Dear Future Husband

3. But Papa, Why?

9 December 1888

Dear future husband,

Good day. Perhaps, if I manage to acquire some holy water to sprinkle upon this paper, it shall consecrate my letter and atone for my absentmindedness while attending a church service. I assure you that typically, I am not so prone to misbehaving. It is only that today, far too many thoughts have begged to be scrawled upon this page. How fortuitous that I brought some paper and a pencil to church, even if it is smudging charcoal most dreadfully onto my white church dress!

Usually, I quite enjoy church; in fact, it is the only time of the week when I am able to converse with peers of my age and rank. But today, the girls have all clustered around a newcomer to Grenledge and I fear I would not be welcome. To be quite truthful, I fear that I would be excluded, if not mocked mercilessly, for my plain, out-of-date fashions and quite passé clothes. For, one's father is not the best person for a dressmaker to consult when she is making clothes for herself. Oh, dear. The minister's wife has taken it upon herself to look at me in a most accusing manner, and I shall quickly tuck this away into my dress pocket.

***

I am writing this under the table while my French lesson is being conducted, as I have the unfortunate--or is it most fortunate?--habit of allowing my mind to wander at the most inopportune moments. One such time is when Miss Wilson speaks of verb conjugation. The conjugations for parler and etre are really quite dull. I shall not bother you by writing them out. Do you know French, my future husband? Do you speak any languages other than English?

Speaking of which-as I wrote in my last letter, I wonder if you are even living in England. Perhaps you are living the grand life of an adventurer or traveller or explorer, seeing uncharted territories and sailing on the high seas! Perhaps you are meeting all sorts of strange and foreign peoples, savouring different exotic delicacies. What an exciting life that would be, one far more thrilling than being cosseted and hidden away in an English manor, locked away like some trinket. My father cares, he truly does, and I know he hides me away so that I might come to no harm. And I pray the same for you nightly-that your life might be safe. That you might be free from harm and have someone who loves you as much as my Papa loves me.

Apologies. My paper was confiscated so that I might properly concentrate on the lesson at hand. But now we have taken a break for tea, and I am free to write to you as I please. My favourite type of afternoon tea would certainly be Darjeeling. Have you a preferred kind of tea? Speaking of which, what do you take with your tea? (Please give me an answer is not simply ham sandwiches. I should shudder with dread at the thought of a British boy who dislikes a good scone or even a delicate but delectable macaron, even if they are a French invention!)

I have been chastised and told to put my writing implements away in favour of a crumpet. Rest assured that I shall write more at a later time.

***

It is my fondest hope that these constant interruptions shall not bother you if you ever do read ces lettres. (See, Miss Wilson? I do occasionally pay attention to my French lessons!) They are only letters, as I hope you know, and certainly not billets-doux as some would tease me about. After all, one cannot fall in love with a stranger any more than one could fall in love with this piece of paper-no matter what one may say about my romantic sensibilities, they are just that. Sensible! Not in the sense that I feel too much, but in that I possess sense.

I suppose, being a boy, you must not think much of frippery and fluff, nor of love and dances with charming strangers. Though I pray you would oblige me and listen to my ramblings on such topics. After all, I do not put much stock into the pastime of climbing trees to pick apples or taming wild horses or whatever it is, exactly, that boys, or you, in particular, enjoy doing in your leisure time. However, I would still listen to what you had to say on those matters. That being said, I remain,

Sincerely Yours,

Lady Rosalie Winthrop

Rosalie set down her quill, the goose-feather and penknife lying gleaming against the chestnut table as she pushed her hard-backed chair away from her desk, in search of her father. She fluffed her curls in the vanity mirror as she walked by it, and smoothed out the flounces in her blue skirt. Papa always told her about the importance of maintaining a well-groomed appearance, that even when one had no visitors it was significant to look one's best. Wanting to please him, she did as she was told.

Especially when she was about to see him, for she did not want him to have anything to chastise her for her. Even though he never raised his voice, the disappointment in his eyes, as well as his stern tone, was always a sight that she would prefer not to behold. Rosalie strode through the halls, the gaslights flickering in their sconces as she passed them. Finally, she reached her father's study, redolent with the scent of leather-bound spines and whale oil and cigar smoke.

"Good evening, Rosie," came his deep rumble of a voice. He looked up from his ledger, removing his half-moon spectacles to peer up at her with his blue eyes. "Where is your governess? Could you not find repose?"

"I found that a question kept me from slumber, Papa," she replied. "Miss Wilson has no such troubles, however."

"I see. Perhaps you ought to ask her what her secret is then, to sleeping with such ease," he advised.

"Papa, why don't I have a sibling?" Rosalie's question spilled out before she could stop herself. She felt immediate regret. "And how come the other girls don't want to be my friend?"

He sighed and got up from his desk, walking over to her. "Is this about Polly?"

She shook her head, though she had not forgotten that the kitchen maid was having another child. A son, apparently, if the fellow maids' old wives' tales were to be believed. "No, Papa. I just... sometimes, I get lonely."

He smiled down at her, patting her hair. "There is no need to be lonely, my dear."

"But Papa, how come the other girls don't want to be my friend?"

"Oh, Rosalie." Papa reached down and held her in his arms. He was quite a tall man, her father, and so her face barely hit his shoulder. It was more like she was hugging his leg. "That does not matter, alright? We have each other. That is what counts."

"But Papa, why?"

"The other girls are only envious of your fine things and your... the grand debut you shall someday have. When you turn of age, you shall have the grandest debut and that is what they are jealous of."

Rosalie pulled away for a moment. "With a ball? Will there be dancing and cake?"

He chuckled. "Yes. Plenty of dancing and plenty of cake. Now, why don't we see about getting you a glass of warm milk and settling you in bed?"

She nodded, though the question was not really answered in her mind. "That sounds good, Papa."