Dear Future Husband

25. Do I Have An Uncle?

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.