There is no sense in arguing with Father. I vaguely recall an episode from my childhood when I first became aware of this fact. I had been playing happily in our orchard with the chef’s son, a boy I had charmed very innocently one fine summer. It was a time of ignorance, the blissful kind where I hadn’t the faintest idea what was in store for me. Father had instantly called for me upon bearing witness to our growing friendship.
"You are not to play with that boy any longer," he had said, crossly, pointing a firm finger.
Puzzled by this order, I frowned at him, and questioned him for asking me to follow such a request. Not quite so eloquently, I might add. In all fairness, I was only seven, and my wording couldn’t have possibly been as articulate as it is now.
Regardless, Father had responded - silently - but with a stare, long and hard. He paced around the room for a moment or so, and then he turned to face me again, with ice in his eyes.
"Ambrosia, this is not a request," he had said through gritted teeth. "This is a command. You will always do as your father says. Always," he repeated, more firmly than ever, and I gulped in alarm.
I have since, more or less, obeyed his word. Until now.
"I will not marry Mr Gilbert, Mama," I cry in dismay, as she waves her hands despairingly in the air. "I will not."
I am well aware that Father is in the room, for even a blind man will be able to recognize him amidst a crowd of twenty. He is so very large in his presence, and yet I refuse to look at him thus far. It is an act of defiance, and while I am not sure what it is I am defying precisely, I continue to ignore his looks of steel, coldly burrowing into me.
Well, as best as anyone can ignore Father, especially as he shoots me daggers with his eyes alone.
"I find him to be a highly disagreeable man," I carry on, knowing very well that my words will not be taken to kindly. "He is most assuming."
Mama gasps at this and holds a hand to her forehead, almost as though I have engaged in an activity as criminal as theft, or worse, a kiss.
"Ambrosia, you will not defy your parents’ wishes," she informs me, after recovering from her brief but theatrical moment of shock. Really, you would think that she is being made to marry a man she can not even tolerate, let alone love.
"So don’t ask me to marry him, then," I retort.
"Well, I never! The cheek of this girl ... " She looks at Father for assistance, but he does not abide. Mama frowns for a moment, unsure of how to handle this turn of events.
I cannot help but stifle a laugh as I observe her stumped expression. She will have to choose her next choice of words carefully, for it is up to her to take control of the situation. And taking control is, undeniably, not one of Mama’s strongest suits. That is, if she has any. Why, this evening has proved, rather surprisingly, to be one of much amusement.
"Your betrothal shall be made official in a week from today," she says at last, doing her best - which isn’t much, if you ask me - to mimic the affirmative tone Father adopts when instructing others. Which is very often, and, to his credit, in a far more effective fashion.
"Well, seeing as you’ve assumed the role of Father now. . ."
Another gasp.
". . .you can be the one to inform Mr Gilbert he is to cut off all ties with me."
With a turn on my heel, I stroll out the room. . .
. . . and hover outside the door. I absolutely reject the notion of not being privy to discussions about my own future.
For a minute, I can barely make out the faint muffling of voices. And then I hear my father very clearly say, "We will leave her alone."
Excuse me?
A long pause follows. It seems as though Father has stunned Mama into silence.
Good God, my feet are growing cold. I know I cannot wait any longer for her to answer.
"But for heaven’s sake, Bernard..." she speaks, almost as though she had read my thoughts. Now, that would be an enchanting experience for her. I chuckle at the image.
"The child is being quite unreasonable!"
Unreasonable? I only just resist the urge of snapping back. Assuming that I am the child, of course, I find this comment rather rich. How is it unreasonable, I wonder, to not desire a husband one does not feel even slight affection for? It is a principal right in marriage, surely, to choose your own spouse.
"Oh, she is being unreasonable. I have never doubted that," Father agrees gruffly. "No matter, though. We will leave her, and Mr Gilbert will not call on her for a while. And then," he adds, his tone changing into one of - roguishness? Was that possible for Father? ". . . she will approach us, regretting her choice, for we will reject all potential suitors that ask for her hand."
Oh, I shall deeply regret the choice of not being married to an imbecile. And all the other imbeciles that decide to come crawling after that. Certainly.
"Mr Gilbert will not let go very easily," Father is mumbling.
How sweet of him to be so attached. There is nothing more appealing than a man that latches onto a woman like a leech.
"He is quite smitten by her; he does wish to marry her so. . ."
My whole body stiffens upon hearing this ridiculous lie.
Mr Gilbert is not smitten by me. I have acknowledged that about him the same way I have acknowledged that about the other suitors. He does not even know me. He does not know that I loathe marmalade on bread, nor that I love the mornings. He does not know that I ride my horse, Lucky, every day at sunset without fail, and take a specially longer ride on Mondays. He does not know that I dislike being an only child, and often dream of being in a house with siblings. He does not know any number of things about me, because he has never asked. He does not care to ask. And he does not, I think with outrage, wish to marry me. He wishes to marry my heir.
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