Dearest Josephine

bastards, are expected to demonstrate their manhood through intellectual discussions and unsentimental conduct.
My reason for writing you must lie in the details of my upbringing. I find myself out of sorts, hardly the boy who climbed from his bedroom window and clowned at the pub. I feel as though my mind has imprisoned me, Josephine. You offered solace and friendship, and so I ask for your help. A gentleman should not request such advice from a lady, I realize.
Our acquaintance has not been conventional from the start. Why change that now?
Did you feel unlike yourself after the death of your father? I behave without the faintest trace of madness, but I feel it coursing through my veins. No one can know about it except you, for you are well acquainted—despite our limited engagement—with my sequestered notions of self and the world. Please know I am grateful for your tolerance.
Arthur has finished his violin practice, so I must conclude this reintroduction. He wishes us to venture into town for entertainment, which will likely consist of drinks at the public house followed by a visit to the hatter. Lorelai does not plan to join us. She prefers to go on walks and collect things for her art. Just yesterday I found her bird feathers scattered about the manor and dried flowers pressed between the pages of my books.
I pray the South agrees with you, Josephine. If you do find yourself near Atteberry, I invite you to visit Cadwallader. Although my description of the estate does not merit enthusiasm, I promise to be an exceptional host and introduce you to the finest of Northern England.
With respect and admiration, I await your response.
Yours ever,
Elias Roch
P. S. I shall post this letter once I learn your address. Our quick parting left me without your information, and my contacts are not familiar with the De Clare Family. I have written to relations who live in London, Manchester, and Liverpool, in hope they might be acquainted with you—or at least know how to reach you.
April 17, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
If not for my wretched state, I would consider this letter and plea for correspondence an impertinence, daresay humiliating. I wish to preserve the sanctity of our meeting and your first impression. However, I believe only you can relate with my circumstance.
Arthur would consider my feelings a sign of derangement. Lorelai would lose all respect for me the instant I shared these thoughts swarming within my mind. They mean well, and they are dear to me. But those dearest to us cannot always understand what causes us pain.
I awoke in a panic last night, before morn smeared gold across the horizon, before the household staff began their chores. I had not a dream to frighten me, rather a weight that came from nowhere and settled on my chest. A weight I could not touch nor remove. It pressed until I struggled to breathe, and I sat up in bed, gasping at the gloom.
My thoughts went to Mother. I did not visit her during her illness, and I saw her only twice after I left for Eton. She contracted winter fever not long after I started my second year. Perhaps the weight I felt was nothing more than a reminder of her death.
Eton was not an amiable place in my experience. I considered its schoolrooms bleak, its recreations barely tolerable. Arthur’s company helped me to survive the education, therefore allowing me to become the son Lord Roch wanted. I doubt I truly met Father’s expectations, though. He anticipated a great deal from his heir, and I never seemed enough.
The past haunted me last night, and I sense it here still. I feel enclosed by a cage, but the bars are set wide. I could escape, and yet I choose to stay within confinement. Do you make sense of these scribbles, Josephine? Have I indeed lost my mind?
Arthur took me to the public house yesterday for amusement. The pub is small and noisome, its floor sticky with ale. Few candles glow within its rooms, perhaps for the best. Those who frequent the establishment are a far cry from Atteberry’s respectable folk.
My friend brought his violin to the pub, for he relishes attention. He played a jig while I embarrassed myself by dancing on tabletops. Such behaviour came from my schoolboy days, when I clowned at the tavern more than thrice a week. I tell you this not with pride, rather to offer context. Arthur and I doth share a handful of reckless habits.
Patrons made wagers on how many rats the pub’s cat would drag from the keg room. A foolish diversion, perhaps, but it lifted my spirits for several hours.
Exploits with Arthur tend to ease my moods. He is a genial person, the most reliable and loyal friend in my acquaintance. I consider him my brother, for we have known each other more than a decade. You would fancy him, I think. Although he does not possess the gift of eloquence, he makes up for all shortcomings with his knack for entertainment. In Arthur Banes’s company, one shall never find oneself bored.
The outing refreshed me until I returned to Cadwallader Manor. One step into the entrance hall, and those feelings I had endeavoured to bury within the graveyard of my mind were exhumed. I went to my study and locked its door, the ale still fogging my head. I felt wrong. Even now I cannot explain the wrongness that swelled within me, its presence dark and despondent.
Arthur and Lorelai dine with me each night. We go on frequent walks across the moors, play games in the drawing room. I should not endure this sadness, for my guests are splendid company. They give this house purpose and strip away its shadows.
Lorelai seems most content here. She likes to paint the landscape and spend afternoons practicing her French. Not older than eighteen, she possesses an earnest countenance. Fun and games do appeal to her but in moderation—the opposite of her