Dear Future Husband

Epilogue (Rosalie)

1 January 1896

Dear future (oh dear! please forgive my mistake) husband,

I am afraid I have spent too long addressing my letters to the same person, that I have forgotten what it is to write to someone who is here, and with me. Though, of course, you are not with me presently. Currently, I am sitting at the breakfast table in our hotel room, while you are completing your toilette in the bedroom.

We have been married for about six months now, and I have been writing letters to you for about the past nine years of my life. I must say, marriage to you has been both everything and nothing like I have ever dreamed of.

After all, most couples–or so I assume–do not remain in the bride's father's house for a few months, unless of course one is referring to Emma and Mr Knightley, which is a far different marriage altogether. Anyway. I did not mean to compare the two of us to Jane Austen characters (I assure you, I find you far superior in my estimate to Mr. Darcy, if only because he is a bit too uptight for my liking).

Though being like an ordinary couple does seem rather boring, if also lovely in a sort of domestic way. Emma has just written to me and told me that she and Alonzo are expecting a child! How wonderful. And Lily is back in England for her second Season, being the belle of the ball and what Miss Wilson used to call a diamond of the first water. Anna's most lovely and appropriate suitor (the attorney, remember?) has just proposed marriage to her!

This morning, around the crack of dawn–a truly horrid time to be awake–I heard you talking in your sleep. You told me that you did not wish to leave me, and then patted my hand as if to reassure someone–me, or yourself–that you would not go. Are you still thinking of Edgar, and the night of that dinner party in Paris when you pulled him out of the fire? Your eyebrows have grown back, but I still worry about you sometimes..

Anyway, I have just heard your footsteps, so I shall put away this letter.

Yours always,

Rosalie Walker

She looked up from her paper, taking a sip of tea. Rosalie almost immediately made a face, doing her best not to spit it out. "What sort of tea is this?"

Maximilian laughed, sitting across from her at the breakfast table of the Peninsula hotel in Hong Kong. They were there to visit Lee and see all the sights they had been unable to see together the first time that they had travelled to the Orient. "It's called Iron Goddess. I'm afraid I can't quite remember the Chinese pronunciation for it, but you've left it steeping so long that it's likely far too bitter."

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock outrage. "Are you blaming me for the taste of this tea, which I have never drunk before?"

He rollled his eyes and took the pot of hot water, pouring it into her cup to dilute the taste. "Give that a try, darling."

Darling. Her heart flipped in her chest. Perhaps one day she would tire of the endearment from his lips. But not today. Rosalie took a tentative sip. "It's a little better, but I am more partial to a good Earl Grey."

"An English rose through and through," he joked, slicing into his breakfast sausage.

"You're hardly sampling the local fare," she retorted, spooning some rice porridge with scallions and pork floss into her mouth. A Chinese delicacy, she'd been informed by the mui tsai who deposited their food and cleaned their rooms.

"I happen to like a good piece of buttered toast," Maximilian retorted.

"Do you still think about Paris?" she said abruptly, stirring her tea out of habit, though there was no milk or sugar to blend.

There was no question as to the referent of her question. Though they'd been to Paris briefly for their honeymoon, he knew she was thinking of the time when her mother had taken her there, and he'd gone there to seek his father.

"Funny that you should ask it," he said, rubbing his nape. "I just received a letter yesterday."

"From whom?" asked Rosalie, sitting up in her chair, her spine stiffening.

"There's no need for such alarm," he said, buttering his toast.

She begged to differ. "Our lives necessitate a great deal of alarm."

"They haven't for the past six months," he reminded her, which was true. Since they'd come to Hong Kong a week ago, and even before that, their lives had almost become tedious. Humdrum. She didn't mind, preferring it to the excitement of abductions or involving oneself in criminal enterprises, but still. A girl needed some adventure in her life. "Why should that change now?"

"Because..." She bit her lower lip, unsure of what to say. "Who was the letter from?"

"Edgar," he said, and that name sent a chill down both their backs, like someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of her dress.

"Have you read it?" she said, her stomach twisting itself into knots.

"Not yet.. I thought you might also want to know," Maximilian said, taking a bite of sausage.

"How considerate of you," she quipped, but the tension still coiled in her abdomen, pulling taut and refusing to loosen. "Do you wihs to read it now?"

"Your wish is my command," he said, a smile playing on his lips.

Maximilian,

I do not know how happy you will be to receive this letter. I must express my gratitude to you, for saving my life. I find myself quite in debt to you. How is it, that after everything I have done to hurt you and even attempt to killl you, that you would allow me to live, when you could be easily forgiven for letting me die in that burning house?

Despite whatever delusion that gripped you to do such a thing, I thank you. It was good of you. You are a far better man than I, and I regret thoroughly all the attempts I made to break your spirit, to ruin the goodness in you. I thought I was preparing for the harshness of this world... But the evil in this world  is created only by men like me.

As I write to you, I am in prison. My estate has been confiscated and is under the charge of my brother, Gideon. Gideon, whose goodness I once despised as weakness.  Now, I see how how wrong I have been. I have asked that Gideon turn over the total sum of my estate–ten thousand pounds–into a trust for you. I am sure he will accommodate this request.

Lord Dennings has recovered from the house fire and is in such good health that I am certain he may live for forty more years, though the local constable has kept a close eye on him, after I told the police of all his schemes.

Please tell Rosalie's mother that I am sorry. For roping her into all of my wicked plots, for treating the woman whom I loved as a sister so abominably and wishing to hurt her and lure her away from her family with Lord Winthrop. I was so scared of losing her that I did not think of how my actions and my own selfishness might affect those with whom she had attached herself.

I hear that you have married Rosalie Winthrop. May the two of you find lasting happiness in one another.

Your obedient servant,

Edgar Wakefield

"I never dreamed the man capable of writing such a composition." Rosalie's eyes widened the further she read.

"Neither did I," Maximilian said absently. "Ten thousand pounds–I thought he would have gambled all his money away."

"Perhaps he merely threw it into some bad investments," she suggested. "A few of them might have panned out."

"What will you do with the money?" asked Rosalie, curious.

"Well, I was hoping you would have some wise counsel for me, Rosalie."

"I think we ought to finish breakfast before making any hefty decisions."

"A fine idea." He raised his teacup in a toast. "To new beginnings."

She clinked her cup against his. "To new beginnings."