I miss you most ardently. I think of you each night. And each day, and each hour. I wonder what you’d say when Mother and I are at the modiste, or on promenade, or at a concert. I wonder what you’d think of my Cousin Louis’ family home. He brought new books from London. I want to read them with you.
And then at night...
Rosalie can’t help but blush, looking down at the sizeable gap between that sentence and the next, as if Catherine couldn’t quite put her salacious thoughts into appropriate words. Rosalie has a choice few that should never be written down in reply.
I have faith in Amalie and Christopher’s abilities to orchestrate a meeting. And frankly, in yours as well. Please make it soon. It feels like it’s been years since I saw you.
Whatever have you done to me, lovely Lady Rosalie?
Indelibly yours,
Catherine
Catherine’s left an impression of her beautiful full lips at the bottom of the letter, and Rosalie can smell the wafting lilac perfume she must have spritzed on the paper.
Her friends may be able to parade their suitors for the ton to see, but she still gets love letters. Still has her lover. And she’s going to keep her lover, come hell or high water.
She stands abruptly and goes to Henrietta’s desk. Henrietta may have a talent for drawing, but Rosalie’s always been good at faking penmanship. She makes quick work of forging an additional letter from Henrietta, suggesting that she will invite Amalie on her walk with Catherine to celebrate the engagement.
Then Amalie will invite Christopher, and Rosalie’s name need not be mentioned to the Pines at all.
Henrietta’s signature comes easily. But then Rosalie sits, staring down at her own paper, wanting to be clever, and alluring, and thoughtful, and romantic...
But that’s a lot to ask of a single letter, and the guests at the party downstairs will start to talk if she dallies much longer.
Darling Catherine,
In missing you—a sensation not unlike having part of my chest kept far from myself—I find I’ve frozen in place, unsure of how to move forward. Thank you for taking action for us both. I will fight just as hard, and am grateful to know Amalie will be fighting alongside us.
I’ve no time to enumerate the many ways I think about you, during the day and emphatically at night. Suffice it to say I hope our upcoming rendezvous has many a hidey-hole to steal you away to.
I’ll be imagining until I see your beautiful face.
Eternally yours,
Rosalie
She folds the letter up almost before the ink has dried, creasing it into a small square to encase inside her forged missive from Henrietta. She has at least a day to figure out a plan.
Anxiety creeps in immediately and Rosalie taps her foot as she waits for Henrietta’s seal wax to melt. She looks up at the sketches above the vanity—a collection of silhouettes and quick likenesses. She and Amalie feature prominently.
Then her eyes fall on a lone sketch of the four of them. The vague background looks like Madame Florent’s shop. They’re all laughing, Amalie and Henrietta on the outside, Catherine and Rosalie close between them. Catherine’s hand is on her arm, and Rosalie’s cheeks are a bit pink.
Perhaps Henrietta understands more than Rosalie thinks.
How much longer would Rosalie have sleepwalked through life if Catherine hadn’t arrived? Would she be the one gettingengaged to Mr. Dean? Living a life devoid of the happiness she can see on Henrietta’s face when she reenters the garden? The sly, brimming excitement she can see on Amalie’s as Christopher takes her hand to drag her across the lawn?
Melancholy wraps around her chest, but Rosalie pushes it away. She’s going to get that happily-ever-after, even if it looks a little different. She just has to reach out and take it.
She just has to be brave.
Amalie and Christopher are at the far side of the garden, setting up for a round of battledore. Just the two of them, happy together. Amalie notices her first and Rosalie squares her shoulders. She can do this. She can walk up to Amalie and pass her the letter, her chin held high.
Amalie takes it, smiling, and then slips it quickly into her bosom, which makes Christopher laugh, his eyes wide. Rosalie rolls her eyes at Amalie’s pleased little grin.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone worthy,” Amalie says simply, her voice low but achingly sincere.
Meeting Amalie’s eyes cracks something long hardened in Rosalie’s chest and she has to swallow thickly against a rush of tears. “Me too.”
