It was a cold and stormy day, which seemed only appropriate, as my mood was quite dreary as well. It was this day that my idyllic life would come to an end. No more lovely afternoon teas and darling fireside evenings with my sisters and mother. The balls where I would dance myself dizzy in the arms of charming young men would go on without me, no doubt with my twin sister's infuriating laugh echoing through the parlor as she entertained men with smooth hands and combed ringlets.
"My lady," Elinor's aged voice came from the door to my bedchamber. I looked up from the pages of my favorite childhood storybook and offered her a soft, false smile. "It is time to dress for your wedding." In her hands were draped a length of blue lace I knew to be my mother's old gown. The tailor had fitted it perfectly to my wider, more buxom figure, adding in cream colored fabric where the ruched fabric would part and reveal my legs. A cape of blue, with the same cream lining the inside, had been commissioned by my father, and this was neatly folded over Elinor's shoulder. Behind her, several of the estate's lady's maids entered and carried various things with them; a bucket of water and a clutch of clean cloths, a basin of water filled with crushed roses, and a pair of slippers I recognized from my mother's wardrobe.
"Of course," I sighed softly, standing. I still wore my bed gown and had been reluctant to change into anything nicer. It would signal the start of this dreaded day, and would have been too much to bear in my lonesome room. "Stuart fetched the wash basin this morning." I told her, pushing aside the privacy screen. Three panels of fabric that I had painted during my first winter here depicted my favorite story; La Belle et la Bête, a story my governess had read to me every night in Valois. The first panel was of the wondrous welcome party the beast held for his fiancee, with plenty of food, music, and dancing. It was my favorite, as it was joyous and colorful. The second depicted the beast's attempts to woo his prize, although she always refused. It was quite sad, and I had always pitied the beast in this portrait of his story. On the third and final panel I had painted the lovely girl and the beast happily married.
Whenever someone asked me why I had not painted the beast as the handsome prince he becomes in the story, I had insisted that one does not need to change in order to be happy. My mother had been the one to tell me that I would learn better when I was older, but I still found myself particularly pleased with my own twist on such a popular tale. It made it feel more personal, like my own story instead of the same one that every young lady fantasized over.
As I was staring at my paintings, Elinor had several male servants bring in heated water for my bath. It had cooled enough in their walk from the kitchen to my room that I could step in immediately after they left. I laid my head back over the edge and two of the women washed my hair until the russet tangles became auburn curls. A quick rinse with rosewater and they could be tied with fabric to dry into ringlets. Once they were piled atop my head, I sat and bathed myself, with help from Elinor, who dutifully scrubbed me clean in places I'd never thought needed such vigorous cleansing. By the time I was pink and practically skinned alive by her efficient hands, my gown had been laid out in all of it's pieces.
With their help, I dressed quite swiftly and, once everything had been cleaned away by the maids, Elinor sat with me and explained my duties as a wife. My mother had been left unable to speak after a horrible fit which left her unconscious in the parlor, but had made it clear that she favored her oldest and most trusted maid to fulfill her position in this rite of passage.
"When he takes you to his quarters after the wedding," Elinor began, her wrinkled hands holding mine as we sat on my bed together. "He might want to kiss you and touch your body, but some men have no patience for such niceties. When he undresses, you will notice that he has something different than you and I between his legs." She explained.
"A penis, yes." I nodded. I'd read about them extensively in the anatomical texts father kept locked in his library.
Elinor's cheeks flushed and she stammered a bit before clearing her throat. "Yes, that. When he becomes erect, he will enter your body between your legs. It will not be comfortable, and there may be blood. This is perfectly normal." She assured me.
"What do I do as he is inside of me?" I asked her.
"Well," Elinor sighed. "I often make a list of what to buy at the market. By the time this is done, he usually is, as well." She replied.
"That sounds dreadful." I told her, unable to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
"If you're lucky, you'll be expecting a child shortly afterwards. That often allows you a year or two before having to suffer it again." Her gray eyes stared off into the distance as she told me this with quite the deadpan tone, as if she wished she were teasing. Part of me wanted to ask how long she had been enduring such tiresome trysts with her husband, but I did not want to be rude. My aunt, Lady Beatrice, was happily married and often gushed about her husband, the Duke of Norstadt. Even ten years older than my mother, her golden hair was still yellow and bright. Her skin was youthful and unblemished. Did the quality of one's lovelife directly correlate to how they aged? Perhaps Elinor's white bun could still be just as lovely as Beatrice's own locks, had her husband cared for her pleasure more than his own. Maybe her eyes would never have faded from the color of the sky, to the hue of the heavy clouds that roll in before a storm. Was it displeasure that weighed down her smile, forming a perpetual frown and deep lines that etched into her very visage?
This would never be me, I promised myself. I would be happy. No matter what kind of inconsiderate, cruel beast awaited me at the altar, I would smile and keep my vows to him. We would be friends, lovers, twin flames.
A knock came at my door. "Enter." I called.
My father walked in, dressed impeccably well. Only those who were of high class and good social standing would know that everything he wore was a display of opulence and status. A silk and velvet three piece suit with matching hosiery and heeled shoes, as well his powdered wig, all denoted that he had ample funds for luxuries. His eyes and hair, thinning and hidden behind his wig, were similar to my own. He had never been fond of the red hue or the freckles he had passed to me and, as such, he was covered from the hairline of his wig to the tips of his fingers in powder. I hated the stuff, it clung to everything one touched like honey. When I stood, he smiled and his eyes practically sparkled. "You look marvelous, birdie." He told me proudly, coming forward to cup my face and lay a kiss on my forehead. "Your mother is waiting for us in the parlor." His arm snaked through mine and we walked together.
"I'm nervous." I told him softly, glancing up at him. I hoped he wouldn't be disappointed in me for admitting to weakness. "What is he like? Have you met him?" I asked.
Father licked his lips and gave me a nod, but the smile that followed was brief and, I could tell, forced. "He is quite tall, very intimidating. Though, he speaks softly. I thought you might like to know that, since he seems considerate in many ways. Even wiped his feet and left his weapons at the door to my office when we talked privately." He chortled, as if this were at all humorous.
We descended the stairs together and my demeanor immediately lightened when I saw my mother in her wheelchair. Her charming spring green gown was accented with a cozy cream and beige cape, matching linens to cover her legs, and a veil that would keep her neck and shoulders warm. As I came forward, joy lit up her face. Even though only one side could move since her fit, it seemed to hold enough happiness that even her paralyzed left half twitched as if it might finally respond to her command. I had not seen her so enlivened since the incident, and my eyes burned with tears. Her left arm was curled tightly into her chest, but she could still weakly reach with her right, and when she brushed her fingers over her old gown I took her hand and moved it so she would be able to feel and see the hidden cream underlay and lace added by the tailor. Her lips moved and I saw the effort she exerted to speak. "Lovely." She told me.
"I'm not sure which of my ladies wore it better," My father remarked, coming to stand behind her chair. "Though I have always been a fan of the original Marquise de Laurent fashion." He assured mother softly as his lips brushed her temple. She smiled and rolled her eyes.
"Are we ready?" I asked after a deep breath. The church had generously agreed to hold the service in our own small chapel attached to the ground floor. Father had it built so that mother would never miss mass, no matter the weather, as getting her in and out of the wheelchair was a timely and tiring effort for all involved. The large wooden doors mere feet from us would bring me to my fate at the end of the aisle, and my heart was hammering away in my chest like a blacksmith to his anvil. Not fast, but hard and resonating through my bones.
Father grabbed the handles of mother's wicker chair and nodded at her maid, who stood by so that he could walk her down the aisle himself. As we approached the doors, I could hear the muffled sounds of the organ playing my favorite pieces from a composer in the east, specifically the prelude to his concerto. "I want you to know, Millisenta," Father said in a low voice as we stood before the doors. "I've already begun making arrangements to rescue you from this fate." He assured me, and pulled my veil down over my face.
Confused, I gazed down at my toes as the doors opened and the congregation stood. My betrothal to this man had been arranged when I was too young to remember, and word of it had not been mentioned until I was twelve. Even then, details had been sparse. A Lord from the northern part of father's duchy, a war that my hand in marriage had ended, and prosperity for our lands. Wouldn't removing me from the Lord mean another war? I made a note in my head to speak to him afterwards and ensure no such thing happened. While I would accept responsibility for many things, sending father's soldiers into battle would not be one of them.
