25 April 1894
Dear future husband,
Lord Dennings is meeting with my mother in the parlour of our apartment in Paris this morning. A most scandalous thing, if you ask me, but what is my mother's life if not filled with scandal? Or so it seems.
I am, to my great shame, eavesdropping under the parlour door. I have just been informed that Lord Dennings is expecting his son to visit him in Paris today and that he will be meeting him at the docks at noon. Cornelia–that is, my mother–has just asked him in a most forward manner whether she might meet his son and introduce him to me. Truly, I have never seen such boldness, and for what reason?
Lord Dennings' son, while likely rich, titled, and landed, well... Any son of Lord Dennings might very well be a spoiled, pompous brat with enough etiquette to fit in a thimble and arrogance that could fill the Indian Ocean.
I have missed their next words! Drat. What if Lord Dennings agreed?
Footsteps signal my mother's return. Until next time, I remain,
Yours,
Rosalie Winthrop
She tucked the charcoal pencil and paper underneath her pillow, wincing at the smear that would doubtless stain the white linen.
"Oh, Rosalie!" her mother singsonged as she sauntered into the bedroom. Her blue eyes were glowing with delight, which Rosalie did not think was a good sign. "Are you feeling better?"
She had feigned a cold this morning to keep from seeing Lord Dennings. It would make sense, as she might have contracted it from the previous day's stroll in the Tuilleries, and had claimed to have been out in the rain too long.
"I am slightly improved, ma'am." She blew her nose for good effect. "Thank you for inquiring after my health."
"Lord Dennings has invited us to dine with his son tonight," she said. Or, you forced his hand, Mother? "We will be eating at his estate a bit north of Paris. Unless, of course, you do not feel well enough for the occasion?"
"I was not aware that Lord Dennings had a son." She tried to smile.
"He is supposedly a few years older than you, though his name escapes me at the moment..." Cornelia tapped on her chin. "Oh, never mind. The important thing is, are you recovered enough to attend?"
"I think I may be quite recovered by suppertime, as long as I am allowed to rest, undisturbed." She hoped her emphasis on the last word was not too obvious.
Fortunately, Cornelia Winthrop was selfish by nature, and eager to not have to spend time in the company of her sick daughter, she left Rosalie to the care of the attentive French housekeeper and an infirmiere while she went off to have tea with a friend.
It might have wounded her if she were not too busy exploring the apartment and trying to find a way to get word to her father. She feigned a mal a tete, asking to be left alone, and had her request graciously accommodate. Thus left to search her mother's bedchamber, she emptied every drawer, rummaged through each compartment, and yanked open the doors of the armoire.
When she had uncovered enough items to fill a small carriage, she began rifling through them, organizing the items. If any went missing, she thought with a pang of guilt, she might be able to blame it on the staff. Though of course, she would prefer to be free of this place before it came to that. A stack of letters were tied with string, and she picked them up, feeling a jolt when she recognzied her father's handwriting.
The first was dated years ago, when she'd started at Sherborne. She unfolded the letter.
2 October 1889
Cornelia,
Rosalie is off to attend school. I am sending her away for her own good. Since you do not seem to care for our daughter–if I can call her 'ours' at all–yet make a marked attempt to involve yourself in her life when it is convenient for you, and never at any other instance, I will send you this missive as I have before: to keep you updated of her life.
Of course, considering you are the sort of woman who could not care less about her own family: I will not be sharing any pertinent information about which school, let alone its location. Perhaps, if, in your heart of hearts you cared, you might come back to Grenledge and ask me in person.
I still pray for you. I have long past finished mourning what was, Cornelia, but did you not love me? Not once? I pray that you are safe. No matter what, you are still the mother of the daughter who brings so much light and joy into my life... Even though you have so callously wounded both of us, I cannot bring myself to despise you. Please, Nelia. I am asking you, one last time, in the ten years since you have gone... Come home.
Sincerely,
Samuel Winthrop
Rosalie clapped a hand to her mouth and sank onto the soft bed, tears rushing to her eyes. The letter squeezed her heart like a vice. How she missed Papa, and how she hated her mother for putting not only her through such pain but her father as well.
Blinking away the tears, she dabbed at her face with a handkerchief and resued her search. The next letters were not from her father, but a series of half-written, aborted replies from her mother.
Samuel,
Love? What we had was never love...Then the rest was crossed out.
Samuel,
I doubt you'd trust me in your house for a second without thinking I was there to rob you blind, darling.
Confusion mingled with heartache in her chest, sitting there like a lump. Rob him blind? Was she a thief?
Was that why she'd left? To go and lead a life of criminal enterprise? With whom? The conniving Edgar?
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and she threw the counterpane over the scads of objects she'd uprooted. Thankfully, it was only the maid with a feather duster. "May I clean in her, mademoiselle?"
"Non, merci." she tried to smile.
Marie nodded and shut the door again.
Turning back to the letters with shaky hands and a pounding heart, Rosalie rifled through them. There was one between her mother and Eddgar, written entirely in French.
She frowned as she tried to decipher the words. There was mention of Maximilian's name... then the word, etouffee. She longed for her French dictionary to decipher the foreign language.
Then again, she could ask the housemaid. Couldn't she?
"Marie!" she called, picking up an overturned book. "I hate to trouble you for so trivial a matter, but..."
"Bien sur, mademoiselle, ce n'est rien." She smiled, feather duster still in hand.
"Well, I feel rather foolish, but I was reading this novel... and I wondered what etouffee meant?"
Marie worried her lower lip. "Etouffer is a verb that means to strangle."
"Oh." Her smile felt even more false this time. "Merci beaucoup, Marie. How ghastly."
"Yes, indeed." Marie went back to her work.
Rosalie stared at the letter again, trying to untangle its meaning. Surely... They did not mean to kill Maximilian Walker?
But what could she not put past a woman who was willing to abandon her husband and child?
***
That night, Rosalie had put away all the pilfered items from her mother's cabinets and dressed in her finest white gown, dabbing on some rouge when her mother burst through the door. When she saw that Rosalie was already properly attired for supper, she blinked. "I see you are prepared for meeting Lord Dennings' son?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat.
"I'm glad to see you are showing the appropriate enthusiasm for such a momentous occasion, dear." Her mother put on a strand of opera pearls and elbow-length gloves in ivory silk from Worth. "The landau is nearly here. Oh–and a spray of perfume, of course?"
Before Rosalie could protest, her mother had sprayed the perfume onto her wrists, smelling of freesias. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Now, we must be on our way," she trilled.
As she looped her arm in Rosalie's, she couldn't help but feel tense, fear and nerves coursing through her body in a frenzied pulse. The carriage ride flew by, and she'd barely blinked before the imposing facade of Lord Dennings' house loomed up before them. The man's property suited his appearance: gruff, harsh, unyielding.
Ebony pillars rose up, supporting the roof that was all lines and angles in charcoal granite. The knocker on the door was a roaring dragon, a hint of the Orient that sent a cold shudder down her spine. Jet eyes stared back at her from the dragon's glowering face.
Lady Cornelia knocked with a gloved hand, before the butler, a Mr. Walker, led them through the grand mansion, with navy curtains so dark as to nearly resemble black, shutting out every drop of the fading sun, Rosalie pulled her wrap more tightly around her body. She had declined to leave her wrap with the butler, much to Cornelia's distaste, feeling colder than usual.
"May I present Lady Winthrop and her daughter, Miss Rosalie Winthrop, Your Grace," Mr. Walker said when they reached the salon.
Lord Dennings stood, his intimidating figure disguising the young man behind him. "How lovely to see the two of you again. My dear Lady Winthrop, I would be pleased for you to make the acquaintance of my son, Maximilian."
Her stomach twisted itself into an arabesque. Surely he didn't mean...?
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am." Maximilian Walker bent over, kissing her mother's hand, but his eyes were fixed on hers.
The reticule slid from her hands and dropped to the floor with a thud. Every eye in the room fixed on her.