Dearest Josephine

cousin. I suppose the best way to describe Lorelai would be by way of her fashion. She wears an ultramarine dress made from the thickest satin. It never loses its shape, like the bun that rests at her neck.
She and I get on quite well. A few days ago, she persuaded me to sit for one of her paintings. Arthur made jokes the whole time, which only provoked Lorelai into a rage. She lectured us both for over an hour, then conscripted Arthur to work as her assistant.
The portrait turned out to her liking. I rather loathe it, for it depicts my physique as lean and sharp. Her image of me has skin whiter than bone and dark curls that appear long, daresay true to life. I had best groom myself and request more cakes with afternoon tea. Perhaps a large dinner—white soup paired with lambchops and potatoes—will correct my spare build.
I need to resemble an adult if I am to lord over this estate.
Father left his entire fortune to me. I manage his properties and assets, represent the Rochs in society. I am a gentleman, not a gentleman’s bastard, yet who am I without Father’s orders and disapproval? What shall I do with myself? Once, I mentioned my struggles to Arthur, and he laughed.
He wishes to talk only about Eton and gossip.
You must think me ungrateful. I have friends, wealth, and a large estate, yet I fill pages with complaints. I wish ardently to restore my wits so I may acknowledge the benisons of this world. Truly, if you find my words tedious, do tell me, and I shall cease all correspondence. Your good opinion means far more than letters.
I hope you are well. The night we met seems a lifetime ago, and I must confess that I miss you, perhaps more than one should after such a brief encounter. You are marvellous, unlike any woman in all of England. Please do not view my compliment as mere flattery. The repetition of accolades may dim their significance, but I state mine with sincerity.
Cadwallader Manor seems eerie today, more so than usual. I sit at my desk as a rainstorm pummels the land. Lorelai made wind chimes from old silverware and hung them outside the kitchen. They knell in the rain now.
Perhaps I should have moved into the Roch town home in Bath, enjoyed assembly halls and warmer temperatures. However, I felt drawn to Cadwallader, for its isolation suits my moods. I do crave brighter places, though. At present, wind claps the attic shutters. Spiders weave their gossamer tapestries in corners. And the maid dusts soot from my fireplace, stirring up a smog.
Did you fight for sleep after your father died? Were your thoughts and feelings jumbled like mine? I shall not pester you with questions, but I wish to comprehend why I grieve a man I disliked, why I desire this pen and your company more than the persons downstairs.
Please write to me.
Elias
P.S. My friend in Liverpool confessed no knowledge of your location nor your existence. He claimed the only De Clare in his acquaintance is a clerk at a London bank. You must not be related to this person, for your apparel—what I remember—suggested distinguished birth. I shall continue to write as I search for you, in hope of one day posting my letters.
April 24, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Writing to you calms me. I retreat to my study once everyone bids their good-nights, and I scribble until my thoughts steady themselves. I seem to write for several hours a day, either to you or no one in particular. The words inside me are so palpable and consuming they withhold rest until I let them out in the world.
My new habit vexes Arthur. He dislikes all pastimes that allow a sombre mood, except for his violin playing. To him, life should revolve around merriment and pleasure and avoid what causes discomfort. His intentions are noble, for he has seen me at my lowest. He found me in Eton’s courtyard after I received news of Mother’s death. He embraced me—which breached our school’s code of conduct—and said he would always be my family. From that day on, he has endeavoured to make life a bit easier for me. He was at my side when Father died.
He has been at my side all these years.
Arthur and Lorelai plan to stay at Cadwallader Manor until autumn. They want to enjoy Atteberry’s social season. At least such is their claim. I suspect they fret about me. Lorelai seems to watch my every move. Arthur insists on keeping me company throughout the day. Neither of them asks questions, but they remain on alert.
I wish they would ask questions. Perhaps then I would find answers, and this loneliness I feel would subside. I am desperate to make sense of the fervour that plagues my thoughts, for it is full of contradiction. I suffer from isolation when surrounded by familiars. I want to be alone when I long for companionship. How strange. I live here, yet I am not here. I am somewhere else, entirely.
Do you ever get the sense that we are not where we ought to be, as if God made an error in our placement? I sound foolish, of course. Arthur and Lorelai have right to be concerned. Perhaps I should agree to Arthur’s request and host a ball. He believes the event will make Cadwallader seem more like home. Strange enough, I am at a loss for excuses.
Lorelai refuses to enjoy an idle moment. She assists the servants with their chores, which baffles me, for most highborn ladies consider household work a violation of their class. Lorelai does not abide by those conventions. This morning she noticed a tear in my coat and took upon the task of mending it. She repaired the hole, then stitched my initials onto the sleeve.
She mothers Arthur and me in a gentle way, ensuring we stay out of trouble and do not