Page 2 of The Betrothal

But for the people, for the women, it was patriarchal control. Women no longer had legal identities in their own right, nor had they for decades; their spouse or father held authority over them.

We became cattle.

Some women accept it and thrive in it. Other women drown.

For my whole adult life, I have trodden water. My father, now returned to his daydreaming as his daughter and wife scold me, is Secretary of State for Social Order and Families.

He is the jailer of my prison, and I resent him as much as I love him.

Said jailer has tolerated my complicated dance through the loopholes of the rights of women in the education system, to hold out on the marriage for as long as I possibly can.

And that is how I find myself, just before my thirtieth birthday, my stay of execution expired.

“I mean, what is it? Three degrees? Why would you ever need that?” Ester blathered on.

I knew better than to interrupt her, and my mother adored these Isabelle-bashing sessions. She didn’t even try to hide the vindication she felt in my sister’s echoing of her own arguments with my father over the many years.

“Don’t forget the two placements,” I quietly mocked her, my father smirking slightly over the table at me.

Making the most of my father’s position in government, I chose to study policy and politics, of course not to be able to actually use them. Females are unsuited to office, political or otherwise. But the political leverage, that was priceless – the daughter of a Secretary of State studying her father’s policies. It was an easy sell, a woman to add further gravity to their political stance. And so that is what I did. I went to university, as many young women did, and I focused on family politics, policy and administration.

Each time my education came to a close, I argued the benefit of further study, more and more inclined to female governance and family issues, through my master’s and fellowships until ultimately my PhD in household governance and incentivisation.

Now, with the exception of those who wrote the policies themselves, I would be considered the next most educated on the topic. Father saw me as his little advocate, the daughter who personified his policies. Educated and compliant, and soon enough working, where my family life permits, to educate women and children in the virtues of our family-focused society.

“Why Teddy has waited so long, I will never know,” she sniped, hitting the sore spot she intended.

Teddy. Theodore Fairchild. My fiancé and father’s next huge political victory.

Teddy and I had known each other since we were young. Our families had been involved in politics for generations. His father was the leader of the opposition to my father’s political party. Although the opposition was too generous, they were the same beast in different-coloured pantaloons.

Our engagement was agreed upon when we were teenagers, and at the time it didn’t bother me. I considered it to be the way things were, and I liked Teddy. He was sweet, kind, funny, and he was also handsome.

Teddy was still handsome, but he had lost the other desirable traits, which was deeply unfortunate, given I would be marrying him in a few weeks.

I used to take some comfort in the fact that my engagement was a point of extreme annoyance for my sister, Ester, born to be a wife and mother to a football team.

She would have been the perfect wife for the high-born politician. Imagine the Christmas cards.

“It’s my sparkling personality.” Arguing with her would be a step too far, so I fuelled her ire.

“Unlikely.” Here she goes. “You think you’re above your station, Isabelle. The Fairchilds will crush that out of you.”

Her pretty face turned venomous, and I felt my control crack.

“If you want him so badly, perhaps a divorce is in order? Poor Sam.” I didn’t know which would enrage her more, mentioning divorce – a divorced woman was a scandal, a failure – or mentioning her husband.

Ester loathed me talking about Sam, although he and I got on extremely well – maybe that was the issue. She was possessive of men, both those she had claim to and those she had no right to, including dear Teddy.

“Enough, girls.” My mother cut the argument short. “Isabelle, we will collect you on Friday. You will be home before your thirtieth birthday celebration. You will not stay here a day longer than you have to.”

“I have no interest in a social celebration, Mother.” I could feel the defeat crawling over me even as I protested against my upcoming birthday party.

“This is for your father, not for you. Your education is a feather in his political cap; you will smile and support our family. If anything, you can help to justify the benefits of your father allowing this education charade to continue as long as it has.” Mother frowned before schooling her features. “You will attend, and you will respect your father, his office, and meet the expectations laid upon his daughter.”

I searched my father for an ounce of support but found none.

“I have worked tirelessly with our seamstress on your dress for this. It will be perfect. And you.” She shot me a cold glare. “Will be perfect.”