“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Elias said with a snicker. He rose from the ground and propped Emilia on his hip. “Come fetch her. I’ll relieve you.”
Josephine left the garden and moved toward them. She wiped her hands on her stained apron, then extended her arms to Emilia. “Would you fancy a jam tart?”
“Do you know how to make a jam tart?” Elias grinned. His wife struggled to bake and cook, for no one had taught her the skills. Mrs. Capers visited them once to offer instruction, but neither Elias nor Josephine could master the art.
Most of their meals consisted of stew and sandwiches.
“You think you’re so clever,” Josephine said with a scoff. “I do, in fact, know how to make a jam tart.” She grabbed Emilia and pecked the toddler’s cheek.
“Forgive me. How could I ever doubt you?” Elias hugged Josephine’s waist and kissed the back of her neck. He closed his eyes to memorize the moment, how a warm breeze drifted over the hillside, the bleats of sheep as they milled about the pasture.
“Look. Someone’s here.” Josephine patted his wrist and gestured to a horse and rider now racing toward the cottage. She bounced Emilia to keep her calm, the child’s dark curls bobbing in the wind. “Were you expecting company—”
“Excuse me. Are you Elias Welby?” the rider yelled once he reached the property’s gate.
“Yes. How may I help you?” Elias approached the man with caution. He and Josephine did not receive callers except for the vicar, schoolchildren, and on occasion Kitty Darling, who lived nearby with her officer husband.
The rider dismounted and greeted Elias with a nod. “I bring unfortunate news, sir. Your father, Lord Welby, expired a week ago.”
Elias flinched, his chest aching with an old pain. He hadn’t spoken to his father in years, not since he married Josephine. “Do give my condolences to his widow.”
“Sir, he named you his heir,” the messenger said. “You’re to inherit his estate.”
“What?” Josephine hurried to Elias’s side, their daughter jouncing on her hip. She gawked at the messenger as though he’d sprouted horns. “Are you sure?”
“Indeed, madam. You may occupy Windermere Hall whenever you please.” The man smiled and tipped his topper. “Good day to you both.”
“No, no, there must’ve been a mistake.” Elias looked at Josephine, his mouth agape. “This cannot be possible. Father disinherited me.”
Josephine laughed and touched his face, her eyes welling with tears. “You deserve this good thing,” she whispered. “After so much loss, you deserve to know what it’s like to have.”
He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I have plenty.”
They arrived at Windermere Hall a fortnight later, after Widow Welby moved into a separate residence. Mrs. Capers and Anne joined the household staff. Emilia grew lovelier with each passing day, her countenance near identical to her mother’s.
No family seemed more content with much than the Welbys. They found pleasure in their long walks across the countryside and intimate gatherings. They lived bright and waking, determined not to repeat their relatives’ mistakes. And at the end they were together.
They were happy.
And they wanted for nothing.
TWENTY-NINE
JOSIE
June 8
Dear Elias,
Thanks for your letters. I found them at the right time, when my life was a disaster zone. A lot has changed since then. I attend a university in London and plan to move to Cadwallader full-time once I graduate. Rest assured I’ll take care of your house. I want to turn it into a museum, perhaps teach at Atteberry’s primary school.
My best friend moved to Italy a few months ago. I met her in Milan, and we drove a caravan down the coast. Oh, I wrote a biography about you. It’s not published yet. I hope to see it in print before the museum opens. Who knows? Maybe your life will be a bestseller.
On a different note, I found someone who loves me like you loved me. He goes to school in Scotland, but we met here in Atteberry. He’s perfect for me, always laughing and acting ridiculous. He’ll be a doctor soon. I love him, and I love you.
There’s so much I would like to tell you, but since you won’t read this letter, I will do my best not to ramble. I suppose I just want to say thanks for giving me a safe place. Your home became my home. Because of you, I stopped waiting.
See you someday.
Yours ever,
Josephine De Clare
P.S. I’ll put this letter in your desk drawer for safekeeping.
June 12
Dearest Josie,
When thoughts are inked on paper, they stand up and say to the world they’re important enough to be preserved. To be worthy of something a person can hold.
You deserve important words, so I propose we begin a correspondence. I’ll keep sliding letters under your back door until you return to London. Write back. Put your messages in the gorse alcove. I’ll leave an old biscuit tin to act as a postbox.
It’s time I tell you the story of why I wrote the rest of Elias’s novel. I need to explain on paper because I cannot look at you without joking. One smile from you, and I turn into a clown. All seriousness fades into trolley races, bad dance moves, and singing at the top of our lungs.
That morning I brought firewood to Cadwallader. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you. Blimey, you were a mess, standing in the kitchen, waving a sword over your head. You wore fuzzy slippers. Your hair was matted and dyed a weird pinkish brown color.
And that was it for me.
From that moment, I lived for your chaos, how you phoned me to complain after talking with your mum, the way you screamed when I took you for a ride on Pop’s motorcycle. I wanted to debate with you about movies, tease you for not cleaning up after yourself. I liked assisting you with renovations
