Dearest Josephine

visit the pub too often. After dinner we all gather in the drawing room for charades or chess, sometimes to hear Arthur play his violin. Lorelai talks but rarely about herself. She wants to know about the management of Cadwallader, a topic not usually of interest to ladies.
Is it horrible that the longer she stays here, the less I think of her as a girl?
Arthur and I spent the past few days hauling sheep from mud. A storm washed out some of the hills, trapping much of the estate’s herds in mire. We laboured with grounds-keepers, shepherds, farmers—anyone strong enough to rescue the animals. My body still aches from the arduous work. I pity Mrs. Dunstable the most, though, for she dealt with Arthur’s and my mess.
She threatened to hand in her notice if I kept tracking sod through the house.
Due to the drudgery, Arthur demands I take part in the social season. He wants to attend dinner parties, host gatherings, and dance with young ladies who fancy his coquetry. Yes, I shall give him the ball to satisfy his need for amusement. Besides, an introduction to the local gentry may allow me to better integrate myself. I am Lord Roch, not a bastard schoolboy.
Illegitimate birth means little now that I have wealth and title, for money alters society’s attitude. People once stared and whispered about my father’s scandal. Not anymore. Because of my rise in station, they request my presence at their events. They curtsy and bow, introduce me to their daughters in hopes I might marry one of them.
When I told you of my circumstances, you did not even blink, and for that I shall always be grateful. Arthur once said those things we hate about ourselves are the same things others never notice, but I did not come into this world disliking myself. Rather, I was taught to hate by people who did notice.
Speaking of which, how are relations with your mother? I recall your mention of disagreements after your father passed. Have you reconciled? Also, do you plan to participate in the season? If so, I hope we have opportunity to meet.
To dance with you again as we did that night—I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more.
Cadwallader Manor will provide sanctuary while I toil to recover myself. From where I sit, the moors do not seem as desolate a place. Sheep graze across their slopes. Mist skirts the ridges and ravines. Yes, I shall endeavour to find peace here.
Behind the manor’s east wing, where the smokehouse merges with a stone fence, resides an alcove fashioned from gorse and fallen rock. I write to you from that recess.
Atteberry forms a cluster in the distance. I ride my horse, Willoughby, there once a week to buy stationery, for I am quite particular about my paper and ink.
That said, despite my theatrics, life at Cadwallader is not a morbid plight. In fact, the estate’s beauty needs no words to express itself, only the eyes of those willing to see it. I choose to see, and I will endure my troubles.
Worse things have tried to break me.
Josephine, we did not meet by accident, for no two people meet—especially not in the serendipitous circumstance that brought us together—by mere chance. I met you, and you knew me in a moment. For that reason, I state my request a final time. Would you write to me?
I shall not lose hope that we will meet again. Even the astronomers believe those destined to collide, whether they be stars or people, might cross paths and go their separate ways but eventually doth find themselves brought together once more. And so, I hope.
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. Against my better judgement, I wrote to my father’s widow and asked if she knew your whereabouts. I have yet to receive her reply. Each day, I question whether I should forsake this pursuit, for it seems childish. Then I recall how we talked and laughed, and I wonder if perhaps you wish to find me too. Such a notion compels me to continue my search.

THREE
THE NOVEL
Sir Charles Welby, of Windermere Hall, in West Yorkshire, found himself the subject of gossip when his scullery maid bore to him a son. The child possessed Lord Welby’s features, which confirmed all suspicions of paternity. Indeed, members of the household debated what best to do with the infant. They decided not to send him away, for news of his existence already plagued society, and the family dared not risk more scandal. However, to let him reside at Windermere Hall would surely prompt equal criticism.
“What fate could befall the bastard of a well-to-do gentleman?” Lady Welby said to her husband while occupying her hands, and frustrations, with needlework. She perched on a settee in the drawing room while Lord Welby concealed himself behind a shroud of cigar smoke. “Spare the babe our family name and let him live with the servants—and his mother. Once he is grown, you may provide him with a suitable position to appease your conscience.”
Lord Welby parted the smoke with a newspaper and peered down his snout. “My son deserves the Welby name,” he said. “I worry little about remarks spoken in idle conversation.”
“I state my concerns to protect the boy, for men of good name require both fortune and well-thought opinions.” Lady Welby maintained an expression of indifference, holding true to the belief that a woman with her age and appearance should look content in marriage, regardless of its offerings—or lack of. “Husband, you must admit a bastard does not merit the necessary well-thought. Consider your son’s future. If you insist on forcing him into our way of life, send him to a boys’ school. No Welby—even an illegitimate—should face the world unrefined.”
After consideration, Lord Welby conceded to his wife’s requests. He would send his son to Eton College—a boys’ school located in Berkshire. Without the child at Windermere Hall, life could resume its decorous routine, and Lady