whom they named Emilia. An undeniable beauty, the child possessed her father’s curls and mother’s face. She grew fast like a beanstalk, or so Elias claimed. He could hardly believe his daughter’s height.

No family seemed more content with little than the Welbys. They found pleasure in their simple routine. Elias and Josephine took Emilia on long walks across the countryside. They gardened, read stories by the fire, and attended church each Sunday. For five years they were satisfied with their income of one hundred pounds.

And then they received a great deal more.

“You look comfortable over there,” Josephine said as she laboured in the garden. She yanked weeds and pressed seeds into the tilled soil.

Elias sprawled on the lawn while Emilia crawled over his chest. He lifted her small frame above his head, smiling when she laughed and squealed. “Mrs. Welby, I’m quite at my leisure.”

“I could use a strong man to assist me.” Josephine removed her wicker hat and dabbed the sweat from her brow, replacing it with dirt smears. She leaned onto her heels and

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