Dearest Josephine

me.
I ignored the look of shock on Lorelai’s face as I bowed and left the dance floor before the number ended. She chased after me and said, “Mr. Roch, I find myself happiest in your home. Although I am young, I’m certain I could not find a more blissful place.” Her cheeks flushed, making the code quite clear. She wished me to declare intentions for her.
I could not have been more startled. What prompted her affections? I thought her view of me brotherly, not romantic. Indeed, we have become close friends, but she often speaks of Mr. O’Connor in London. She reprimands Arthur and me for returning from town at wee hours. Her behaviour is maternal, even austere. Not once have I noticed the faintest hint of attachment.
Besides, she is aware of my fondness for you.
I took her aside to prevent a scene. I said, “Miss Glas, you deserve a house less dreary than Cadwallader. A quiet estate suits me, for I find no pleasure in society, but you are far too accomplished to remain in Atteberry. London seems a better match for you.”
Lorelai stared at me as though I had committed a crime. Her eyes filled with tears and her jaw clenched. Without a word, she turned and rushed into the crowd.
I did not mean to embarrass her or damage our friendship, but I couldn’t voice feelings I do not possess. She should marry Francis O’Connor, move into a townhouse near Hyde Park, and paint on the Thames’s bank. Such a life would bring her immense happiness.
The upsets with Lorelai and Admiral Gipson sparked another panic episode. I retreated to my study while the guests enjoyed supper, and I have remained here since. What am I to do, Josephine? If the admiral challenges my inheritance, I may lose everything. If Lorelai departs Cadwallader, I may not see her again.
My life hinges on the deeds of others, and it drives me mad. I wish to be content and loved, yet I find it poetic, even romantic at times, to be sad and alone. Truly, despair adds intrigue to my otherwise dull existence. If I could, I would shrink my world to a single room, a pile of paper, and an ink-dipped pen. I would write to you until my fingers grew sore, and then I would ask Mrs. Dunstable to scribe for me.
Lorelai’s interest forced me to realize there cannot be anyone else, only you.
Elias
P.S. My great-uncle who dwells in Kings Cross sent word that he knows a De Clare Family. They reside in West London. He promises to investigate for me.

SIX
THE NOVEL
Cadwallader Park, located in County Northumberland, possessed an extensive and rather dull history. The great manor belonged to a lord who gambled it away to a courier of the Royal Mint, whose financial problems led to monastic occupation. After a series of unfortunate owners, the estate became home to the Darling Family.
Mr. and Mrs. Darling took pride in their modest lifestyle. They boasted about their humble country house, its sylvan charm and pristine gardens. Having come from a smaller yet far more prestigious London residence, the Darlings believed themselves simplistic to a point of superiority. Mr. Darling saw no reason to hire a full staff, a noble deprivation Mrs. Darling mentioned at her luncheons. Instead, he enlisted the help of several farmhands, a butler, maid, cook, and a valet who doubled as a footman.
Although rich from clever business dealings, Mr. and Mrs. Darling kept their purse strings tight and recorded all expenses. However, the Darling children lacked their parents’ frugal nature. They preferred to bask in the grandeur society allowed them. Sebastian, the eldest son, built a reputation from his costly merriment and European tours. Kitty, the middle child, spared no pence on fashion, while the youngest, Fitz, desired only horses.
Life at Cadwallader Park seemed picturesque despite its owners’ differences. Not a whiff of scandal travelled from the estate, that is, until Lord Welby’s bastard came to stay.
“Let me die, Elias,” Sebastian said while pacing a stream bank. He shooed a team of ducks, his riding boots caked with mud. “I shall throw myself into the water and be lost forever.”
“You seem more disagreeable than usual.” Elias refused to look up from his book, a history of Northern England’s great houses. Over his seven months at Cadwallader Park, he’d learned that Sebastian quickly lost interest in complaints and flitted to happier diversions. At least such was Elias’s hope, for he needed to complete his reading before Mr. Darling’s lessons.
Lord Welby had insisted Elias learn about the upper class from the Darling Family.
“Because I disagree.” Sebastian groaned and cradled his top hat. He crouched in a tangle of knapweed, his juvenile face aged by side whiskers and a scowl.
“With whom?” Elias asked.
“Everyone. I am in a perpetual state of disagreement.” Sebastian tossed a pebble into the brook, then sprawled on his back. He snorted when a gnat flew up his nose.
“How exhausting.” Elias clamped his lips to hide a smile. He leaned against a tree trunk and flipped through the pages of his book. Despite his cousin’s theatrics, he preferred to read outdoors rather than sit with Mrs. Darling and her yappy lapdog.
Nature kept time for him. Already September faded the landscape from green to brown in preparation for autumn. A chill blew over the ridges where sheep grazed, and withered summer flowers. Marigolds froze, cockles slumped, and ox-eye daisies shrivelled beneath a muted sun.
“Father thinks he knows best,” Sebastian said with a huff. He rose to his feet and swatted the tree trunk with a branch, mere inches above Elias’s skull. “I disagree.”
“Blazes, Sebastian. I do need my head.” Elias shielded his scalp with the history book. He glanced across the grounds, at the stream, coppices, and open land. The view put him at ease. Perhaps his father would confine him to the estate for years. Better yet, maybe his gentleman lessons would lead to a permanent residence with the