regency shenanigans | for faye
May. 8th, 2020 04:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanShe is resigned to the coming of this day, and faces it with equanimity, at least outwardly. For all her fire, she is a dutiful woman, and a woman's duty is to be married, to strengthen the family through ties of blood and bear strong children. It doesn't matter how much she might wonder at why that must be her lot, why it is her duty to be a wife and not a soldier or a master of estates. It doesn't matter that it chafes. It is her duty to be here, to make a good match, and the Earl of Rohan's niece is nothing if not dutiful.
Not that this should be called a good match. In better days, the Eorlingas family would never have dreamed of marrying into trade. They are an old line, one that traces its lands and titles back for centuries, and a proud one. But the wars elsewhere in the Empire have shattered them financially, as well as taking her cousin's life, and the Earl's long sickness drains their coffers even more. Even the proudest line must eventually bend, or perish.
So it has been goodbye to girlish dreams of love, or of handsome princes, or fairytale endings. Goodbye to her own freedom, to life on her uncle's estate, where in her free time she has been able to ride and hunt and shoot with the best of them. Goodbye to pride in her family name, now she must take another. It is a heavy price to pay, and when her uncle leads her up the aisle to meet her new groom at the altar, it is a weight that she feels all too keenly. There is a burning resentment in her eyes, which is not quite disguised by the modest downcast of her gaze.
She says the words, and does not let her voice shake. She sits beside him at the reception afterwards, still as a marble statue in her white silk, and speaks little, and smiles not at all - still, she is polite and attentive to her guests, and does nothing that could be called rude or improper. She dances with him, and is graceful in sidestepping more dances than are strictly necessary. For much of the night she has wine in her hand, but a keen observer might notice how rarely she drinks it. She has no intention of misbehaving. Reputations - her family's reputations - are at stake.
It is almost a relief when the guests begin to leave - almost, until she remembers what comes next. Despite herself, she weeps a little as she bids her brother and uncle farewell, the only time in this whole affair she has shown any sign of her own discomfort. It is a brief moment, though, and one quickly put aside. A wedding, she reminds herself sternly, is no time for grief.
And then she is married. Married to a man below her station, older than her by some years, who she does not know particularly well or care for overmuch. It is done, and cannot be undone, and still her duty is not finished, although all she wants to do is withdraw and rest far away from all of this.
Instead, she starts up the stairs to their wedding chamber, and does not let herself falter. This is duty too, she reminds herself. Lie back, let him do what he will, it will be over soon. And yet she is so weary of duty, of lying back and playing the sweet and modest girl. There is a part of her, a deep steel that will not be driven out, that says If he shames me, I will scratch his damn eyes out.
When Jack heads up to the room, he will find his new bride waiting, her long hair unpinned and hanging loose around her shoulders. She has been helped out of her Spanish lace gown, and now wears only a shift and stockings, white silk clinging to her slender, toned frame. She is, undeniably, beautiful - even if the calluses on her hands and the tan under her powder belies more mannish activities than a young lady should undertake - but even now, as she stands to greet her husband, there is no softness to her. She tilts her chin upward, and looks at him - now they are alone - with barely-disguised scorn. This is not the husband she wanted, nor deserved. She may be his, and she will do her duty by him, but it is not her duty to enjoy it.
"What now, husband?" she says at last, her voice low and steady, and the dry sarcasm so faint it might be imagined. "Where would you have me?"
Not that this should be called a good match. In better days, the Eorlingas family would never have dreamed of marrying into trade. They are an old line, one that traces its lands and titles back for centuries, and a proud one. But the wars elsewhere in the Empire have shattered them financially, as well as taking her cousin's life, and the Earl's long sickness drains their coffers even more. Even the proudest line must eventually bend, or perish.
So it has been goodbye to girlish dreams of love, or of handsome princes, or fairytale endings. Goodbye to her own freedom, to life on her uncle's estate, where in her free time she has been able to ride and hunt and shoot with the best of them. Goodbye to pride in her family name, now she must take another. It is a heavy price to pay, and when her uncle leads her up the aisle to meet her new groom at the altar, it is a weight that she feels all too keenly. There is a burning resentment in her eyes, which is not quite disguised by the modest downcast of her gaze.
She says the words, and does not let her voice shake. She sits beside him at the reception afterwards, still as a marble statue in her white silk, and speaks little, and smiles not at all - still, she is polite and attentive to her guests, and does nothing that could be called rude or improper. She dances with him, and is graceful in sidestepping more dances than are strictly necessary. For much of the night she has wine in her hand, but a keen observer might notice how rarely she drinks it. She has no intention of misbehaving. Reputations - her family's reputations - are at stake.
It is almost a relief when the guests begin to leave - almost, until she remembers what comes next. Despite herself, she weeps a little as she bids her brother and uncle farewell, the only time in this whole affair she has shown any sign of her own discomfort. It is a brief moment, though, and one quickly put aside. A wedding, she reminds herself sternly, is no time for grief.
And then she is married. Married to a man below her station, older than her by some years, who she does not know particularly well or care for overmuch. It is done, and cannot be undone, and still her duty is not finished, although all she wants to do is withdraw and rest far away from all of this.
Instead, she starts up the stairs to their wedding chamber, and does not let herself falter. This is duty too, she reminds herself. Lie back, let him do what he will, it will be over soon. And yet she is so weary of duty, of lying back and playing the sweet and modest girl. There is a part of her, a deep steel that will not be driven out, that says If he shames me, I will scratch his damn eyes out.
When Jack heads up to the room, he will find his new bride waiting, her long hair unpinned and hanging loose around her shoulders. She has been helped out of her Spanish lace gown, and now wears only a shift and stockings, white silk clinging to her slender, toned frame. She is, undeniably, beautiful - even if the calluses on her hands and the tan under her powder belies more mannish activities than a young lady should undertake - but even now, as she stands to greet her husband, there is no softness to her. She tilts her chin upward, and looks at him - now they are alone - with barely-disguised scorn. This is not the husband she wanted, nor deserved. She may be his, and she will do her duty by him, but it is not her duty to enjoy it.
"What now, husband?" she says at last, her voice low and steady, and the dry sarcasm so faint it might be imagined. "Where would you have me?"
