Dear Future Husband

43. I Know You Know My Son

23 April 1894

Dear future husband,

I have made it to Paris, with no small amount of sorrow. I have prayed day and night for the Lord to rescue me, and though I know He is working, likely through my father and his contact on earth, I still cannot help but feel a bit of hopelessness sinking in. I pray you are safe, though.

I pray.... Maximilian, if you are he whom I might marry, whom I shall marry, I pray you would be safe, and that my mother's henchmen or Edgar Wakefield have not gotten to you. May He protect you from all those who wish to harm you.

I must be off now. My mother wishes me to dress for the opera tonight.

Yours forever,

Rosalie Winthrop

Rosalie sealed the letter, tucked it into the false bottom of the jewelry box that her mother had given her beneath a mound of pearl necklaces, silk ribbons, and ruby bracelets, and stood from the vanity as Cornelia Winthrop entered the room.

She had rented a small apartment for their stay, rather than sully herself by remaining in a hotel (her mother's words). Their Paris apartments were cozy, almost homey, and furnished with rococo furniture that reminded her of Versailles on a smaller scale. It was beautiful, but cold, even with the fireplace lit.

"Rosalie!" Cornelia Winthrop waltzed into the room, wearing a seafoam green ballgown that was the height of style, and with her hair piled into an updo that was topped by a tiara. As much as Rosalie's feelings toward her mother were conflicted, she could not deny that the woman's sense of style was unparalleled.

"Good evening, ma'am." She could not, would not, call this woman Mother. It felt like a betrayal of Papa and all he had done for her, all he had done to raise her after her mother had left them. After all, he might have easily left her in the care of a nurse or governess and gone off to pursue his own passions. Instead, he had been the best father a girl could ask for.

In contrast, Cornelia Winthrop was the worst mother a girl could ask for.

"You are not dressed yet? Marie, please come and help my daughter into proper attire. We will be meeting a very important guest from the British ton tonight, darling," she said, bustling around Rosalie, her scent of roses and musk clinging to her skin.

"Who is he, ma'am?" she said. "Or she?"

"The Duke of Marlborough," she said, humming as she arranged the bottles on the vanity. "Lord Oliver Dennings. You know, I think he was meant to have a son about your age... But the poor boy died very young. Measles, or scarlet fever, one of those childhood sicknesses robbed Dennings of an heir."

"How do you know His Grace, ma'am?" she asked. It had been rumoured that Cornelia Winthrop had run away with her lover. Was this duke her lover? A powerful, influential, and some even said malevolent man, who could provide her with the lifestyle she wanted?

"Oh, he and my brother are old friends..." Her voice trailed off. "The two of them used to bet on racehorses together at Pall Mall."

"Will I meet your brother, ma'am?" She stood up as Marie brought an armful of red silk out of the armoire along with a busk, corset, petticoats, and shift.

"Perhaps later. I'm afraid Edgar has not been very good company as of late." She gave an apologetic smile that looked more desperate than remorseful. What was she trying to hide? Whatever it was, Rosalie vowed to find out. "He does have a problem with drink..."

"How unfortunate, ma'am." Her response was automatic, but she did pity anyone, whose entire being was so consumed by a vice that they could not see outside of themselves. Perhaps this Edgar was one of them... Edgar... Maximilian had mentioned him before, hadn't he? Years ago... "Would this be Edgar Wakefield by any chance?"