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“The first man? Oh, I had known him a long time, perhaps my entire life,” Emma recalled, a gleam in her eye; “While we were childhood friends, from the same area, and our parents had known one another for some time, after that night of ours together we’ve... not spoken, often,” Emma recounted with mild bitterness; the manner of her speech suggested to Anne that the girl had not thought much on the subject until prompted. “...I don’t see him nearly at all, though... I like to think that that is, perhaps, on account of our busy and quite separate lives. That may just be wishful thinking, though,” Emma admitted in a malaise.
“Do you think there’s... perhaps... another reason for that, Emma?” Anne asked. Her doubts had begun to stew since the tense moments spent upon horseback with the man she had shared her passions with in that cabin; Lawrence’s distance had put her heart adrift in a confused mire.
“I’m... not well-versed in the manner of men,” Emma laughed nervously. “I suppose... some men, are simply... well, they’ve an idea of what they wish to have, and once they’ve gotten it, they move on with their lives. Perhaps that’s what... my friend, thought. The other serving girls, they’ve... mentioned it, of how men have treated them. It’s an unfortunate part of how the world is, I wager.” Emma mused. “Men of the sort I spend time with, anyway. I’m certain the kind of gentleman you’d find would be quite different, m’lady. Men of stature and character must, of course, carry themselves with some sense of dignity... I would presume, anyway,” Emma said. Anne’s heart stung. If only the poor girl knew that parallels between stuffy lords and the sorts of rapscallions who wiled away their afternoons in taverns. Neither had a good mind for the sovereignty of a good woman. “Why do you ask?” Emma concluded curiously.
“No reason in particular,” Anne said dismissively, though the reason proffered weighed quite heavily in her mind. She felt embarrassed herself, having such little experience in these matters. The books she loved as a child had taught her so very much, but when it came to matters of the sexes and of relationships, Anne feared that the warm and sunny allure of the romance novels had obscured her insight into reality. She hadn’t even considered so crass a thought before she had given herself to temptation and drunk so hungrily along with the man who she thought shared her intoxication in one another.
Had she been used?
“That’s... all I need for now, Emma,” Anne announced, clearing her throat awkwardly. “My bedchamber—”
“It’ll be quite prepared for you by the time you return from speaking with your father,” Emma said with a curtsy.
“Come now, you know you need not impress me with such silly gestures,” Anne commented. “I should be back... soon. Perhaps... I’m...” Anne’s voice fell away, and instead memories and fears filled her head until she stood in a malaise, like a fool staring into the moon. A row of windows lined the hall they stood within; the moon had begun to rise on the far side of the horizon, just cresting over the trees, and each time they swayed she remembered that afternoon, traipsing along the forest floor with the man she held a deep passion for, her heart throbbing in want for him even now.
“M’lady?” Emma’s question broke Anne’s meandering reverie.
“I’m... sorry, yes, Emma, my mind’s just...”
“Did something happen? With you, and Lord Strauss?” Emma asked, a conspiratorial smile on her lips.
“That’s quite a question to ask,” Anne said, her tone biting, though the blush on her cheeks was perhaps more revealing than she wanted it to be.
“Apologies, m’lady, I simply saw worry in your eyes,” Emma returned. “I had wondered if your question—”
“Emma!” Anne exclaimed, her cheeks bright as burning cinders now; the serving girl’s head dipped.
“You’re... you’re right, m’lady, I apologize. You simply deserve... happiness,” Emma insisted with her gaze tilted shamefully to the floor.
“Th... thank you, Emma,” Anne returned tensely, “but now it’s time for you to... see to the bedchamber, please,” Anne continued. She knew that Emma had good intentions, and even that Emma was right, perhaps - but her nagging fear that Lord Strauss had simply used her own body for pleasures of the flesh had begun to eat away at Anne’s patience and confidence. As the serving girl muttered, Anne’s mind focused painfully instead on that moment in the cabin - and how now it seemed only pain would come of what had been heavenly pleasure only hours before.
With the strength of pained conviction behind her Anne pulled the doors open, thrusting herself into the darkening foyer. She saw no sight of the man, yet she carried the memory of him in every step; the pain caught in her throat and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore her intuition. She crossed the carpets with her head held high, paying no heed to the servants milling about the place; when she stood before the dining chamber doors, she pulled them open with aplomb, stilling the conflict pounding in her chest. She saw her ailing father laid in deathly stillness in his grand chair, his eyes wide; for a moment, she thought perhaps the ravages of his illness had taken him, before her arrival brought his gaze across the chamber to her face.
“Anne...” he said, coughing. “H-hello, darling.” Anne’s heart sunk when she didn’t see him there. She had expected him to wait. Expected one more meeting of the eyes; one more time their fingers could twine together tight. Instead she found the room cold, only her ailing father to greet her, his words warbling and sickly.
“Father,” she said, her throat clenching, “where has Lord Strauss gone to?”
“Anne, he’s... I suppose, today is a day for some manner of joy,” her father said,
though the viscount clearly had no real joy in his dying heart.
“A day for joy?” she asked. While the day had certainly gone that direction, now Anne felt anything but joy in her heart. If anything, she felt only a constant, growing and throbbing concern; concern that illusions had forced her to disarm herself of her defenses. She felt no joy, but she did feel dread. Dread filled her stomach at the thought that he had just been another man... that her worst fears had been true, that all men had the same wicked thoughts and feelings in their head. She took a deep breath and strode closer to the grand table. Her father sat clutching something... a piece of parchment, grasped in his hand, the dying man lost in thought.
“Yes... joy,” he said, as if he spoke through a thick mental fog.
“Where has Lord Strauss gone to? I had hoped he would stay, at least for the evening. It is quite late, and dark,” she asked.
“Did you spend quite a nice afternoon with him?” her father asked, sounding delirious.
“I... yes, it was a nice afternoon, in spite of the rain,” Anne answered tersely. “Why?”
“Anne, in light of these events, I wanted to... to congratulate you - you’ve found a husband,” her ailing father said. “It’s a day for celebration. You should be happy. Full of joy,” he said, his words turning to muffled, weak grunts.
“Wh... what?” Anne blinked. “A husband?” She stormed towards her father, her expression stern. “What manner of trickery is this, father?”
“Trickery? There’s... no trickery. I’ve thought on it, and I suppose you have your reasons - so I’ve done as you wished, and signed the contract he drew up. Lawrence authored this, and I feel the terms are... fair,” her father declared. She could see as she drew closer he carried deep pain in his expression, and it troubled her to see. “If you think this is what would be best for the both of you, and I am satisfied with disposition of name, and title... I suppose then, that all of the problems have been solved,” he said. Anne’s expression silently demanded an explanation, and so he handed the document gripped in his fingers to her; she snatched at it with a slow, nervous rage building in her chest, the pressure pushing out the love and replacing it with that growing weed of damaging dread. Her eyes pored over the words and with each sentence she felt the urge to scream; she felt pain filling each of the cracks; from her neck to her stomach, down through her shaking feet. When she came upon the last line she nearly collapsed, her mind alight with a sickening concoction of feelings.
Marriage of convenience. Marital freedom. No obligations. She felt... utterly used. Emma’s comments stuck to her like a rivulet of clinging honey. He’d relieved his guilt over his sister - his guilt over his manhood in a system that favored him - by writing out a silly contract and dismissing her. She had given him something so important, something she had never given any man - something she didn’t want to give to any other man, but him. Not just her body, not just the most sacred of covenants; but her love. Emma’s words flashed through her mind. Would she ever see him again? Had he been the sort of man who would take what he wanted and be done with it? She couldn’t imagine it - not Lawrence, who she had found sitting so far from the chattering bachelorettes at that dinner. Not the man who had spent all of his years searching fruitlessly for the sort of woman he needed. He could not be a philanderer - could he? Whatever scars he bore had ruined their sacred bond and it made her feel... broken. She had felt rage, she had felt bitterness; but now, all she wanted was simply to shrivel away, like a leaf painted rich colors of fall, slain and moldered by a harsh winter.
