“Hope,” the young woman repeated bitterly and her mother nodded, losing none of her eager expression.
“We didnae believe our debts would ever be forgiven, but now our creditors have finally sent us this joint decree. All those years ago, yer marriage was mooted as a bargainin' chip in this mess,but nothin' ever came of it and the debt only grew. Now, finally, it will be wiped away.”
“It will be wiped away if I marry a laird from among the families of the creditors,” Beatrice said, noting aloud the point in all this that was most salient to her personally.
“The decree gives Beatrice three weeks,” her father observed, gesturing to the parchment. “That doesnae seem like enough time to?—”
“Patrick,” Iola interrupted as Beatrice unfolded the decree on the table and regarded it warily, as though it would bite her. “She will be married in three weeks. It has been decided and there need be no great feast or celebration under the circumstances. It is time enough.”
Beatrice slammed her hand down on the table beside the parchment, knowing that she could not give voice to her own feelings in any more violent words or gestures. What she really wanted to do was scream until her lungs collapsed in on themselves, or tear out into the night, hoping the cold would free her from all of this before some wild animal did.
Anythin' would be better than this. Why must I be bartered to fix the mistakes of me parents? If Father had been more sensible with money all those years ago, this would nae be happenin'.
Yet, Beatrice would never abandon her parents to the disgrace and utter penury that must follow such actions. Neither of herparents even blinked, even as Beatrice shuddered at the thought of her fate.
“I cannae do it,” she whispered and felt her mother’s hand settle on her shoulder in response.
“Ye must,” Iola told her firmly. “There is nae choice.”
From the shadows of the hall beyond the dining room, where neither sunlight nor firelight could fully penetrate, Beatrice detected the gleam of eyes upon her. Of the few distinguishable figures in the gloom, she suspected one to be her maid Margo, awaiting instructions.
The family’s servants likely hoped as strongly as Iola for forgiveness of the debts hanging like the sword of Damocles over the heads of the Whitmore house. If a house rotted out at the foundation, then all within it would suffer its collapse.
“So, I am to be married,” Beatrice said in an even tone, her attention still on the eyes she believed to be Margo’s. “But to whom isnae written, is it? It says only that I will be married to a laird from the families of the creditors. If nothing else, I should be able to choose the laird who will have me.”
“The lairds we owe must choose, but who among them wouldnae want ye?” said her mother, brightly despite the tension in the air between them. “They’ll be fighting for ye, I’ll be bound, at least with words, and the best man will win. Nae laird could turn ye away, not with such a figure. I’ve always said that.”
Beatrice shuddered again, hoping that her mother wasn’t about to start talking of “child-bearing hips” and “ample breasts for feeding bairns.” She had heard these remarks before and always hated them. It made her feel more like livestock than family member. The talk of men fighting to have her was almost as bad.
“The laird they’ll choose for ye will be a good one, I’m sure,” Iola continued, reaching out to stroke Beatrice’s hair, the auburn streaked bronze from even the faint hint of sunlight in their gloomy town. “Have nae fear. I didnae ken which of five brothers I was to marry before me wedding day and it all turned out well enough.”
Beatrice said nothing. Her parents’ marriage did not strike her as something to aspire to. It had been arranged by their families to consolidate two small neighboring estates, the value of which was now mortgaged to the hilt. The pair had learned tolerance and civility over the years, if not really anything Beatrice could describe as love.
“Ye must listen to yer mother, Beatrice,” Patrick urged. “Ye’ll be married and supported well enough, whoever takes ye. They’re all richer than I am, anyway.”
Beatrice despaired, knowing that neither of them really understood. But what could they even do, even if they did understand? The workings behind the creditors’ decree would already be in motion. A prospective husband might even have been chosen already, one way or another.
As a child, when first learning that she might be traded for debt someday, Beatrice had prayed that when this time came, she would at least be ready to accept her fate. Later, with more understanding, she came to the terrible realization that there would never be time when this arrangement didn’t seem like an instrument of torture, weighing down her ankles and wrists with fetters fixed for life.
I cannae. I cannae. I willnae.
The willful voice in her head refused to be silent even when Iola leaned in close. Beatrice avoided her mother’s eyes.
“Ye wouldnae refuse, would ye?” Iola put to her daughter, her voice crackling sharply like the fire in the hearth.
“I didnae think of it,” Beatrice answered, unable to look her mother in the eye, for fear that she would reveal the truth of her heart and mind.
“Then remove that look from yer face because we can see yer thoughts writ there clear as day,” snapped her mother, evidently knowing the truth despite Beatrice’s averted gaze.
Patrick took a step closer to the table, the wavering outline of his shadow eclipsing Beatrice as he leaned forward and rested a hand on the wrinkled parchment before her. He seemed for a moment like an fortress looming above a helpless town in enemy hands.
“I am thinkin' only that there must be a solution,” Beatrice made herself say calmly in response to her mother’s question. “There must be a way to solve this other than handin' me over to a complete stranger.”
Beatrice heard her mother inhale sharply through her teeth and her father loomed ever more ominously at her shoulder. Neither of these things had any effect on the young woman. The germ of an idea had taken root in Beatrice’s mind and was now growing and flowering rapidly.
“A solution?” Patrick repeated, his voice growing severe now. “I owe half me estate to MacSween and as much again to the other lairds together. Debts must be paid, one way or another. That is the only solution, Beatrice. All else is dreams and fairy tales for bairns.”
MacSween was almost a name to frighten children in this part of Scotland. The old laird had been a monster who was said to have murdered his own wife and the present laird had a peculiar reputation of his own. Leo MacSween was said to be ruthless in battle, cold-hearted in negotiation with other clans and utterly uninterested in marriage, despite being a widower with only a daughter.
