Dear Future Husband

21. Welcome to Sherborne Girls

7 January 1890

Dear future husband,

I recently completed the Michaelmas term at Sherborne Girls on the eleventh of December and I have so much of which I must inform you. Today is the very start of the Lent term for those in the third form, and I have just returned from spending the holidays at Grenledge Manor. They were truly splendid. I would like to think that being away for an entire twelve weeks caused me to enjoy the comforts of home even more. Papa even allowed me to stay up later than usual on New Year's Eve! There was roast goose with all the trimmings, numerous Christmas crackers containing the lovel iest trinkets, and of course, many of my dearest friends were in attendance.

Though, you mustn't think that I did not long for my dearest Papa and even Miss Wilson and Anna at times when I was at Sherborne during my first term there. I missed being at home so dreadfully much in my first few weeks, I would cry myself to sleep every night. Truly, I pity the three other girls who had the misfortune of sharing a dormitory with me in Aldhelmsted West, which is our house. Each house has a housemother, and ours is Mrs. Beatrice Mulliner.

However, despite the most miserable beginnings, we have grown to become fairly fast friends. There is Emma, who has brown hair and dark eyes and always has a smile for everyone. She is the friendliest of us three. Then, there is Lily, whose nose is always buried in a book-at least, the only time I have not seen her reading is during morning prayers on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Even though the teachers here scold her for it, they seem to have given up on prying the tomes from her hands! The third is Mary, who has blonde hair and five brothers, is a Roman Catholic, and is also painfully shy. I only learned of her religion when I saw her going off campus to the Catholic church nearby in Sherborne.

Speaking of the other girls, every girl here must wear uniforms. How truly horrendous for me and all the fine muslins and silks that I brought! No, I am only joking. I find it rather exciting to be wearing the school kilt-a lovely plaid skirt-with black stockings, a white blouse, and the school's jumper with its crest embroidered onto it. It is quite a convenient difference from the lengthier times that I required to go about my toilette and get dressed back in Grenledge.

Now, as for the classes here, I find that my days are far more structured than the simple lessons I had with Miss Wilson. Here, we have different teachers for each and every subject. Did I tell you, I am one of the best at French in my class? Even the teacher-Mme Van Hopper, a native speaker-complimented my accent! Truly a marvelous discovery that gave me a warm glow of pride. Not too much, certainly, for pride goes before a fall, but a reasonable amount, I should say. One suited to the compliment.

Our timetables are very rigid. Each morning we rise early for morning prayers--on Fridays we have hymns as well--before partaking in classes such as Music, Art, French, Geography, and Mathematics. I feel ahead of the other students in some of these fields, but certainly far behind in some others. Lily is far more advanced in Latin and Religious Studies than any of us, while I struggle to remember every case of the Latin verb (there are either five or six, but please do not question me about such trivial details).

It is getting rather late in the morning and my roommates are on the verge of waking up. I shall write more later!

Blowing out her candle in a puff of smoke, Rosalie folded up her letter and tucked it into the secret compartment of her trunk, not wanting to endure any teasing from her roommates on the recipient of her missives. She yanked open the drapes, the heavy red velvet a struggle to pull apart when her limbs still felt heavy from sleep.

Rosalie discarded her shift in exchange for the Sherborne Girls' uniform, shivering in the nippy morning air of January as she quickly tugged the stockings up past her knees. Outside, snow fell gently in soft wisps across the frosted panes, while chilly gusts sent icicles clicking against one another, threatening to fall off their eaves. It had been most delightful to go back to Grenledge and see Papa again, but to be quite honest, she had also enjoyed her time at Sherborne more than she had believed she could. In spite of missing home, her abrupt departure that she had viewed as an exile, and having never been separated from her governess and her father for such a lengthy stretch of time, Rosalie felt that she had settled into Sherborne well and made plenty of friends.

Well, aside from one of the girls in the same house but a different room, who seemed to regard it as her life's mission to make Rosalie and her new friends miserable. Tatiana Woodhouse was fifteen, putting her a year above Rosalie, but she had apparently never encountered the concept of only picking on those who were one's own size, or age, or year, or perhaps even only gently joshing around with one's peers. This was clear from the way she seemed to enjoy leaving frogs in their shoes, stealing their pickled limes, and blaming them for starting conversations in class when Tatiana was the one who provoked them into speaking first. To make matters worse, she had an angelic face, with an aquiline, Grecian nose and a stately, elegant figure, and such beauty often led the teachers to believe her innocence.

"Good morning, Rosalie," Emma said, running a brush through her dark curls. She winced as the brush caught on a strand, nearly pulling it out. When she was satisfied, she tied her hair back with a blue ribbon, meeting Rosalie's eye in the mirror. "You seem upset."

Rosalie forced a smile for a moment. Ever since Anna, as much as she enjoyed the company of these new friends, she could not quite bring herself to share her troubles as easily as before. "It is nothing of import."

And before Emma could challenge that, Lily was awake, her teeth chattering in the chill of the room. The basin of water on the vanity had formed an ice sheet, and it was difficult to break and even more difficult to summon the courage to wash one's face with it. Still, the teachers routinely chastised the girls who did not keep neat and tidy, saying that cleanliness was next to godliness.

"If you say so," Emma said, helping Lily braid her hair as the other girl sat yawning on the vanity stool. Shortly after, Mary appeared, combing through her auburn hair haphazardly before plaiting it.

After morning prayers, they went to their first class, French, and although Rosalie tried to pay attention throughout the fifty-five minutes of verbs, grammar, and conjugations, her mind was sidetracked by wandering thoughts. She had not paid any mind to Maximilian Walker for a long time. First, her life had been overturned by the incident with the dastardly villain, Sterling Bennett. Then, she had been sent to Sherborne and been overcome with thoughts of loneliness and homesickness, unable to do much more than miss her father and cry about being separated from him.

After that, Rosalie had finally settled into life at Sherborne Girls, and resolved not to let anything or anyone spoil her routine here. She enjoyed her classes, found the teachers engaging and friendly, and encountered girls whom she hoped would be lifelong companions and kindred spirits. Why should she waste a thought on a young man who had clearly not bothered to waste words or time on her?

"Mademoiselle Winthrop," Mme Van Hopper said, making her head snap up. "Fais attention, s'il te plait."

With a blush, Rosalie realized that she had been doodling Maximilian's initials onto her paper with a heart. She quickly scribbled out the drawing with a quiet, "Desolee, Madame Van Hopper."

"Apology accepted. Now, can anyone in this class tell me the difference between the imperfect and perfect tenses?" Madame Van Hopper asked. Her high-heeled shoes clicked on the parquet flooring in sharp staccatos as she walked toward the blackboard.

A dozen hands shot up around her, and Rosalie let the murmur of French carry her thoughts away into a drifting haze.

***

We have just finished our tea, future husband. I am settling in for a restful night with my letter-writing, while Mary is saying the rosary, Emma is drawing, and Lily, as always, is reading a book. The food at Sherborne is not as scrumptious as that at Grenledge, but that was to be expected. Still, I would not trade being here for being anywhere else, in this particular moment. Of course, I love my Papa, but Grenledge is full of too many painful memories for me to think of being walled up there.

How are you doing, wherever you are? Did you make many friends in school? I pray you do not need to deal with anyone as dreadful as Tatiana Woodhouse. I pray that the Lord is surrounding you with honourable, noble companions and allowing them to sharpen you as iron sharpens iron. I pray that in all that you do, you are seeking to glorify Him.

With all my love, I remain,

Sincerely Yours,

Rosalie Winthrop