Dear Future Husband

44. A Missive Has Arrived For You

24 April 1894

A fire roared in the library's brazier, the faint smell of meerschaums and old books clinging to him as he rubbed his thumb over the surface of the paper between his fingers. Minerva, Rosalie's lapdog, curled up at his feet, one of her paws resting on his boot as she waited for his mistress's return.

Maximilian stared at the telegram in his hands once more. Could it really say what he thought it did?

IN PARIS STOP. WILL SEND FOR YOU STOP. REGARDS, LORD D STOP.

Why would his father want to see him? And why would he want to see him now?

After his revelation to Lord Winthrop and Redmond, they'd come to a tentative agreement on what to do with the news. It was uncovered that Oliver Dennings, duke of Marlborough, not only had ties to Lady Dunbury, the widow who had hosted the party where Rosalie had gone missing... but Lord Dennings also had connections to Edgar Wakefield.

In fact, a closer glimpse into the links between Lord Dennings and Edgar suggested that Rosalie's mother, who had been born Eliza Porter, was also involved. Cornelia and Edgar had both been orphans and grown up together as street urchins, shedding a hint of illumination onto the memory of Edgar Wakefield's Cockney accent. As well, it almost made Maximilian feel... well, not sympathetic for the man, but he could see how poverty drove one to commit horrendous crimes.

When you were hungry, desperate, starving and without a drop of hope, it was all too easy to turn to the darkness for survival. Maximilian only thanked God that he had not come to such a fate.

Now, he was still in Lord Winthrop's house, though the man had gone to Parliament to attend to some urgent business. The telegram still seared a hole in his pocket, as though it were a burning ember demanding his attention before it turned everything he loved to ashes.

Should he go to Paris? If he boarded a ship, he could be there in less than a day. But what if it was an ambush and the man had some nefarious intentions for him?

Just as he was about to throw the telegram into the fireplace, a knock sounded at the door. He stood now to receive whoever was there, feeling rather strange to behave as if he were the master of the house. "Yes?"

"Mr. Walker, a missive has arrived for you." It was Mrs. Jensen, her motherly voice tinged at the edges with an Irish accent. "Well, several, in fact. There are quite a few of them here."

Who would send so many letters to him? He frowned and opened the door. "Very well, then. I will see to them."

When he exited the library, the housekeeper stood outside with a silver salver that was piled high with stacks of envelopes. There had to be at least fifty of them in there. He plucked the topmost letter, and nearly dropped it. It smelled of Rosalie's perfume, something sweet and citrus-tinged and invigorating.

Her penmanship was in big, round letters, wobbly and nearly illegible. He opened it and read the date. It was from nearly a decade ago. Dear future husband...

"Who delivered these?" He cleared his throat, folding the envelope shut again. They weren't meant for his eyes. They couldn't be.

But he gazed at the string that bound the letters together, where a red seal and a smaller notecard were bound to the wrapping.

"Lord Winthrop asked that these be delivered to the house and to you, specifically," said Mrs. Jensen. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to see to the scullery maids. They keep on tarnishing the silverware!"

And so he was left alone with stacks of letters that could not possibly be meant for him, and a decision to be made. The gnawing need to read them, to pry into Rosalie's past, bit into him, sinking in like claws. He could not have her present, and her future felt like an impossible distance from him, but her past? Here it was, so perfectly preserved... and her father had sent him the letters...