Gentry

This day I am to be wed. This night to have a husband. A happy day in all regards and I should be so. But I am not. For this is not what my being does long for. That, sadly, is only my beloved Darcian. But none of this is relevant. For it is what they want and this matters too great a burden to be bothered with silly trappings of frivolous love.

"Is it not the greatest joy of a woman to fulfill her duty in life? To make herslelf useful to her man and to be smiled upon by God for her labors?" My mothers friends tell me as they brush and braid my hair. How can they smile so? I answer my own question as a smile is all I can offer these crows. Speech lies beyond me for I am scared of how my own body, sometimes acting with a mind independent of myself, may behave. Shall I collapse into tears, or begin screaming like a thousand screeching bats? Shall bile rise in my throat? Worse, shall I swallow all memory of my love for Darcian and begin to believe that which they would have me believe.

"What good fortune my daughter has found." my mother arranges fresh flowers among the head band holding my veil in place, like a worker bee performing it's ritualistic dance and forver holding a looming threat of stinging punishment hovering about your hair and ears.

“Indeed,” the others seem to respond for me, “Henry is a most befitting match for your daughter, Belinda.”

I thank them, for they force their sweet words into my very skin. Suffocate me as they pay me all the heed they can and yet none towards what I want. They faun, they praise, congratulate. They fix ruffles and cleanse torn satin. They pat and smile, poke and forever prod. But for my guilt and longing I wish they would not. Because for every moment they take to think on me, they know not what they do in honesty. They fuel my passions and add stones to the pile of my grieving.

Furthermore, they know not what they speak. They know of Henry’s wealth, his title and his home. They know of his respected status in our country province. But they do not know him. I do not even know him that well. Not the way he takes his meat, nor which shoes he prefers to go riding with. Not whether he is prone to a clean household or scattered one. Does he want many children? Is he a God fearing man? Who is to say how our match may or may not befit either of us?

“This day is for the best,” mother says softly upon my silence and somber stance some time later, “We all have duties that mean more than those things which we enjoy. Henry is henceforth from this day your duty and is so not only in obligatory means but by love as well. You will do well to remember that.”

She means these things in good manner, for the betterment of my emotional state. But all my heart can dwell upon remains the same. ‘Does discontent and disdain not breed hate and war? And money does little, but nothing, to stop it. It may cause favors to be recognized and it may tide one over in distraction. But certainly no real good comes in the end of one’s life when all that’s kept them alive until then is greed.’

I dare not speak my heart, for fear of recieving the retribution of her palm on my cheek. Or worse, breaking her heart as mine has been with such a responsibility as "loving duty" towards a man I do not love.

She does not listen. Granted, I have yet to give her ears the chance, but I am fully aware she will not but grow angry. And no amount of capital could help that cause.

But I am selfish. For it is my future husband, Henry, who shall have a wife not in his wanting. This can only be the worst dishonor, shame or cause for sorrow possible. I may be unhappy, but I must be strong and not let him heed knowledge of this. For fear that his own happiness may dissipate. That is of course what a woman is asked of in this day’s society: Commitment and caring in more bad times than good. And so I am indeed Henry’s woman…