Earl of Mowbray belched, the old fool. It was all I could do not to vomit in disgust as I gazed at him from across the room. I sat beside my mother, cutting a glance at her; though she did not look up from her needlework. She appeared more interested in the cloth than her future son-in-law, who was old enough to be her father—perhaps grandfather.
Under no circumstances could I wrap my mind around marrying him. What sparse hair he had, hung to his shoulders in unkempt waves and his face was weathered and wrinkly—his nose taking up half his face. For a man of wealth, his clothes were dirty and ill-worn, and he was in dire need of bathing. I was sure I had not found anyone so undesirable in my life; even our stable master had better sanitary habits. I could not imagine our life together. I refused.
Remaining in the same room with him was a chore. From time to time, his gaze would land on me, and each time he would lick his lips. The gleam in his eyes was quite lewd. At seventeen, I was not innocent of what transpired between a husband and wife, and the thought of him touching me made me cringe. I tightened the shawl around my shoulders, wishing there was a wall between my betrothed and me.
The knot in my stomach squeezed so hard I thought I might faint. I leaned closer to my mother. “Forgive me, but I think I will retire to my room.” She gave no sign that she heard me until I moved to stand.
Her gaze pinned me with a firm look. “You must stay until the Earl leaves, my sweet. Your father was clear in his instructions. You are to remain so the Earl may gaze upon your beauty.” Though she added a hint of a smile, her meaning did not deceive me.
I was like a horse at auction, and my wares were up for scrutiny. “Would he like to inspect my teeth, too?”
“Do not be impertinent,” she said quietly, knowing she did not have to raise her voice, or I could expect my father’s ire later. “You know our situation—”
I sank back against my chair, tugging at the end of my braid over my shoulder. “Yes, yes, just like all situations for daughters of a good name. It is up to us wonderful marvels of the female sex to save our near destitute families,” I remarked plainly in a hushed tone. “Pray tell me, why are boys so coveted when the girls are so easily given to old men? It would seem that girls should be the delight of the birthing bed, rather than the heirs that have no fear of losing their identity in a game of relationship politics.” I thought of my brother who had married last summer, a man who seemed quite happy with his new bride. He never had to worry about a wrinkly fossil rutting over him for sport.
My mother sighed, as was her usual response when I spoke too distinctly. She laid her cloth in her lap. “My dear daughter, if you had only focused more on the affairs of the house than of studies, then you would honor the Earl’s offer of marriage with more regard,” she whispered. “Your future will be secured and that is all a woman can hope for.”
To my mother’s charge, “studies” were a waste of time, and I should be more useful in my endeavors because one day I would run a home of my own. I did not agree with her and argued my need to keep a successful household versus knowing how to read and write. What use was cooking and laundry or attending to guests when one could not carry on a coherent conversation about anything remotely interesting? My mother could barely pen her name, but I had studied everything I could lay my hands on. I was fluent in Latin and French, and I enjoyed philosophical writings. I had a head for numbers and writing, often keeping the ledgers for my father when his eyes were too tired. I knew about politics and economy thanks to my father’s frequent guests and too much drink.
“You cannot possibly believe that our marriage will yield happiness, mother. He has to be older than my grandmother.” A bit of vomit leeched into my throat at our possible wedding night.
“Quiet, now,” she censured. “This is not the kind of conversation we should have. The Earl is a good man and will make a fine husband. He will secure your position in society. The king has given his permission. Everything will be perfect. You will see.”
Huffing a small breath, I said, “And as we know, position is everything.” I couldn’t help but sneer.
“In these times, yes,” she said. “You will become the Countess of Mowbray and honor your family with your marriage.”
My only thought was a hot iron in my eyes would be preferable. Since my mother was for the marriage, sulking in silence the rest of the Earl’s visit suited us both. I recited the Lord’s Prayer in my mind, earnestly focusing on deliver me from evil. My father had declared I would marry for the sake of political and social arrangement, and my mother thought the marriage was a good match—all to a man who had buried three wives and had twenty-five children, fifteen grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren. The prospect of such a union waned to disgust in light of these stunning yet ridiculous facts. Escape was my only alternative, especially after my father announced I would be wed in two weeks.
My fate was sealed.
Copyright © 2020 Beth Mikell
All rights reserved.
Comments