Dear Future Husband

7. Who Is He?

14 February 1889

Dear future husband,

Today is St. Valentine's Day. Are you celebrating? Do you send notes to your school-friends or family members or perhaps even a girl? If the latter is the case, I genuinely must tell you that I hope she is not pretty in the slightest and also very dull. But of course, that would not be a good example of Christian charity to either you nor her, if she does so exist. Oh, my, now I am being rude to and about a fellow member of my sex who may not even be in existence! The things that jealousy does to one. Please, do ignore this passage if you ever read my letters.

I am celebrating, if you are curious. I have no sweetheart but Anna and I are exchanging handmade cards. Speak of the devil...

"Rosie!" Anna skipped into the library in a most unladylike fashion, her red curls coming loose from the kerchief they had been pinned under. "Rosie, look what I have!"

"What has you so excited today?" Rosalie asked, carefully folding up her letter and tucking it away. She ignored the nickname that usually irritated her from others and stood to greet her friend.

"Someone left this on my doorstep!" Anna's typically serious demeanour was now cheerful, her brown eyes alight with merriment.

"May I see it?" Rosalie drummed her fingers on the heavy mahogany table, swinging her feet under the table. "Please?"

"Here." Anna slid it over to her. Rosalie noticed now that a rose was clutched tightly in her other hand, a bloodred shade.

To Miss Anna Carver,

Happy St. Valentine's Day. The stars could not shine as brightly as your eyes , nor fire as brightly as your hair. Your smile puts even the sun to shame. Think of me when you see this,

Sincerely,

Your secret admirer

"He left me a rose!" Anna squealed. Rosalie stood up, her excitement bubbling out of her with equal amounts of fervour.

"But who is he?" Rosalie wondered aloud. "Who would do such a romantic thing?"

That question hovered over them for the rest of the day. They drew up lists of every young man at Grenledge who could be making an attempt at courting Anna, and finally came up with one name. Sterling Bennett. He was a dashing young man of about sixteen to Anna's fourteen, not quite penniless but suitably ambitious. Most importantly, he had a mop of adorable brown curls and limpid green eyes. He was also quite tall, which was very important for a young man, and from what Anna had seen at the few balls that she had been to, he enjoyed dancing. He was socially agreeable and seemed to be the perfect beau. Mr. Bennett had been at the university studying law but was now back after a distant relative's sickness. That relative's death would likely bestow upon him a very well-endowed living.

All in all, they both agreed that he seemed to be the perfect young man to be worthy of Anna's hand.

"Good afternoon, ladies." Her father's voice boomed through the library. "How are the two of you faring on this fine day?"

Rosalie darted up from her seat next to Anna and flung herself at her father before hearing Miss Wilson's ahem that was as good as her speaking aloud the words, show some decorum, please. She stumbled a little on the hem of her skirt before being righted by her father, who furrowed his brow. "Next time, Rosalie, do be more careful. If I had not been there, you would have fallen."

The flush of chastisement rose in her cheeks, and she hoped her father didn't espy any other things to scold her-or Anna-for. Thankfully, Anna had already hidden the rose away along with the letter before Lord Winthrop could behold it, though into which compartment of her dress Rosalie couldn't tell.

"Very well, Papa." She peeked around his lean frame and saw a... picnic basket? "What have you got behind you, Papa?"

"Well, I was planning on seeing if any of the ladies present would like to join me for a luncheon in the park." He held up the basket. "Cook has prepared sandwiches, muffins, and your favourite..."

"Oh, will there be lemon tarts?" Rosalie asked, bouncing on her slipper-clad feet.

Her father patted her on the head, a smile playing on his lips. "We shall see. Miss Wilson, will you be joining us on our excursion?"

"I am afraid I have a headache and must retire to my room," the governess said, pulling a delicately embroidered kerchief out of the pocket of her dress. "However, I am sure you shall all have a simply splendid time."

"I shall pray you feel better, Miss Wilson," Papa said, his somber expression at odds with the twinkle in his blue eyes. "Do come along now, Anna, Rosalie."

I do hope you will excuse my brief interlude. After Anna's little interruption to tell me that she has a secret admirer-a most exciting business, I must say. Even if you might be gallivanting along on more thrilling adventures, I find this one to be perfectly suited to my tastes-my father entered the library. He took us on a picnic today! It was quite an excellent affair, even if the snow prevented us from truly going outside. The greenhouse picnic was still a picnic of the highest order if I do say so myself. We had ham sandwiches, toasted muffins with butt er, and my favourite lemon tarts as well as Anna's preferred treacle tarts.

I do think that my Papa was a bit sad today, as it was St. Valentine's Day. The greenhouse where we picnicked was next to the rose gardens that he planted for my Mama, whom I have barely known. She left when I was nearly six and I have little memory of her. This may be scandalous stuff, which casts a dark stain upon my family name, but with any luck you shall never read these missives. And if you do, well, you shall be my husband then, and so I do hope most fervently that you shall not judge me too greatly for the sins of my parents. My mother is (was?) Cornelia Winthrop, and she left my father while he was away on business with a man whom she met in Bath. Allegedly, the two of them fled to Paris together, never to be heard of again.

It was a most dramatic affair, which I hope you shall keep to yourself. Anyways, I do believe I have spoken enough of such sad things, and shall do my best not to monopolize the conversation. That, I believe, is quite a difficult feat considering I am, for all intents and purposes, speaking to myself as I write this letter. But enough about me! In this letter I have enclosed my very first valentine, from Anna, after I gave her one of my own. I believe she is quite besotted already, however, with her secret admirer.

Who could he be? You must be wondering. Or, well, I would be wondering. After many deductions (in the style of our favourite writer, Conan Doyle, and his character, Holmes) and clues, we have decided that it must be Sterling Bennett. He is very handsome and agreeable and loves dancing. Do you enjoy dancing? I suppose it would be quite rude to ask if you are handsome, for Miss Wilson is always saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I am sure that if I love you, I shall find you handsome.

Fear not, however, for my abundance of flattery regarding Mr. Bennett is not my own doing but simply a quote from Anna. I may be uncertain as to who I shall marry, but I have no doubts about whom I shall not marry, and Mr. Bennett is on that list. I pray you are faring well, and that your friends and family members are expressing their love for you on this lovely day. I remain,

Yours,

Lady Rosalie Winthrop