Evening, Late April, 1890 — Hunniford Home, Bartonburg
Rosalie had waved off all offers for help packing earlier in the day. This was a task that was meant to be exciting and hopeful. The heavy trunks laden with all of her cherished belongings were meant to be packed with the intention of being settled in her home. Not her parents' or the school dormitory's or her aunt's house — hers. Hers and Ezra's. (And his family's, she supposed, but Rosalie had clung to hope throughout their engagement that she might convince him to move into a space of their own.) And now, Rosalie felt nothing but grief as she cleared the space that had been her haven this past month. Nothing but grief and intense loneliness.
Ezra had lied.
Their wedding was supposed to be next week, her dress had been delivered the day before last.
(Were all the plans successfully canceled now? Rosalie had removed herself from the process early on, but now wished she hadn't in favor of feeling some sense of closure.)
The walls were bare now, only the curtains remaining as she packed away her favorite paintings and sketches. Everything — save for the dress she'd wear tomorrow — was now securely in her trunks, for Rosalie knew she would never return to this room. She'd sooner move into a boarding house than breathe the air of this room again. The room where she'd written countless journal entries professing her love for Ezra. The room where she'd buried herself under the covers for weeks following their last argument. Rosalie would die in this room if she remained, she had never been so certain of that.
There was only one last thing to part with, which left her standing in Delly's doorway with her once beloved music box in hand. The box, ornately decorated and still gleaming despite its years of use, was the final gift Rosalie had received from Ambrose. "I'd like to leave this with you, if I could." Rosalie offered in quiet explanation for her sudden appearance. When had she last had a conversation with Delphine? Standing there now, Rosalie suddenly felt as though years had passed since the sisters had shared anything meaningful. "He'd want you to have it."
Ezra had lied.
Their wedding was supposed to be next week, her dress had been delivered the day before last.
(Were all the plans successfully canceled now? Rosalie had removed herself from the process early on, but now wished she hadn't in favor of feeling some sense of closure.)
The walls were bare now, only the curtains remaining as she packed away her favorite paintings and sketches. Everything — save for the dress she'd wear tomorrow — was now securely in her trunks, for Rosalie knew she would never return to this room. She'd sooner move into a boarding house than breathe the air of this room again. The room where she'd written countless journal entries professing her love for Ezra. The room where she'd buried herself under the covers for weeks following their last argument. Rosalie would die in this room if she remained, she had never been so certain of that.
There was only one last thing to part with, which left her standing in Delly's doorway with her once beloved music box in hand. The box, ornately decorated and still gleaming despite its years of use, was the final gift Rosalie had received from Ambrose. "I'd like to leave this with you, if I could." Rosalie offered in quiet explanation for her sudden appearance. When had she last had a conversation with Delphine? Standing there now, Rosalie suddenly felt as though years had passed since the sisters had shared anything meaningful. "He'd want you to have it."