Dear Future Husband

45. What We Had Was Never Love

25 April 1894

Dear future husband,

Lord Dennings is meeting with my mother in the parlour of our apartment in Paris this morning. A most scandalous thing, if you ask me, but what is my mother's life if not filled with scandal? Or so it seems.

I am, to my great shame, eavesdropping under the parlour door. I have just been informed that Lord Dennings is expecting his son to visit him in Paris today and that he will be meeting him at the docks at noon. Cornelia–that is, my mother–has just asked him in a most forward manner whether she might meet his son and introduce him to me. Truly, I have never seen such boldness, and for what reason?

Lord Dennings' son, while likely rich, titled, and landed, well... Any son of Lord Dennings might very well be a spoiled, pompous brat with enough etiquette to fit in a thimble and arrogance that could fill the Indian Ocean.

I have missed their next words! Drat. What if Lord Dennings agreed?

Footsteps signal my mother's return. Until next time, I remain,

Yours,

Rosalie Winthrop

She tucked the charcoal pencil and paper underneath her pillow, wincing at the smear that would doubtless stain the white linen.

"Oh, Rosalie!" her mother singsonged as she sauntered into the bedroom. Her blue eyes were glowing with delight, which Rosalie did not think was a good sign. "Are you feeling better?"

She had feigned a cold this morning to keep from seeing Lord Dennings. It would make sense, as she might have contracted it from the previous day's stroll in the Tuilleries, and had claimed to have been out in the rain too long.

"I am slightly improved, ma'am." She blew her nose for good effect. "Thank you for inquiring after my health."

"Lord Dennings has invited us to dine with his son tonight," she said. Or, you forced his hand, Mother? "We will be eating at his estate a bit north of Paris. Unless, of course, you do not feel well enough for the occasion?"

"I was not aware that Lord Dennings had a son." She tried to smile.

"He is supposedly a few years older than you, though his name escapes me at the moment..." Cornelia tapped on her chin. "Oh, never mind. The important thing is, are you recovered enough to attend?"

"I think I may be quite recovered by suppertime, as long as I am allowed to rest, undisturbed." She hoped her emphasis on the last word was not too obvious.

Fortunately, Cornelia Winthrop was selfish by nature, and eager to not have to spend time in the company of her sick daughter, she left Rosalie to the care of the attentive French housekeeper and an infirmiere while she went off to have tea with a friend.

It might have wounded her if she were not too busy exploring the apartment and trying to find a way to get word to her father. She feigned a mal a tete, asking to be left alone, and had her request graciously accommodate. Thus left to search her mother's bedchamber, she emptied every drawer, rummaged through each compartment, and yanked open the doors of the armoire.

When she had uncovered enough items to fill a small carriage, she began rifling through them, organizing the items. If any went missing, she thought with a pang of guilt, she might be able to blame it on the staff. Though of course, she would prefer to be free of this place before it came to that. A stack of letters were tied with string, and she picked them up, feeling a jolt when she recognzied her father's handwriting.

The first was dated years ago, when she'd started at Sherborne. She unfolded the letter.

2 October 1889