Dearest Josephine

on the kiss.
It all sounded ridiculous to Elias. He could not love Josephine. Their few interactions constituted nothing more than amiable respect. And yet Elias was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He did not love her. He was only infatuated. For certain his intense feelings would dim with time. He just needed to avoid Josephine until then.
October brought storms and contained the Darlings indoors. However, mist and mire could not stall Josephine’s plans. She pranced across the moors until rain soaked her clothes. She created bouquets of heather and scattered them throughout the house. Was her constant motion intended to keep sorrow at bay? Did she laugh to conceal her pain?
Hope for unhappiness seemed cruel, so Elias retreated further into seclusion. Each morning, he parted his bedroom curtains and watched Josephine climb the south ridge to witness the sunrise. During meals he ignored her attempts at conversation. His rudeness would deter her attention, surely. His loneliness would suffocate all feelings eventually.
But isolation did not fade his emotions. Rather, it caused them to blossom like prickly thistles. He adored the girl for who she was, not who she was to him. Oh, why couldn’t he recall a time before Josephine? And what life existed after her?
The dining room quivered when its door flew open with a bang. Josephine, Kitty, and Miss Karel stumbled across the threshold in a whirlwind of giggles and ribbons. They clung to each other, dishevelled, breathless, tethered by laughter.
Elias dropped his toast. He straightened as the girls waltzed forward, their murmurs suggesting jokes and secrets. How did they appear so vibrant this early? And in their untidy state? Did ladies receive awards for such accomplishments?
“Good morning, Mr. Welby.” Josephine patted her flushed cheeks, then lowered herself into the chair across from him. She glanced at Sebastian, who seemed too preoccupied with his newspaper to acknowledge her presence. “Kitty, Miss Karel, and I plan to go on a picnic—”
“We intend to weave flower crowns,” Kitty said. She plopped into a seat and grabbed a ginger bun from the breakfast nosh. Although younger than both her governess and future sister-in-law, she appeared the most dressed, her cotton muslin gown starched and pressed, her curls fastened on top her scalp with silver pins. Of course her mother had taught her well.
No member of the Darling Family would dare traipse about unkempt.
“Mr. Welby, would you care to join us?” Josephine filled her cup with tea. She plucked a honey cake from a tray, then looked at Elias, her smile widening. “Oh, please say yes.”
“Josephine grows tired of my company,” Sebastian said while flipping through The Morning Post. He lounged at the table’s head like a royal, his cheeks stuffed with brioche. “Go with them, Elias. You need the fresh air.”
“I best stay indoors and focus on my lessons.” Elias tugged his cravat. He squirmed as Josephine’s smile melted in disappointment. Did she mean to torture him with kindness? If she knew the extent of his attachment, how he battled himself to remain distant, how he clenched his fists whenever she laughed, perhaps she would have mercy and leave him alone.
Sebastian lowered his newspaper. “Your lessons? Nonsense.”
“My teapot needs me,” Elias said.
“Blazes, another excuse. Admit you intend to hide in your library.” Sebastian scoffed and hoisted the papers into full spread. “Elias must hate women.”
“Is that true?” Kitty spun toward him. She perched on her knees, a position which would have infuriated Mrs. Darling were she not away with her husband and Widow De Clare on a trip to town.
“No, Kitty. I like girls,” Elias said.
“Prove it!” Sebastian crumbled The Morning Post and threw it across the room, his movement yielding aromas of ale and sweat, souvenirs from his night at the local pub.
“Stop teasing your cousin, Darling. He may do whatever he pleases.” Josephine stirred cream into her tea and locked gazes with Elias. “Mr. Welby, I admire your dedication to literature. I think if I could live in your thoughts . . . your mind would seem a cosy place.”
“More like a boring place,” Sebastian grumbled.
“Never underestimate the artistry of human thought,” Josephine said. Her dark hair draped her shoulders, loose and uncurled. Her attire included a handmade dress the colour of her eyes, which she wore daily. For all her extravagant qualities were equal simplicities, and she seemed more spectacular because of them.
“Please excuse me. I must greet our new kitchen staff.” Elias stood and bowed his head, a prickly ache ballooning within him. He should travel somewhere distant, perhaps London. His uncle would not protest. Besides, he needed only to separate himself until the spring, when Sebastian would marry Josephine at the estate’s chapel.
“Do let me know if you change your mind,” Josephine said when Elias neared her chair. She lifted her chin, the curves of her neck an invitation. “You’re always welcome.”
“I won’t change my mind.” Elias flexed his fingers, battling the urge to lean down and kiss her lips. What a wicked doing, to greet her warmth with coldness.
But he needed to protect himself from all possible hope.
Elias left the dining room and rushed down the hall. His brusque exit seemed merited, for a cook planned to arrive before noon. The Darlings’ previous employee had taken leave due to illness, forcing the family to hire a replacement. Fortunately, Elias knew a woman with impeccable culinary skills who desired to escape Lady Welby.
He entered the gallery, where oak buttresses and elaborate moulding showcased the manor’s architecture. Fitz sat on the checkered floor, surrounded by an army of toy soldiers. His playmate was Mr. Darling’s valet, a man who rather enjoyed boyish pastimes.
Their battle seemed best left uninterrupted, so Elias hurried to the servants’ stairwell. He paused on the first step as heat drifted from the lower level, tinged with delicious scents. Then, with a sigh, he descended the stairs and followed a whitewashed corridor to the kitchen.
A bundle of heather caught his notice. He paused near a sideboard, where one of Josephine’s bouquets wilted