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The word husband made me nauseous.
“I hate you for this,” I growled. The setting aside of our differences short lived. “I never minded being a paper princess. But if you had listened to mother, to me, and stayed away from the gambling dens,” I said, staring at the approaching estate, “none of this would have happened. None of this would be my future. None of this…”
“Watch your tongue. I’ve put up with enough of your disrespect,” my father snarled and grabbed my wrist, sending my cigarette case flying. I was stunned—never had my father gone so far as to touch me.
But his grip was terrifyingly strong.
He raised his other hand to slap me. I stared it down.
“Go ahead. Do it. Hit me. It’s the sort of marriage you’re sending me to anyway, isn’t it?” My voice was thick and hoarse with emotion. The low oil lamp in the carriage blurred with my tears. “Shouldn’t I get used to it?”
He released my hand with a glare, and I reached over to pick up the silver case on the seat beside me. Behind his anger and cowardice, I saw a glimmer of what was driving all this.
Fear and shame. And terror at what would happen to him if I somehow escaped this situation. They’d string him up in double-quick time, I had no doubt about it.
He wouldn’t be the first. Everyone in out part of the kingdom knew what happened to men who failed to square their debts with the Greengallows.
My father got control of himself, at least a little, and said, “Endear yourself to all of them, Valeria. You are a woman after all, and God has given you womanly gifts. Show the father, Francis, the utmost reverence and respect. Get in the brother’s good graces. They call him Vasile. The prodigal son not part of their messy businesses. He’s got his father’s ear, and his own sort of power, they say. If you ever need protecting from your husband, you may find an ally in Vasile.”Chapter 2ValeriaMy potential ally, according to my father, was a no-show for our big dinner.
But Petre, much to my surprise, was not at all what I expected and my anxiety about needing an ally began to wane. I had heard so many rumors about my betrothed that I was expecting a monster.
What I was met with instead was a well-spoken, elegant man, who seemed interested and respectful toward me. If I could fault him for one thing, it was that he was very clearly and very aggressively undressing me with his eyes. And a great deal more than that, too. I had once heard the term “eye fucking,” and I knew now exactly what that meant.
Every time I met his gaze, my cheeks flushed, my skin prickling with heat, and I nearly had to bite my lip. Such hunger and desire, it hardly seemed polite.
But even that seemed, oddly enough, somewhat acceptable. He was attractive, much more so than I had expected. He had dark hair and dark eyes and even his notorious limp, the source of so much gossip, was hardly noticeable.
His dress for the evening was clearly expensive and in truth, somewhat ostentatious. A man who liked attention, I surmised. He wore extravagant rings and a sapphire and diamond neckpiece that looked a century out of place.
Seated at the long, polished mahogany dining table, were Petre and his father, Francis Greengallow. Though the old man had all the trappings and behaviors of a mafia king—the pinkie ring, the raw calm, the sense of power, the slightly off-color jokes—I found that I liked him very much. He was warm and curious, and seemed genuinely happy at the prospect of having me as a daughter-in-law.
“Having a lady to help run the house will be a damned good thing,” he said. “And my wife will be so grateful to have you here as well. I do apologize for her absence; she was simply too weak today.”
“I am so sorry. I do hope she will recover.”
He nodded, a half-smile showing gold-capped molars.
“Thank you, my dear, but at this stage recovery would be a miracle. What we can hope for, and what I pray for every morning and night, is that her condition doesn’t deteriorate any further. It was unfortunate that today was one of her worse days, she so wished to meet you.”
“I’m sure we will get along quite well.” I gave a polite bow of my head.
My father had filled me in on the family enough to know that Mrs. Greengallow, Petre’s mother, was unwell.
A weak heart, the result of a fever that had spread through the region the year I was born. I glanced up at the ornately plastered ceiling, past the glimmering crystal chandelier, and wondered if she was right there above me somewhere, for all purposes confined to her own sort of prison. There was an unoccupied place set to the right of the older Mr. Greengallow, the place of honor which I guessed was for his other son, Vasile.
