Page 3 of Rejected
two
Josephine wished she was back home.
Then again, she always did. It was unbearable to be in society, where people expected one to be the perfect daughter of a viscount. To look comfortable in that slip of a dress, to act elegant and ladylike, and not as if she would prefer to be called ‘Jo’ and practice sword-playing with Laurie.
She fought to hide the pain from her face. She tried to think of being in her little room, writing furiously into the small hours of the night by the window, freezing, watching the moon set.
This will be over soon,she coaxed herself. I will be comfortable, out of this dress and corset, and writing at my desk within a few hours.
And yet, the thought persisted:
‘Everyone I love is going to leave me.’
She shouldn’t have thought it. Not yet. Everyone would eventually leave her, but they hadn’t yet. She had still so much to lose, even though she felt she had already lost everyone.
She hadn’t.
But somehow she had a premonition that she would.
“Everyone I love is going to leave me,” she whispered.
She shouldn’t have said it—not yet. Somehow, she sensed that it was premature, to say the least.
Dear Beth,
Grief is a thing made of tears. It has a clear beginning and no end. It feeds on time. It has wings, but it drags you into the depths of the ocean like a boulder. It is an animal most foul, that grows if it hides, and gnashes its teeth if it does not.
Grief cannot be killed. It will not fade with the passage of time; it will distort memories; it will steal joy from the past, present and future; it will not be intimidated by speaking of it. It is unbeatable.
But it is the one thing that’s left in the place you occupied.
So I embrace it like a friend. I intend to live my life in it, as one lives in a comfortable room even though it’s too cold in the winter and too warm in the spring, and the roof is leaking tears at inopportune times, like a sister’s wedding. I have no other choice, but even so, I choose it.
I choose to live in grief. And that is the only way I know of unfurling those great, white wings of it. Grief weighs me down, but I have wings. For what is grief but love lost? I can fly.
Eternally,
Your sister
three
In the St Claire household, there were no society balls or grand affairs. That was the advantage of living in the country: small, cozy, family affairs were the most one had to fear. The worst Josephine and her sisters had to expect were the old church ladies gossiping about their brother’s scandalous ways and Josephine’s inability to find a husband. But this was not the country. This was London.
And Margaret’s wedding to a member of nobility was a very grand affair indeed.
After enduring the season for three interminable months, it had transpired that Margaret had fallen in love with the Honorable Sir John Ravencroft, Lord Brooke the minute she saw him, and he with her. They were married by special license—he was that well-connected. The celebrations had lasted for more than three days, culminating in a great ball that would last well into the small hours of the morning. Afterwards, Margaret would leave for her new home, and that would be the last Josephine would see of her sister for a long time.
Josephine couldn’t stand being in that ballroom a moment longer. She couldn’t wait to go home; even going back to Sir John’s London estate would be preferable to this. Sir John had insisted the whole St. Claire family move to his own house as soon as he and Margaret got engaged, and thus had won Josephine’s heart: The property was a sprawling manor at the fringes of town, away from the busieststreets, and even had an artificial lake and hunting grounds, giving the illusion of being surrounded by nature.
Josephine was especially grateful that she had been given a room outlooking the water; at least there she could write during the night, the only time where she was alone and quiet.
But, oh, how she longed for the comforts of home. Here, her family were nothing but circus animals on display, the tragic daughters of the viscount and the poor sisters of his crazy heir. No one saw them for who they really were: A father grieving for his wife and daughter. Three sisters, one of them getting married to the love of her life. A young heir, who had long since lost his way and was heading for disaster.
Instead, here were all the trimmings of a happy occasion: cake, lace, handkerchiefs pressed to tearful eyes, dancing music, a new bride and a handsome bridegroom who adored her… But deep down, Josephine knew that this was no wedding—it was goodbye.
The ballroom twirled with the whispers of pastel skirts and white feathers around her, and she closed her eyes for a second and imagined her papa coming up behind her, as he used to do when she was a little girl, before anything horrible had happened. She imagined him hugging her shoulders and calling her ‘Jomila’, which meant ‘beautiful’ in Arabic or some such rot.Talk to me, Jomila, he would say. You are sad.
Mama would say I’m sulking, she would reply to him.
