2 February 1891

Dear future husband,

You will not believe the absolute absurdity of what I am about to pen to you! Or perhaps you shall and this matter is only shocking to myself. Anyway, Sterling Bennett will wed. Not to Anna Carver–my old friend, whom you may remember, though our friendship sadly ended on a note that was less than peaceful–but to a high ranking noblewoman! I can only pray that theirs is a match of love and not one of convenience. For I fear that he may have forced the lady in question into marriage by threatening her with her own ruin, much as he almost did to me.

As it is, Sterling and his new bride, Emilia Livingston, have invited Papa and me to their wedding. I am quite apprehensive about attending. I do hope Anna does not get wind of this–last I heard of her, a wealthy great aunt of hers had invited her to accompany her on a tour of the Continent, which shall hopefully last long enough that she is not present for the wedding. However, what if upon return or even through a missive, one of her relatives alerts her to this most ill-fated betrothal and set of nuptials? And even tells her about my presence?

Well, future husband, it may seem to you that I had forgotten all about Anna. And to be fair, my new friends at Sherborne are lovely, but I shall always think fondly of Anna. She was, after all, my first friend and they say that one never loses the memory of their first love, although in this case ours was a merely platonic relationship. No, I shall always have a special place in my heart for Anna even after she thought so poorly of me. I had believed myself capable of forgiving her completely and putting the matter entirely out of my head, but such is not the case, alas.

Indeed, sometimes it seems that no matter how much time and space may pass between us, I cannot rid myself of the past. Take the case of Maximilian Walker, for example. The boy treated me in a most unforgivable fashion, by refusing to tell me about where he had been and why he had left me and Papa alone in Hong Kong when he had promised to come with us. And now that Father has dropped the slightest crumb of information about him before leaving me with absolutely nothing more than a morsel of knowledge to tempt me as Tantalus was tempted by the Greek gods... Well, I usually consider myself to be a very resourceful girl, but I am afraid that I have been wasting my greatest resource: time.

Rather than focusing solely on my studies at Sherborne or my family affairs at home, I have been most preoccupied with the attempt and pursuit of finding where in the world Maximilian Walker has landed himself. So far, it has been a dull and fruitless search driven only by... what? Certainly not romantic love, I will assure you of that much. So what drives my desire to know his whereabouts? Could it be curiosity? A need for distraction?

Or is simply that unfinished business bothers me? Just as the question of my mother remains unsolved, so does Maximilian. So does my unresolved friendship, my estranged relationship, with Anna. I resolve now to make amends with her immediately! You have heard it here, future husband, and will keep me accountable, I hope?

Oh, how silly I am. Speaking to a piece of parchment as though it were a living, breathing human being who could hear me. Nevertheless, I pray that you do not suffer as I do. Or if you do, that your trials are strengthening you. Please know that I remain,

Sincerely Yours,

Rosalie Winthrop

Rosalie dropped the quill, nearly splattering ink everywhere. She quickly capped her inkpot and returned her writing utensils to their proper places. Just then, a trio of girls ran into the room, breathless and giggling. Standing from the desk, she quickly sealed the letter and tucked it back into the secret compartment of her trunk.

"Has some monumentous event occurred?" Rosalie asked, surveying the flushed faces and cheerful countenances of her dormmates. They seemed to be in giddier spirits than usual.

Without ado, Mary flopped onto the bed, her hair splaying out on the pillows. The normally bookish and quiet girl declared dreamily, "Rosalie, haven't you heard? We are in love."

"All of you?" Rosalie asked, looking from the rosy-cheeked Emma to the adventurous Lily to the typical wallflower, Mary. "At the same time? With whom? Not the same boy, I hope."

"Oh..." Lily and Emma looked at each other before bursting into a simultaneous fit of laughter. Their matching pigtails bounced against their shoulders. "Yes, with the same boy."

"Who is this boy?" Rosalie inquired, tapping her fingers against her chin. "Ah, I know the question! Perhaps his first name begins with the letter A?"
Emma gave a mock-gasp. "Alex Mullins? Never!"

Alex Mullins was the nephew of Beatrice Mullins, their dorm mother. He was also a family friend of Emma's, freckly-faced and gap-toothed. He was also scrawny, which they had seen from the few instances that the girls had seen him when he'd dropped by between terms with the rest of Emma's family to see her home.

"Never," Mary echoed.

"Adam Sullivan?" Rosalie suggested with a teasing glint in her eye, glad to be able to speak of boys whom they all knew. Boys who were in their lives, rather than a mere memory of the past. Boys who had not lied to them or hurt them in innumerable ways.

Adam Sullivan was a boy who worked in his father's sweet shop situated in Sherborne's neighbouring village, which many of the girls visited as often as possible. He had sandy brown hair that curled adorably at his nape and beautiful sea-green eyes. Not to mention, his faint Irish accent made him more intriguing to some of the girls, especially when he spoke Gaelic.

"No!" Lily said, gently whacking Rosalie's arm with her pillow. "The object of our affections is obviously Alonzo Price."

"Alonzo Price?" Rosalie repeated, pretending she had never heard of the lad.

In truth, she had not heard much about him, other than that he was the elder brother of a new student, Willa Price, who did not board at Sherborne but was a day student. She lived in the village, but had only moved there a month prior. She was aloof and mysterious–or perhaps only reserved–and a ravishing beauty at fifteen, with long, raven-dark hair and deep brown eyes set in a pale, heart-shaped face. Her brother, Alonzo, was seventeen and came to the school every day to fetch her, much to the delight of the girls who crowded around to see him. Rosalie supposed it must have been irritating to have so many people interested in one only because of one's brother. Not that she would ever understand it.

"Yes, Alonzo Price! Willa's brother." Emma shook her head. "Whatever shall we do with you? You know, Rosalie, sometimes I believe you have an agreement yourself with some young gentleman at Grenledge, with the way you never seem to notice any of the boys."

"There are so few boys here, Emma, as it is a girls' boarding school," Rosalie replied, picking at a loose bit of skin next to her fingernail. "I have no young gentlemen to notice."

"We have just listed three," Lily said, sprawling onto the bed next to Mary. "Are you sure there isn't some gentleman back home with whom you are taken? At Grenledge, perhaps?"

Rosalie shrugged. "I would prefer not to think about any boys at all. After all, we are here to learn."

Mary huffed a sigh. "Now you sound like our teachers."

"Well, they must be wiser than us, or else they would not be teaching us." In truth, Rosalie did not want to think of boys at all because thinking of them meant wondering what Maximilian was up to. It led to wondering if he thought of her at all, or if he thought of girls, or if he knew a girl... in an... intimate fashion. Or if he had an attachment to someone. And such thoughts did her no good, because she would become jealous over some girl she had never met and dream of speaking to a boy whose location she did not even know. She looped her arm through Mary's. "Come on, it is nearly suppertime."

They traipsed down to the dining hall arm-in-arm, passing Tatiana Woodhouse, who sent them a nasty smirk but nothing else. She held her breath. When Tatiana saw Rosalie's ink-stained fingers, she stopped in the corridor and scoffed. "Have you been writing to your beau?"

"Whom I write to is none of your business," Rosalie said stiffly.

"Oh, so you must be embarrassed of him," Tatiana said. "Why else have we never seen him?"

"Perhaps because Rosalie does not believe in flaunting the contents of her life to everyone she meets, unlike you," Lily said snippily.

"Or she hasn't much of a social life at all," Tatiana said mockingly. "Not with the awful way she dresses."

"How dare you!" Emma said. Next to her, Mary tensed, as though she wished to burst out and slap Tatiana across her over-rouged face. "There is nothing wrong with the way she dresses."

"If you say so. I shall see the four of you at supper, then," she said with one last sneer of disdain.

Although her friends told her not to take Tatiana's words to heart, Rosalie couldn't help but let them sink in. This time, Tatiana's words felt different. Why did she spend so much time cooped up writing letters to a man whom she would not meet for years and had not met ever? Why did she spend so much time remembering a boy who in all likelihood did not remember her? As they sat down to eat, she found that she had no appetite.

All her companions were gushing over a boy for whom she cared and knew nothing about. She loved her friends dearly, but she could not help but feel that there was something else out there, something she ought to be involved in, but she knew not what.

As thunder boomed outside and lightning crackled, signalling a heavy rain, she said a silent prayer that she would find out.