10 May 1892

Dear future husband,

Today is the day that Sterling Bennett is to be wed. They really have postponed this wedding for quite some time now, due to some unsavoury business which I was not allowed to hear about but learned of anyway (it may be far too unsavoury for me to write here! I shall tell you later).

I am unsure of how to feel toward this young man. On one hand, I have done my utmost to forgive him of all the harm he has caused me that resulted in my being sent to Sherborne Girls' School. Which, to be quite frank with you, was not such a terrible experience as I have made many friends at school. It was actually quite a fortunate time for me. But I digress.

Tell me, future husband, how am I to behave toward this man? My mind and my etiquette are telling me to wish him and his wife well, yet I cannot help but believe that their union is doomed to failure. This girl, Emilia Livingston, seems like a lovely and noble young lady. Yet she is enrolling herself into a most unfortunate and cursed life by tying herself to him. It would be a most undeserved fate for any young lady indeed.

When I told Papa of my concerns, he became very sad and we spoke of it no more. I believe he shares my worries but he only told me that we cannot control the decisions of others and that their fates are in God's hands. While it is true that we are not God, are we not his hands and feet? Should it not be my duty to warn this girl against a dastardly rascal like Sterling Bennett himself?

Or am I to believe that this rake, this knave, has been reformed? If so, by whom? Has he been redeemed? Can he be redeemed? A few years have passed now, after all, since the most horrible incident which ended my and Anna's friendship. I ought to forgive him and forget how he offended me, but I am afraid I cannot. Is it bitterness and resentment that burns within me, or is it a righteous desire to see justice done?

Whatever happens, I am looking forward to attending the wedding regardless. I do quite enjoy such events and I have already picked out the perfect hat. It is green in colour, a departure from my usual pink and blue attire, and shall go perfectly with my new muslin. But I am sure you do not care for such details that men consider frivolous yet women consider to be endlessly fascinating.

Tell me, will you be attending any such social affairs soon? Are you in possession of any ruined friendships over the romantic overtures of a young lady, or is this ill-fortune mine alone to bear? Whatever the case may be, I do pray that you are of good standing in society but more importantly, among your friends and family.

I still have not attended my very first Season yet, though I do beg Papa to take me into town. I suppose he is forcing me to stay put until my education at Sherborne is completed, which does seem most unfair. However, it is a fate I shall have to resign myself to.

I remain,

Sincerely Yours,

Rosalie Winthrop

Tucking the letter away, she brushed her fingers against the velvet drawstring pouch that contained her mother's necklace. She had moved it around her room for safekeeping, which was perhaps not the best method because in some cases, she couldn't even remember where she herself had placed it. It was still a source of complete mystery to her.

A mystery that had only been complicated by the fact that she had many suspicions about Mary Stewart. Reservations that should have been laid to rest by speaking to her father, but she knew also that Mary Stewart had five younger siblings whom she assiduously worked to keep off of the streets. What if, in her hasty, unfounded allegations, Rosalie destroyed her life and sent all her family off to the poorhouse? No, she couldn't do that to her.

Thus, her strategy was to keep quiet, wait, and watch. A strenuous course of action for Rosalie, who preferred to take action straight away. However, it was becoming even more difficult. Mary seemed to avoid her every time they crossed paths–a typical behaviour of servants, to avoid the eyes of those they served and behave essentially like furniture, which was why they had servants' hallways in the first place–but lately, it was even more exaggerated.

What should she do? All she had were a series of strange notes. She tried to figure out a timeline. If, twenty years ago, her mother had been eighteen, her father twenty-seven, then this Edgar Wakefield character, if he were her mother's brother, would be... Perhaps around her father's age, now. It was possible that he was still alive and wreaking havoc. And if he had written a note to Mary Stewart, one that was signed off with the initial E, then was he this mysterious mastermind?

If so, what sort of criminality was he involved in? What dark deeds had he been mired in, and had he brought his mother into them? Was it possible that her mother had not married her father for love? Certainly, it ought to have been one of the first thoughts on her mind, seeing as her mother had abandoned them years ago. Yet she did not wish for it to be so. She wished for Edgar Wakefield to be some dastardly villain who had stolen her mother away from her and her father, so that she would not have left not out of her free will. She might not have left for a reason that had to do with a lack of love and affection.

Yet such a hope felt far too great to dream. She put the necklace away as always and locked up her missives. Rosalie stood from her desk and began pacing, attempting to order the disorganized chaos of thoughts in her mind with a belabouring walk. Later, she would go out to ride, but in the midday, it was far too hot to even dream of such an activity.

Her mind turned to Emma and Alonzo. What secret had Tatiana told Emma about Alonzo? Whatever it was, it could not have been incredibly awful and horrid, because they were still betrothed. Yet when Emma married, she would have to leave school. The thought was greatly saddening to her, to lose a friend. Emma had never disclosed to them what Tatiana had told her, so perhaps it had only been idle gossip.

And then there was the wedding between Emilia Livingston and Sterling Bennett today. Her head felt too full of confused emotions, too overburdened with thoughts of everyone else's affairs to even dream of focussing on her own.

A knock sounded at the door, sending her to a standstill. "Rosalie, may I enter?"

She picked up the green bonnet hat that she had had made by the haberdasher especially for the occasion, and perched it on her head. "You may, Papa."

"Don't you look wonderful." His smile was beaming, radiant, even, but his blue eyes looked tired. He had been away from Grenledge so often, he had only returned from London last night and had been out of their house for a fortnight. "Like a woodland fairy, in that shade of green. It was your mother's favourite, you know."

Rosalie paused. He rarely spoke about her mother, and even more rarely in glowing terms. She adjusted the bonnet, too afraid to speak for fear that he might change the subject. "Thank you."

"Your mother always insisted on having the nicest things, on always being the best-dressed at every occasion. Even when we were going to the theatre, she insisted on having the most conspicuous seats. I didn't mind. After all, she was the belle of the ball, and I felt quite honoured to have her on my arm." His voice grew wistful. "You don't seem to have quite the same need for attention, though I am glad you did not inherit my childhood bashfulness."

"Were you quite shy as a child, Papa?" She could not imagine it.

"Perhaps a tad more... bookish than my peers," he admitted. He patted her on the shoulder, giving a gentle laugh. "That is enough reminiscing for the day, now. Let us make haste, before we miss the wedding."

They scrambled to get into the carriage, with the help of their footman and driver. Papa rested his hat on his lap, sitting across from Rosalie and speaking plainly of quite dull things, such as the Prime Minister and the weather. She suspected he was trying to distract both her and himself from the past. Was it the attending of a wedding that put him in such nostalgic spirits, or was it that she was wearing green? Either way, he still seemed lost in thought even as he spoke, and she was quite grateful for the interruption as they exited the carriage and entered the church where Sterling Bennett's wedding was to be held.

All stood and waited for the bride, who was clad in white, in the same colour that Queen Victoria had popularized. Emilia Livingston was a beautiful wisp of a girl, delicate and dainty in ways that made Rosalie feel ungainly. She had raven hair, fair skin, ruby lips, and eyes as blue as a robin's egg. Her petite stature only added to her grace, making her seem like a dancer of some sort, or even some ethereal sprite.

When the bride had made it down the aisle, Rosalie thought she caught a flash of red amongst all the black suits and dull gowns in the audience. Then, a series of murmurs began to spread. "It's her!"

They turned their heads. Wearing an ivory fascinator, Anna Carver appeared in the doors of the church, clad in a coral, muslin dress nearly the same shade as her hair. Despite all the eyes on her, she gracefully took her seat next to her aunt, studiously avoiding everyone's gaze. The hubbub died down momentarily, leaving the church quiet once more as the minister spoke.

"We are gathered here today to celebrate the blessed union of two lives, in a sacrament ordained by our Heavenly Father," he said, in a booming voice. "If anyone objects to the union of Emilia Livingston and Sterling Bennet, well, you ought to have come when the banns were being read."

A ripple of laughter spread throughout the invitees.

"Although now, I am quite serious. Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Please, make any objections necessary."

Then, a familiar rose in a calm, but assertive tone. "I object!"

Rosalie turned to see Anna, standing up from her seat. Her jaw hung open before she could correct her slip of decorum as she watched Anna speak. "You cannot possibly allow an innocent young lady to marry an absolute scoundrel!"