Total word count: 4079

June 20th, 1872

Mr. Frizzleshanks was a veritable weathervane of calamity.

If he accepted his breakfast with grace, the day would hold no trouble larger than a hangnail or a missing button. If he sulked in the corner, there was bound to be some sort of accident involving the dinner service — although Cook held that this rule must be applied more broadly, since young John Footman fell off a ladder on one such occasion, and it was his arm that broke and not a plate.

No matter what, it was universally agreed among the staff at Rosebriar Croft that when Mr. Fizzleshanks was cantankerous, someone would receive very bad news indeed.

~*~*~

"Miss Rose! Miss Rose!"

With a wince, Miss Rosemary Griffiths lowered her cup of coffee as Polly's strident screech shattered the quiet of an otherwise peaceful morning.

The screech preceded the young housemaid into the conservatory, followed shortly by the girl herself, who flew in from the garden with her collar askew, her apron mussed, and her bright orange hair springing loose from her cap. She pulled up short just inside and began looking all about, even up at the ceiling, while wringing her hands in her apron.

At the far end of the conservatory, Rose held her breath and remained absolutely motionless, more than half hoping she could simply finish reading her papers and let this new trouble roll by without her.

Such was not to be.

Polly's eyes finally found Rose sitting there at the tea table, trying to blend in among her father's potted plants, whereupon the maid burst into motion again, frantically flapping her arms toward the door behind her. "Oh, Miss Rose, do come quick, there's been a kerfuffle!"

Rose closed her eyes with a sigh, resigning herself. Then she took a last sip of her coffee and got calmly to her feet. "What sort of kerfuffle?"

Polly dipped into a hasty curtsy while simultaneously turning to go back the way she had come. "It's Mr. Frizzleshanks, Miss! He has let them all loose!"

That made Rose hurry, following Polly down the path to the summerhouse at a brisk pace that her aunt wouldn't quite have considered ladylike.

Mrs. Doughty was leaning against the outside of the summerhouse door, her face set in the ferocious expression of one about to make war. "It's bad, Miss. He is most cantank'rous today," she announced.

Rose took a moment to prepare herself. Then she gave a small nod.

Mrs. Doughty stepped away from the door, rotating swiftly to open it just enough for a body to slip through and advancing into the summerhouse sideways.

A small blur of yellow and green feathers whirred through the gap at the top of the jamb, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Father would just have to survive with one less bird. Rose slid in after the housekeeper, and Polly slid in at her heels, all three of them immediately ducking as a flock of budgerigars burst into flight over their heads.

Rose, who had grown up with such things, straightened first, her brows rising as she took in the chaos.

Every bird cage stood open. Several hundred finches, of every size and color, fluttered at the windows that made up the walls of the summerhouse. Her father's collection of parrots chattered and screamed from the rafters, the South African guinea fowl and the American turkey pullets pecked through a mountain of spilled feed grain, and the great horned owl was puffed up and hissing in a corner.

In the middle of it all, Mr. Frizzleshanks perched atop the macaw's oversized cage, sedately preening his ebony feathers.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him. "Most cantankerous," she whispered.

Mr. Frizzleshanks aimed a beady-eyed raven stare at her. Then he opened his beak and coughed out a string of filthy words in Italian. 

Rose's jaw dropped on a gasp. "Oh, I certainly will not, you disgusting bird!" She snapped, then took a length of netting from a peg by the door.

"He says that one often, that ver funk you low," Polly quavered, arming herself with the broom. "What's it mean?"

"Nothing worth repeating in English," Rose said firmly, although she was fighting a grin. The absurdity of it all was too much for her sense of humor, and it was proving difficult to hold in a giggle.

Above them, the scarlet macaw began chanting a very bad Italian word, while also begging for cakes.

"Oh, wonderful, he's gone and taught the other one!" Mrs. Doughty sighed.

Rose covered a chuckle by clearing her throat. "Right! Yes. Polly, if you would get the turkeys and the guineas in their pen, and Mrs. Doughty, if you can manage Ozymandias, I'll get Himself back where he belongs. Then we can start on all the rest."

With that, Mrs. Doughty donned a pair of elbow-length leather mitts and headed for the owl, Polly set to shooing the turkey pullets back toward their wicker enclosure, and Rose began creeping up on the most cantankerous pet raven in the whole of County Durham.

Two hours and several blistering tirades in Italian later, Mr. Frizzleshanks was ensconced in his cage once more, the various finches and conures and parrots and budgerigars had been returned to their aviaries, and the piles of grain had been swept up. The summerhouse was back to being a private menagerie of exotics, and Rose was on her way to the conservatory again when she spied the post boy cantering his pony past the garden gate.

Rose strode through the conservatory and down the hall to the kitchen, arriving at the servant's entrance in time to open the door at the post boy's knock.

She smiled and took the packet of letters from the boy's outstretched hand with a merry, "Thank you, Oliver."

It was silly to feel quite so victorious at intercepting the post before Mr. Ralston could take possession of it, but it still sent a little giddy thrill through her as she breezed past her father's aging butler-footman-valet in the kitchen, calling airily over her shoulder, "I'll take it to him, Ralston," while thumbing quickly through the envelopes and notecards on her way to her father's study.

Always, there was hope. Perhaps today word would come. For nearly three months that hope had ended in disappointment, but she kept hoping and looking anyway. And that morning, one particular fold of paper immediately caught her attention. She paused in the hall, turning the letter over, then over again, her heart skipping in her throat. The stationery was plain, with a hastily-fixed glob of brown sealing wax on the back, but she would recognize that looping, elegant script anywhere, and there was no stifling the smile that lit her face.

With a spring in her step, she slipped the letter into the cuff of her sleeve and continued past the front parlor, down a short gallery and into her father's study, stopping to tap at the doorframe.

He was bent over his desk, absorbed in studying his Audubon Birds of America color plates with a magnifying glass, showing no sign he had heard her knock. 

Rose observed him for a moment, contemplating the odd puzzle that was her father, then approached his desk and placed his correspondence quietly in the basket labeled 'new.' "Doctor Taft has written again," she provided.

"Hm."

"The Reprobate Mr. Frizzleshanks has taught the macaw the Italian word for female dog."

"Ah, capital. Capital," her father mumbled, turning the page. 

Rose continued dryly, "This is the last time we shall ever see each other, Papa. I am going to take all the silver and run away with John Footman tonight."

"Good. Good — What?" His head came up, his bright blue eyes round, one of them comically large behind the magnifying lens.

She raised an eyebrow. "Should I send for tea?"

"Tea?" He blinked at the mantle clock, then lowered the magnifying glass. "Oh. Yes. Tea would be lovely."

She nodded and moved to the door, flashing a cheeky grin back at him when he added, "And then send John Footman in here. I would congratulate him. He is about to take my obstreperous daughter off my hands."

"Would that you could be so lucky," Rose laughed. "Alas, you may be stuck with me for a while yet. John Footman has abandoned me for better employment."

After asking Polly to take a tray to the study, Rose went upstairs to her room, closed the door, then flung herself across her four poster, eagerly pulling the letter from her cuff and breaking the seal.

My dearest, darling Rosemary.

She smiled, imagining Frank's soft hazel eyes twinkling while he wrote that.

I have tried several times to begin this letter, only to find each draft lacking. I know no way to say this gently, no easy words to express myself. I am afraid I must simply write it, no matter how painful it may be, and hope that someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

She frowned, the butterfly-flutter of happiness going slowly still.

I must begin by explaining that I am not the boy I was when I left home. I have broadened my horizons, tasted culture and civilization. I am, in short, a man of the world. As such, I am afraid that I now see things in a new light.

Rose read that over again, her frown deepening.

My past desires have become but childhood fancy to me, the dreams of a boy who knew nothing of anything beyond the fells of Newburn. The truth is, my dearest Rosemary, that you are all that is agreeable and good and sweet, and I would not change you in the slightest. You are exactly as you should be. But, for better or worse, I have become aligned with a more passionate, cosmopolitan nature. I have discovered an appreciation for adventure, for travel and places far and foreign, and I would hate myself for requiring you to change your sweet contentedness to fit my needs.

So, I have come to believe that we should end things now, while they are not so serious.

Rosemary shook her head, her throat beginning to burn. "No... No, Frank... Don't you dare..."

I will always look back on our time together with fondness. You have been the truest friend and sincerest confidant any man could ever have, but I think it will be better for us both if I do not call on you when I return. We must not rekindle something that will only become a burden in the future.

Regretfully,

F.

With a hoarse cry, Rose crumpled the letter – this letter she had been waiting in such agony for – and threw it at the wall, as if that could obliterate the words that had just carved her heart out. There was no way to unread it, though, and the pain hit a moment later, stealing all the breath from her lungs, one line playing through her head over and over: he wanted to end things now, while they were not serious.

She had thought they were serious. She had put off her first season because she thought they were serious. She had written him countless letters, each one proclaiming her undying love for him, her longing to see him again, her dreams for their life together.  What had all that waiting and hoping been for, if it hadn't been serious?

For most of the afternoon, she lay on her bed, sobbing into her pillow so no one in the house would hear. When the tears at last stopped flowing so heavily, she sat up and looked at her clock. It was quarter past three. Moving stiffly, she began dressing to go out, gathering her pelisse and shawl and tying on a bonnet. Then she plucked the offending letter from the floor where it had landed and shoved it into the depths of her handbag.

There was only one person she could unburden herself to, only one person who knew anything about her secret engagement to Frank Price, and only that person could offer any sort of advice.

She informed Mrs Doughty that she was going to visit her sister, and then headed out the door and down the lane.

~*~*~

"I want it to all be a grand prank. He'll pop up tomorrow with a bouquet of grass and twigs, and we'll wind up laughing... But not even Frank would go this far. What am I to do, Evie? I have spent the last five years of my life in love with Frank — and believing I was loved by Frank — that the world makes no sense without him. I have nothing in front of me, no dreams, no ambitions, it's all emptiness and fog. I hate to give up so easily. Should I fight this? Should I try to convince him I'm capable of being 'adventurous and cosmopolitan'? I just don't know!"

Evangeline née Griffiths, now Mrs. Edmunds, put the letter down on the tea table and regarded her little sister with the calm they had both inherited from their mother. She did not, Rose thought, look very surprised.

"I hate to say it, Rosemary, but... brace yourself, this is not going to be pleasant... I learned something in town yesterday that I wasn't entirely sure how to tell you, but now I think it will be better to hear it from me before you hear it from someone else. Frank Price came into a title several months ago. Shortly after he left for the continent, it seems. A distant relation passed without an heir, and the entail went to Frank. He is now Lord Dunwoody, the Duke of Windham... You remember Mr. Hargreaves, the Price's manservant? He said that the entire family has removed to an estate in Kent. There is apparently much rejoicing over their change in fortune."

Rose stared at her sister, processing this new information behind dull, weary, tear-puffy eyes.

Evangeline reached out and took hold of Rose's hands, massaging her fingers as if she could squeeze life and warmth back into them as she continued, slowly and gently, "I also heard that Frank has been walking out with a young heiress from Durham... A Miss Madeleine Bright. They met two months ago in Rome. Their engagement was announced in the Northern Echo and the Gazette last Monday."

For several seconds, Rose simply sat there. Frank had written this letter only two weeks ago. He had probably already engaged himself before he wrote it. All those months without hearing from Frank suddenly made much more sense. He hadn't been thinking of her at all. He had found himself a Madeleine. How many letters had Rose written to him in that time, pouring her heart out? Had they made him cringe? Or had he binned them without reading them? "An heiress, you say," she said, as if talking of a new frock. 

Evie gave her hands another squeeze. "Yes... New money. Her father speculated on the railroad and made a fortune overnight. She has ten thousand pounds a year. Rumor has it she also has a squint, if that makes it any easier."

A wry grin tugged at Rose's mouth, but disappeared before reaching her eyes. She had begun to feel queazy.

"I am so sorry, Rosemary," Evie murmured. "I have no idea how to soften this for you. I wish I could."

Rose took a deep breath and made herself sit up straight, squaring her shoulders. "I will be alright. Although, at the moment I feel like a leftover bit of ham, sitting alone in the icebox. I have only myself to blame, really... I was lazy. Apparently, this whole time I could have been out chasing the local gentry."

Concern still knit Evie's brows together. "You did nothing wrong, Rose. You have nothing to be ashamed of. There was never any announcement, nothing was ever official. Judging by this letter, Frank is not eager to have your involvement known... He will not dare circulate anything about it now. You can go on and have your season this summer. You can find someone better. Someone who will cherish you for your own sake."

Rose snorted inelegantly, not bothering to hide her self-derision, her heartache getting the better of her tongue. "Yes, well, that's all I've got, isn't it. My own sake."

"What do you mean?" Evie tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "Father settled five hundred on me. Surely he can do the same for you."

Realizing her blunder, Rose pulled her hands from Evie's grasp and tried her best to put on a reassuring face. "Yes. You are right. Don't mind me, my mind has vacated. I'm liable to blurt out anything."

"Rose," Evie said slowly. "There is five hundred for you. Isn't there?"

Rose nodded, lying through her teeth. "Of course. Why wouldn't there be?"

Somewhat mollified, but still slightly suspicious, Evie sat back in her chair and took a sip of her tea. "Right. Well, after all of this, I was thinking it might be just the thing to get away somewhere. Go find some diversion or other. Just the two of us."

"That does sound lovely," Rose admitted, also taking a sip of her tea. Then she brightened. "Could we bring Roxanne? It has been forever since I got to spend any time with her. She's going to forget all about me."

Evie laughed. "Yes, we can bring Roxanne. We can bring anything and whoever you want, dear."

"Good. In the absence of a Frank, I must content myself with spoiling your children. I shall endeavor to become the best doting old maid aunt in County Durham."

Evie wagged a finger at her. "Do not say such things. Bad thoughts become their own prophesies."

Rose rolled her eyes and picked up the letter, holding it out. "No. Read. Here, he says I am 'all that is good and agreeable and sweet'. It is a good thing too. I'm inclined to throttle the man. I'm not quite sure if I'm more angry that he has left me behind so easily, or that he bothered to write this tripe. Why invent this excuse? Why not simply say, 'I find I am now of great importance, and require a wife with a significantly heavier purse.' That at least would be the truth. I could respect the truth. This? This, I resent. This I loathe."

"I suspect, my dear, that you have dodged a bullet," Evie observed sagely.

Talk then turned to other topics as Rose made an effort to be more her usual droll self.

It was an act, however, put on to deflect her sister from delving further into their father's state of affairs, a habit Rose had slipped into more and more of late. After their mother died, Evie had taken the role of Rose's fierce and loyal protector. As such, she was prone to butting heads with their father, which only made him dig in his heels and become quite recalcitrant. Their last argument had resulted in a two-week sulk, and then the impulsive purchase of a camel, which had in turn led to an influx of other creatures of that type.

As the only person left at home to deal with him, Rose had found it much easier to use gentle cajolery, while working quietly in the background to patch things over as best she could. She didn't want to drag her sister into the situation unless there was no other recourse.

Still, even as Rose related Mr. Frizzleshanks latest escapade, despair began setting up its tent, whispering that at the age of twenty-two, she was falling into a trap of her own making. By putting off her first season and clinging to a future with her childhood sweetheart, she had given up far more than a home of her own. The truth of things was that there would be no five hundred pounds to settle on her. She hardly had any dowry left. Not that there had been much of one to begin with, but nearly all of it had gone to pay the staff after her father expanded the livestock barns to accommodate his dromedary fascination.

She hadn't really been joking about the footman leaving for better employment. She hadn't been able to find the funds to keep him on another year.

Frank, with his soft hazel eyes and his promise of a modest but steady living as an up-and-coming barrister, had offered a ray of hope. Perhaps her father would have listened to Frank where he wouldn't listen to Rose. Perhaps Frank would have had some idea of what could be done with a farm that wasn't really a farm, and a father more inclined to amass animals than do anything sensible with them.

Now there was no Frank. 

There was only Rose, standing in the dwindling gap between her father and bankruptcy, with no prospects of her own.

~*~*~

By the time Rose left her sister's house and began the two mile walk up the lane to Rosebriar Croft, she was tired. Tired, and furious, at herself and at Frank. Tired of drowning in tears, tired of having all her hopes and dreams snatched away, tired of watching her life unravel in all directions.

She went straight up to her room and took a lacquered oriental box down from a shelf in her closet. Opening it, she removed the false bottom, and dumped the contents unceremoniously on her bed.

"If you will be done with me, then I am resolved to be done with you, Francis Algernon Price," she declared, taking up a stack of letters bound with a curl of ribbon. She untied the ribbon, took a deep breath, and then cast the letters one by one into the ashes in the grate.

She knew what they all said. She had read them till the corners wore off and the creases had gone soft and velvety. All of them proclaimed his undying adoration, his boundless admiration, the constancy of his affection. He compared the blue of her eyes to the sky in one letter, to the aquamarine of the Mediterranean in another, wrote verses about the lush, rosy bow of her lips, paid homage to the grace of her throat, the burnished gold of her hair. It made her stomach turn, now, to think of how much she had craved those words.

That was all they had been, in the end. Words. There had been nothing to them but air.

The lock of hair he had given her no longer seemed so precious. In fact, now that she really looked at it, it was limp and mousy. Into the grate it went, as did the wooden button from his jacket that she had found in their favorite childhood haunt and kept for over a decade. The pressed sprig of rosemary he had given her on her twelfth birthday followed suit, and the clover crown he had made for her when they were fourteen. Nothing of any real value, but all of it attached to a memory that now meant as little as his words had.

Which was, perhaps, the most painful thing about any of it. She really had loved him, and now he was going to love someone else.

A few flicks of the flint striker, and a merry blaze began swallowing them up, turning five years of longing into a thimbleful of ash.

There was only one thing left on her bedspread: a piece of parchment, rolled up into a scroll. It had bounced into her pillows, thus avoiding the fate of its brethren. Slowly, she picked it up and unfurled it, swallowing hard as she read the words they had penned together. 

Things we shall do after we marry:
Race our horses down the beach at sunset.

The next line was in her own neat, no-nonsense script:
Buy matching gloves.

His again.
Win an archery competition.

Hers.
Exchange necklaces of seashells.

His.
Steal a rose from a Lady's private garden. Let the record show that it does not matter which lady. First one to achieve said theft shall present their stolen article to the other, who must wear it about their person.

Hers.
Waltz together under the stars.

His.
Share a kiss in the sunlight.

There would be no kisses. No waltzes.
Rose took a shaky breath, dashing yet another hot tear from her cheek with trembling fingers. It really was annoying, how easy it was to cry even when she hated the fact that she was crying. It made her feel a fool. Sniffing vigorously, she decided she wasn't going to cry anymore. Never again would she allow a man to have that much power over her.

A thought came to life. "I have to undo it," she whispered, looking at the List again.

The more she thought about it, the more that thought blossomed into a plan.

It would take some effort. Not all of it would be easy. But a plan was something. And something was better than nothing.