Author's Note: Alright, due to all the demanding emails I've been receiving . . . and due to the fact that I might not manage to re-edit this WHOLE story and figure out what the plot of this story was (lost all my notes on this story's plotting), I'll just leave the original version for my readers to read...as requested.And for those who wish to read a story I AM intending to complete, read "The Runaway Courtesan"

THE LOVERS’ ADO
(un-edited version)

by J.E.Wyatt

PROLOGUE

A dark surge of cloud hung over the land, giving one the feel that God had forsaken the earth. The sound of the bleak wind howling across the land and the rain violently battering onto the helpless grass was so fierce, and so loud that even if one were to yell at the top of their lungs, their voice would not be heard.

Not even the cry of the woman, who was running towards a manor with a baby in arm, crying out for help, could be heard. The woman’s name was Betsy: she was one of those cheap country harlots that gave her service to the peasants—and only peasants, no one of a higher class. It was certainly not that she preferred peasants to gentlemen, but that they wouldn’t pay for a romp with her. “I should be the one to get paid for screwing your corpse!” would be the general response from them at her advance.

Rain streamed down her pale face, mingling with the tears that burned down her cheeks; burning tears, overflowing from her heart. Due to one night of passion when she had not been careful, she had gotten herself with child and had bore a baby girl into the dark world that Betsy loathed. How cruel life was, that she should pay a life time of misery because of just one night.

The moment Betsy had apprehended that she was with child, she had gone to the father of the baby asking for help, but he had yelled these exact words before closing the door on her: “I will not be responsible for this wench! Do not dare call her my daughter!” If anything, even though Betsy was a harlot, she was a good hearted woman; it was only that providence was set against her. Thus, being the good hearted woman she was, aborting the child was the last thing she desired. And so, needing the money to support the baby, Betsy had begun to fornicate with men more often than she had before. But it had not been enough; nothing seemed to be enough in life.

For three years she had tried to raise her child, whom she named Catherine. The first year had been manageable as Betsy used up all her savings which she had been saving for her dream: to someday have enough money to live as a decent peasant. The second year had been filled with nights and mornings where she would hold her young Catherine and her rock back and forth on her rocking chair weeping and praying to the God she had never once tried to depend on. It seems to be human nature that one should seek God, only when in the midst of great trouble. On the third year, all that was left of Betsy savings was only enough for one person. Even though she ate abstemiously, it was not enough. By summer her daughter caught a serious fever from a wound: death had begun to knock at Cathy’s door, waiting for the child to open welcome death in.

Over the three years of deliberation, Betsy had resolved that she would abandon the daughter whom she had come to love, and cease her daughter’s suffering which was caused by Betsy’s lacking: money. Curse money! That it should be this vile material which should sever a mother from her first daughter!

Betsy ran up the stairs of the Lockwood manor and rapped on the door, crying hoarsely: “Lady Gaskell! Oh, Lady Gaskell! Please open the door, please!”

A butler opened the door, and Betsy could see the pious Lady Gaskell standing behind, looking rather shaken with fright. But on seeing that the desperate woman who had been rapping at the door was her friend Betsy, she pulled the woman in from the cold pouring rain.

Betsy had become Lady Gaskell’s bosom friend the day she had saved her Ladyship from being gang-raped by a group of sailors. It was only Betsy, whom Lady Gaskell was kind to; no other peasant received her goodness. Her class in society frowned upon such associations.

“What is it my darling Betsy?” asked Lady Gaskell in a solicitous voice.

“I have to leave to—Scotland— for a week or so; but I cannot take my daughter along, she is horridly sick, perhaps even dying,” cried Betsy, and seeing that Lady Gaskell, who had come to adore young Catherine, turning pale, she went on quickly. “And so I beg of you to take care of her for a while,” she supplicated, “I never asked anything of you—so please . . . just this once and never again.”

Lady Gaskell scrupulously glanced behind her and saw her two young daughters of five and eight years old, as they were slowly walking down the stairs with their nanny behind them. “I—” Lady Gaskell glanced at her daughter then at the pale baby, “I – of – of course.”

Betsy quickly placed young Catherine in the warm arms of Lady Gaskell, then placed a cross necklace around her child’s naked neck. “For the God I never lived for. May you live for him with joy; and may he never forsake you,” she whispered then mentally added, “—as he has done me.” She looked up at Lady Gaskell with tears in her eyes, “Thank you; oh thank you so much!”

“Come darling, what is this nonsense? You are becoming much too emotional over nothing. I shall have her cured in a trifle; there is a certain doctor who I am sure will attend to Catherine with the most care. —Pray, come in from the rain and do come in and have a cup of tea. You are only leaving her for a week; not forever!” Lady Gaskell said with a weak laugh. “Betsy?” she called, seeing her run out the door, “Betsy!” she called again, but in vain. She watched helplessly as Betsy disappeared into the rain, and as Lady Gaskell had not presumed, but until three months later: never to return again for the child.

1819 England

There in the drawing-room was a finely dressed gentleman and respectful looking lady who had lived too far apart to ever meet until this day. —Marriage of convenience, which many would define as ‘a marriage where two people wed out of convenience and fall in love after wedlock,’ or rather, such was the definition the Fortune Seeking Mamas and Papas would impart to their daughter, in order to soften their daughter’s disappointment of never being able to marry for love. However, the expression plastered across the faces of the lady and gentleman presently occupying the drawing-room made one doubt that there would be any ‘falling in love’ between the two. The definition that appeared to best suit the couple was a ‘marriage where two people wed out of duty and become enemies.’

Anthony Conrad, the Earl of Rivenhall, tried very hard not to stare at his future wife: the wife he was to live with until death—and that day felt very, very, far away. The thought of it made him let out a mental sigh of frustration. He glanced down at his pocket watch, wondering when he would be able to finally quit the room, as he had promised to take Lady Amelia Watson, a good acquaintance of his, for a ride around Hyde Park.

Lady Catherine Gaskell sat with her hands crossed over her lap and felt rather awkward having to be in the presence of a gentleman, a complete stranger, who was to be her husband. It had taken more than a week for her to arrive in London at her future husband’s grand townhouse. Catherine smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress and glanced at her mother, Lady Jane Gaskell, who sent her a look with the sentiment: ‘Behave, else I’ll box your ears, you naughty child!’ Leaning back against her seat, Catherine began to fidget with her gloves.

“My dear friend,” Lady Gaskell said with a conventional smile to the dowager countess of Rivenhall. “How have you been faring?” she inquired as she poured her daughter a cup of tea.

“Quite fine, thank you. And you my dear friend?”

“I am doing quite fine myself,” was the short, but sweet reply.

“And Lord Gaskell?”

“He is regaining back his health, thank God.”

The parlor once again returned to its awkward silence, which gradually became a burden to all the occupants, making it difficult to even clear one’s throat without being absurdly aware of the fact that it would be heard and noticed by everyone. Anthony glanced at Catherine; Lord Gaskell had described her as a calm, well-mannered, quiet, and an obedient young lady of three and twenty, who had been late in marriage due to the time it took to wed off the other two daughters, otherwise she would have been ‘Married in a trifle, no doubt’ as his Lordship’s had put it. Anthony noticed that Catherine did look rather calm, mannered, quiet and obedient, but he began to wonder if she were the perfect example to suit the quote ‘Fallaces sunt rerum species’. For, despite her appearance, there was something about her expression: the vile way she glanced at him—an expression a well-bred lady would not have dared display.

He continued to assess her. She had a pale complexion and sensual looking lips; dark brown eyes and curls of golden locks. If he were to judge the whole picture, he could not call her a beauty, neither could he call her plain—she was, all in all, singularly pretty.

“My daughter Catherine enjoys writing,” Lady Gaskell suddenly said brightly, wishing to break the silence that frustrated her poor nerves. “She does wonderfully when describing the atmosphere and I must add: a great romantic she is. Always imagining and thinking.”

“Uh—interesting,” replied Anthony, who had been unready for the sudden attack to think of a flattering response. In fact, he felt that he would have needed an hour in advance before responding to the remark, for it seemed nigh impossible to think of anything nice and flattering to say to that Catherine woman who continued to send him vile glances. “I have an acquaintance that published a book just last year,” he said, endeavoring not to sound bored; “he too is a writer. Perhaps I shall introduce him to Lady Catherine, if it should please her,” he said, trying to warm up his habitual cold tone of voice. It would not be gentlemanly of him to scar his fiancée on their first meeting.

“Indeed, I would like that very much, Lord Rivenhall,” Catherine replied with bland neutrality.

He cleared his throat and turned his glare at the cup of tea resting on a dainty dish. There was one thing he noticed about his ‘future wife’: she was one of those ladies who believed that they could do quite well without a husband to support them. Lady Catherine was definitely one of those independent women; he could see so by her cool composure. He remembered his good friend Lord Darwin saying: “Marrying a lady you do not know cannot be that bad, Anthony! It is not as if you shall ever marry for love; now that would be a laugh if you did. But this Lady Catherine cannot be that bad, truly; I can feel it in my alcohol intoxicated blood. As long as she is not one of those independent and stubborn minded creatures. I say, they get on my nerves and are never obedient. Quite a pain in the arse, Anthony; quite a pain. But do not fret, she is most likely to be a very charming lady.”

‘How ironic,’ Anthony thought to himself. He had won himself, perhaps, the exact lady who Darwin had referred to as ‘quite a pain in the arse.’

“Anthony enjoys riding and hunting —he has fine marksmanship!” said the Countess with pride.

“Oh! How interesting,” said Catherine with a stiff smile, but oh how she wished to add more! If she had the freedom she would have liked to have said ‘Almost all the gentlemen of my acquaintance enjoy riding and hunting, don’t they all? Perhaps if it pleases his Lordship, I shall introduce them to him.’

Anthony stifled a grunt, his mother never ceased to embarrass him. He had felt all his life that his mother never did work up to be the proper Countess his father had deserved, who had passed away five years ago, just after the—death of his sister. He pushed away the thought of his sister; it was much too agonizing for him to bear.

“Well, look at the time,” the Countess suddenly cried, “Lady Gaskell, Lady Catherine, you must be quite exhausted from your travel! I shall call on my maid to show you to your chambers.” She dabbed the white laced handkerchief across her wet lips, “Dear Lady Catherine, pray, do you play well on the pianoforte? I love listening to music, it eases out all my worries.”

Lady Gaskell glanced at Catherine who cleared her throat.

“Very —poorly, I am afraid, Madam,” replied Catherine. “I disliked practicing.”

“Oh, but every lady must know how to play the piano!” cried the Countess.

“A lacking which I regret.”

“Mother,” murmured Anthony, “let them go and take their rest: they look weary from their travel.” He noticed that Catherine looked nothing like her mother. He wondered if Catherine took more to her father’s side—and yet it was still peculiar at how different the two ladies appeared.

“In truth, I do not feel so weary,” uttered Lady Gaskell. “And there are several matters I wish to discuss with you, Countess.”

“I am glad, quite glad to hear so! I, too, have many matters to discuss with you. I shall call for another tray of tea.”

Lady Gaskell turned to her daughter whose expression obviously evinced her reluctance to stay any longer. “Why don’t you go one ahead without me, dear. I shall retire in a little while.”

“Rivenhall, why not show Lady Catherine to the stairs,” then the Countess added with a snap, “Just to the stairs.”

Anthony’s brows rose fleetingly before he held out his arm for Lady Catherine. As she placed her delicate hands on his arm, she appeared as if the action of touching him had been the most difficult and noxious thing for her to have done. However, it was all rather comforting to meet a lady who did not batter her eyelashes and swoon into his path with the every chance they got. Seeing how high her chin was raised, he muttered blandly, “If you hold you chin up any higher, I am almost afraid that your head might topple off backwards.”

She stubbornly raised it higher, and snapped, “Then be ready to catch it, my Lord” Snatching her arms away from him, she walked ahead of him towards the door of the drawing-room, wondering how much ruder she had to behave in order for Lord Rivenhall to beg his mother to terminate their engagement so that she might choose to marry a gentleman she loved!

As Catherine was walking out of the room she somehow lost footing and stumbled; but quickly straightened her composure and walked out, feigning that nothing had happened.

Anthony cleared his throat and ran his gloved fingers through his dark brown hair, and let out a sigh. What a long day it had been today. His future wife, he decided, was independent, stubborn, cynical, unmannered —clumsy and et cetera. He had told himself earlier that once he married, he would eradicate himself from his rakish life and live as a faithful husband; but at the moment, he felt that living with a wife like Catherine would require him to have a mistress. The thought of bedding Lady Catherine was not quite pleasant—no, it was not pleasant at all. A nightmare. Never in his entire life had he been placed in a disposition where he would have to make love to a person he did not desire. However, for the sake of continuing the family line, what must be done, must be done.

Before Catherine had lost footing she had been listing in her mind what she thought of the Earl, he was cold, cold, beastly, cold, boring and cold — and lastly, cold! Everything about him felt cold: from his cynical black eyes, to his severe lips and eyebrows which were arched in a manner that made him look as if he were deliberating upon a grave matter. Handsome he was, but not at all her style. Horrid, how am I to live with such a man? she wondered. She liked her gentleman blond headed, light tempered, flirtatious, and amiable!

The Lord Rivenhall and Lady Catherine Gaskell’s engagement became the biggest event in London: it was all over the London Times and became the latest gossip amongst the ton. It was not a surprise when many aristocrats invited to the Earl and Lady Catherine’s engagement party —all came.

The Grand Ball room flowed with a graceful minuet, and amidst the light melody one could hear silky laughter, the tinkering of wine glasses and filled with the swirled colors of the ladies’ gown as the twirled across the dance floor in the arms of their partner.

“Lady Catherine, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you!” said a very young lady linking arms with a very old looking gentleman, presumably the lady’s husband.

“Finally meet me?” asked Catherine slightly confused, had they met before? Catherine hastily rummaged through her mind, trying to pinpoint a memory to remind her of the acquaintance, as it would be as bad as a censure to reply: “Oh, my apologies, I do not know you.”

“Of course you do not know me, but I know you, my Lady!” smiled the lady, “we know everything about you having become engaged to the Lord Rivenhall! Indeed, gossip gets around quickly and the rumors began the day the Countess of Rivenhall matched his Lordship up with you, Lady Catherine. Everyone knows you! We have waited so long to meet you, my Lady. Am I not right, dear?” she asked her husband.

He grunted as his mustache slightly shivered, “rumor gets around a bit too fast, if I might venture to add. No privacy here in London.”

The lady raised her delicate eyebrow, but soon, her eyes widened. “Oh my, how rude of me, let me introduce myself. I am Lady Carling and here beside me is my husband, Sir Carling.”

Catherine inclined her head and smiled as the ringlets of her golden curls bobbed prettily above her almost bare shoulders. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Lady Carling took Catherine’s hand, “Once again, a great pleasure to meet you! I hope that we may further our acquaintance.”

“It would be an honor,” replied she with a smile. She could not help but note that this was the seventh lady who had come up to her asking for further acquaintance. But of course, who would not wish to lack the acquaintance of a lady who was soon to become a Countess?

Quitting the couple’s company, Catherine glanced through the crowd to see the Lord Rivenhall sharing a conversation with an exceptionally beautiful lady. Catherine had never taken a particular fancy in her appearance, but she wondered if the Earl regretted not ending their engagement and going for a wife as beautifully seductive as the lady he was talking with. She swallowed the bitter feeling as her heart burned from the thought that he truly might hate to marry her and was only marrying her out of duty and from the fact that all of London expected them to do so. She felt her pride being crushed. She felt self—conscious of her many lacking in compare to the other ladies.

Catherine was well aware that something was different about her to the other fine ladies, even the way her mother, Lady Gaskell, treated her was different to how she treated Catherine’s two older sisters. And her father —one day he would treat her with such kindness and another day he would completely ignore her or scold her when she made her usual small and clumsy mistakes. Thoughts of her father always made her heart burn with anger from the many pride-wounding words he had pierced through her. Catherine cleared her throat and pushed the thoughts away. It was not her time to look gloomy; her first impression on the ton was important. She did not wish to wake one morning to read on the Times’ gossip corner: “CHARMING & DASHING EARL MARRIES SOME GLOOMY LADY.”

But if they truly understood what Catherine was going through, they would know that she had every right to be gloomy. She who had once dreamed of falling in love and being courted; then her lover asking for her hand in marriage in the most romantic and charming of ways —that was what she had dreamed for. Instead her mother, and particularly her father, forced her to London to marry a man she did not know and did not feel the slightest fondness or respect for. A man who seemed more attracted to another lady than she. She knew what would happen when they married: he would leave her behind in his estate somewhere far from London perhaps, and then return to London to live with his mistress. Even if she was to explain this to anyone, they would not understand her still —they would need to actually be in her life to understand. As she would often say in her writing, “understanding comes from experience.”

How hard it was to put aside one’s negative thoughts and gloominess, and hide it all behind with a smile, like an ugly and corrupted face being painted over as cheap harlot’s do with white paint. But Catherine managed: she painted on her face a brilliant and dashing smile. She always smiled —smiled too much that it made her look like an idiot, as her friend had once told her; but no one saw or tried to see behind her smile. Humans, to Catherine, were perhaps one of the dullest creatures alive —too preoccupied with the appearance that they became blind to what was beneath all the painted glamour.

She danced a round with the Lord Rivenhall, not even sharing a word or a glance, and smiling slightly only when people stole glances at them, so that she might look good for the crowd. She danced a couple of times with the gentleman who had been introduced to her, smiling as usual and sharing conversations.

Weary of everything, she retired out to the balcony, lit with the soft caressing moonbeam. Alas! Many times had she dreamed to come out to the balcony with the man she loved and be kissed by him, but now that would be impossible, for soon after her marriage it would be committing sin: adultery.

“I am presuming that you are Lady Catherine? Am I wrong?” called a voice behind her. She looked back to see who it was, half expecting to see the Lord Rivenhall. It was not he but a gentleman who was slightly shorter than the Earl with blond hair and of an amiable looking face.

“Yes, I am she,” she replied as she slightly raised an eyebrow. “Is there someone searching for me?”

“I was,” he replied with a smile. “I had wished to be acquainted with you, but I was in no mood to go pushing through the crowd of gentlemen that besieged you.”

“I am afraid that your eyes have gone slightly faulty, sir,” she honestly replied, “I can only remember about six gentlemen in my company.”

“That is still quite a crowd,” he replied walking over to the railing and leaning against it, his gaze looking up towards the heavens; “when the average number of ladies surrounding me is about—two, three, or four?”

Catherine smiled politely before casting a glanced behind her: the French doors had been closed and so the melodic minuet was thus muffled. She could see couples laughing together as they twirled across the dance floor. Hesitantly, she walked forward to where the gentleman was standing, leaned against the railing. She too leaned against the railing, one meter away from him, as she felt was proper. She cleared her throat and played with the gold cross that hung on a thin golden chain around her neck as she always did when nervous. She had once asked her mother: “Who gave me this necklace?” and the cold reply had been, “A woman who loved you very dearly; but I no longer call that woman my friend.”

Catherine stifled a yawn as her eyes watered with tears. “Shall I continue to call you ‘sir,’ or would you prefer me knowing your proper title?” she asked, and added, “but if you desire to stay mysterious, that is fine with me.”

“I was waiting for you to ask,” he replied with a smile that would make a hundred ladies faint at a glance —but Catherine was still standing stalk still, not affected. “Viscount Calling, at your service madam,” he said as he bowed over her hands.

His hands were gloved, and yet were warm.

Her hands felt so small in his powerful ones.

“It must be hard,” he said, “that is —having to marry for convenience,” he said.

She looked up at him, something in her heart tightened as she swallowed the aching lump in her throat. Hearing him voice her troubles that throbbed in her heart was as if she were back home, sitting with her best friend who knew so much about her. “Is it not something all ladies of my class must go through?” she said, more as a statement than a question.

“That is more or less true—but the truth is hard. It must be even harder since you came to London without a friend to rely on.”

Catherine smiled, “I do not wish to admit it, but you read my mind as well as my best of friends—who are all ladies, my Lord”

He laughed a laugh that made her feel a bit uncomfortable, a laugh that made her wonder whether it was a mocking laugh at her or an amused laugh.

He stepped closer towards her, “So you imply that I am like a lady? How flattered I am. But indeed, I know ladies very well; perhaps that is why I had a slight feeling to what you may be going through.”

“You are a rogue, are you not, my Lord?”

“God, not me. Well —a bit, I merely flirt with ladies, but nothing further if I may dare add” he replied with a grin. “I meant, very well as in I lived my whole life with my sisters; having only sisters affects a gentleman’s life —quite drastically, I fear, and am ashamed to confess.” He tugged slightly at his white gloves, and mumbled, “Your future husband is more of a rogue than I.”

Catherine pressed her lips together, “Should I be worried?”

“No! No, no, no, I did not mean to make it sound as it may have. I am very assured that after marriage he shall respect the marriage vows. He is a gentleman up tight about his duties —he wouldn’t dare deceive his wife. Good man.”

“If only I saw him through your eyes, my Lord,” she muttered.

“Please,” he said lifting his hands towards her, “Call me Joseph —if, that is, you would not mind us being friends?”

She smiled and took his hands and shook it. “Why, I believe you are the first gentleman friend I have made since my week in London —Joseph.”

“Well —I am most likely the most amiable among the gentleman.”

She could not help but laugh at his easy manner, she had not laughed in so long —like, truly laughed. But that was when the doors to the parlor opened. Lord Rivenhall entered with her mother, Lady Gaskell, by his side. Lady Gaskell sent Catherine a sharp scolding look.

“Lady Catherine, the Earl and I have been searching for you for a while now. There are many ladies and gentlemen yet in wait of your acquaintance,” snapped Lady Gaskell as she took Catherine away. “It was very wrong of you to leave the Earl like that and run off with another gentleman.”

“Mama!” cried Catherine, “I did not run off, he merely came to be acquainted with me! And the Earl! —he was enjoying his time with a lady himself, and yet you blame only me!”

“That is because he was not out in the balcony alone with a lady with the doors closed as you were! I pray to God that no one else saw!”

.0.

Anthony walked over to Viscount Calling’s side as his tall shadow followed behind him. Crickets cried in the garden where the moonbeam whispered across it. There stood a statue of a woman where water poured out of her mouth into the fountain, her skin looking pale and smooth as a pearl from the effect of the moonlight.

“She is not a toy you can play around with.” Anthony said in a serious voice.

“Rivenhall, I only flirt, never did I toy around with a lady. But I never thought of toying around with Lady Catherine —I sincerely feel that she is a very attractive lady, I felt so the moment I rested my eyes on her,” muttered he as he slipped out a cigar and lit it.

“Must I need inform you that she is soon to be my wife?” Anthony asked, well knowing of Calling’s reputation as the great and reckless flirter.

“Perhaps that is what makes her most attractive,” he replied with a devilish grin, as he gave Rivenhall a nod, turned on his heals and walked away.

“Bastard,” Anthony muttered.

Just yesterday seemed like the day her mother had informed Catherine that her wedding was to be in two weeks, but that day had been exactly thirteen days ago, if Catherine had counted correctly. Today was the eve of her wedding, the eve before her freedom would disappear; when wedded, it would be like as if she were locked into a cage aware of the torturing fact that the key to her freedom had been dropped into a stormy ocean.

She felt nervous, who would not be? She maddeningly desired to escape her Aunt’s townhouse where Catherine and her mother were staying at until the wedding, after the wedding her mother had a choice of continuing her stay at Aunt Josephine’s place or leaving back home to Lord Gaskell, and Catherine – would be staying with the Duke of Rivenhall as his wife

Catherine felt that she would soon go mad, everyone within Aunt Josephine’s household were going mad due to the wedding on the morrow; planing one thing then changing it; checking the wedding dress for any defects, then checking it again; servants running through the household looking for Lady Gaskell whenever a letter congratulating Catherine’s wedding were to arrive and etc., It is a wonder why Catherine wished to leave. Madness it all was, indeed!

She took her shawl that had been resting on a chair, walked out of the house without anyone noticing, if they were to know, Catherine could well imagine her mother saying, “if you go out you may catch a cold! And tomorrow is the wedding!” and Aunt Josephine snapping, “and what if you get run over by a carriage! The Duke does not want a dead bride!”

Once Catherine stepped out of the house and closed the door, she let out a sigh of relief. She could hear the muffled sound of Aunt Josephine calling – or rather yelling for Lady Gaskell to quickly come down, dogs barking, maids crashing into each other – and then the peaceful sound of the city that was not going mad over her wedding.

Catherine held her warm woolen shawl closely around herself as she walked towards the market. Many times her peace was interrupted by a couple who would come to greet her and congratulate her on her coming marriage, she wished to tell them that they should rather “sympathize her” on her coming marriage.

She studied the busy market, which was populated mostly by the lower- class and middle- class. How worse it would be if she were to visit the cheap side of London, she had heard that place to be dangerous, poor and very dirty.

The market was filled with noises but not the silky laughter, which she was more accustomed to. The paint of the buildings was chipping away; dark alleys with garbage lying about. The place stank with rotten fish mixed with the scent of vegetables, fruits and etc., She made sure not to smash into the group of women who were running towards the man selling oranges for two pennies. “Orrranges! Who wants to by me fat, juicy orrranges! Get one for twooooo pennies!”

“Fish, fish! Ver’ fresh fish! Selling low, ge’ yer fish ‘ere today!”

“Apples, apples, buy me red apples. Just arrived from the orchard, fresh apples for sale!”

“Fresh bread! Buy these fresh bread, just out of the oven and still hot!”

Catherine held her shawl closely around herself, not wishing for it to rub against a dirty low-class. Yes, she had grown up into a proud lady who knew her class and ignored those below her – perhaps this was her biggest vice, a vice she did not even know was a vice. A vice passed down by her mother.

The days were getting short, and the winds cold; autumn was nearing. A whispering wind crept past Catherine making her regret having worn her thin muslin gown; she should have worn her petticoat, she decided. Her fingertips had turned red from the cold, as had the tip of her straight and pretty nose. She had forgotten to wear her kid gloves, which her mother had told her never to go out without – oh darn, she thought, but what could she do. She rubbed her hands together; hoping it would warm up a bit, but in vain.

As Catherine walked through the crowds she bumped into an old peasant wearing a dress quite outdated and ragged. Catherine and the old women stumbled hard onto the ground as the basket the woman had been carrying spilled out its oranges; the people around this woman dived down to steal the oranges then ran away. Catherine brushed off the dirt on her dress then stood up tugging the shawl tightly around her cold body again. “Pray, watch where you are going next time,” she snapped, then she saw the old woman’s eye – violet eyes – exactly the same as her eyes. . . Catherine’s eyes. She felt rather uncomfortable at this fact, never in her life had she seen someone possessing violet eyes that were so similar to hers. “Here, for the stolen oranges,” she muttered as she dropped a few shillings in front of the woman. Catherine turned her way home and walked away as quick as she could, knowing that the woman was still staring, perhaps she too was surprised that their eyes looked more or less the same.

“That was quite a fall, Lady Catherine,” remarked a male voice behind her.

Catherine spun her head around to see who had been the witness of her embarrassing moment. It was the Duke of Rivenhall. “Your Grace, everyone falls at least once or twice in life.”

“And I guess this was your first,” asked he from out the window of his luxurious carriage. “Or no, twice including that fall when we first met in my townhouse parlor.”

“That, your grace, was a stumble – not a fall,” she corrected.

“My mistake,” he replied as he then asked his driver to halt “Lady Catherine, I am passing by your Aunt’s place. Would you care for a ride?” he asked.

She was tempted, she did not wish to bump into any more peasants, but neither did she wish to be in the same carriage as the Duke. What a dilemma she was in. “I would ruin my reputation if I were to be seen riding alone with a gentleman,” she replied, even though she did not care much for her reputation.

“With a gentleman who is to become your husband by the morrow? I think not, madam,” he replied as the footman got down from his seat next to the carriage driver and opened the door for Catherine.

She knew that she could not reject him now – for it would be quite rude of her to leave when the young footman had already come down from his seat to help her into the carriage. She accepted the footman’s hand as he helped her in, “thank you,” she murmured.

She became slightly fretful of the silence that was beginning to creep in between them. She was even afraid to swallow; fearing that it would make a gulping sound that would disturb the foreign silence.

The carriage slowly began to move.

“How is your day fairing?” he asked.

Slightly surprised that he was trying to share a conversation with her, and slightly thankful, she replied voiding her voice of any coldness. “Madness,” she replied, “it has been so all week and there has been many callers.”

“I fear my household is in madness as well. Never before had I seen my staffs in such a rumble of madness,” he muttered. And indeed, his townhouse and even more his country estate was always quiet, servants would do everything organized fearing the Duke’s scolding – but hitherto, everything had gone upside down.

“Busy, busy, busy,” muttered Catherine, “what can be expected.” She stuck her head out the window and searched for the old peasant woman and saw her talking with another peasant woman – then glanced Catherine’s way. She shot her head back in the carriage, “she’s still looking at me,” she muttered to herself.

“Pardon?”

“Oh – no, nothing, your Grace,” she snapped. She watched from the corner of his eyes as he slipped a cigar out from an expensive looking case then watched hatefully as he lit it. “Since I am to be your wife, I have the right to ask you not to smoke in my presence – and for your own good, not to smoke at all, your Grace.”

“Well then, you may leave my presence when I do.”

“You ask me to ride in the carriage and now you tell me to get off?” asked Catherine as she raised an eyebrow.

“That is if you cannot stand the smell of a cigar. Indeed, I am not asking you to get off, you would merely be getting off by your own freewill.”

She glared out the window and truly wished to drive her fist through something. She checked herself, why did she always have such low thoughts that ladies should never have? This was exactly what she had meant! She was not like other ladies – other ladies would have wished to ‘slap him across the face.’ Perhaps it was because she was from the country – always had she sneaked peaks at the male peasants doing a fighting match for money.

She heard the Duke unlatching the window on his side; she looked at him as he threw the cigar out. “What a waste,” she heard him murmur.

“Thank you,” she snapped.

He grunted.

The carriage finally arrived at Aunt Josephine’s place. The Duke helped Catherine off the carriage. She gave him a stiff curtsey and he a stiff bow, unlike the bow he had given to one of his beautiful lady acquaintances, she noted.

She watched him get back into the carriage. He lifted his black top hat, “until tomorrow, my lady,” he said coolly. Catherine nodded, “until tomorrow.”

.0.

Catherine stared into the mirror at her mother whom stood behind her, as if waiting to tell Catherine something. The chamber was dark excluding the candlelight that flickered brightly. Catherine let out a burdened sigh, tomorrow – on this exact night where her mother brushed her hair – how would she feel like? She closed her eyes as her face burned red with anger and embarrassment as a vivid picture of the Duke and her together in one bed floated into her mind – and would not fade away. She knew that on the first night, it was tradition for the man and wife to share a bed – but her question was, why? She was ignorant of what went on between man and wife; she had heard only mere whispers between the stable boys at home.

Nothing more.

Her mother cleared her throat awkwardly as she glanced back down at Catherine, wondering how she was to tell her daughter of a certain matter. “Catherine – you are a woman . . . and the Duke is a man.”

“I know mother, ‘tis not as if the Duke is a woman.”

“Darling – men . . . have these . . . urges . . . desires when – with a woman alone.”

“Pardon?”

“Desires and urges.”

“And what of it?” asked Catherine as she buttoned her nightgown up to her neck feeling strangely exposed.

“What I mean to say, darling, is that – you should not be shocked when he tries to – touch you tomorrow . . . it is his duty to get you with child.”

Lucy, Catherine’s chambermaid, walked into the chamber.

Lady Gaskell blushed, “I had best be going. You may ask Lucy if you have any questions, I am sure she knows much about it.”

And so Catherine did ask and what she found out had impaled her so. She had been on the verge of vomiting.

Indeed, ignorance was bliss, she decided. And the truth – was horrifyingly scary.

“She is to be Anthony’s bride?!” roared Lord Brian Wharton, Anthony’s uncle, outside of the church to the Dowager of Rivenhall as Catherine walked down the isle. Lord Wharton was known to be a gentleman who was known for his remarkably clean reputation and knew how to make good money; he was a man who worshiped money. Perhaps that was he had crawled out of his dark ditch. His black past was something he never mentioned, a past well forgotten by the society. He was a proud gentleman whom everyone in the high-class society of London respected.

“And whatever is wrong with Lady Catherine? She is Lady Gaskell’s daughter – quite a proper match for my son, Brian!” snapped the Dowager.

“She –” he hissed, pointing at the door of the church where the couple were to be wed. “I knew by name who Anthony’s bride would be – but now that I see this lady – oh bloody hell!” he roared as he threw his black top hat to the ground and walked away, refusing to see anymore of the wedding ceremony.

The Dowager watched Lord Wharton storm away as if he were a madman then turned away to quickly return back to her seat and watch the wedding be proceeded.

Lord Wharton shook with fury; he did not want Catherine to marry Anthony. The moment he had rested his eyes on Catherine – his dark past had awoken to haunt him again; a nightmare that had ceased to haunt him many years ago had returned.

.0.

“Anthony Conrad, do you take Catherine Gaskell to be your lawfully wedded wife?” asked the minister.

Anthony gazed away from Catherine and accidentally caught sight of his mother, the Dowager, weeping then blowing her nose with a handkerchief. He rolled his eyes and sighed, “I do.”

“Catherine Gaskell, do you take Anthony Conrad to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She stood there frozen, not knowing whether to say ‘I do,’ or not. All night long she had pondered over the thought of jilting the Duke. But on second thoughts, it was much too much of a cruel act that would put the Duke (who had after all done her no wrong to her) in public humiliation along with the rest of the Rivenhalls and Gaskells. She felt the guests invited to the wedding becoming a bit uncomfortable at Catherine’s silence. Whispers broke through the crowd, wondering if Catherine would create a scandal. She looked up at the Duke; he now looked at her seriously. “I – I do,” said she in a trembling voice.

Many sighed in relief at hearing the two words; others grumbled feeling that it would have been entertaining for Catherine to have jilted the Duke, which would have – for once – caused something interesting to gossip about.

I do – how strange it was that only two words would be the cause of Catherine’s key to freedom being tossed into the ocean?

The crowd began to hoot and clap for the newly wed as they walked down the red isle. Catherine had her gloved hands resting gently over the Duke’s, but she could not feel him for her mind and body was floating elsewhere leaving her body faint. She felt the Duke’s other hands cover over her small hands, she looked up at him.

His hands were warm . . .

And gentle . . .

For the first time in the weeks she had been acquainted with him for, he had given her a look that was voided of any coldness; a look that whispered encouragement and strength. Her heart trembled as it always did when there was someone being kind to her in times of hardship. Perhaps the Duke was not that bad after all, she wondered. She sent him a weak smile, but he was looking away -- his gaze directed at Lady Amelia Watson who was glaring at him.

Catherine knew right then that Lady Amelia, whom she had first seen at the engagement party, was either lusting/infatuated/in love with the Duke –no, her husband. She then wondered if the Duke had such feelings for Lady Watson as well – the truth was something she wished to be ignorant of. But whatever the case, she felt a little pride bubble in her belly amidst the potential of the Duke starting an affair with Lady Amelia– she was now the Duchess of Rivenhall – a Duchess, for God’s sake! And yet, what was a title when one would have to live with a man one did not love? The pride shattered like glass on her second thought.

Had she not been so preoccupied about the potential of the Duke being attracted to Lady Watson and her pride of becoming a Duchess – perhaps she would not have stepped on the hem of her white wedding gown and stumble. Those who had seen the embarrassing moment had gasped then sighed seeing the Duke stabling Catherine.

Catherine looked up at her ‘husband’ and won herself not a dashing smile, but a scolding glance.

Clumsy, clumsy Catherine.

As always after any embarrassing moment, Catherine raised her head high and continued to walk down the isle as if nothing had happened.

Later on, she felt as if there could be no more things to darken her day until the thought of the night ahead; it drained all the life out of her face; her pale face followed along with her the whole entire evening. Her lips ached from having to smile the whole day, smiling and greeting the guests – feigning to look happy was tiring work, she decided. When she could no longer smile, guests would begin to bombard her with questions on if she were feeling ill or if she had already got into a quarrel with his Grace and she would reply that it was nothing of that sort.

After an hour or so, the Duke helped Catherine into the carriage. She fell back against her seat and let out a heavy sigh of weariness. “‘Tis finally over,” she whispered as she heard the footman close the door to the carriage. Her heart began to thump fast again aware of the fact that she was alone with the Duke on her wedding day; how much worse it would feel on her wedding night!

He sat right next to her, she could feel a finger of his gloved hands brush against her as the carriage went over a bump on the gravel road. She protectively moved her fingers away then crossed it over her lap.

Her heart thumped, thumped, thumped like the ground where the horses trampled.

The ride to the Duke’s country estate was traveled in silence, only once or twice did the Duke come about to ask a question.

They finally arrived at the estate just a few miles away from London, not far at all; the distance was short enough for any healthy lady to walk to and fro from. Catherine stared at the estate with awe, this was now hers –she was the mistress of it all.

There was a pond nearby and a forest could be seen in the faded distance. The green field stretched far towards the dusty road that divided the estate field from the pastures where a shepherd boy was herding his cows.

When the butler, Mr. Conner, opened the door for them he had referred to Catherine as “your Grace.” Oh how strange and foreign it had been to her ears!

When she stepped into the estate, it felt as if she had stepped into a palace. Then she remembered that this beautiful palace was to be her cage – a cage for every woman to be kept in while their husbands went around romping with harlots. She knew she shouldn’t be so cynical – but it was inevitable when knowing the fact that she was now a married woman who would have to have her stomach enlarged with babies. I am growing up too fast, she cried to herself, too fast! Just yesterday felt like a little girl, today she was a married woman – tomorrow she would be an old wrinkled grandma – and the day after that she would be in her coffin. Indeed, how inviting the whole thought of life and death was.

Catherine sat down for dinner with the Duke. The food looked delicious as the wine glimmered under the dim chandelier light from above. She began to quietly eat feeling quite awkward eating alone with a gentleman, but this fact did nothing to interfere with her desire to satisfy her hunger. She glanced up seeing Conner, the butler, enter the dining room quietly.

“Your Grace, flowers from Lady Amelia,” Conner whispered hesitantly.

“Thank you Conner, you may leave.”

Conner gave a deep bow then turned on his heels to walk out the door. As he passed by a mirror he glanced at his reflection then ran his hands over his silky gray hair that looked like silver. Tugged and his fine white gloves, opened the grand door and found a huddle of maids step back.

“You should not be eavesdropping on the Duke and his lady’s conversation!” Conner scolded. “Get back to work!”

He watched as the maids quickly scurried away. He grunted then walked away to his post near the door.

Catherine stabbed the beef resting on her silver plate with her fork the cut through it with a knife while she glared at the Duke. Pride was all she had now, and her husband’s relationship with another lady was doing quite a fine job at hurting it.

Being the frank type of lady, who could not keep her mouth shut she muttered, “well, your lover lady must have been quite sad to see you being married off to a woman practically a stranger to you.”

“Pray do not ask about my private affairs that have no concern on you,” he replied coldly as he took a drink of wine.

“Oh, indeed? Well, my lovers were sad to see me being married off to your Grace.”

“Lovers?” he asked, she had caught his attention. He looked at her over his wine. “How many do you have exactly?”

“I have quite a few. Uncountable actually.”

“Indeed,” he said with a smirk. “I am raging with jealousy,” he remarked in a noncommittal tone of manner.

“Indeed you should be,” she muttered as she continued to eat.

“They must have been jealous as well,” he murmured, “having to see you married off to such a charming and wealthy young gentleman as I.”

Arrogant bastard. “Oh, you are quite amusing, your grace” she muttered in a sarcastic voice as her lips flinched from the bitter taste of wine; it was her greatest vice as an adult to dislike wine. “And your Grace must have been pitied, having to see your Grace married off to a lady ten times more than you deserve.”

“My heart is ripped,” he replied with an ironic smile. Or was that a smile? Catherine wondered his oh-so serious lips slightly lifted – just slightly . . . No, it was not a smile – it looked more like a smirk.

“Stitch it back together.” Catherine continued to eat as the Duke merely played around with his food as if he had no appetite at all. “You are not hungry your Grace? I feel like a pig eating all by myself” said she.

He grunted. “Pray, call me anything you wish – but do cease ‘your Gracing’ me.

“I do not know what to call your Grace by then, your Grace,” she replied, purposely calling him by the reference he had told her to cease calling him by.

“Anthony would be fine,” he replied with a sigh.

In her mind she quite liked the name Anthony and thinking of him as Anthony, it seemed to equal Catherine and him together; whereas if she called him ‘your Grace,’ it felt strangely as if he were higher than her. The upper hand; of course, the men always had the upper hand – but she would not let it be so in her life. Her husband would have the upper hand if not hers – their hands would be at equal levels. “Anthony, then you must call me Catherine.”

“Of course, madam.”

She was no longer full, but she forced her stomach to accept more food and wine, for she knew that the sooner she finished her food, the sooner she would have to the Chamber – with Anthony.

The time slowly ticked by, as the shadows grew longer.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Catherine felt herself become impaled when the Duke – no, Anthony, said that it was time that they go to bed. She glanced around and saw two maids that had been peeking through the door quickly run back to their own business giggling. Catherine nodded and followed the Duke – no, Anthony, Anthony, Anthony, up the stairs and into the chamber.

“I shall be with you in a few minuets, I need to discuss a few matters with Mr. Howard,” said Anthony as he turned to walk away.

“Mr. Howard?” asked Catherine in question, trying very hard to steady her nervous voice.

“Yes, Mr. Howard. He is my steward.”

“Ah – “ she murmured as she watched him walk away, “take your time, no need to hurry!” was what spilled out of her mouth, she clutched her hands over her foolish mouth.

Anthony merely ran his gloved hands through his curls of hair, “Just ten minuets, wife.”

Catherine huffed, still watching him walk away and go down the marble stairs. She turned around to reach for the doorknob, but ended up smashing her nose into the wall. “Oh bloody hell,” she hissed, then covered her mouth again, consciously scolding herself. Lord all mighty, her mother’s words had been true, she should not have spent so much time in the company of the handsome stable boy. His rough manner of speech had soaked into her like a seed.

She stepped into the chamber and sat down on the chair in front of a mirror framed in silver. She glanced down at a brush, wondering if she should let down her hair, or undress into her nightgown. She could not sleep with her gown on! But changing into her nightgown and showing her indecent state to Anthony was –

That was when a maid stepped in.

“Milady,” she said with a curtsey. “May I be of any assistance?”

“Yes – please.”

The maid walked into the connecting chamber and brought Catherine’s silk nightgown that almost glowed from the touch of the candlelight.

Catherine realized then that this chamber was not her chamber. It was Anthony’s!

The maid walked back to Catherine and helped her into it. Catherine felt herself glancing at the door, fearing that Anthony might come in and see her exposed self. The maid began to untie Catherine’s hair and began to gently brush it.

“Are you to be my chambermaid?” asked Catherine.

“Yes, milady,” replied she with a smile. “Me names Lauren, milady. A pleasure to be serving you.”

Catherine smiled a smile that barely looked like a smile. “Do tell me Lauren – what is Anthony—his Grace, like?”

“Oh,” she said with a blushing smile. “He hardly ever speaks with us maids – but he is very generous with our wages. And me have to admit, he is handsome.” Then Lauren covered her hands over her mouth. “Apologies, milady. Me always ‘ave this ‘orrid habit of speaking me mind – when I should not be. I’m not used to this whole ‘servants are not allowed to talk with ladies,’ for I was just hired by the head mistress of Rivenhall.”

Catherine looked up at Lauren and smiled, “I believe that I shall feel very lonely here at Rivenhall estate. How about becoming my chambermaid and companion?” It was not usual of herself to befriend someone lower than her – but for once in her life she truly felt lonely and in need of someone to call a friend. None of her other friends would listen to her – they continued to scold her that she was strange to hate being married to the Anthony.

“Oh milady! That would be capital! I am a wonderful entertainer and me believe that I can make you cry and laugh with all the stories I tell milady of!”

Catherine let out her hands, “friends?”

Lauren took Catherine’s soft hands in her rough hands and shook it. “Friends.”

Perhaps, just perhaps, the wall of pride that separated her affections from the upper and lower class was slowly starting to break in the hours of hardship. Perhaps.

Lauren continued to brush Catherine’s hair as she told her about Lauren’s fiancé. Lauren told how he worked in the market in cheap side selling bread and how she could only meet him only on Sundays when the Duke let her off work to take care of her sick mother.

Both gasped seeing the door open as Anthony entered the chamber. Catherine stared at him with her eyes wide from the sudden intrusion. He stood with one hand in his pocket as the flickering light of the candle softly brushed over his figure making him look almost angelic. That was a laugh.

“Your Grace,” Lauren whispered as he quickly curtseyed to Catherine giving her a knowing smile then curtseyed to Anthony as she quickly scurried out of the chamber and closed the door shut then heard his Grace lock it. Lauren stifled an excited giggle as she pressed her ears to the door. Other maids saw Lauren pressing her ears to the door and all came tiptoeing over, all were whispering with excitement. The men servants tried to stop the maids, but all attempts had been abortive.

A few servants muttered, “Hell, why leave ourselves out?” and so they too walked over to listen to what was going on in the chamber behind.

Catherine placed her hands over her thundering heart as she turned around to stare at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Heart be still,’ her mind whispered, but it merely thundered faster. She clutched her brush and began to brush her hair as she felt sweat moist on her palm and beading down her forehead. She looked at Anthony from the mirror and saw him standing in front of the long mirror where one dressed.

She heart shook with nervousness and fright at the foreign thought of having to become intimate with her husband.

‘It shan’t be that hard,’ she told herself, ‘Lucy said that all I needed to do was turn of the light, lift my nightgown, close my eyes and endure the pain – and it would be done within five minuets.’ She got off from her seat and got herself into bed. She did not want Anthony to see her embarrassed face when he would ask her to get into bed with her. She lay ready in bed looking out the window that measured from the floor to the high ceiling as she clutched the neck of her nightgown close to herself.

She slightly turned to look behind to see Anthony sitting down at the edge of the bed donned in a silk robe. She covered her mouth with her hands to muffle her nervous breathing then bit a finger when she watched Anthony slip his robe down. It pooled around his waist; she no longer watched with fright, but interest. Never had she seen a man’s torso and if she had, God have mercy, her mother would have boxed her ears. She noticed a long scar on his muscular back then watched as he applied medication onto a bruised area on his arms -- had he been in a fight, wondered she. He put the medication away then slipped back into his robe and laid down next to Catherine.

Catherine turned back around to face the window and began to quickly recite her Lords prayer under her breath, “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will –”

“Catherine,” she heard him call in his usual cool voice. She turned around to find herself just a kiss away from Anthony – her husband. The moon painted lightly across his features and suddenly he did not look that scary anymore. “Yes,” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Why in God’s name are you reciting the Lord’s prayer?”

She knew she could not blurt out the truth by saying ‘for God to protect me from you!’ and so instead she replied, “I – I always say the Lord’s prayer – before I sleep. A tradition in our family.”

“I see,” he replied with nonchalance.

She could not help but breath softly and slowly, fearing that her breath might brush against Anthony. She could not help but let her eyes slip down to where his robe opened; she could see his chest. She swallowed; she had never been so close with a man before. She looked up to see him gazing at her so intensely.

“Why are you staring at me?” Catherine asked nervously, wondering if he was going to hurt her now.

“I never had a chance to see you up close,” he replied under his breath. “A husband is not a husband when he does not even know how his wife looks up close

“And what is the result of your examination?” she asked.

“You are pretty – and queer.”

“Queer?!” she hissed.

“Yes, queer –you do not look anything like your mother. Are you more like your father?”

“No,” she snapped. “Mother said that I was just born – abnormally.”

“What a nice way to put it,” he muttered then turned away from her, as if he were not interested in her.

She continued to stare at his back in confusion. “We are not – to do it?”

“To do what?” he muttered lazily, still facing away from her.

“Do – that.”

“I am tired and do not have the will to force myself upon an unwilling wife – though most would. Perhaps I am the queer one,” he replied with a sigh. “Another day.” Forcing himself upon Catherine felt more like rape than duty.

“Then why did I have to come to this chamber when my chamber is on the other side?” she asked.

“For the show of it. My staff would spread rumors of how we used separate chambers on the first day of my marriage night.”

Catherine reached out her hands and touched his arms. The silk felt soft under her touch, “let us never do it,” she said in a pleasant voice.

“Do not touch me or I shall ravish you against your will,” he said in a cold voice.

Lust, he felt it for her; lust that had nothing to do with love – lust borne from the closeness of another woman. Lust that was many times feigned for love, lust that created bastards, lust that caused rapes, and lust . . . that destroyed love and decency.

Outside the chamber where the maids and servants had their ears pressed to the door ended up being very disappointed.

“Morning milady! Today’s a wonderful day for a stroll outside!” Lauren said with her pleasantly loud voice that called Catherine awake. Lauren separated the silk curtains as the morning sun streamed in, then tied the two sides of the curtains up with a velvet ribbon. “Milady’s breakfast is waiting downstairs, it would be wise to quickly go down before yer breakfast cools.”

Catherine pulled the covers up over her head, vexed with the bright light that disturbed her sleepy state. “Lauren, just five minuets,” she grumbled as she rolled herself in the blanket that wrapped around her like a caterpillar’s cocoon. “Five minuets, just five minuets,” she murmured again as she closed her eyes to ease the ache of sleepiness that scratched against the inside of her eyes.

“And five minuets turn into ten and ten into thirty and so on! Milady! Awake!,” she called then began to hum a tune as she opened the tall windows that towered over her. The cool morning air tumbled in as the sound of birds chirping in the clear blue sky could be heard. “Rise ‘n shine, milady, rise ‘n shine.”

“I shall rise, but shan’t shine,” she grumbled as rolled on the bed to get off – but she ended up falling to the floor on her bottom rather than landing on her feet. “I shan’t shine!” she snapped as she tried to find her way out from the heap of silk that covered over her. “Silk, silk, silk, everything is silk here!” she was finally able to pop her head out of the heap of blanket. She looked around with her brows creased into a frown, “where is Anthony?” she asked in a snappy manner.

“Oh, now his Grace has become yer Anthony? Well, how lovely!” laughed Lauren as she walked over to Lauren, helping her up onto her feet. Lauren took the heap of blanket and walked towards the window, “he is an early riser, milady. If you be wishing to wake at the same time as he, 5 o’clock would be the time.”

“Actually, I need not care, starting from today I shall be sleeping on my own bed in my own chamber.” Catherine stood in front of the dressing mirror waiting for Lauren to come and help her get out of her nightgown. However, at the moment Lauren was busy dusting the blanket out the window to attend to Lauren. “Oh do hurry up,” sighed Catherine with impatience.

Lauren quickly came over deciding to clean to chamber after having attended to her ladyship. “Yes indeed,” she said with a smile as she helped Catherine look decent, “Milady looks to have woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

She murmured something that Lauren could not catch as Catherine stared at her indecent state in the mirror slowly change before her eyes into a lady fit for a Duchess – oh yes, she reminded herself. . She was the Duchess. “No worse,” said she, “not on the wrong side of bed – but on the floor, if I may remind you, Lauren!”

Lauren smiled then later bobbed a curtsey when she finished dressing Catherine up. She watched Catherine smile then walk out the door that was when she returned to her chamber work.

Oh, how Lauren longed for someone to dress her like a lady – to be woken up by a maid – how she dreamed to have her wardrobe filled with beautiful gowns and dresses. “Dream on child, and hope for the impossible,” her mother had once murmured into her ears, “for hopes and dreams are the only thing that humans live by – even if you know it shall never be. But take it away and you take away the very meaning of life.”

Meanwhile, Catherine ventured the floor her chamber was on. She took herself to the end of the estate, not caring the least about her breakfast due to her loss of appetite. Every chamber there was empty and left open; all the furniture there was covered in a clean white sheet.

She stepped into the last chamber, everything there was covered in white – but strangely, in this chamber hung draperies of the finest design. Catherine smiled for she took a great liking for draperies. She walked around the chamber running her fingers across the soft drapery.

“Milady, you should not be in here,” whispered a small voice outside of the chamber.

Catherine looked to see who it was. It was a maid. “Oh – I did not know that there were chambers I was not allowed in,” she muttered as she turned to leave.

“My greatest apologies, Milady,” the maid said in a pleading voice. “But it is the Duke’s order that this chamber not be entered but by myself – to clean it.”

“Well then, indeed you should keep in locked next time.”

“I did milady, I unlocked it to clean it but left the broom downstairs, I went down to get it. Milady must have entered during the time of my absence . . . “

“Oh, that is fine then. ‘Tis I who should apologies. But tell me – why did the Duke order for this place to be locked up?”

“I do not know, milady. He got horridly mad when I once asked, said that – a maid should know her place and not ask such questions. But rumor has it that it has something to do with his sister. Years ago her ladyship visited this chamber often. She used to paint here.”

“Oh yes – he had a sister did he not? I forget what happened – mother told me something about his Grace having a sister.”

“Murdered she was, God rest her dear soul. Milady had best leave before his Grace catches you here.”

“Yes – of course.”

.0.

“My Lady,” said the maid as she helped Catherine out of her seat.

Catherine nodded at the maid with appreciation then wondered what in hell she was to do the whole day in the estate so foreign to her. She decided to explore – though deep inside she wished to explore in order to catch a glimpse of how Anthony was spending his time. Was he busy working? Or perhaps he was reading?

“Please tell Lauren to meet me at the main hall in an hour, inform her that I wish to take a tour around the village nearby,” Catherine said.

The maid curtseyed and scurried out to inform Lauren.

Catherine explored through the first floor and came upon Anthony’s study room. She stepped into the room, glancing behind herself to check if anyone were looking -- as if she were about to commit a crime. She examined the study room, Anthony’s desk was piled with books and lose sheets of work paper and letters.

She let out a sigh and shook her head, how messy – did he expect his maids to clean everything up behind him? She walked over and cleaned up the sheets of lose paper into piles. Closed the ink bottle and took the pile of books she held in her arms and set it down on a round table next to the sofa; since she did not know where to put the books she left them there.

She saw a letter lying next to the desk, thinking that it must have slipped off the desk she walked over at picked it up. It was yet unopened and addressed to Anthony – from Lady Amelia Watson.

“Oh how nice, a love letter,” she murmured. “I am sure that Anthony would not mind if I – look through it.” She glanced at the door again and opened it, she skimmed through the content. Lady Amelia informed Anthony that her mother and father wished to see him this Saturday and thus Lady Amelia had invited him over for tea.

‘If you do not come,’ Lady Amelia had written, ‘I shall be quite overwhelmed with disappointment. I have not seen you since your wedding day, which was just a day ago – but my dear Anthony, (she called him Anthony? Catherine wondered hatefully) it feels as if ages have passed by. I apologies for my rude manner at the wedding – it could not be helped, and I know you understand why. Please come.
Yours truly, Lady Amelia.’

That good for nothing savage of a man! Romancing with a lady when he was married – not that she cared! Catherine cleared her throat and took it upon herself of disposing the letter. “I must save my husband from the – Devil’s temptation of being seduced,” muttered she as an excuse.

As she walked out of the study room she kicked the sofa hissing a curse at Anthony. Then kicked it again.

She continued to look around the first floor. She heard the sound of swords – if they were even swords. She slowly pushed against the grand oak door covered in delicate designs, for behind it was where all the sounds were coming from. The door slightly opened, she ran her fingers across the design then looked in.

What she saw caught her breath.

The early morning light shone through the window and fell upon Anthony and warmed the fencing court. He had a fencing court! He wore an olive green colored vest over his white shirt that revealed a V of his chest with a matching pair of beige colored trousers The sweat on his forehead and chest glimmered as he skillfully swished his rapier against his opponent’s, who was an old gentleman of a warm expression.

How charming he looked . . . Yes, thought Catherine, the Devil was known to be charming and handsome.

“Quite good, your Grace, quite good!” laughed the old gentleman who began to step back as Anthony gained advantage over him. “But you should be careful with your right arm, ‘tis wounded.”

“Yes I know,” Anthony replied as he continued to attack. “A little brawl at Whites.”

“Indeed? Again, your Grace?” asked the old gentleman.

“Sir Henry, you cannot think me to be a saint?” he proclaimed with a smirk.

Ah, so his name is Sir Henry, Catherine noted as she continued to watch with interest. She guessed the Sir Henry was Anthony’s fencing teacher.

Her husband got into brawls? How like him, she thought. With his character, she could quite understand anyone who would wish to shove a fist into his face – indeed; she would be the first to have her fist flying towards his God damned face if she had been one of the men at Whites.

She bit her lips, she was letting her dislike for Anthony get the best of her again -- she had been a rather wild, quick tempered child who gave easily into anger, hatred and jealousy, she had always won a slap from her father or mother everyday. Always running around punching her father with her small fist, or pulling her mother’s hair, dressing up the dog then screaming at it when it would run away . . . yes, she was one of those wild girls, now tamed – well, fairly tamed.

“You? A saint, your Grace? Oh, not at all,” laughed Sir Henry as he stepped back from being hit by the rapier. “a laugh it would be to see your Grace referred as a saint someday.”

“I can be a saint if I wish to,” mumbled Anthony as he made a quick move that took Sir Henry unaware causing him to stumble to the ground. Anthony pointed his round pointed rapier against the throat of Sir Henry. “Touché.”

“And I can become God if I wish to,” was Sir Henry’s sarcastic reply.

“Ha -- ha,” said Anthony in a sarcastic voice as he threw his rapier to the ground causing it to make a CLANG sound and walked over to wipe his sweat away with a towel. “Lady Catherine, you may come out from your hiding place.”

Catherine clutched her dress and peeked her head in, how in God’s name had he known? “Good day Sir Henry . . . Anthony – I was just glancing in to see what you two men were up to. I was just on my way to the main hall where I am to meet Lauren. I am to go to the – market with her,” said she quickly as if she were defending herself of a crime! She turned and walked in the left direction to her destination --

“No, Catherine,” called Anthony with a side, “that way leads to the end of the estate. The main hall is on the other direction.”

“Oh yes! I knew!” snapped she as she turned and quickly scurried away, burning red from embarrassment and even more when she heard Sir Henry give out a deep chuckle and murmur Anthony, “quite a wife you’ve married yourself to.”

“Indeed,” he muttered, “quite charming,” he added in a stiff manner.

.0.

Catherine met Lauren at the main hall, her cheeks still burning red. “Pray, did you bring my shawl?” asked she.

“Yes milady! Indeed I did,” replied Lauren as she handed Catherine her cashmere shawl. “Milady looks as if she dipped her face in wine,” said she as they walked out of the estate.

Catherine held her shawl tightly around herself, once again regretting not having worn a petticoat. Clumsiness and never being prepared seemed to come as a pair; get one then receive the second free. “Yes, I did dip my face in wine; ‘tis the knew treatment of attaining clean skin, every lady in London does so. I’m shocked that you do not know.”

Lauren chuckled, “with such a serious expression I would have almost believed you, milady.”

“But I am telling you the truth,” snapped Catherine, “are you calling me a liar?” she asked, continuing to hold her serious expression, but after a second, no longer being able to endure the bubbling mirth in her stomach, broke out in a bright laughter. Still laughing, she glanced back at the estate wondering if Anthony was anywhere in sight – not that she wished to see him, she reminded herself. Then she noticed something strange. . . From where she was she could see the chamber where the draperies hung. Catherine had been quite sure that it had been the last chamber. . .

But next to it was another window of another chamber.

Catherine shook her head mentally and decided not to ponder over it, she would ponder upon this mystery on another day, she decided.

The two walked down the gravel road; Lauren kicked the stone as she walked causing a dust of cloud to form thinly around her shoes. “Is the village far? I wish to see its market – I do not know why, but I have taken a liking for markets” said she to Lauren.

“Not a’ all, milady. ‘Tis less than a mile away – whereas the market in London takes an hour or more by walk.”

“Oh I see,” replied Catherine as she looked up at the blinding sun. A breeze filled with the scent of dried leaves rolled by causing Catherine to place a hand over her bonnet from flying away. Her curls of blond locks blew into her face as she tried in vain to blow it away making her look like an utter idiot. She glanced to her side to see Lauren then cleared her throat, “I shan’t ever recreate that scene again.”

“That would be much appreciated,” replied Lauren with a smirk.

Unused to the frank manner of a low-class talking frankly to Catherine, she paused for a second, but then remembered – Lauren was now her friend; Catherine knew that she had to humble herself in order to keep such friendship surviving.

“Lady Rivenhall!” called a male voice from behind.

“Lady Rivenhall!” the gentleman called again.

“Who is that gentleman calling?” asked Catherine as she turned back to see who it was. It was the Viscount of Calling – Joseph. “You are calling me?” she called back to him. She watched him jump off out of the carriage and asking his carriage to go ahead and wait at the village.

“Are you not the new Lady Rivenhall?” he asked with a smile and lifting his black top hat to greet Catherine, but ignoring Lauren seeing that she was a maid.

Lauren stared down at her feet feeling herself set down to what she really was; Catherine’s friend, not her equal, but just a plain and simple maid.

“Oh yes, I forgot,” laughed Catherine as she ran her gloved fingers across her neck. “And what brings you here?” she asked.

“Well, London is that way,” the Viscount said pointing in the opposite direction, “and I am headed towards a village nearby. I am searching for a book that they say is only sold here.”

“You enjoy reading books?” asked Catherine happily, for she enjoyed books – it was no surprise since she enjoyed writing.

“No! I detest books! They bore me, I was just getting it for my sister,” replied he.

“Oh,” muttered Catherine with a sigh in the difference between him and her. “How kind of you.”

“Indeed! Well, may I add that you are looking absolutely beautiful today,” he said with a kind smile.

That comment made her forget of her disappointment and immediately replaced her stiff lips into a warm and bright smile. “Indeed, you are playing with me. I am now an old married woman whom no longer has any interest in beauty, too old, too old.”

“If you are an old woman – then I should be in my grave by now!” he remarked.

“That old – Joseph?”

He gave her a smile that could only be understood between them two. “I was being sarcastic, Catherine.”

She giggled.

“You are quite an amusing company. Would you be terribly burdened if I asked to accompany you to the village? I sent my carriage ahead in order to with my Lady” he said “I feel that I am obliged to protect you from highwaymen,” said he in a gallant manner as if he were her knight in shining armor.

Catherine let out a laugh.

Meanwhile, Lauren walked quietly next to Catherine. So this was how it felt to be invisible? She had always lived among the low-class in cheap side, East of London, but now – for the first time, she realized the social treatment of a low-class and high-class.

She glanced at the Viscount and saw his hands brushing next to Catherine’s gloved hands. Lauren suddenly felt a surge of hatred for the Viscount and how he almost seemed to be tempting Catherine into betraying the Duke. Lauren’s dear master . . .

The Viscount was seducing Catherine out of . . . dislike of the Duke? She had heard rumors of the two gentlemen’s many fights.

No, that could not be all, thought Catherine, for when she secretly gazed into the Viscount’s eyes – she saw warm amusement. She was a scholar when it came to relationships between man and woman – the Viscount was either a brilliant actor – or was truly falling for Lady Catherine.

The day was slightly gloomy, but gave no signs of rain. The grass was dry, but cold, from the chilly early autumn wind that had crept by. The naked leaves that slowly lost its color shivered from the cold, hanging desperately onto the tree branch, praying not to blow off; but their time was coming, their time was near, when the day to the ground they would fall along with the other leaves.

It was not quite the day for a picnic, but her mother and the Dowager had insisted on taking Anthony and Catherine out for a picnic. The Dowager and Lady Gaskell had informed Anthony that they would be waiting at the picnic spot if not a little late.

Catherine stared outside as she let her gloved hands hang out the open carriage window, letting the cool wind kiss against her hand. The sky blue ribbon of her bonnet continued to vex her face each time she brushed it away. She was not cold this time, for she had worn her petticoat; she had been about to go out in her long sleeved gown, but Anthony had told her that it was chilly outside and that it would be best if she wore her petticoat. Without a reply Catherine had immediately turned and ran up the stairs back into her chamber asking Lauren for a dress that matched her new navy petticoat, which she was to wear.

The carriage rumbled down the gravel road as the dust clouded around the wheels and the hooves of the horse’s as they galloped down the road.

Catherine glanced at Anthony who sat at her far side, his head nodding with drowsiness. If she had felt any warm affections for him, which she mentally protested that she did not, Catherine would have wished to gently move Anthony’s head to rest on her shoulders; once again, that was if she had had warm affections for him.

She let out a bored sigh.

Placing her hands down at her side, she leaned close to Anthony, he was her husband; now that she thought of it, even when a week of their marriage had already passed, it was not believable! Finally married to the unknown fiancé of hers. She glanced down at his lips, seeing his lips made her lips tingle with a strange desire.

She quickly moved back, her thoughts were drifting into dangerous territory. Her mind sobered then she realized when she looked carefully at Anthony . . .

He had looked to be in a bad mood all day and even now as he slept. She wondered why? She could not ask him, for it felt awkward to care why he was as he was. And waiting for him to tell her would be like waiting for snow to fall in the summer; he did not love her, he was not even friends with her – so he had no reason to tell her of what was ailing him.

She let out a frustrated sigh then slumped on her seat

Catherine wished she could just get along with Anthony, but then again, another side of her wished to rebel against him; but why? Perhaps it was her pride, her damn pride that did not want to give into a ruling of a man. It was said that once married, a woman would be chained onto a man like an animal or property.She had never taken a great respect for the opposite sex; her violent father who always got drunk and would yell and hit her, and the village boys who always made fun of Catherine. Yes, she never had a strong liking for men who believed they had a higher ruling over women.

To husbands, women were like properties. To masters, women were like slaves. To sinful men, women were all whores.

Catherine let out a sigh, glanced out the window then at Anthony. She was still bored. Leaning close to him, her lips near his ears, she asked in a whisper “are you sleeping?”

Startled, Anthony opened his eyes and sat up from his slumped position. He looked to see who had woken him. It was his wife. He let out a vexed sigh as he rested back against the seat, “I was sleeping until you awoke me.”

“Oh, my apologies – I thought you were faking it, or something of that manner,” she said after clearing her throat. “Yes, faking it,” she repeated again, as if to assure her own self.

He rested his gloved hands over his black top hat that sat on his lap, “and why would I fake it, madam.”

“In order not to speak with me,” she replied off the top of her mind.

He glanced at her as she looked away. “I would not fake my sleep then,” he replied, slightly adjusting his cravat. “I would simply not speak with you.”

She snorted.

“And since when did ladies snort,” he mumbled to himself.

She snorted again. “Tell me, what kept you up all night?” she asked, changing the subject.

“My uncle came for a visit.”

“What was his reason for coming?” she asked in curiosity, having heard the rumor of Lord Wharton having had stormed away from Catherine’s wedding, after yelling at the Dowager at how he disliked Anthony’s match with Catherine.

“Just to see me,” he replied.

“Oh,” she said, doubting his reply to be close to the truth.

Anthony glanced at her, almost guiltily. He leaned forward, crossed his fingers and rested it on his knees. “Actually – you must have heard of the rumor of my Uncle being against our marriage.”

“Yes, I heard.”

Anthony knew that there were secrets one should keep away from one’s wife – and things that should not be kept as a secret. “My Uncle – he – he wishes that we divorce and offered me a handsome amount of money and an estate in the countries.”

“And you accepted?” she cried.

“Well, I wouldn’t think you would mind too much,” he murmured as he played with the chain of his gold pocket watch. “Not as if you have taken a fancy of your husband to be shattered if we divorce.”

Catherine pulled off her gloves and began hitting it against Anthony, as one would when seeing a bug and was attempting kill it. Then the hitting turned into a fist hitting against his arms and shoulder. “You horrid beast!” she cried hitting him and hitting. “Do you see me as a property that you can abandoned when you desire?”

His few attempts to take a grasp of her wrists were abortive, for she kept pulling herself away. Finally he caught it firmly, but she continued to squirm as if she would break free from his hold. He pulled her closely to him, holding her small shoulders and slightly shaking her as if her wits would thus return. “You are my wife, not my property! I just informed you of what my uncle offered, but did not say that I accepted!”

Silence crept in between them with only the sound of the wheels rolling across the road.

She glanced at where her hands were resting; they rested on his chest with her fingers spread apart. Her heart trembled.

His chest was hard and broad.

“Thank you – for not accepting. I would become the mock of London if I were to. All my friends would point their fingers and shake their heads at me,” she murmured.

“It would not be much different with me,” he said under his breath. “And I do not need any more money and estates than I already have,” he muttered, glancing down at where her hands continued to rest.

She let out an unsteady breath and slowly began to remove her hands from him, but he placed a hand over it. Startled, she looked up at him with wide eyes.

She could feel his heart beating . . .

He was gazing down at her with such penetration that her isolated soul shook from the intrusion. He let out a slight chuckle, “what a wonder it is that I have not ever kissed my wife,” he whispered. At the wedding he had not kissed her lips, but her cold cheeks; it had felt as if he had kissed a doll that had no feelings for him whatsoever.

Her heart stopped when she felt his warm gloved hand brush against her cheeks. Feeling the distance between her lips and his becoming close, something in her sang with joy and another part of her screamed with protest, yelling at her to shove away from him.

“We’re ‘ere, yer Grace!” cried the driver as he brought the carriage into a halt.

Catherine and Anthony broke away quickly, she stared at her fingers that slightly shook. She began to fan herself with her glove to cool down her burning cheeks then glanced at Anthony.

“I never thought to see the day you’d blush,” he whispered so that she alone would hear as he leaned close to her and brushed a kiss on the corner of her lips.

She watched him as he stepped out of the carriage that a footman (who looked rather flustered at seeing the Duke kissing his wife) opened for him. She raised a finger to rub the feeling that lingered on the corner of her lips, but then it hesitated, not desiring to rub away the sweet feeling of his lips against her. Are you falling for him, like all the other ladies? Something in her asked. “No I am not,” she muttered stubbornly as she rubbed the kiss off herself.

Catherine walked behind Anthony as she heard him tell her, “I guess Lady Gaskell and my mother are to be late.”

They both headed for the tall tree where his mother had said they would have the picnic at.

Catherine walked quickly in order to catch up with him. “Husband!” she called.

He looked back at her with a raised eyebrow, it was the first time she had referred to him as her husband. “Yes, madam?”

“Do you treat every lady as how you treated me in the carriage?” she asked, slightly glaring at him with suspicion.

He did not reply.

“If so, no wonder it is rumored that more than half of the London ladies fall head over heals for you – at least once in their life.”

“And so you imply that you have fallen head over heals for me?” he asked.

“No! That is clearly not what I implied, Anthony. I, for one, believe that I shall never fall for you. You’re not my type,” said she with such assurance.

“For a minuet there in the carriage, you did not seem so, my wife.”

“A minuet that has passed and shall never come again”

They walked under the tree and stood beneath it, however, as the long minuets dragged by their legs began to get tired and so they sat down on the grass.

Catherinedid not wish to leanagainst the tree – fearing that her hair would become ruined. She glanced at Anthony who leaned comfortably back against the tree and was gazing up at the cloudless and dark sky.

“What a lovely day for a picnic,” he murmured, checking his pocket watch. “Mother never said that she would be this late.”

“We should have brought the food to eat at the picnic,” sighed Catherine, remembering how the Dowager and Lady Gaskell had insisted on bringing the food and the picnic cloth.

“Perhaps you are right.”

They both stared up at the endless sky.

“I wonder why Lord Wharton dislikes me so,?” sighed Catherine.

“My uncle had wished me to marry someone else, perhaps that is why. But it may not be it.”

“Really? Who!”

“His daughter – I refused saying that marrying you was my duty. Whatever the case, his daughter died a year ago. A sweet lady she was.”

“I am sorry for,” she said, but felt a bit guilty for she did not feel that sorry at all. Perhaps if she had known this lady, she would feel different upon the death.

“No matter,” he murmured as he began to pick at the grass. “Viscount Calling – it seems you fancy him quite well,” he muttered as he brushed the plucked grass that was littered on his legs away. “Is he one of your many lovers you once told me about?”

Catherine looked at Anthony, wondering how he would feel if Joseph really was her lover – which he was not and was not ever close to being one. “No, just a very talkative friend. He is not my lover type,” she replied as she too followed Anthony and began to pluck grass. “Too talkative, too outgoing. Tell me, why do you hate Viscount Calling so? I heard that you did.”

“It is none of your concern, my Lady,” he replied stiffly.

She snorted. “So many things are none of my concern with you, Anthony.” She cleared her throat. “He is a friend, nothing more, I swear that. If I had made a new lover, you would be the first person to find out.”

He raised an eyebrow then threw strands of grass at her. “You mock me so.”

“And I enjoy it,” she replied with a smile. “If I were to ask when you first had a lover, would you answer?”

He paused, almost as if to think then cleared his throat. “Such matters should not be discussed with one’s wife.”

“I can imagine you having one at the age of twenty.”

“Sixteen,” he corrected.

“You rake.”

“Quite,” he replied nonchalantly.

“I had lovers when I was young too,” said Catherine. “You do not know how heartbroken they were when hearing about my marriage. Quite. All of them –” she halted from saying any more when she felt Anthony’s warm gloved hands cover over hers that lay rested on the grass. Trying to show that she felt indifferent, she spoke on. “I believe I’ve told you as much. Did I tell you that all of them swore to have a duel with you, but the problem is, I have so many lovers that wish to duel you – that I wonder how you shall live through all the matches! Should I become widowed, well that would be –”

Anthony leaned towards her and covered her mouth with his as her words blew away with the cool wind.

She felt her fingers dig into the grass, her heart pounded against her chest, and her body petrified. She had never been kissed before; never. Anthony’s kiss was gentle, his warm lips brushed against hers. Alas, she hated to admit but – she felt as if she had entered paradise!

Everything about Anthony was cold . . . and yet gentle, she thought.

“Why do you have so many words,” he asked as his words whispered against her lips. He brushed a wisp of her curls away from her face then his gaze slowly moved down to her bosom that was fully covered since she wore her petticoat. Damn

“Oh my,” Anthony and Catherine heard a lady say. They broke away to see who it was; Lady Gaskell and the Dowager stood staring at them while their maids whom held the picnic blanket and the basket of food looked near fainting.

“Mother,” whispered Catherine, looking near ready to faint along with the maid.

“What can you say – we’re married,” Anthony said rubbing his neck and looking away from his mother and Lady Gaskell.

If one looked at the wisps of clouds quickly they would not notice that the clouds were moving -the moving wisps of clouds were what gave the finishing touch to the picture of the sky.

Beauty

Nothing should be glanced upon, but studied closely for that is when the beauty comes alive.

The golden grass was still, but shivered as the wind would sighed over them. The days and nights had become equal; autumn was here.

The dawning sun peeked over a low hill pouring new colors across the once dull gray sky. The sky was like a painted picture; there was a canvas where the painter had used a watery color of orange and red and had brushed the colors across the canvas letting the colors soak in. It was where the land and the sky met where the color had been painted in a stronger shade of orange and red with less water mixed in into the color.

The breeze whispered across the quiet land where only the sound of the birds could be heard, carrying the scent of the cool early morning air. Catherine breathed in the air as it filled her heart with empty loneliness, and thus she quickly breathed it out with a heavy sigh.

She had risen as early, but Anthony had risen earlier.

She wore a long-sleeved gown with a high neck. Holding the wool shawl tightly around her chilled body, she shaded the sunlight with the back of her hands as she saw Anthony aiming a hunting rifle at the flock of geese that was flying by. She looked up and saw a goose a bit behind its flock; that was the goose Anthony was aiming at.

Catherine slyly walked up behind Anthony, he did not notice that she stood behind and thus continued to concentrate on the goose. She gazed at his broad back and began to wonder how strong it would feel under her touch. She looked up and, for the first time, noticed how tall he was. So tall but not as tall to look clumsy - as she looked.

She knew that he knew of her clumsiness, and she knew that he pitied her each time she made an embarrassing err. It was in his eyes; in his deep, dark eyes that was often voided of any emotion.

Love often comes from pity.

She shook her head, why was she thinking of love? Because love was once every girl’s dream, a dream that would follow her into adulthood where it would often be shattered from disappointment. Why was it that since the day of the picnic with Anthony her eyes had seemed to have opened to the possibility that her husband was a gentleman, qualified enough to steal her heart?

She shook away such notion from her mind.

BANG!

The gunshot rang through Catherine’s ears as a black smudge in the sky dropped down onto land. The dog beside Anthony ran towards the fallen goose.

“You are indeed a good shot,” Catherine said.

“Good God,” Anthony choked out as he spun around to see her, “I did not know you were there.”

“I know,” she replied with a bright smile.

He let out a sigh to settle down his startled heart and then glanced at his dog that was running and turning into a blur in the distance. “‘Tis cold, you should not be outside.”

“I am not as weak as you think, your Grace,” she said raising her eyebrows then slightly adjusting his cravat.

“I never thought you weak, indeed I did not,” he replied gazing steadily down at his wife who was now glancing at the rifle, the sky, his eyes, the sky, his eyes, the grass and then back to his eyes; as if she was too shy to look into his eyes. “But I felt it my duty as your husband to remark so.”

His proud, stubborn, independent, cynic, and shy wife.

She gazed up at the, “can it be that hard to shoot down a goose?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity and assurance that it could not be that difficult.

He watched her studying the flock of geese, “would you like to give it a try?”

“Oh no! I could not . . .”

“I cannot bear the thought of you believing that I am a good shot for nothing,” he said, purposely making his voice proud.

“It would not be modest of me!”

“Catherine Gaskell, since when did you, madam, care about modesty?” he asked. “Only when your mother is around I presume, but she is not.”

Catherine bit her lips at the offer, it was tempting, but a lady did not go around shooting - “Indeed, show me how!”

She was always open to something new.

He showed her how one was supposed to hold the rifle and where to press in order to shoot. “Now aim at the goose over there,” he said, pointing at the goose that flew over a tree. “Steady now,” he murmured seeing Catherine’s unsteady grip on the rifle. He walked behind her and helped her hold the rifle; he adjusted her hands in the right position. “Now relax,” he said, his words brushing against her throat. “Think of nothing but the geese, relax . . . good.”

BANG!

Anthony and Catherine stared at where the shot had been aimed. Silence fell upon them with only the sound of birds flying out of the tree as having been startled. “You almost got it,” he remarked, breaking the silence. “You were just a few miles away from your target.”

She elbowed Anthony who let out a grunt. She had not meant to do so, but her action came as an automatic reaction to his teasing words. “It was a good first try. You, Anthony, had practiced many times, whereas I did not. So you must admit, a couple of miles away from my target is well enough!”

She felt him chuckle behind her, how close he was behind her; as close as a gentleman would be to his lover when wishing to embrace her.

She felt protected in his warmth.
And yet overwhelmed by this strange power that enveloped her.

“You are going somewhere today?” Anthony asked.

“Yes, my father arrived at London a few days ago and mother wishes me to have tea at Aunt Josephine’s place,” replied Catherine stepping away from his warmth and touched her cheeks to ensure herself that her cheeks were not burning red.

“How long is Lord Gaskell and Lady Gaskell to stay at your Aunt’s?” he asked as he walked over to his dog that held the dead goose. “Wilber,” he called to his manservant whom had been standing near Anthony’s stallion. Anthony handed Wilber his rifle and muttered, “take the goose to the kitchen.”

Wilber bent and picked up the bloody goose and dropped it into a pouch as he pulled the rein of the stallion to take it back to its stable as Anthony and Catherine walked towards the estate.

“I only met your father twice before the marriage. Perhaps I shall meet him on my own time before he returns back the country,” remarked Anthony, as he was concentrated on a slight tear on his great coat.

Catherine did not reply, not knowing whether she wished Anthony to meet her father or not. The thought of her father ached her, since the day she had known who her dad was, she had tried to please him always -but he never seemed to be pleased of her. He often looked at her as if she were another child of another man.

Anthony changed the subject, perhaps noting that she was uncomfortable with it. “So, you really do enjoy writing?”

Catherine’s face suddenly brightened; from night to day. “Indeed I do! I have no other great passion as I do for writing.”

“Have you completed any stories?” he asked.

“I am afraid not -I always start with what seems to be a great idea, but cease to continue in the end feeling that it is not good enough. Perhaps the greatest vice of a writer. I believe that if I ever finish writing a story -I shall be ever so happy.”

After a minuet of silence Anthony said after clearing his throat, “I admire that you have such passion.”

“And you have none?”

“ . . . Not really. I was raised to live by duty, and not by passion. Passion is a gift for the free beings. Yet as a Duke, having a passion is a risky thing -”

“For if you have a strong passion, you would wish to achieve it, which could interfere with your duty,” Catherine finished.

A surprised look crossed his nonchalant face. He gazed at her - he really looked at her, not the outside Catherine, but the Catherine within her. The Catherine that no one ever saw, or tried to see. The Catherine that was afraid to show who she really was. The independent Catherine, who never shed a tear in front of anybody and looked to everyone as if she were a happy woman, had been penetrated.

For where there was greatness, there is always weakness.

Anthony slightly shook his head and looked away from her. As if trying to escape something.

.0.

Catherine stepped into the large London townhouse as the butler led her towards the music room where her father, mother and Aunt were. She could hear a gentle sonata being played from the music room.

She quietly followed the butler as she brushed her hands against the walls she knew so well. She did not see her hands brush against the vase on a marble table, with a slight gasp that echoed through the main hall, she caught a porcelain vase before it fell. She glanced up at the butler who continued to walk on as if he had not heard her gasp; was he deaf? She wondered.

She was a few steps behind him and quickly walked in order to cover the gap between the Butler and she. Her steps clicked against the marble floor that reflected her clean image.

“Lady Carleton, the Duchess of Rivenhall,” the butler said to Catherine’s Aunt, Lady Josephine Carleton.

“Come in dear,” said Lady Carleton then called for her maid to bring some more tea.

Lady Gaskell had been playing to piano, but stopped seeing the arrival of her daughter.

“Cathy,” Catherine heard her fathers call, he always called her by the name Cathy. “Yes father?” she replied seeing him sitting near Lady Carleton with a book resting on his lap.

He motioned his hands for her to come near, as if she were still a child. He examined her, “you are finally married, ‘tis still hard to believe. Where is your marriage ring?” he asked glancing down at his finger.

Catherine smiled, warmed by the warmness mixed in her father’s voice. It was not often that he spoke to her in such manner.
Was it only Catherine, or was it human nature that one should wish to please those who were hard to please?

“Well, do not stand there like that! Sit down girl!” Lady Carleton remarked, patting on the seat beside her. “Mary, do hurry up with the tea!”

Lord Gaskell dabbed his handkerchief beneath his wet nose, for he was still a bit ill then cleared his throat roughly and sat back comfortably on his seat.

“Do tell us about your new husband, dear,” asked Lady Gaskell as she walked over to sit across Catherine.

Catherine watched her father light a cigar; her lips flinched. She was about to ask her father not to smoke, that it was horrid for his health, but her mother gave Catherine a warning look. Catherine cleared her throat and tried to forget that her father was smoking, “he is a good gentleman.”

“That is all?” cried Lady Carleton.

“He is very sweet, kind and considerate,” Catherine said, not quite sure she was telling the truth herself.

“Indeed? Capital, capital. What a lovely match you paired Catherine with, my dear,” Lord Gaskell said, his remark directed to his wife.

“I knew it the day the Dowager and I saw the two of them peck each other kisses when they were not more than -eight!” laughed Lady Gaskell, looking warmly upon her daughter.

“Then you mean to say that I knew him long before?” cried Catherine in shock at the sudden fact.

“Indeed, but you and his Grace must have already forgotten. We had gone to London for your sister, Sarah’s, come out to society. You were Anthony’s playmate for a few months then when your father told you that we had to leave back to the country, you punched your him in the nose!”

Amidst the laughter, Catherine had turned slightly red. “I did not!” she cried with embarrassment.

“Indeed you did punch your father,” laughed lady Carleton with tears of mirth in her eyes, “I remember it so well, your father threatened to cancel all your horse riding lessons if you did not behave.”

Catherine cleared her throat and straightened her back; “I have no memory of such event. It could not possibly true!”

“Thank God you no longer punch,” Lord Gaskell said rather too cynically, “you don’t, do you?”

“Of course I do not father!” cried Catherine. “How old do you presume myself to be?”

“Literally a lady, mentally a child,” he murmured, tapping the ash off his cigar.

“My Lord,” a voice came from the door. Catherine looked to see who it was; the butler stood straight like one of those Chinese chopsticks she had heard rumors of in London. They quite fascinated her, a lady friend of Catherine’s had showed her a pair of chopsticks. Ever since, when Catherine was outside she would find two twigs and try it out.

“A telegram addressed to you, my Lord” the butler murmured, holding out the telegram.

Catherine watched her father stand up from his seat and walk over to the butler. She watched his father open the letter – she watched him turn red - then watched with shock as his father rip up the letter and throw it on the ground with a furious cry. Catherine stood up and ran to the ripped up letter, she held the pieces in her hands for a moment then looked out the door. She could see him storming towards the door. As if her father could no longer hold in his anger, he rested his two hands on the marble table then with a loud cry he hit the porcelain vase off the table and glared at it smash to the ground.

“Father!” she cried at her father then ran over to him and tried to calm him down.

But he violently grabbed his arms away from her hold, “To hell with you,” he hissed, then left out the door.

Her lips slightly trembled with the agonizing feeling of rejection; she had felt it too often, but yet was not immune to it. When would the day come when she would? A day when her heart would become so cold that the spiteful words would cease to pierce through and wound her? Perhaps never, for it was inhuman to be immune to the pain of being stabbed with a dagger again and again.

She heard her Aunt comforting her agitated mother. Catherine took the ripped pieces of paper and formed it back into the letter her father had read;

Dear Lord Gaskell,
I hear that you are residing at Lady Carleton’s place. I shall ask of you as kindly as I can; leave London,
‘tis not your place since the day you murdered my husband. You cheated in the duel and killed him. You are,
in London, the first man in history to go against the fair rules of a duel. You shall continue to be shunned in London,
even though you may believe that the scandal had been forgotten years ago; it has not been forgotten, and if so,
I shall refresh the Londoner’s memory. Leave London and return back to your estate.
Etc.,
The Duchess of Pyne

Catherine looked wearily at the door where her father had stormed out of, she heard well of the rumors of her father and his unfair duel; a scandal that had happened before her birth. Her heart ached for her father, how would it feel for such a proud man as he to being shunned by London society?

Did Anthony know of this . . .? Was what immediately floated into her mind. She decided that the first thing she would do when she returned back to the estate and ask him. She needed to know about this Duchess of Pyne.

She would find the Duchess and say a word or two to her – Catherine, too, was now a Duchess and felt power that a simple lady would not.

“Mother! I am leaving now!” Catherine called as she grabbed her bonnet and shawl from the butler’s grasp. Indeed, this visit must have been the shortest visit in her life, only a few minuets had passed and she was already leaving back for home.

When have I started to call Rivenhall estate my home. . .

.0.

Catherine stepped into Rivenhall estate, feeling strangely in a hurry to find out about this Duchess. “Where is his Grace?” she asked the butler as she tugged at the end of her gloves to slip it off then quickly threw it to one of the maids whom had been waiting to serve her.

“His Grace is in his study – but my lady, he is not in the best of moods,” warned the butler as he slightly tugged at his collar. “In a horrid mood, to be more truthful, my lady.”

The maids who were trying to do their job by taking off Catherine’s bonnet and shawl continued to fuss over Catherine even when Catherine motioned them off. “Later, later!” Catherine cried as she walked through the herd of maids and went stalking towards the study room.

She pushed the study room door open; half expecting to find it locked. “Anthony, who the bloody hell is the Duchess of Pyne?” she said loudly enough for the maids mopping the hall outside to hear. Catherine did not care for the outburst of whispering between the maids and servants; all she cared for at the moment was who this Duchess of Pyne was.

Catherine saw Anthony shuffling through a bunch of paper with spots of black ink on his fingers. “Who is the Duchess of Pyne?” she asked again in a sweeter voice.

“Get out,” was his cold and short reply that took Catherine off guard.

“Oh do not be such a braggart! Now tell me, who is the Duchess of Pyne?”

“The Duchess of Pyne, is the Duchess of Pyne. How else can one explain,” he snapped.

“I wish to know what her status is in society, where she lives, and those kind of information –”

“Catherine, I do not wish to see you at this moment, please do get out,” he said in a voice that felt on the edge of yelling.

“What is wrong with you Anthony? Why are you acting like a beast –”

“Get out!” he commanded in such cold manner.

“No! I will not get out until I have the reason of why I am being harassed in such a rude, cold, and uncivil manner!”

“I shall tell you,” he said as he got up from his seat and walked towards Catherine.

Why was it that she suddenly felt like the prey and Anthony the predator? Why could it never feel the other way around?

“A letter arrived from Lady Amelia today, asking why I did not even reply to her letter; a letter I never received! She was horridly afraid that I no longer wished to be acquainted to her. And coincidentally, one of my maids found a ripped letter left littered beneath a couch. Was it not you who ripped up the letter addressed to me?” he asked with icy gold eyes. “I swear it, it was you, was it not?”

“No, it was not me,” she said with a wavering voice. “I cannot believe that you have gotten all upset because of a silly letter from Lady Amelia,” she said turning around to leave.

Anthony slammed the door close, “You say that you did not rip it and yet you know whom sent the letter to me? I find that a little odd,” he stated.

She was caged between his arms, she swallowed and felt a hard lump in her throat.

“Yes, it was me! Satisfied, your Grace? So what, it was not such an important letter after all!” she cried trying desperately to defend herself. “Just a mere invitation for tea,” she murmured.

“Alas, you even read the letter’s content,” he snapped. “Lady Amelia’s parent are now angered at my humiliating their daughter’s feeling. They said that she set everything up for tee, believing that I would come even though I had not given notice.” “You come into my study without permission and go around ripping my private materials?”

His eyes flashed with anger and voice was calm and icy cold, it scared her. She would have much rather preferred her style of a fight; yelling and screaming; letting the anger out. But with Anthony, one could not tell what he was feeling or thinking – and it scared her ever so. It was like going into a battlefield with your eyes blindfolded.

“And how dare you go around having affairs with other ladies when you are a married man!” she cried, throwing a fist into his chest. Suddenly, the jealousy that had been growing every night when Catherine would lie down in bed and think of Anthony – finally erupted onto the surface.

What was her jealousy formed from? She would have wondered if not in such a monstrous situation. It was not love . . . but she would have admitted that it was from her growing attraction to Anthony.

“I am not having an affair with her,” Anthony assured with anger. “As I told you before, and shall tell you again, you have no business, what so ever in my private life. And I shall ask that next time you do not rip any more of my god damn letters.”

He had lost his manner; he must be very angered.
“Oh, I have no business in your private life? Is that true? What a very husband-like comment to make. Then you have no business in my private life as well!”

“I wish to have no business in it at all!” he retorted.

“Oh, well then, that is capital. Just capital! You would not mind then if I went prancing into the Viscount’s arms and begin an affair with him?” she said, her voice wavering more than she wished. Could he not see that she was at the brink of tears? She had to get away . . . she would not let Anthony see how weak she was.

“Do not take advantage of my words,” he threatened her, taking a strong grip of her arms as she tried to turn away and leave.

“Do not touch me!” she yelled as she grabbed herself away from him.

A tear slipped from her eyesand he saw.

His anger hushed at that very moment as Catherine stumbled out the door.
His clumsy wife . . .

When thinking of what he had said to her . . . he realized with regret that it had been much too harsh to be called just.
Anthony paced in front of her door; to and fro, to and fro. He was in a dilemma of whether to try and speak with her, or just go to his chamber hoping that she would come back to normal.

One would wonder who this “her” Anthony was referring to. “She” was the very lady whom occupied his mind day and night -- with vexation and at rare times, with mirth.

Catherine. . .

Last night had been horrible and since then she had not spoken to him thereafter. In the morning he had sat down for breakfast, half expecting to see Catherine walk in with a smile, but only a maid walked in informing him that her ladyship was to have breakfast in her lady’s chamber. It bothered him very much that he had not seen a glimpse of her all day long.

Had she been that wounded by his words? What if she despised him? How long could she endure in her chamber? Many questions swirled in his head and he felt that if he could only knock on her door and speak with her, all the questions would ease from his mind. And yet, if he knocked on the door, he felt that the only word he would be able to say was ‘I am sorry,’ but he would not ask for forgiveness for his actions and words had all been due to her own fault.

The maids and servants that passed by him, glanced at him with wonder at why he was standing in front of his wife’s door, too afraid to ask him why, but dying of curiosity. Though Anthony was well respected in his estate, he was feared.

He muttered a curse then turned around to leave her chamber door. He saw a maid passing by him. “Lauren, adjust this painting. ‘Tis hung crookedly,” he ordered, consciously knowing that he would regret his cold treatment to his staffs afterward. But alas, it could not be helped! He was in such a vexed mood. Why could his wife not be so stubborn and proud? Perhaps then the fight would have started and ended with ease and manner. However, then Catherine would not be Catherine.

His wife

His Catherine

On second thoughts, he could not have her staying in her chamber any more. Perhaps she was fine with it, but he was not. He walked straight back up to the door and raised his fist to knock, but he moved his hands away; once again unsure of his action.

It would be rat