Page 12 of The Betrothal

“Honestly, Isabelle!” It seemed that Mother had reached the end of her patience. “Anyone would think you weren’t pleased about your match.”

“Would they, indeed.” It was an observation not a question, I was humouring her at this point.

“Isabelle, I don’t know what to do with you, I am exhausted.” Her voice was beginning to rise, something she largely condemned as unbecoming of a lady. “This has been years in the making and you could try to appear even remotely pleased. Theodore Fairchild is a fantastic match; he will make an upstanding husband and a good father.”

“I’m sure he will.” I didn’t even turn to look at her.

She drew to a stop in the middle of the pavement and I slowed with her.

It was extremely cold and winter was in full force. We were both wrapped in enormous winter coats, scarves and gloves.

The wind bit at my nose, I had lost feeling in my cheeks, although thinking about it, I couldn’t quite remember if I ever had feeling in my cheeks. Perhaps if I pinched them? But not on their own.

The expectant stare of my mother broke through my thoughts. Despite the burning cold, it would seem that Mother was going to hash this out here.

In retrospect I should have accepted the priest’s offer to visit the house, but I had thought I would benefit from the fresh air. This was a mistake.

“Isabelle!” She was now screeching, well beyond unbecoming.

“Mother. I am engaged. I am to marry. What exactly is it you need from me?”

“Some gratitude, perhaps?” She sounded deeply put out, unappreciated. As though she had some hand in arranging my nuptials. As if she had any influence in any decision aside from the wedding planning.

All the same, her words landed like a slap, I could feel the response, the anger and resentment surging inside me, like a wave.

“For what? Trading me like cattle? And to gain what exactly, social standing? Tell me, Mother, is there a need to elevate our social position?” I spat.

“Isabelle! Ungrateful child!” She gripped my coat, catching the skin of my arm between her fingers and palm and tugged me down the street towards the house.

Her volume lowered dangerously, the venom infusing into her next words. “After all your father has done for you, you will not embarrass our family. When you marry Teddy, you will. Fall. In. Line.”

Words now eluded me, and I fell silent, the cold dread in my stomach matching the freezing air swirling around us.

“What’s more, I will have your sister speak to you this weekend about appropriate conduct for a high-society wife. I’ll have no more of this.”

We arrived at the front of the family home and I stumbled as she shoved me, catching my foot on the bottom step, I collapsed forwards. Before I had managed to correct myself, my knee hit the step above and pain shot through the joint.

Straightening myself slowly, I turned to her, inhaling a deep breath, swallowing the pain and disappointment.

“Goodnight, Mother.”

Her nude painted lips pulled into a small snarl so I picked up the pace, racing up the steps and through the front door, towards the back of the property where the stairs rose to my flat.

By the time I reached the door to my rooms the sounds of her screeching at Father below were all but faded.

Fumbling with the handle I pushed inside, slamming it closed and locking myself in the solitude, the sound of my blood racing in my ears from both the race up the stairs and the frustration of the time spent with Mother.

What the fuck am I going to do? My brain buzzed, reaching, searching for a quick solution. Failing.

In my frustration I hooked my fingers under a tray of paperwork and launched it off the sideboard with a small scream, the relief short-lived as the papers scattered across the room.

I slipped to my knees on the hardwood floor to start swiping the letters and paperwork up, ignoring the haphazard manner they came together, the irrelevance of them and my previous life rankling with each rustle of paper on paper. Not even the letters relating to my doctorate defence and ultimate outcome produced a glimmer of pleasure.

Grabbing the pile of paper and throwing it into the tray, I fisted my hands, exhaustion overcoming me.

Digging my knuckles deep into my eye sockets I tried to force the prickling tears back, as though the pressure would drive them back into the tear ducts, but a pained sob broke free before a small knock sounded on my door.

Forcing in several deep breaths to try to control the overwhelm, I settled.