Dear Future Husband

11. Look Out!

13 March 1889

Dear future husband,

The passage which you are about to read may be quite alarming to your sensibilities. If you care about me at all, which I hope you do, you shall not shame me by reading this. In fact, it may not be for your eyes at all, and ought to better be saved for the pages of my private diary. However, my diary has been misplaced sadly during the voyage and could very well be drifting through the oceans or the annals of the cargo hold. It saddens me to think of that leather-bound cover with my initials embossed into it, falling into the dastardly hands of a stranger! Anyways, please allow me to return to the matter at hand.

Three days ago, at supper, Maximilian Rhett Walker held my hand. I still recall every callus on his fingers... Yet he has not spoken of it since! Did he so easily dismiss it as nothing more than a friendly gesture? But never before has a member of the opposite sex, who was not my father, held my hand! What could this possibly mean? Was it merely a kind action? An accident, dare I say?

Future husband, I am truly affected. Please bear with me as I attempt to work out the turmoil which rises in me most furiously. Does he not care for me? Does he care for me? If so, is it only in the way of a friend? Or does he wish to court me? Is this why Miss Wilson condemns my having any male friends at this age, so that I might not be so incredibly confused and frazzled, as I am right now? Perhaps I ought to listen to her counsel once or twice in a while...

He is far too old to court me, as I have written before. Truly, he cannot be my future husband. Fourteen seems to me to be an impossibly distant age, and mayhap I shall not think so when I am of the same age, but when I am that old, he shall be fifteen, and that seems even further away. Heavenly Father, however am I to cope with this?

"Rosalie?" Her father's voice breached her ears, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. "We are at the breakfast table. Please put your writing implements away."

She blushed over a dish of poached eggs and tucked the letter, quill and inkpot away, careful not to spill any ink anywhere or drip juice onto the parchment. "I apologize, Father."

He cut into his eggs, letting the slightly runny yolk dribble onto his golden-brown toast. "Apology accepted, Rosalie. Now, will you tell me what it is that has you scribbling so furiously?"

"It is nothing," she said automatically. As wonderful as her father was, this was one of the times during which she longed for her mother. Or, not her mother, since she had done one of the most dastardly deeds a woman could do, but a mother. Someone who could teach her the feminine arts and the womanly ways of the world, who could instruct her in more than manners and tell her about unprecedented situations such as this one. She could not talk to her father about a hand-hold from a boy who was two inches taller than her and had a scar beneath his left eyebrow and looked at her, sometimes, like he was not quite sure that she was real. "Only, I was thinking of a book I was reading, that is all."

"One of those Gothic novels, I presume," he said. "Or the writings of Jane Austen, who I hear is so popular with young girls your age?"

"Yes," she said with a hopefully convincing smile. Rosalie hated to lie to her father, but in this case, it did not feel like a complete falsehood. The subjects of Austen's novels, which constantly discussed marriage and courtship and how many pounds per annum one's suitor made, seemed to be timely and relevant to her current state. "I am quite enjoying... Pride and Prejudice."

He nodded. "Well, I must retire to my cabin to do some work. I trust you shall not give Miss Wilson too much trouble?"

His blue gaze was sincere and hopeful. Hating to disappoint him with yet another lie, however, she responded. "I shall only give her the maximum amount of trouble that she can manage, Father."

Lord Winthrop chuckled. "I suppose that is all that a father may ask of his daughter."

***

"Greetings, Mr. Walker... No. Hello, Maximilian," she said slowly, looking into the mirror. Then she shook her head, pinning back a stray curl. Why was she behaving so foolishly? She did not need to rehearse a speech before she saw him. If he wished to court her, he could give her an official notice of his intent to do so. What good would it do to bring up the fact that he had held her hand? He certainly remembered it and didn't think anything of it. That was good. She was far too young to be courted. This was fine. She did not care. "You can do this. Rosalie Grace Winthrop, you are perfectly capable of speaking to anyone you please and expressing your wishes. You do not need to worry about anything."

After all, even Lord Jesus said that, hadn't he? Christ had said that, by worrying, no man added an hour to his life. Certainly, that worked for girls as well. Worrying and fretting about a boy would do her no good, especially when she did not know if she would even see him again after they left Hong Kong... though that felt so far away. With one last glance in the mirror and checking her teeth to see if any food particles were trapped between them, she made her way out of the cabin with Minerva in tow. Miss Wilson, of course, could not leave her unchaperoned, and thus had to join her.

Walking into the open deck once more, she avoided the area that was quiet and tranquil, in favour of the place where some crew members were fixing something that had been broken. Loud hammering and shouting emanated from the area. Miss Wilson attempted to keep Rosalie from getting a closer look, but it was too late. She had spotted Maximilian there as well, and he slid down from his position in the crow's nest to join her on the ground. Looking up at him enviously-though with a bit of anxiety at how high up the crow's nest was-she smiled. "Hello, Mr. Walker."

He smiled back. "Good morning, Rosalie."

As she considered her next words, a gleam of metal caught her eye, and she yelled, "Look out!"

A hammer sailed past them as Maximilian ducked his head and the tool slammed into the boards opposite them, quivering with the impact of its landing. Tripping on the hem of her skirt in her haste to get away, Rosalie fell backwards. She felt that shakiness echo in her chest as her heart thudded, looking up to see Maximilian extend a hand to her. With trembling fingers, she accepted it as a crowd of people began to swarm around them. First, Miss Wilson began halfheartedly scolding her for getting so close to harm's way, telling of how frightened she had been. Then, she consoled Rosalie while onlookers watched. After that business was finished and neither of them shed any tears, she turned to the crew members.

"How could you have been so careless? Either of these two children could have been grievously injured!" she scolded.

Her harsh tone was enough to make even the most hardened of the sailors look like he wanted to hide behind his black, grizzly beard. He scratched his nape with dirty fingernails. "With all due respect, Miss, um..."

"Miss Wilson," she snapped.

"Miss Wilson, the children were not meant to be in such a dangerous place." He spoke the words with his eyes glued to his scuffed shoes, as though he were the child being chided.

"Well, what reason was there for a tool to be flying through the air like that? Were you playing a game instead of doing your duties?" she said, folding her arms across her chest and stepping in front of the children as if to protect Rosalie and Maximilian from sudden danger.

One of the other workers steeled his spine. "Miss Wilson, you are not the captain. Why don't you run after your squealing brats and allow us men to do our jobs, instead of interrupting us and allowing those children to disrupt the construction site?"

She raised her chin. "Well, I never! Come along now, Mr. Walker, Rosalie."

The two of them chuckled to each other as they trailed behind her, all tension forgotten. At least, for the time being.