Dear Future Husband

13. Without Saying Goodbye?

8 May 1889

Dear future husband,

Tis a solemn, sorrowful occasion for all of us. Maximilian, upon disembarking the ship, left us without a trace! Papa had been so willing to offer him a position! I had even, most shamefully, offered him the rarest place in my heart: that of a friend. I find myself astoundingly most miserable. He had become one of my closest friends, almost as dear to me as Anna. We spent nearly every day on the Etruria together, causing mischief. Now, I fear, future husband, my grief is insuperable. You shall have to bear wit h my sorrow for the next few passages. I am afraid there is no solace for me.

Not even travel and the excitement of being in the Orient can act as a balm to my ravaged heart. Miss Wilson tells me I am being too melodramatic and that I am also too sensible, but I do think otherwise. I have lost my second and only friend. He left without even saying goodbye! How could I endure such callousness, such impropriety? I have never known any boy to be so rude, and others may tell me it is because he is simply too ill-bred or lowborn, but I disagree. Something awful must have happened to tear him away from us, from me. Papa is telling me to enjoy the new adventure, but all I can think is that Maximilian ought to be here, enjoying it with me. Well, I mustn't dwell on these speculations.

Here is a bit of trivia for you, future husband. The Chinese believe the number eight to be the luckiest. Apparently, it sounds a lot like their word for 'fortune' or 'wealth'. Today is the eighth day of the fifth month, and I would feel most lucky and fortunate and be the happiest girl in the world if I had my friend back.

"Rosalie, you are sulking." Papa's baritone voice broke into her letter writing, and she quickly folded the paper before he could see its contents, or see how sulky her written lamentations were. "Come, now, child. Miss Wilson is retiring to her room with a headache. Let us go on a promenade together."

She stared down at her ink-stained hands for a moment before covering them with grey silk gloves. One of the glove's fingers was slightly fraying; she ought to ask Miss Wilson to teach her how to darn it. Waiting for maids to do it was too frustrating for her. "Should I bring my parasol?"

"That would be ideal on such a hot day, would it not?" He never really gave direct orders, her father. Simply offering her his mild suggestions prompted her to do as he wished. "Where shall we go? Would you like to try the local cuisine?"

"That sounds fun, Papa." Rosalie perked up at the thought of food. Her stomach grumbled; preoccupied with her letter-writing, she had not realized how late in the day it was. "I have heard there are delightful street markets here. May we please visit one of them, Papa?"

She did her best to plead with him through her eyes, widening them as much as possible. He chuckled, patting her on the head before passing her a bonnet. She tied the white ribbons together in a lopsided bow under her chin, waiting for his answer.

"Fine," he relented, donning his bowler hat. "But you may purchase nothing without my permission, and you mustn't eat anything until I have sampled it first."

Rosalie nodded so enthusiastically that her bonnet nearly flew off. "Thank you, Papa!"

They ventured out of their rented apartment on Victoria Peak, taking the tram that hurtled down the mountain at a thrilling pace for Rosalie and at dizzying speeds for her father. She watched as the greenery flew by them, trying to forget how cruelly, how heartlessly, and how abruptly Maximilian had left them. Rosalie had grown accustomed to him, over the past weeks. But apparently, she had been too attached for her own good. She had not known the ways of the world and had been crushed by them, by the transience of people as they drifted in and out of each other's lives.

Everything in Rosalie's life had been permanent. Secure. Stable. Reliable. Her father, her governess, and even Anna, were all far from flighty. Thus, they had given her the false impression that everyone else would behave similarly. How could she have known that Maximilian Walker would turn out to be such a blackguard? Crumpling her handkerchief between her gloved fingers, Rosalie sniffed.

The noise caught the attention of her father, who turned to her with a concerned look. "Rosalie? Is everything alright?"

"How could..." Her sniffle became a full-blown sob. "How could he have left so easily? Without saying goodbye? How could he have been so heartless?"

"Oh, Rosalie." That was all her father said, his blue eyes soft as he folded her into his arms. He patted her hair awkwardly but soothingly on top of the bonnet.

She dabbed at her tears with the balled-up handkerchief, blowing her nose. "I thought we were friends! Then he left... with no rhyme or reason."

"There now, Rosalie. Dwelling on the past will not make the present a drop brighter, now will it?" He held her at arms' length, his head tilted down to look at her. "God has a reason for everything."

She shook her head. He smiled.

"Now, let us go and taste some fine fare."

***

My father and I went to an outdoor food market today. I partook in a local delicacy which one of the servants has informed me is called a 'curried fish ball'. I must admit to never having eaten food on a stick before and I wish I could do it more often. I am grateful that Miss Wilson was not present with us today because she doubtless would have scolded me about proper table manners for young ladies-not that we were eating at a table.

Everything is so interesting here! It is so bright and colourful and very different from the boring monotony of Grenledge or even bustling but stuffy London. I saw dragon boats! Such magnificent things, really, and almost frightening. They were red and gold and some of them were as long as at least three carriages put together. We were told by the natives that it was for the Dragon Boat festival when they drop sticky rice every year into the river to keep the fish from eating the body of some dead poet or another. How fascinating.

Unfortunately, my diary remains lost! I had hoped to find it when we unpacked our trunks, but sadly, its whereabouts are still a mystery to me.

How are you? Where in the world are you, today? Have you ever travelled to the Orient? Are you in stuffy old London, or the countryside, or even the Continent? Perhaps you are a bit older than me and are completing your Grand Tour. If so, I wish you the best of times and the happiest of travels, without any seasickness or trouble befalling your path.

I pray that, even in your times of unhappiness, you would remember that you are loved by the Lord above, and even by me. Though I have yet to meet you, and some will say that you cannot love someone you have never met, I do love you. I feel strongly that I shall have no choice but to care for you and be attached to you.

Miss Wilson tells me this is my flaw, to become so easily attached to others too quickly, but I disagree. Perhaps it may cause me pain, but I would not give up a soft heart for all the erasure of pain in the world.

On a happier note, I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Rosalie Winthrop