**DISCLAIMER***

UNEDITED

A/N: Hey guys. I got snowed in and missed school days. It was great.

Q: What do you see Whitfield looking like (visually)?

THE RIDE BACK TO Whitfield can only be described as one that bore too many emotions. Excitement, giddiness, pure joy.

All the like.

It didn't stop there. Eric, like anyone, knew the mailing address for Whitfield Mansion. And only it didn't even make a week till I had a letter delivered to me. When I learned it was from him, I was pleasantly surprised. And touched. From his cabin (an hour or so away) to Whitfield Mansion, post took a little over two days. He must've started writing it straight away. It read as follows;

Dear Rose,

I think you should know that I cut some roses from the rose bush in my yard and put them inside. They meant very little to me until, of course, you made them mean something. How is it there? Really? In Whitfield? It's been keeping me up at night, if I'm being frank, thinking of you in that house. You say your relatives are as bad as your father—and it makes me wonder. He was the type of person to burn his own daughter. What type of people could the rest of your family possibly be? And Matthew, I hardly know him, I couldn't. But I know he's only two years my junior which makes me dislike him all the more for how he treated you. He was a man, and should've treated you with dignity. You were very vague on that subject, but I have to imagine his behavior must've really rubbed you wrong. You have so much self-hate and self-doubt. I don't think it's all a result of your traumatic childhood. The last four years of your life must've really set the image you have of yourself in stone. And for that, Matthew has to be blamed. Never mind that, you don't have to answer my questions if you don't like. I have very strong feelings about being candid (I'm sure you already know) but I don't want to push you into revealing everything all at once. Too much at once. One way or or the other, we shall know each other better than we know ourselves. At least that's what my ultimate goal is. That's the beauty of courting. Or should be the beauty of courting. People rush into marriages too much-after only a month of taking a half hour a week to talk. That was part of the problem with Mary. I knew her too little. And you hardly knew Matthew at all. The second time around, I don't want to make any mistakes. I really want to know you Rose. Please do answer me this when you write back; what do you love most? I should very much like to know. For future purposes and all that. Oh, and I do so hope you like children! I shouldn't like to introduce anything so quickly to Mark—my son—certainly while our relationship is still in infancy. But if we are to continue to anything more grave-more affectionate-I would like to know if you like children. It could never work if you didn't. I'd write more, how I wish to write more, but having a child isn't any joke. He keeps badgering me, 'oh Father come play with me' and 'who are you writing to?' Of course, I put him off, but then he says, 'who are you writing to that's more important than me?' And pouts. Maybe I'm just being soft, but Mark had me there. No one can be more important or take the place of him—not even if I fall in love. So that being said, I will have to cut this short. But I don't want to close this letter without telling you one thing about yourself (physically) that appeals to me. Personality is vital as well, but physical features seems to be something that weighs on your soul. Your arms and your hands. Have you ever noticed how beautiful they are? I don't mean by the terms of society or femininity. Despite being born into and living in privilege, your hands are strong. Big and strong (when I put my hand over your own I even felt callouses). And that just speaks to your beauty. It gives the impression that you know how to handle yourself, and not just the arts, languages, or whatever high society values in women. Pedicured soft hands might be nice to touch, but it isn't as appealing as strength. As beautiful as strength. And when we embraced-when I was in your arms those few moments-they were so soft. It's hard to describe how welcomingly you enveloped me-but it rooted a deep tenderness within me. And I know why. You've received so little of it in your life but you know how to make people feel like they're cared for. Not just by anyone-but by you. It's so pure, so authentic, the feeling that hugging you gave me. That's why I asked to court you-why I expressed my feelings so candidly. Authenticity and simplicity are one of the factors that attract me to a woman. Even among my humble place in society, woman are eager to copy the upper class. In those efforts, they become more complex. More difficult. And blatantly insincere. All for reasons that make very little sense. That's why I can never share the sentiments that the upper class clings to. But you don't. And I like that about you. Take care.

Sincerely,

Eric Blossom

I read it over and over again, till I memorized whole phrases and sentences. I tucked it under my pillow and dreamed sweet dreams about tending to wild flowers outside Eric's cabin with him alongside me. My plans of revenge against Victoria and my relatives were forgotten, the reminder that my life was still in danger displaced. Even my desires to talk to Bert were abandoned. For the next few days, I'm not sure I even ate. I lived and breathed that letter. Until, of course, I realized I should write back. I wrote as follows;

Dear Blossom,

I'll call you that from now on. Versus your name. I know you say our relationship demands we speak on more affectionate terms than referring to each other by our surnames, but it's more fitting than your given name. Really think about it. 'Rose' and 'Blossom.' It's perfect. Besides, it's more a nickname than anything, especially without the 'Mr.' How is it in Whitfield? One hardly knows how to answer. I have to say it was manageable. Up until a few weeks prior, things were manageable. The property is very big, so Matthew and I lived in separate sides of the house. Well Matthew and his mistress more like. And everything in between and around were different wings that we claimed for ourselves. It was sort of an unspoken rule that we wouldn't cross in each other's territory. So we co-existed. I had one friend, one single person that cared for me, and she abandoned me to align with the interests of her husband. But not before 'then'. Then being when I found out his mistress was pregnant. And things...things flew by like magic. He announced his intentions for divorce and invited my relatives to stay at the estate. They said that 'it was the only way they could be at peace with divorce.' It's so funny, is it not? Incredibly strange. So they live here now, and his mistress is horrible. I didn't know her before-I didn't even know her name-but I do now. And she's something awful. Along with my blasted family. And Matthew was-but I suppose now he's trying. And though it doesn't make up for all the time, it's nice. But living here is something ghastly. I rather be anywhere but here. When I saw that cabin of yours that day, I saw my paradise. That's why I couldn't stop staring. That's where I see myself happy. Whitfield reminds me of hell. I couldn't wait to leave my father's estate after his death, so many horrible memories. I just kept thinking 'if I could just leave this place.' And it turned into 'when I leave this place.' But it's worse. This place is worse. On a lighter note, the bit about your son was adorable. And I wouldn't for a second expect a father to abandon the interests of his child for a woman. Frankly, it that was the case, I would lose all respect for you. I do love children by the way! I've always wanted the opportunity to raise my own, though I'm glad this marriage never provided me with the opportunity to do so. I was not nearly mature enough to ever bear such a responsibility. Not just pertaining to my age either. I have so much work ahead before I finally accept myself with open arms. There isn't any room to raise and teach children-to love children-if I cannot do that first. And to answer your question on what I love most, it's flowers, gardens. After the rejection of Matthew on my wedding night, I cried myself to sleep. And when I awoke in the morning, I looked out my window, for whatever reason. I saw a dandelion. It's nothing more than a weed, and it didn't mean a lot. But it kept me from crying...helped me forget. It only took three months until Matthew took a mistress and moved her into the estate. I knew nothing of her-but I knew of her presence-and that alone destroyed me. And I had this feverish desire to see that dandelion again-to forget. There wasn't a damn dandelion in sight, only green. I purchased seeds of yellow flowers and planted them. I watered them and tended to them, aching all the while, itching to see something burst from the surface. And when they made their first bloom-I cried like a baby. So started my love for flowers. I've single-handedly grown a practical empire of flowers at Whitfield. They often get comments (not to my credit of course) and it makes me proud. It's the only thing I'll miss when I leave this place. I wish I could tell you something that I already found beautiful about you. Not physically, mind. You're a handsome man, you must already know your worth there. Especially your skin. It's mesmerizing. I do so like your straightforwardness more than I care to admit, but I'm not attracted to you because of it. Sadly, I think I like you so much because I've never been paid the type of attention you've given me before. Ever. It's exciting to receive it, and since you like being candid, I have to admit that I obsessed over your letter like a little girl when I received it. Every sentence. Every word. I'm purely attracted to you for the sake of having an attraction. And now that I look at it on paper, it looks completely shallow. I do want to know you very much Eric Blossom, until I find something that really draws me to you. It shouldn't be too hard either though, you seem like a fantastic man. You are a fantastic man. I already know it.

Yours truly,

Rose

I waited like a man in agony for his next letter. And soon enough it came. When Bert delivered it, I already recognized Blossom's script. I cried in glee straightaway. "What are you so happy for? Who's posted a letter to you that has you with such nerves?" I merely snatched the letter from his hands and tore through the envelope, caring little for appearance of my manners. Bert gave a click of his tongue. "It's a man isn't it?" I looked up at him as fast as anything.

"How did you know?" Bert scoffed.

"You love that garden of yours like one loves a child, and you haven't visited it in days. You sit here in your room not moving an inch-oh look you still have your pajamas on-and grow excited at a letter. Adding the fact that the only mail you've ever received was from your cousin, why would you cry at receiving a letter? It's as clear as day. You're infatuated." I only smiled. He clicked his tongue again.

"What? Haven't I right to be happy?"

"But of course Madame. But Matthew-"

"Cares from me not, I interjected sharply, this...this man does." Bert looked over me skeptically.

"Who is this man anyway?"

"He lives in the countryside. His name is, I hesitated though I didn't know why, Eric. Eric Blossom."

"So he comes from...his life is rather humble isn't it? Are you sure he isn't just interested in you for money?" The question astounded me.

"We've only communicated through letters. Besides, the only claim I have to money is the marriage I have with Matthew which is clearly dissolving. Without that, all the prospects I have vanish. And...Blossom already knows this." Bert didn't say anything to this statement for a few moments.

"Just be careful Madam. Be very, very careful." In retrospect I should have heeded his words carefully. But I didn't. I paid very little heed to his statement.

"You may go Bert. I'd like to be alone for now." And with reluctance he left me to be alone with the letter.

Dear Rose,

Blossom you say? I can't quite complain, you're right, it does have a nice ring. Especially with your name. And any nickname is an endearment so I can't find myself upset. Your flower garden? I hadn't any idea you made it. Did you know that it is one of the things that make Whitfield stand out? More beautiful than it already is? I hear the teenage girls talking amongst themselves in the squares sometimes of how 'magical' the garden is. All the same, from what I've collected so far, I think you're a thousand times lovelier than the garden you made. That being said, I do congratulate you on your feat. I'm glad you like children. If I'm being perfectly honest, I wasn't a big fan of what I could call 'small beastly creatures' until Mary laid my son in my arms. It wasn't till then did I fall in love with our child, and even afterwards, I can't stand to be around certain types of children if they're not agreeable. Or manageable. There is nothing worse than a rowdy child who doesn't even belong to you. Oh, and I forgot to mention in my last letter, I love poetry. I have dozens upon dozens of poetry books in my bed chambers, Mark hates it. He hates poetry. He prefers stories. He's only a child, but I can't help but think he took after his mother in that regard. She never cared for my taste in poetry, though she never really voiced it. They're just something about the structure that gives me...like...a readers satisfaction (let's call it that). My favorite poet is Jane Woods, I love to read her latest installments when they're published. Do you share the same feelings on the subject as I do? I hope so. It's nice for couples to have common ground...

His letter went on. It was much longer than the previous one, extending into three pages (forwards and backwards). I appreciated the gesture of how much time Blossom dedicated to write to me. It was touching. I didn't know I had been tightly gripping the pages in excitement until I pulled my fingers away to reveal apparent wrinkles and two or more tears. After analyzing his letter a couple times, I went on to form my own response. It read as follows:

Dear Blossom,

Of course you have no right to complain. I wouldn't have let you anyway. On the subject of poetry, I absolute adore it! In fact, I've written a few pieces myself. Don't ask to see them, I beg of you, they aren't good. At all. Your compliment means a great deal to me-as you should know. And through your previous letter (I treasured each word) it was so long and informative. I feel as if I know you well enough already. Which sounds ridiculous doesn't it? We've only known each other but a week or so...but it feels like a lifetime. Goodness, did I really just write that? It sounds so overused, the type of things young novelists say. The ones who don't really care about love-real love-just the oversaturated notion of romance. Have I told you how much I hate it? I hate the novels of today! The ideas they give about love-about how love is supposed to be-are ridiculous. They fed me great lies as a young girl of sixteen, even with the insecurities haunting me at the time. Anyway, I'm probably just bitter. For girls with pretty eyes and who know how to talk their way into the heart of a man, maybe those romances will really work for them. I can't say the same. I'm sorry if this seems short (it probably is) but I'm really writing to inquire when I can visit your cabin. (It can't be the other way round for obvious reasons.) This letter won't arrive for three days maximum. Say, two days afterwards! I would really like to see you. Till we meet again.

Yours,

Rose

I gave the letter to Bert (how it would eventually be posted I had no idea. All I knew was that it would). And I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I lazed around my bed chambers for another week, practically agonized in the wait for Blossoms letter. On about the ninth day, around noon, someone burst inside of chambers.

It wasn't one of my horrid aunts. Though I would've preferred them. It was Victoria, a torn enveloped in hand. Penciled on the back was my name. In Blossom's handwriting. You can only imagine my reaction.

"Give it to me. Now," I yelled, lunging for the letter. She was as quick as a deer when it came to keeps by it out of my reach.

"A lover? Really, Mrs Axel. Who would want to be with you?"