Читать книгу The Fairytale Trilogy - Valerie Gribben - Страница 9

Marianne awoke on her wedding day with an aching neck and frozen toes. Pulling the sheets up around her, she took in the room in which she would never awaken again. She winced as her feet met the glacial floor. Is it foolish to say good-bye to inanimate objects? she wondered vaguely as she made her way about her room. The bushel of newly plucked roses she had taken from the twining bushes that scaled her walls seemed to blush with happiness today. Wish I were that excited, she thought. There was a timid knock at the door.

“Come in,” Marianne said distractedly, staring at the green, gently sloping fields stretching beyond her window.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Marianne, but the Lady, er . . . your mother requests that you dress in your finest this morning. She is sending up some other girls to aid you in looking your best,” said the servant girl, staring downward so that only her cap was visible to Marianne.

“Why does the Lady need me so early?” inquired Marianne, fiddling with the window latch.

“She says . . . um . . . she says that,” the girl struggled to find the correct words before they tumbled out, “that your betrothed will be coming to have an audience with you before the wedding.”

Marianne opened the window, and the white curtains yielded to a freezing gust as she stood with her hands on the sill. Outside, the sun’s absence created a bleak morning scene, and the damp morning air chilled Marianne’s fingers. “Tell her,” Marianne cocked her head slightly, “that I shall be down as soon as possible.”

“Yes’m,” the girl muttered before rushing mouse-like out the door.

Marianne moved away from the window. She sat down at her vanity table and scrutinized her image in the mirror. “I’m going to be married,” Marianne said ruefully. What will come after marriage? Will I learn to love him? Will he want children? What a stupid question! Of course, he’ll want a son. But can I be a wife? Maybe it won’t be so horrible. Maybe he’ll be wonderful and let me run through his forests and stay up all night reading. Perhaps I’ll fall in love with him and live happily ever after like all the heroines I’ve read about. Marianne could hear the footsteps of servants making their way to her door. “If you smile, nothing is as bad as you think it is,” she said out loud. But she observed as she got up that anxiety had faded the roses from her alabaster cheeks and strained her reflection’s smile.

Descending the staircase, Marianne concentrated on feeling cheerful. It was an arduous task because she had spent the last hours in misery in order to make a good first impression. If I’m going to be with him the rest of my life, I might as well have him like me. Against her will her feet were crammed inside pointed, high-heeled shoes. Do I really think that Brantford will find it attractive that I can only limp? The corset pinched her hips and repressed her breathing to small gasps. Marianne found it absurdly impractical to minimize her hips and then layer on tiers of petticoats. It’s like refusing to take a bath, then going swimming. Her brocade gown was so unwieldy that Marianne had remarked that it was like wearing a hippopotamus to a dinner party. The only thing she liked about her appearance was her hair. At her insistence, the servants had wrapped fresh roses into the back of her thick black tresses which wound their way down her back in a single braid.

“About time!” barked the impatient voice of her father Neville at the bottom of the stairway. “I’ve been waiting forever!”

“Well, prepare yourself to wait a little longer,” Marianne announced, making her way down. “You and I would both be sad if I broke my neck on my wedding day because of these confounded shoes.”

“Hmmph. Maybe you would be sad,” said her father.

Marianne made a face, and continued down the stairs. At the bottom, her father grabbed her arm. “I refuse to let you embarrass us any longer.”

As in a horrible nightmare, Marianne was dragged closer and closer to the parlor entrance. It seemed as though the door were speeding in their direction.

“Father, please, please don’t make me go in. Please stop!” cried Marianne, attempting to squirm away. But her father tightened his hold until Marianne let out a sob of pain, and her smooth shoes slid easily across the slick floor. Being compressed inside courtly fashions, Marianne was defenseless as Neville prepared to sacrifice her to Brantford.

“In here,” Neville growled as he cracked open the parlor door. “And don’t you dare talk back to him!”

With that, he swung open the door and pushed Marianne inside, following closely behind. The room was small, with a low ceiling and heavy drapes cascading down the windows. In the dim light, Marianne struggled to locate her fiancé. She finally detected a man in a high-backed chair. Before she could say anything, he moved over to one of the windows and pulled back the curtains, allowing a radiant view of the countryside and of Marianne.

“Your portrait did not do your fair countenance justice, my lady,” complimented an unknown voice. At this, Marianne’s father gave her a sharp kick in the back of her knee.

“Ow! I mean, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Brantford,” Marianne stammered with a curtsy. The figure materialized from the shadows and eyed Marianne attentively. Well, he’s not atrocious looking, thought Marianne. In fact, she rather liked his looks. His placid face was set off by sandy brown hair, and his understated smile stirred her emotions.

“Turn around. Let him have a good look at you so he knows what he’s getting into,” Neville blew in her ear.

“There is no need for that, my friend,” said the apparently keen-of-hearing Brantford. “I can tell from here she is of exquisite beauty.” Marianne felt her cheeks grow warm with such rare praise.

“Fine, fine,” Neville blustered. “I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

He looked sorely tempted to make another suggestion to Marianne, but Brantford cleared his throat, and Neville thought better of it and quickly removed himself.

“Please, have a seat,” said Brantford, choosing an uncomfortable chair for himself before awkwardly examining his plumed hat. An empty stillness, longing to be filled, pressed down upon Marianne’s shoulders. But in this claustrophobic climate, all Marianne could hear were her parents’ strict rules of etiquette rattling in her head: “Don’t speak unless spoken to!” “Be seen, not heard!” “Don’t fidget, don’t talk, and don’t breathe more than you have to!” “Ladies do not do whatever you’re doing!” Finally, Marianne burst out, “What do you do?” before almost hitting herself on the forehead for such an asinine question. The sound of her voice cutting through the space between them made Brantford twitch on the other side of the room, and Marianne noted with apprehension that his right hand was drawn to the sword at his waist.

“I served in the war, with distinction,” he added, with a touch of both bitterness and pride, as he stood up and began pacing the room. Marianne knew which war he was talking about. Fifteen years ago, the kingdom had been wrought with turmoil brought on by feuding wizards and fairies. The kingdom’s humans had instinctively sided with the fairies. Beatrice often said that these conflicts must be why Marianne was such a rowdy child. “Now my father has me training young men for service until the next war comes along and I resume my commission.”

“That sounds very exciting,” said Marianne because she could think of nothing else to reply.

“You think the last war was exciting?” he asked, stopping in mid-gait and turning to her.

“Uhm . . . No?” Marianne ventured.

“It’s not thrilling. It’s never exhilarating to see your human and fairy friends die side by side. The wizards could tell the fairies by their eyes and came after them with impossible cunning.” Brantford seemed pained by the memories of the battles and looked out the window before returning his attention to Marianne.

Marianne gripped her chair tighter.

Brantford resumed his orbit of the room. “Marianne, what do you enjoy?”

“I adore reading,” enthused Marianne.

“You like to read?” said a mystified Brantford. “If my father didn’t require me to brush up on military history, I would never touch a book.” Regaining his composure, he asked, “Do you like to hunt?”

“I would never hurt creatures for sport!” said Marianne in disgust, thinking of Prince. “I just like to roam the forest.”

“You can’t live in the forest! Father always says that only hags and magicians reside there,” uttered Brantford. “How old are you again?” he inquired bemusedly.

“Almost sixteen,” said Marianne, with a shade of defiance in her voice. “And how ol—” Marianne began, but caught her tongue. At this, Brantford’s sublime smile returned.

“You’re so much like Eliza,” he said.

“Who was she?” Marianne spoke before remembering that curiosity was a serious breach of etiquette, according to her parents.

“She is— she was—” Brantford seemed to be wrestling with emotion. “She was a girl I loved for many years.”

“What became of her?” queried Marianne, imagining a death by ogres.

“Well, nothing, I suppose. She is the baker’s daughter. Father will never accept a commoner for my wife,” he said, turning his back on the verdant landscape.

“If you’re still in love with her after all this time, she must not be that common,” replied Marianne.

“Of course she’s not common; she’s the jewel of my life,” he exclaimed passionately. “Father doesn’t understand!”

“Is she still unmarried? Because I could get out of the picture pretty darn quickly,” offered Marianne hopefully. Brantford’s expression revealed that he wanted just that, but, with a labored swallow, he replied, “I’m sorry, but I’ve sworn to my father that I will marry you if it is at all possible. This is what is done.”

“But if you love her, you should stand up to your father,” Marianne protested, rising from her chair.

“It is not about love,” said Brantford, moving to her. “As for duty, I served as a soldier, though I aspire to paint. In this mad world, I find peace in the smell of oils, the feel of crisp canvases, the beauty of fine brushes.” Brantford stopped to appraise a hanging picture of fruit. He frowned. “About duty, I assure you that I will uphold my responsibilities as your husband in every aspect of our marriage.” Marianne fought a rising urge to run. I’m not ready for this, she wanted to cry, but she held her ground even as his warm hands caressed hers. He kissed them, which sent chills up her spine. As he moved his face slowly toward her, Marianne closed her eyes and hoped the sensation would be superior to that of kissing a frog.

Instead of a kiss, however, Marianne felt his hands draw roughly out of hers. Opening her eyes, she saw her betrothed gasping for air, his hands tearing at his collar. He fell to the floor, his wheezing growing louder and more pronounced. Marianne rushed to the doorway, almost falling when her ribboned shoe caught on a footstool. Throwing the shoe off, Marianne flung open the door. “Help! Please help me! He’s dying! Please someone help!” she called hoarsely. Brantford’s servants, who had been playing cards nearby, ran into the room.

Neville hurried over. “What have you done now?” he bellowed. Marianne fell onto him, unable to stop her weeping. “I didn’t do anything . . . he was kissing me . . . and then he fell . . . and my shoe . . .” She trailed off, her wailing ebbing and increasing in unpredictable fluctuations.

“Stop that idiotic sniveling.” said Neville, pushing her off him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

But all Marianne could do was hiccup, in sobs that racked her body and left her shaking, pressed up against the wall. She curled the ends of her hair between her fingers while wounded rose petals floated to the ground.

“Excuse me, miss.” A high voice to her left solicited her attention. One of Brantford’s attendants had made his way to her. “You’ll be glad to know that Lord Brantford will recover. It’s not your fault. You see, he has a deadly allergy to certain flowers. Do you know where he might have accidentally come in contact with any roses?”