My carriage rocks and sways through the busy cobblestone streets of London. As I glance out the window, familiar sights greet me. Mud and horse dung line the carriageways. Esteemed landmarks such as Big Ben and Tower Bridge and the Tower of London cut into the crowded skyline. A thick, sooty fog clings to the air. It is a chaotic concoction of old and new, of filth and finery.

London is known for being the industrial powerhouse of the Empire. It is known for its hustling, bustling restlessness day in and day out, for its striking contrast between the poor and the affluent. Grimy, dilapidated slums exist under the same gray skies as grand, gilded houses.

Soon, I shall be away from the soot and grime of it all.

Soon, I shall be away from the condescending remarks of Lady Wortham and her blue-blooded friends.

Soon, I shall embark on a new chapter, a chapter where I—and not some man—might be able to author the rest of my story.

In time, my carriage reaches the outskirts of the city. Cobblestone streets lead into bumpier, unkempt dirt roads. Trees and meadows and wide open spaces replace the cramped labyrinth of bronzed clocks and limestone towers and stone bridges. We are still hours away from Buckinghamshire. Yet, this journey to Rosewood Hall already feels long and somewhat tiresome. It gives me too much time to think about my present and my past.

A wave of nostalgia passes over me.

When I reflect on my years spent in London, I suppose I was one of the fortunate ones. My inheritance from my late parents provided a comfortable existence somewhere in between the wealthy and the impoverished. Mr. Fernsby managed my money surprisingly well. I might not have grown up with a silver spoon in my mouth, like Lady Wortham and her friends, but I was given a proper education befitting a young lady in high society. Mr. Fernsby had hoped that a good, gentile upbringing might grant me the opportunity to marry well, to climb a few steps above my upper middle class station.

It is a pity his plans for me did not pan out.

After my misguided affair with Theodore, Mr. Winslow was supposed to be my saving grace, my ticket to the beau monde. Alas, our marriage was never consummated. After the funeral, his family insisted on annulling our union, and I was left with nothing. The memory of this whole ordeal still leaves an unpleasant feeling in my chest.

My wedding night with Mr. Winslow is a hard one to forget. We were both unclothed in bed. I remember feeling somewhat disgusted and distressed in regards to the deed that was about to transpire between us. He was preparing to slip the tip of his manhood inside me when disaster struck. I, for one, will never forget the weight of his fat, pudge-filled form spasming on top of me until, until, until—

He could move no more.

The horror in sensing a live person stiffening into a corpse is indescribable. I can only try to liken the suddenness of it to a snuffed candle, or a choked breath, and the harrowing visual haunts me to this day. The theatrics of it, the physicality of it, is almost laughable in its wretchedness. Coroners diagnosed Mr. Winslow's cause of death as heart failure. His family insists it was witchcraft.

Perhaps, it was some kind of subconscious witchcraft. Perhaps, I did manifest the poor man's demise through my reluctance to perform my wifely duty that night. I am likely going to hell for it. The Devil Himself must have timed this tragedy.

My eyes glimpse outside the carriage once more. I spy a grassy field full of cows and horses at a distance. Then, I jostle past a small church. I utter silent prayer for my soul. The carriage ambles on its way, and my mind ambles onwards as well.

Not long after our impromptu discussion from Lady Hawthorne's garden party, Theodore promptly sent over the paperwork as I requested. I reviewed the documents carefully to ensure that each line of our verbal agreements were also included in the written agreement. When all matters seemed to be in order, I signed the contract, ended my lease with my landlord, and packed my bags for Buckinghamshire.

As I sit here in the carriage, I slowly wrap my mind around the fact that I have become a member of the working class. I do not know whether to feel ashamed or proud of my decision to be a governess. I suppose feelings do not matter. I am working out of necessity. Mr. Fernsby was a shrewd accountant and a capable guardian, but he was no magician. He stretched my inheritance as far as it would go. At present, the money my parents left me has since dwindled to near nothingness.

Hence, I am here, sitting in a carriage with all my worldly possessions packed in a few bags and trunks, making my way to Rosewood Hall to seek my fortune elsewhere.

As the hours stretch on, I grow more and more curious about Vivian, Violet, and Reginald Hawthorne. Children have always been such funny, unfamiliar creatures to me.

I wonder about their appearance.

Will they take after Theodore or their mother?

I wonder about their temperament, too, about their likes and dislikes.

Will they be obedient or unruly?

Will they enjoy literature more than arithmetic?

I hope I will like the triplets. I hope they will like me, too. Admittedly, I am not maternal by nature and obviously inexperienced in my line of work, but I have confidence in my ability to teach the subject matters at hand. As a girl, I was an apt student who excelled in her studies, and my lessons with my governess still make up many of my fondest childhood recollections.

To pass the time, I busy my mind planning out lessons and activities for my future pupils.

Perhaps we could have painting lessons outdoors whenever the weather allows for it?

Or go on nature hikes to study nearby flora and foliage for a botany lesson?

With triplets on hand, I could employ the three of them as miniature actors, and we could reenact scenes from Shakespearean plays and Greek tragedies.

I could also design arithmetic and spelling games to liven up the days, to create a friendly atmosphere of fun and competition in between the repetitive boredom of traditional note-taking and studies.

In this manner, my mind blooms with idea after idea, and the rest of my journey slips by at much more agreeable speeds.

By nightfall, the driver and horses lead my carriage through a wooden thicket. Overhead, the pearly moon is bright and full in a darkening velvet sky. It casts an otherworldly glow across the barren trees and spindly branches. They remind me of skeletons. An involuntary shiver travels down my spine. We emerge from the thicket a few moments later. The dead trees give way to a large, sprawling estate.

I blink and gasp at the sight.

There—Rosewood Hall looms before me.

It appears grand and haunting under a moonlit blanket of murky, silver-lined shadows. Unlike the city, the stars are visible here in the countryside. Clusters of constellations cast a brilliant backdrop behind the massive Elizabethan-style manor. Moonbeams dance across its three rounded turrets. Brickwork and ornate moulded stonework line the walls of the manor. Lush orchards and formal gardens surround the entire property. There is history and character here. I feel as though I am being transported back in time.

It is all rather surreal.

I have come full circle.

Years ago, many of my troubles arose with Theodore's first proposal in the hedge maze at Crestley Hall. Now, the scoundrel's second proposal, an offer of employment rather than one of marriage, in that very same hedge maze is actually rescuing me from my financial woes. The hand that taketh now giveth. The irony is not lost on me.

I cannot believe that fate has led me here. This estate has been in the Hawthorne family for decades, after all. Theodore might some day inherit this estate. There was a time when I thought I would be his wife, the future Mrs. Hawthorne. If, at seventeen, I had managed to wed Theodore instead of Mr. Winslow, then I might have very well become the mistress of Rosewood Hall through Theodore.

To date, Theodore and I may not be husband and wife, but Rosewood Hall will still become my new home. It seems I am destined to end up here regardless of circumstances, and this moment feels monumental, somehow. It marks the first page of a new chapter for me.

Anticipation and uncertainty brew in me like a bubbling vat of nerves.

In some ways, I know what to expect. I have been in correspondence with Mrs. Mortimer, the housekeeper of Rosewood Hall. However, our letters only addressed concrete matters, such as logistics regarding my arrival date, travel arrangements, and so on and so forth. We are strangers, though, so I must behave accordingly. I cannot ask Mrs. Mortimer about the intimate concerns that I mull over in secret—

Will the household staff be welcoming towards me or will they harass me like Lady Wortham?

My anxiety churns on.

Did Lord Hawthorne agree to hire me willingly or was he strong-armed into agreement because of Theodore's whinging and whining?

If the latter stands true—

Will the man resent an employee with my soiled reputation because his name is so pristine?

I do not know.

I do not know.

These are the nerve-wracking unknowns I must discover on my own in the days to come.

I feel as though Lord Hawthorne's attitude towards me, as the master of the house, will set the tone for others to follow. Thus, I pray that he will judge me for my performance in the present and come to overlook my all too colorful past. Oddly enough, I have yet to hear anything from this very important man who will be paying my salary. I do not know what he thinks of me, and I do not know what I think of him.

As my carriage pulls into the main courtyard of Rosewood Hall, my thoughts take a sharper swerve towards my employer.

I cannot help but wonder what kind of man he might be?

He is, supposedly, nothing like his good-for-nothing brother.

But will Lord Hawthorne live up to his sterling reputation?

Or will he prove to be a disappointment like all the other men in my life?