Dearest Josephine

my late nights have diminished the manor’s store of candlesticks—a hundred of them to be precise. One cannot host a ball in the dark, though I would like to attempt such a feat. So I decided to venture into Atteberry and replace what I burned for these letters.
I fetched Willoughby, my white thoroughbred, from his stall and saddled him. You would like Cadwallader’s stable. It is one of my favourite places at the estate. If you climb into the loft and lie where the hay is thinnest, you can peer through the roof slats and watch the sky.
Arthur and Lorelai joined me on the front lawn. They looked smart in their riding clothes, while I wore breeches and a waistcoat. Eton did not teach me proper dress. While there, I learned philosophy and geography but not fashion. The school required a uniform, so I am accustomed to wearing the same attire each day. Indeed, I feel most accomplished if I change my cravat.
Mrs. Dunstable fled the manor, my overcoat waving from her arms like a battle flag. She reached the side of my horse and flung the garment at me, her chest heaving from exertion.
Physical activity has never suited her frame.
I donned the coat to appease her, for to watch me gallivant across the county in improper dress causes her immense grief.
Arthur snickered at me. He sat atop his purebred, boots wedged in stirrups, a tall hat perched upon his scalp. Since our childhood, he has believed himself the definition of style. Even his uniform at Eton seemed finer than mine. He likes his caped greatcoat and embroidered handkerchiefs, the yields of his generous allowance.
He kicked his heels and galloped past Lorelai, who waited near the gates. She laughed at him, then followed in a charge toward Atteberry, riding side-saddle. They commanded me to race them, so I did. I steered Willoughby off the path and rode across grazing land. Lorelai called me a cheat but only because I won.
The race helped me to breathe, as if the movement relieved some of the tension in my chest. Several panic episodes have assaulted me since the night we met. Whenever they occur, I remember what you told me—to note my surroundings, to list all the small things that bring me joy. I think of you first. You are my happiness. Perhaps I am wrong to confess such a feeling, but people must select their own joys, because joy, if not chosen freely, isn’t joy at all.
You are the joy I choose, Josephine. I confess it.
Arthur and Lorelai enjoyed Atteberry’s moss-painted cottages and faded storefronts, idyllic qualities most appreciated by city folk. After we tethered our horses to a post, we wandered the streets. Arthur wanted to visit the haberdashery—he needed a button for his tailcoat—but we ended up at the market.
I thought I saw you in the crowd. I called your name and ran after a girl who resembled you. I smiled at her, believing my search was at an end. Her profile and hair were the same as yours, but she was not you. She did not even recognize your name.
Lorelai caught up with me. I believe she realized my mistake, for she hugged my arm and guided me to Arthur. She assured me I would find you, but I grow less certain by the day.
After Arthur purchased his buttons, we bought candlesticks and returned to Cadwallader. Now I hide in my study with a chair wedged against the door.
Father’s widow responded to my letter. She told me she had not heard of your family, and she is versed in the who’s who of society. I am beginning to wonder if you are a ghost.
Arthur hired valets to assist us tonight, which means I must let a stranger outfit me for the ball. Why do rich men need poor men to clothe them? Does wealth prevent one from dressing?
I suppose I shall find out.
Father added many poor men to his service. He liked the attention or perhaps the status of governing a large household. Whatever his reason, he collected maids, valets, footmen, cooks, butlers, and other titles. My mother, Victoria, joined the roster at age twenty. She worked for Lady Roch as a housemaid, a position that introduced her to Lord Roch.
Nobody knows the extent of what happened to Mother. I have kept the facts a secret, for the truth is raw, and people prefer their truth seasoned, marinated, and cooked medium-well. Such people do not deserve to know about her pain.
Do you think about me at all, Josephine? I cannot get you out of my head, not for a single moment. In my eighteen years on this earth, I have conversed with but one person who saw me, truly saw me. That person is you, so you must understand why I need you to be real. Even if I never see your face again, to know you exist would give me peace.
Over the past few days, I compiled a list of all the details I remember about you. I know you lost your father, you attended a boarding school, and your perfume smells like Paris in springtime. I know you love to dance and laugh and go on adventures. Your middle name is Emilia. Your eyes are slate blue. When you talk, you wave your hands.
I would rather seem too eager than spend my life wondering if you really found me that night. I was lost and broken, and I thought no one would care how I felt. My headmaster, Father, and even Arthur have all told me to toughen up, be a man, drink an extra pint. I listened to them and made no mention of feelings. Then I met you, and I saw a glimmer of what living could be.
Please do not be a ghost.
Elias
P.S. My accountant leaves for London tomorrow. I shall ask him to make inquiries about you. Also, I have written more of my novel. ’Tis hardly a masterpiece, but I hope to