2 July 1890

Dear future husband,

How are you faring on this fine day? I pray that you are doing well, that the good Lord is protecting you from those who wish to harm you and that He would soften the hearts of those who seek to do you evil. Wherever you are during this lovely English summer, I do hope you are surrounded by well wishers and those who love you, as I have my Papa.

Speaking–or writing, I suppose–of my Papa, I must inform you of a very significant development in my life. I have discovered that I am in possession of a maternal uncle! His name is Edgar Wakefield and I only came upon his existence when I found a letter from him, addressed to my mother before her wedding to my father. I have told you about her before, have I not? As I am almost entirely sure that it is the case–and, I shall admit, a bit too tired to go and rifle through my previous missives to ascertain this–let us continue. You are well aware of her misgivings, her infidelity, and her abandonment of our family for the sake of allegedly running off to Paris with her paramour.

However, I cannot help but feel a certain affinity for her. Not that I admire her for her vices, her immorality, or for her actions which led to the dissolution of her marriage–you must know that I do not condone adultery!–but I simply wish I had a mother. Even one (I most reluctantly say) whom I might hate. Even a mother with whom I would be able to get into disputes over hemlines and parties, or one who would scold me for muddying my dress and dishevelling my hair, I would gladly accept.

But I am sure you tire of hearing my pitiful tirades and sorrowful diatribes on the subject of my mother, or lack thereof. You, I hope, have an excellent mother, most noble and graceful in every way, and a wonderful father, who dutifully provides for and protects his family. Perhaps, even a sibling or two, to toddle after you. I myself tire of my own inability to stray from the subject of my mother ever since I have discovered that letter! Perhaps it would have been better if I had never stumbled upon it at all.

Yet another thing was included with the letter: a most beautiful necklace, engraved with the strangest symbol. Now that I am home from Sherborne for the summer holidays, I keep it under my pillow in a small velvet pouch. It smells of my mother's perfume. I know not what to think of her. On one hand, I know I ought to despise her. On the other, I miss her terribly.

I have not found another letter, despite my best efforts, and I fear that the servants may suspect my behaviour and report it to my father.

On that note, I believe I hear one of the servants at my door now. With all my love, I remain,

Sincerely Yours,

Rosalie Winthrop

"Miss Winthrop, are you in there?" came the voice of Mary, a scullery maid. "Your father wishes to speak with you."

"I shall be out immediately, Mary." Rosalie tucked the letter away, folding it neatly and placing it in a drawer. She made her way out of the chamber, brushing dust off of her green skirt.

"He is in his study, Miss Winthrop," said Mary with a sweet smile. She was in her twenties, with dark hair pulled into a chignon and tucked underneath a white bonnet. As she strode toward the kitchen, a silver salver clutched in both hands, Rosalie noticed something on the floor.

"Mary, did you drop this?" she wondered aloud as she picked it up. It was a crumpled piece of parchment, stamped with a seal that made her wonder if it had been meant to her father. Yet the name on the back of the page read MARY STEWART.

Mary had already gone too far down the servant's hallway to hear Rosalie's words. It smelled strongly of whisky and cigars, oddly enough, the smell pungent enough to make her choke. She tucked the note into her pocket, vowing not to open it and thus violate the servant's privacy. But she snuck a look at the seal: a circle with a line through it. How odd. Where else had she seen that mark before? Rosalie put it out of her mind; she would return it to her at a later time.

When she had neared her father's study, a sense of foreboding suddenly overtook her, making her feel faint. Rosalie leaned against the doorjamb, her hand brushing against the damask wallpaper. It was green, patterned with pale mint roses and fleur-de-lis.

Her dizziness vanished just as her father's study door was opened. "Rosalie, my dear, do come in and quit dawdling in the corridor."

She smiled and her hand fell away from the wall. "Yes, Papa."

Rosalie stood in front of her father's heavy desk, his horn-rimmed lunettes perched on the bridge of his nose before he set them down. She sat in the armchair across from his desk, the toes of her slippers grazing the Oriental carpet. "What did you wish to discuss with me?"

"I have been looking for an old friend of yours–Maximilian Walker," he informed her matter-of-factly.

Maximilian's name struck her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs. It had been so long since she had allowed him to cross her mind. The all-consuming zeal with which she had pursued her studies and the affairs of the school term had engrossed her, while her new friends at Sherborne had crowded out any lingering sense of loneliness or abandonment. It was only at home that she could ever feel lonely, which didn't quite seem right. And now, now that her father was bringing him up...

She would admit to herself that deep down, she had missed him. She had said a prayer or two for him.

"And have you heard any news of him, Papa?" Rosalie would not, however, admit that she wanted to see him, or hear about him, or heaven forbid, hear from him. "Do you know where he is?"

"I last saw he was in Hong Kong," her father said, rubbing at his temples. "That was where my trail went cold."

"Whatever do you mean?" Her heart dropped in her chest, and she pictured it now as though thrown off of the roof of a building and shattering when it hit the ground. Images raced through her mind of what her father's words could signify. Had Maximilian Walker drowned in a shipwreck on the way back to England? Was he on the Continent? "Do you mean to say that he... that he is deceased?"

"No, no, it is only that..." Her father shook his head, his hand dropping from his face as he sighed. "He has joined a very ill-reputed organization. One that is very secretive about its members."

"An organization of ill repute?" she repeated, her mouth hanging open. "What, is he in a roving street gang?"

"No, no, nothing so low class. This organization... I have been following their movements for many years, ever since they were connected to... to the disappearance of–" He stopped his words, as though hitting a wall. "Let us not discuss this any further. I should not have told you anything."

"No, Papa, please." She stood from her chair with force, her feet stamping on the ground "I truly am concerned for him and I seek his safety and wellbeing."

"There is nothing more we can do for him, Rosalie! He is beyond our reach." Her father's voice was cold, an icy tone that she rarely heard. He was typically patient and kind and smiled fondly at her antics. But not today, it seemed. No, today she had struck a nerve in an act that had been the wrong move. "And anyway, it is highly inappropriate for you to take such a deep interest in a young man so beneath your station."

"Father..." She felt tears spring into her eyes. She had never expressed any romantic interest in Maximilian before. He was not the one to whom she addressed dozens of letters. No. Why would he assume such things?

Papa came out from behind his desk, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her lower lip quivered. She did not care for Maximilian Walker in the way he was implying and she wished to tell him that, but she was worried if she opened her mouth, only sobs would spill out and he would once again believe the wrong thing. "I know this must hurt you, Rosalie. But sometimes, the most difficult choices are the right ones. You must understand that as your father, I only wish to protect you from those who seek to harm you, or from chasing situations and winding up in scenarios that can only cause you pain."

Out of the blue, Rosalie felt the urge to hurt him. Well, not quite. It wasn't that she wished for her father to sustain physical or emotional injury. It was only that she wished for him to understand the mixture of disappointment and sorrow and curiosity coursing through her veins. She wished to know. She wanted to know if he had been about to tell her more about her mother. She wondered if she truly wished to receive the truth from him regarding Cornelia Winthrop.

"Father, do I have an uncle?" she asked baldly. This was not the time for intrigue. No, it was the time for secrets to be revealed. Only then could everything be alright and clear and perfectly understandable. Or so she believed.

"Excuse me?" He perched his lorgnettes on his nose, gazing down at her through them. "Why would you ask such a thing? Of course you do! I have two brothers, your Uncle Roger, who moved to Ireland, and your Uncle James in Cornwall."

"But did my mother..." The words died in her throat as she saw his face. It was not the typical expression of her father, the strong and loving and capable man she had come to depend upon all her life. No, it was the face of a broken man. One who had struggled desperately to understand what force had torn his life apart, who had sought hopelessly and knocked on doors that slammed shut in his face, in search of answers. In search of solace that he may never receive. "Did my mother have a brother?"

"I don't know," he said firmly. His face had returned to normalcy, composing itself into the straight lines she knew so well and loved. "I think this afternoon has been far too exciting for a young girl. You ought to go for a ride. There is a new filly in the stable that I am sure will be as spirited as you. You must name it, yes?"

Normally she would brighten at the thought of being able to ride a steed other than the old, doddering mare in the stable that had been inaptly named Brutus. Today, it barely lifted her spirits. "Yes, Papa."