23 April 1894
Dear future husband,
I have made it to Paris, with no small amount of sorrow. I have prayed day and night for the Lord to rescue me, and though I know He is working, likely through my father and his contact on earth, I still cannot help but feel a bit of hopelessness sinking in. I pray you are safe, though.
I pray.... Maximilian, if you are he whom I might marry, whom I shall marry, I pray you would be safe, and that my mother's henchmen or Edgar Wakefield have not gotten to you. May He protect you from all those who wish to harm you.
I must be off now. My mother wishes me to dress for the opera tonight.
Yours forever,
Rosalie Winthrop
Rosalie sealed the letter, tucked it into the false bottom of the jewelry box that her mother had given her beneath a mound of pearl necklaces, silk ribbons, and ruby bracelets, and stood from the vanity as Cornelia Winthrop entered the room.
She had rented a small apartment for their stay, rather than sully herself by remaining in a hotel (her mother's words). Their Paris apartments were cozy, almost homey, and furnished with rococo furniture that reminded her of Versailles on a smaller scale. It was beautiful, but cold, even with the fireplace lit.
"Rosalie!" Cornelia Winthrop waltzed into the room, wearing a seafoam green ballgown that was the height of style, and with her hair piled into an updo that was topped by a tiara. As much as Rosalie's feelings toward her mother were conflicted, she could not deny that the woman's sense of style was unparalleled.
"Good evening, ma'am." She could not, would not, call this woman Mother. It felt like a betrayal of Papa and all he had done for her, all he had done to raise her after her mother had left them. After all, he might have easily left her in the care of a nurse or governess and gone off to pursue his own passions. Instead, he had been the best father a girl could ask for.
In contrast, Cornelia Winthrop was the worst mother a girl could ask for.
"You are not dressed yet? Marie, please come and help my daughter into proper attire. We will be meeting a very important guest from the British ton tonight, darling," she said, bustling around Rosalie, her scent of roses and musk clinging to her skin.
"Who is he, ma'am?" she said. "Or she?"
"The Duke of Marlborough," she said, humming as she arranged the bottles on the vanity. "Lord Oliver Dennings. You know, I think he was meant to have a son about your age... But the poor boy died very young. Measles, or scarlet fever, one of those childhood sicknesses robbed Dennings of an heir."
"How do you know His Grace, ma'am?" she asked. It had been rumoured that Cornelia Winthrop had run away with her lover. Was this duke her lover? A powerful, influential, and some even said malevolent man, who could provide her with the lifestyle she wanted?
"Oh, he and my brother are old friends..." Her voice trailed off. "The two of them used to bet on racehorses together at Pall Mall."
"Will I meet your brother, ma'am?" She stood up as Marie brought an armful of red silk out of the armoire along with a busk, corset, petticoats, and shift.
"Perhaps later. I'm afraid Edgar has not been very good company as of late." She gave an apologetic smile that looked more desperate than remorseful. What was she trying to hide? Whatever it was, Rosalie vowed to find out. "He does have a problem with drink..."
"How unfortunate, ma'am." Her response was automatic, but she did pity anyone, whose entire being was so consumed by a vice that they could not see outside of themselves. Perhaps this Edgar was one of them... Edgar... Maximilian had mentioned him before, hadn't he? Years ago... "Would this be Edgar Wakefield by any chance?"
Cornelia nearly dropped a cologne bottle onto the marble floor. "Now, dear, where would you have heard that name?"
"My father mentioned his name once or twice before," she lied, carefully gauging her mother's reaction. "He said that he'd bought some things from his store for collectibles and antiques."
"Oh." Cornelia's posture visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping. "How charming. You've never been introduced to the man, then?"
"No, ma'am, never."
"Well, coincidentally, you would be right," Cornelia said with false cheer. "Edgar Wakefield is my brother."
"Is your maiden name Wakefield, ma'am?" she said, though she knew all too well it had been Wright.
"That's quite enough questions, Rosalie, we'll be late for the opera!" Cornelia's sing-song voice and her patronizing tone made Rosalie's skin crawl. "Now, hurry and get into your dress."
"Yes, ma'am." This was the life she had spent so long trying to avoid: to be someone's puppet, subject entirely to their whims. Yet only a day or two with her mother and she was already falling into the role.
Heavenly Father, please keep me safe. Please help Papa to find me soon. I pray this in Jesus's Name, Amen.
***
The opera, Rosalie had to begrudgingly admit, was lovely.
Orange women hawked their wares from baskets, while patrons ordered drinks and fruit to be sent to their seats. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the opera, red velvet curtains swathed the room, and they had their own private box with the best view of the stage, and, as Lord Dennings put it, "away from the riffraff." That note made her lip curl in distaste for the man, whose steely arrogance, snobbish composure, and refined aura already made her dislike him. He was a far cry from her Papa.
During the intermission of Puccini's Madama Butterfly, Cornelia asked her, "How do you like the opera so far?"
"I... it is very pleasant, ma'am." She tried to smile. Gozzi's play was very exciting and dazzling to watch, while the costumes and oriental setting reminded her of Hong Kong, and that vivid trip still burned into her mind from years ago.
"You seem rather wistful, Rosalie. Tell your mother what is wrong," Cornelia said.
"Well, it is only that the story reminds me of someone... someone I lost." That was close enough to the truth. Who knew if she would see Maximilian again? Keep faith. Wait on the Lord, Rosalie.
"Truly? But it is the tale of an Oriental princess and her various unsuccessful suitors, dear," Cornelia said. "I thought your father would have kept you far too sheltered to have any suitors before your first Season... Unless there is something you are hiding from me?"
"No! Not at all, ma'am." Though, the plot did bear a tad too much resemblance to her own life than she cared to confess. "Shall we go back inside? I believe the second act is starting."
The strains of a vaguely Oriental song played to signal the Princess's arrival onstage. As Rosalie gazed upon the elaborate headdresses, swaths of embroidered silk, and other attire worn by the actors, Rosalie allowed herself to be transported into a far-off land, wishing with all her heart that she could only return home.
How was it that she had spent so long wishing to see the world, and now that she had, she wished nothing more than to be back in Grenledge?
After the opera was over, Lord Dennings offered to send them home in his carriage as it was a rainy night. This was an offer which Cornelia gladly accepted. When they were exiting the opera house, however, Lord Dennings clapped a hand on her shoulder in a way that made her most uncomfortable. She tried to step away from his grip, but he only held on tighter, leaned down, and said, "I know you know my son."
He smelled of cigar smoke and whiskey, his eyes dreadfully cold, and she struggled to pull away while Cornelia busied herself with her coat and wrap. Thankfully, he released her, kissed Cornelia's hand, and bid them good night.
Shaken and trembling, Rosalie stepped into the landau with the help of a footman, and tried to compose herself. Who was his son? Why would it matter if she did know him? What was the matter with him?
Whatever it was, she had the feeling that this trip to Paris was far more than a Continental jaunt with mother and daughter. She had to find out what they were doing here. Deep down, she knew that danger was ready to strike.
Lord, help me. Preserve me. Keep me safe from Lord Dennings and all those who seek to harm me. Guide my father as he looks for me, and help him to remain safe, as well. Lord, please help Maximilian, and let him be safe. Father God, I pray this in Your Son's precious name, Amen.
Cornelia stared out the window, her expression sullen. Even though this woman could hardly be called her mother, even though she hadn't seen her in over a decade... a part of Rosalie still wanted to comfort her, to understand her.
"Is something the matter, ma'am?" she asked softly.
"Hmm?" Cornelia jumped, as if startled. "No, no, I was only thinking of Lord Dennings."
"What about him, ma'am?" she said.
"Nothing for you to worry about, dear. Only some business dealings between him and Edgar. I do hope they go well."
Rosalie had the sinking suspicion that were these business dealings to go well, they would not be morally or legally executed. She had to alert her father, to escape, to find a way of telling him what had happened to her... But how?