by Jenn LeBlanc
“I beg pardon, my lady, I thought to heal them with salve.”
“It will do for now.”
The girl curtseyed and left the parlor expediently as the woman motioned to the divan.
Francine didn’t think she could be any more uncomfortable, but she was wrong. She walked over and sat down carefully, feeling the metal bands of her crinoline biting her legs. The dress and corsets didn’t give an inch. It felt as if her lungs were being forced up under her collarbone, into her throat, and her stomach was crushing her heart physically, as the woman attempted to do the same to her hope. She stifled a cry, feeling her face flush from the pressure. She clasped her hands together in her lap and the woman handed her a small basket with an embroidery hoop and thread.
She sat across from Francine in a chair and picked up another basket, staring at her as Francine toyed with the hoop.
“I expected you to be well trained. What is the difficulty?”
Francine shook her head.
“Do what you can,” the mother said disapprovingly.
Francine steadied her hands and set about figuring out how to embroider. She bided her time, the dutiful fiancée, waiting for the moment when she could flee. Every time she looked at Morgan he glared back. She was no match for him. She tried to think of something to say to the woman, to find some common ground that might weaken her terrifying resolve, but nothing would come. She wasn’t even sure she could speak, as contracted as her torso was.
After what seemed an eternity of forced silence, punctuated only by the minute pinpricks of the embroidery needle, the door to the parlor swung open.
“Supper,” called the butler.
Morgan, who had been sitting in the corner, stood to follow Hepplewort’s mother and Francine from the room.
Francine carefully studied her surroundings and the movements of her captors—which doors required keys, which ones led outside, which windows she’d seen open.
She’d watched Gideon tighten the saddles on his horses, not to mention all the Clint Eastwood westerns she’d watched when she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t think it would be too difficult to get one on a horse, but she wouldn’t have much time to do it. She suddenly wished she had participated in Westernaires as mother-number-two had wanted her to, but she’d been too stubborn and angry—an immovable attitude that eventually got her sent to yet another home.
She sat at the end of the table, trying to catch her breath after the short walk from the parlor. Hepplewort was positioned at the other end, but he wasn’t seated in the first position. His mother was. Hepplewort sat to her left which, Francine knew—thanks to the book of manners she had been studying—to be a blatant put-down since his mother’s immediate right was left unoccupied. He wasn’t worthy either, but it didn’t serve to make her feel better.
She stared down at the soup they placed before her and a shiver ran the course of her spine as she slowly began to spoon it to her mouth.
She felt as though she sat in a vacuum, the only sounds the clinking of her silverware on the dish. Francine was so far away she could hardly hear the conversation between them, and she considered that she might be better for it. They paid no attention to her, except when she needed a reprimand because the spoon hit the side of her cup or scraped the bottom of her bowl.
“Lady Madeleine,” the mother would shout at her, “you should endeavor to be silent.”
Hepplewort smiled a crooked, rotten grin when the talk turned to the young maids in town who were looking for positions within the household, and Francine tensed.
She watched as they supped on beef in a thick sauce and vegetable soup with crusty breads and fruit compote. Then she stared into her bowl, watching the different patterns made in the surface of her liquid.
“Look at her, Fergus. She isn’t the least bit appreciative of what we’ve done for her. She can’t carry herself, gasps for air at every turn. She’ll be bedridden when she is with my heir. Ridiculous. This isn’t the girl we were promised,” the mother complained.
Hepplewort remained silent.
After supper Morgan escorted her to her room, then stayed and watched as the small maid undressed her. The corset and dress she’d been forced into provided so little room that she’d lost her breath again halfway up the stairs, and the removal of the corset and sudden rush of air made her head spin, reminding her of the day she came to be here. Her eyes stung as the maid pulled a flannel nightgown over her head.
She noted that Morgan seemed to be getting tired, and hoped that she could outlast him and make a run for it in the night. She would never make it far in that corset, but the nightgown certainly held possibility.
The mother walked into the room with another maid, who was carrying a serving tray with a small teapot. She gestured for her to pour Francine a cup of tea and waited, watching while she drank it, not saying a word before leaving with a nod to Morgan.
Francine lay in the bed, alone in the dark, waiting for the giant to nod off so she could sneak out, but her chance never came. She couldn’t keep her eyes open no matter how hard she tried. As she fought her way against a deep sleep, the thought occurred to her. Her eyes jerked open in one last vain attempt before the room disappeared.
The next morning Francine stirred, her thoughts finishing where they had been interrupted. Drugged. She grunted, shaking her head and glancing around the room. Morgan stood and rang the bell.
The maid came in the room and helped Francine stumble to the shower for her morning ablutions as Morgan followed.
Francine wasn’t sure how much she could take of this before she passively let them beat her to death. She allowed the girl to dress her in another white gown of the same fashion as before: breathtakingly tight and uncomfortable. The diminutive maid fixed her hair and pushed her toward the door as Morgan—yet again—stood to follow.
Panic set in unexpectedly and Francine bolted for the staircase like a wild rabbit. She was clutching her chest, yanking on the top of the tightly laced corset before she made it ten steps, and within fifteen Morgan had her about the waist. His sweaty palms burned through her dress and his malodorous exhalation engulfed her face. She wanted to hold her breath against the stench, but as she gasped for air she gagged on it and her lungs gave up. She passed out cold.
She was awakened by a stinging slap across her face. “Do you need to be bound again?” the voice screeched.
Francine opened her eyes slowly to find the drawn-up face of the mother staring down at her from beside the bed. She skittered away but the woman caught her ankle, digging her nails into the injured flesh under the linen, tearing at the loose skin surrounding the deep gashes.
Francine cried out in agony, the searing pain shooting up her leg and spine. She lashed out at the woman, trying to stop the seizure of her leg, but it only caused the grip to tighten. She wailed and screamed, assailing the sickening woman, not understanding why she couldn’t unlatch her. “Why? Why, why!”
“Why? Why, you ask? Because we paid for you. You are here as his betrothed, to be his subservient wife and acquiesce to his bidding, and to bear my grandson, who will assume the earldom when he dies.”
Francine shrank into the bedcovers as she stared at her.
“You have no other purpose,” his mother said simply as she gave her leg one final shake, then turned her loose. “You would do well to learn your place more expediently, you arrogant girl.”
Francine nodded at the woman as she sank farther into the golden-embroidered counterpane in shock. The mother moved away from the bed, saying something to Morgan. Francine curled up, grasping her knees to her already compressed torso as she tried to conquer the heaving, dry sobs that wracked her body. She looked up from the bed at the shower room and saw her lady’s maid, her face red and tear-streaked, cowering in the doorway. The maid shook her head quickly and ducked out of sight.
The door to her room slammed and she rolled over to see Morgan approaching the bed. His hands reached out to her as he leaned over the bed and s
he screamed, all her breath leaving her body as she lost consciousness.
She started to come around with the sound of a voice. “Oh, milady,” the maid whispered. “I beg ye, please, don’t let them hurt ye. Ye would’na believe some o’ the goings on ‘ere. Please, milady, are ye all right?”
Francine stared at her, still unable to breathe fully.
The maid shifted slightly, allowing Francine to see Morgan standing behind her. A warning.
Francine reached down to her ankle and winced at the flash of pain. When she pulled her hand back, it was bloody. Her head fell to the pillow as the girl tended to her, using a cool rag on her face, smearing more of the thick brown salve around her ankle, trying again to care for her wounds.
Francine wasn’t requested at supper that night; she spent the rest of the day tied into her corset, trying desperately to recover from lack of air.
The mother returned much later with the cup of tea. Francine drank it quickly, against the threat of pain and possibly hopeful of the respite, as the mother glared at her and Morgan wrapped his hand stiffly around her leg. The mother left without a word and the maid stood her up, took the dress off, and loosed the corset. Air rushed into her lungs with such force she grabbed for anything to hold her upright. The maid pulled the nightgown down over her head and helped her up into the bed. She barely had time to lie down on the pillow before she succumbed to the drugs.
Francine shifted under the counterpane the next morning, the puddle of drool under her chin cold. She sat up halfway, looking around the room as she shook her head against the heaviness. Morgan was asleep in a chair at the end of the bed. Asleep. The thought startled her to her senses. She stood, then began creeping toward the door. She opened it softly, but heard voices.
“Mother, the priest should be here soon. We only need to keep her occupied until then.”
“We are not here to entertain her, you buffoon. This situation is perfectly abhorrent. You are so inept you couldn’t control your own bride without me. I cannot believe my issue has become such an incompetent oaf. The earl is turning in his grave.” The words rolled across the old woman’s thin lips like a riptide.
“I am not incompetent. I will handle her. You will see,” came Hepplewort’s voice, small and whiny like a badly tuned violin.
Francine heard a pair of footsteps coming toward her room and ran over to the bed, jumping under the counterpane as she tried to calm her nerves and her heartbeat.
“Morgan, you are dismissed,” Hepplewort yelled.
Francine sat up.
Hepplewort turned and advanced on her like a spider to a fly and she felt equally trapped, shrinking back into the bed. A slow grin broke across his face as she considered her options. Perhaps she could sway him—after all, she did have something that he wanted rather desperately.
“My lord, it is rather untoward of you to visit my bedchamber before we are properly wed.” She forced a smile.
“Yes, well, I was of a mood.”
“A mood? Couldn’t your mood bring you back later?”
“You will find that I am much more genial in the mornings, when I haven’t dealt with certain tasks all day.”
She thought quickly. “Your mother can be quite—” She paused, gathering her strength to continue. “—meddlesome, my lord,” she finished, letting the words roll from her lips like an endearment. Her stomach physically turned in her gut, nausea rising toward her throat.
Hepplewort heard the stomach complaint. “You must be starved after yesterday. Mother believes you should be more slender, that it would make you more compliant. I, however, believe much the opposite. I will arrange for something,” he said as he rang the bell for her maid, then gave her instructions when she appeared.
The maid glanced around him with a concerned gaze before rushing from the room.
He turned back to Francine and she smiled demurely. “My lord, you are thoughtful. Should I dress to break our fast?”
His eyes glazed over her like molasses in March, sticking in all the wrong places.
“Or perhaps you prefer this flannel nightgown?” she asked quickly, trying to break his inspection.
He cleared his throat, glancing up into her eyes.
“Madeleine.” The name slithered off his tongue. “I would prefer you live in a nightgown at all hours, but not that one. Mother, of course, has your wedding trousseau, and after we are married you will be attired much more to my liking.” He licked the spittle from his lip.
He turned to the wardrobe, throwing aside several fluffy white dresses before finding a simple country sheath. It was fitted at the bosom with an empire waist, the folds of fabric falling from the breast and dusting the floor with a delicate ruffle.
She was excited. It was more Regency than Victorian and, while entirely out of fashion in this age, the style didn’t allow for a corset. The tightly fitted skirt would keep her legs together so she wouldn’t be able to walk a full stride, much less run, but at least she would be able to breathe.
She considered his indecisive stare as he stood before the wardrobe and decided to tip the scales. She sighed and rose to her feet. “Why, my lord, what a beautiful gown! It is quite reminiscent of an earlier time, when life was much simpler and women, including mothers, knew their places.” She walked toward him slowly.
“Yes...yes,” he said with longing.
She reached out, smoothing the fabric and inadvertently—with purpose—she brushed her knuckles across his hand.
“Exactly my thought. Women weren’t as…independent as they are these days.” His eyes darted to her. He smiled and handed her the gown. “Please, put this on,” he said, with a sickening sweetness.
She took it and glanced around the room.
“No, no, dear, right here. I may not have yet paid for the goods, but I certainly can browse.” His jowls pulled up in a grotesque version of a smile.
She covered her mouth with her hand, fluttering her eyelids at him.
“But, my lord—”
He frowned. “Why should Morgan and the maid be allowed to see but I can’t?” he whined.
She sensed she was losing his interest. “Of course, my lord,” she said, and grasped the nightgown at the waist to pull it up. She paused when her face was hidden to breathe deeply and tried to gather the courage to expose her body to him. She had to trust that he would stick to his morals, misguided and revolting as they might be.
She slid the gown over her head and reached for the dress.
“Wait—” He held his hand up. “You are a vision,” he drawled.
“My lord, the maid will be returning.”
“Yes, of course.” He snatched the gown from her hands and moved closer, gathering up the fabric. He smelled sickly sweet and she cringed. He tried to slide the dress over her head, but his jacket was too tight and she was too tall.
She crouched slightly and let him pull the dress down, running his knuckles across her skin as he yanked at the hem. She shuddered as his face drew close to the front of her body, his sour breath pelting her skin while it reacted to his touch. She held her breath, but the very air surrounding him was sour, making her gag.
“Thank you,” she said as genially as possible, glad that he didn’t notice her convulsing.
A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he grumbled.
The maid walked in with a large tray, her eyes wide with panic. She set the tray on a table next to the two overstuffed wingback chairs by the fireplace and moved to Francine, watching Hepplewort from the corner of her eye.
“Milord, shall I assist milady?”
He nodded and moved to the tray, picking up a piece of ham with his portly fingers, tearing it apart in his stained, crooked teeth. His chin was covered with grease as he reached for another slice, not waiting to finish the first.
The girl fastened the placket of buttons at Francine’s back and went to the wardrobe, pulling out stockings, garters, and drawers. She helped Francine dress, doing her utmost to keep her covered fro
m Hepplewort’s stare, then she reached for a pair of brown calfskin ankle boots. Blocking his sight with her small body, she carefully pulled them over Francine’s feet and fastened the buttons up the sides slowly, trying to avoid too much pain from the rope cuts.
The girl patted the toe of the boots. “There ye are, miss. These’re comfortable slippers, but if you and milord choose to go outside the manor to view the gardens, ye should be careful in the deep grass, and ye certainly shouldn’t venture into the wood without better shoes. The wildflowers are bloomin’, milord.” She glanced up with pleading eyes, pulling Francine’s hem down tightly over her toes. “The ones by the northern gardens.”
Francine nodded in thanks while Hepplewort smiled at the lascivious thoughts of the two girls dancing through his head. “Hmmm. We’ll see what Mother has to say,” he hedged.
Francine pouted, running her hand over his brocade lapel. “Your mother doesn’t want us to do anything until we are married. How are we to get to know each other if we are to be kept apart, or together only here in the manor under her vigilant eye?”
His eyes bulged and he swallowed hard.
Francine moved closer to Hepplewort, cautious to keep her boots from view. “I would love to see your estate, my lord. I imagine you have beautiful lands and gardens. I daresay you must be quite adept with a phaeton as well, judging from the way you carry yourself.” She smiled, the picture of innocence.
“You!” he snapped at the maid. “Have the groom prepare the phaeton, and make sure there’s a basket included for luncheon. It’s a lovely day for a picnic, and I do need to keep my fiancée occupied until the priest arrives.” He turned to Francine. “I could show you the estate,” he continued with a devious grin.
The girl nodded and curtseyed, hesitating momentarily before leaving them alone again.
“Well then. Let us break our fast and then you can show me your grand…estate.” She paused before enunciating the last word with a wide grin and as much of a sparkle as her soul would allow.
He gulped audibly and she pushed him to sit at the tray, falling immediately back into the role of innocent. She allowed him to feed her, pandering to his foibles. By the end of the meal he was sure to make their private excursion a reality, which she was glad of, but also terrified because she had lit a fire in him that she had no intention of stoking. She could only hope she could manage to get away before she was burned.