20 July 1891

Dear future husband,

You simply must hear news of this mysterious Alonzo Price! Or rather, I hope you would hear it without jealousy, but I cannot guarantee this to be the case. However, if this is so, I shall simply redact this section of my letter by accidentally spilling ink onto it. I assume you understand my intentions to be pure, or rather as pure as they can be in this tarnished world.

Alonzo Price has become betrothed to one of my very best friends, Emma! She will be 15 this summer and they shall be married by August. Is that not so very romantic? Although, come to think of it, it would perhaps be a great deal less romantic if we only knew more about the man. Emma is infuriatingly tight-lipped about him, which is surprising for her as she would normally be quiet open with us. In fact, I have learned many things about Emma in this manner that I truly would prefer not to know at all. Yet this would count as gossip, would it not? How horrid of me to write it, then! I must repent of this habit immediately.

But I digress. Here are the few things that we–by this 'we' I am referring of course to myself, Lily, and Mary–have ascertained of the mysterious Alonzo Prize. First of all, his full name is Alonzo Oliver Price. Second of all, he has dark hair and eyes of the same hue, like a hero from a Gothic romance. We are undecided as to whether he reminds us more of Jane Eyre's Rochester or Catherine Linton's Heathcliff. However, Emma is far kinder than Catherine Linton, and thus we have decided she may suit the role of Jane (though less plain, a true English rose!) even if the romance between Heathcliff and Catherine is quite Gothic.

Third of all, we know that Alonzo Price is very protective of his younger sister, Willa Price. He goes as far as to cast a most menacing glower upon any girl who even looks at his sister in a remotely disdainful manner. This glower also reminds us of Rochester, who is Lily's favourite. Mary finds him too immoral and distasteful for her palate. Fourth of all, we are aware that Alonzo Price's father is dead and has left him a staggering fortune that no one has directly disclosed. However, servants' whispers have reached our ears of a sum of ten thousand pounds! Truly a shocking amount, I am sure you will agree. Of course, such rumours once more are neither accurate nor wise to partake in, so I shall accept this number–if it is true at all–with a grain of salt. Perhaps even a hefty spoonful of salt.

Come to think of it, why do people use such a strange idiom? If a rumour is so salacious and false, then it stands to reason that it would fall on the rather flavourful side of the spectrum and thus require no salt. Instead it may even require a dash of water. It is, I suppose, one of those phrases that makes little sense.

Speaking of things that make little sense, today I also bear quite sad news. All my letters to Anna telling her of Sterling Bennett's engagement and pending nuptials have been returned, unopened, and most likely unread. It does weigh heavily on my heart to know that our friendship may never be reconciled as I did care for her a great deal. If I did not, I would have not sent her the missives to begin with, as I am sure you understand.

Rosalie chewed on the tip of her quill before spitting it out, recoiling at the disgusting taste. Due to the foul aroma and the unladylike indignity of the action to begin with, she now began to understand her governess's constant rebukes for the habit.

Father is away in London on business while I am at school. He has promised to bring me many gifts from Town, but this departure from Grenledge has piqued my curiosity. Why would he go to London when he so rarely does? What business does he have that could not be conducted at our home?

I asked my friends, and Mary suggested that he could be looking for a new wife. I immediately rejected such a notion, but once the seed was planted, it took root. Just as the seed in Jesus's parables did, although the birds attempted to eat it and the weeds wished to choke it out. In this instance, I wish such a thought would flee far, far away from me.

Papa would not do such a thing to me, would he? He would not dare! I certainly hope not, when he has made so many promises to the contrary. No, perhaps he is simply in town visiting some old friends who live there as well. Yet typically we go into Town together and he takes me to have tea in the most delightful parlours there as well as to the zoo to see animals and to the museum to gaze upon the paintings of the Masters. He so rarely goes by himself.

Hopefully, he shall return soon and can read my letters to him, as he did not leave an address for his mail to be forwarded to. Another unusual occurrence.

I pray that your family would be intact and whole and entirely loving. I am sure your parents miss you when you are apart from them, just as you miss your mother and father when they depart on business. I pray that you are excelling in your studies and being educated in the finest of schools or with the most elite tutors. I am sure you shall come to do great things.

I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Rosalie Winthrop

She signed her name with more of a flourish than usual, her quill-tip digging into the paper with slightly too much force. It almost tore and she breathed a sigh of relief when it did not. Stacking the sheets, covered in tiny script, neatly and then tucking them into her chest, she went to lock the compartment with a key that she always kept on her person.

But then, to her shock and horror, the key was missing from her pocket. She dropped onto all fours despite all her ladylike breeding and scrambled through her luggage, panic coursing through her veins. Where was it? She pawed through neat stacks of clothing, dishevelling petticoats and overturning hatboxes in her search.

Rosalie found nothing but a scrap of paper marked with the name Mary Stewart. A frown furrowed her brows before memory struck her. Exactly a year ago now she had found the note and meant to return it to the maid. Yet here it lay, yellowed, in the bottom of her suitcase. Curiosity overtook her and she supposed that the intended message would likely have reached Mary by now, anyway.

She unfolded the note with trembling fingers.

Mary–

You know what must be done. Why have you not done it?

–E.

Then, written in tiny, hesitant script vertically across and covering the original text, so that she had to turn the paper to understand it:

E–

The girl knows nothing. Will you not leave my family be?

–M

The paper dropped from her hands and the anxiety that bubbled within her increased to a churn. Was Mary being blackmailed? By whom? Why? Who was this mysterious E? What if he had a relation to the letter that she had found from her mother, the letter from this Edgar Wakefield?

She promised herself that when she returned home, she would ask her father about him. Better yet, she would write a letter to him immediately.

The key! Her stomach growled but there was no time for dinner. She jumped up from the floor and dusted off the skirt of her gown, dashing out of the room. Rosalie would need to retrace her steps. Shoving the room door open, she hunted desperately for it. Wandering through hallways, back to the dining hall, to her classrooms, she found nothing.

Her heart heavy, her head hanging low as her candle burned to a wax nub, she nearly ran into Beatrice Mullins, their house mother. "Apologies, Mrs. Mullins, I know I am meant to be at supper with the rest of the girls by now. It is only that I have lost something of great importance to me."

"I shall have to take away some of your house points, but please, Rosalie, tell me what sentimental object has you so upset," Mrs. Mullins said in a motherly tone, her brown eyes warm. "I am sure it will turn up soon."

A sob broke free from her throat. "It is a key that I use to unlock the compartment of my trunk where I keep my most treasured possessions. I fear that it may wind up in the wrong hands, Mrs. Mullins."

"Oh dear, well that certainly would not be a pleasant scenario," Mrs. Mullins said, steering Rosalie by the arm toward the dining hall. "Why don't I discreetly ask around to see if anyone has seen it, and if that doesn't turn up any results, I shall make an announcement, yes?"

Rosalie nodded frantically, her tears drying. In her excitement, she flung her arms around her house mother. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Mullins!"

Mrs. Mullins patted her on the shoulder. "Now, Rosalie, off to supper with you. I am sure your friends are eagerly awaiting your presence."

"Of course." She took off at a brisk pace toward the dining hall, saying a prayer. "Heavenly Father, please let the key be found and not wind up in the hands of someone who wishes to do me harm. In Jesus's name I pray, Amen."

She entered the dining hall, her feet clattering as she went to sit at her usual place. However, her jaw dropped when she saw someone sitting in her seat.

Surely, it couldn't be...

Tatiana Woodhouse, perched on her chair, wearing Rosalie's key around her neck?