by Anna Edwards
Reggie motions to look out the window.
“What?”
“I thought that I saw a flying pig, Sir.”
“She does provoke that reaction.” I push my chair back and go to stand, but I am interrupted by my father’s gruff voice from the doorway.
“Who does?”
Reggie looks at me.
“Miss Hamilton.” I reluctantly concede, knowing that there’s no point in lying to him.
“What has she done now?” He stomps over to his seat at the head of our small family dining table and sits down. Reggie steps forward and pours him coffee. My father doesn't say thank you.
“Nothing of concern, Your Grace. It’s been dealt with.” I finally get to my feet and bow to my father with the intention of taking my leave. He doesn’t let me go, though.
“Why you had to choose her to continue on, I’ll never know.”
“She is different from the other girls. I don’t know what I want in a wife, yet. I chose the girls that all offer me something unique in the hopes that I make the right decision for the society,” I offer in reply.
“She deserves to be tied to a bed and fucked raw.”
“If I choose her to be my wife, then I’ll make sure I do that.”
My father takes a long sip of his coffee.
“She spoiled my fun last night. Having one of the girls was my right, and you left me with one who just lay there and took it. She didn’t even scream once.”
“Daphne Knight?” I enquire with a hint of frustration in my voice.
“Don’t get all high and mighty with me. You knew full well what would happen to her and the other one, when you didn’t choose them.” Reggie steps forward as my father speaks and places a napkin over his lap. “Full English breakfast, Mr. Hane.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Reggie disappears into the kitchen as fast as his tired legs can carry him.
“Is she still alive?” I ask.
“I don’t always kill them.” My father purses his lips in disgust.
“No, just leave them completely broken.” I want nothing more to do with this conversation. A woman is a precious thing and not there to be beaten to a pulp while you get off in her pussy.
“She was fine when West took her.”
“Did he fuck her as well?” I’m fuming.
“She has more than one hole — so of course he did,” my father chuckles. I want to rip his head off. “Don’t start having morals now. Everything that's happening here is for you and your future. Grow a pair of balls and man up.” My father turns his evil eyes on me. They bore into my soul and deny me any hope I have of being innocent. Daphne Knight was brutally raped and beaten last night. She's probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere because of me. I can’t change what’s happening, but I can try to soften the blow for the three girls left. Once I make my choice, two more will be sold. I can only save one girl and bring her in to the hell I live. At least there, as my wife, I can protect her.
“You and that piece of paper may govern the tasks the girls have to perform, but it doesn’t tell me everything that I should do. I’m going to spend time with each of the girls today — a date around the property.”
My father lets out a rambunctious laugh.
“What’s the point? You just need to marry her, fuck her, and stick a male heir in her belly. Then, once she has given birth, she can go up in the rafters of the house and descend into the kind of obscurity that is only found at the sharp end of a heroin needle — just like your mother.”
I step back because I’m on the verge of punching my own father. I can feel my blood boiling with fury, and my hands shaking. I take hold of the back of a chair to ensure that my hands are gripped tightly around something, other than my father’s neck.
“Actually, Father” ‒I stress the alien word with venom‒ “I would like a loving Mother for any children I have, not a drugged up waste of space like my own was. You always tell me that I’m a disappointment to you. Maybe, if I’d had a caring mother, I might actually have ended up as much of a bastard as you are.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I don’t want to hear it. I’ll take the girls out and get to know them better. I’m bound by the document that prescribes my future, but I don’t have to do everything the way my father wants. If I’m going to have to marry, I’m going to make sure that it’s with a woman who won’t be a mess by the time she pushes out my first child. And fuck, I need to look into ways to make sure that any children we have are girls, so, hopefully, I can end this whole sordid charade.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VICTORIA
A date? The freak wants me to join him for one on one time. What? Is this where he takes our virginity and sees which he likes best? If he thinks that he’s getting into the panties, they’ve finally provided me with, then he has another think coming. I’d sooner chop his bloody dick right off. I bet it’s microscopically small and riddled with infections. Covered in warts from all the whores he, no doubt, has shoved it in. I bet the 'virgin' and 'hidden away' clauses haven’t been applied to him. All these men are chauvinist and think they can get away with rape and murder. Well I am going to be the one to change all that. I throw the book on ‘decorum for a lady’ down on the table. I swam a hundred lengths this morning with the promise of books, and I get etiquette ones. Bastard, and a few other choice words, that a lady isn’t supposed to know, start to spill from my mouth, but I’m interrupted by a knock on the door. I don’t bother to tell whoever it is to go away. They’d probably just remove the door and leave me exposed to everyone if I did that.
“Come in.”
One of the guards assigned to me comes in.
“Earl Lullington requests your company in the sitting room.”
“Tell him I’m busy studying his etiquette books,” I reply without even looking up.
“Maybe I should rephrase my instruction. Earl Lullington wants you in the sitting room. If you refuse, I have orders to drag you there” ‒he licks his lips when I scowl at him‒ “by the hair, if needed.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I reply sarcastically. Getting to my feet, I slip on a pair of ballet pumps. “We must go immediately. I wouldn’t want to keep the Earl waiting for a moment. He’s just such the gentlemen and his manners...” I roll my eyes.
“I hope he doesn’t choose you,” the guard replies, and I stop in my tracks.
“What? Scared I might actually be the one bossing you around when I become his wife?”
“No, not at all. I’ve heard we get time with the leftovers, if you know what I mean.” He pushes me against the wall. “I want to hear you screaming in agony while I’m coming inside you,”
I push him away.
“Try it, and I’ll have your balls as a necklace,” I snarl.
He just laughs and pushes me into the sitting room.
“Jerk,” I call back after him.
“Great, I have the rebel, Victoria, and here I was thinking that you might have learned something from the books I gave you.”
Nicholas is sitting in the corner of the room, rubbing his forehead. He looks tired and in his hand is a glass of brandy. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long drink.
“Doesn’t that burn your mouth?” I ask.
“No.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot you’re the devil so it probably seems cold to you.”
“Can we cut the crap? You’re the third woman I’ve spent time with today. Amelia gave me one-word answers to my questions, and Elizabeth spent most of it trying to suck my dick. Just be your natural self and not the argumentative bitch you portray. This is happening whether any of us like it or not, so let’s make the best of it.” He motions to the chair opposite him. “Please sit.”
“You’re not going to rape me?”
He laughs.
“That’s what you thought would happen here?”
“Well, every time I’ve seen you so far, I’ve been manhandled and naked. It doesn’t set a very high
expectation.” I raise an eyebrow at him while taking a seat. He slides me a glass of brandy across the table. I catch it, pick it up, and sniff it.
“It hasn’t got drugs in it.”
I take a little sip and am satisfied that I’m not being plied with Rohypnol.
“You’ll have to forgive me for being skeptical.”
“I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“Am I free to go home then?”
“No.” He takes a drink, and I copy. I lick my lips to take away the residue brandy on them.
“Then, I’m afraid, you're a monster and always will be. Real men don’t need to kidnap and imprison women to choose a bride. They go out on dates, like normal people.” I cross one of my legs over the other. He watches my thighs rub together in the tight fabric of the skinny jeans that I’m wearing.
“Which is why I asked you here.”
“You think this counts as a date?” I snort a contemptuous laugh.
“It’s the best I can offer. This isn’t prescribed in the governing document. It’s something I want to do, though.”
“Impress us with your witty repertoire in the hope that one of us falls in love with your good looks and humor and agrees to marry you. I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not unless they’re as insane as every man in this place.”
He sits forward in his chair and brushes his hand through his hair. It's longer on the top than at the sides and ruffles down to leave him with a sexy bed head.
“You know, I thought the bravado was all an act, but I’m beginning to see that you really are a bitch.”
“I’m not a bitch. The situation has just made me a little angry,” I interrupt and get to my feet ready to storm away.
“No, you’re a spoiled little rich girl. I bet Daddy has always given you what you wanted all your life?” He gets to his feet and grabs my arm and turns me around to face him. I try to pull away, but he holds my arm tightly. “At least you’ve had twenty-one years of a normal life. I’ve known about having to force a woman to marry me almost since I was born. It was the first thing I learned, pretty much, before I could even talk. That kind of messes with a kid’s head, knowing his life is mapped out for him, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”
I try to pull away again but can feel his strong grip tighten and dig into my slender arm.
“You think my life has been normal? It’s been far from it. Maybe knowing about my future would have made my childhood more understandable,” I respond and give up struggling. I lean further into him, so our faces are inches away from each other. I am so angry. “My childhood was spent in the company of a governess. I watched my brother and my only friend, a maid’s daughter, go off to school and come home talking about all the friends they made. They would go to parties, the park, concerts. Every single time I asked to go, I was told ‘no’. If I left the house, it was under my father’s supervision. I dreamed of going to university, of getting away, having a life, and learning more about art. But my father’s answer was always the same - that I didn’t need to work, so what would be the point in me learning things like that? I spent day after day alone. I had no idea why, until I was brought here. You think that’s a normal life? Then, you’re a bigger fool than you look. You may have known you would become a monster, but I had no idea I would become your victim.”
He winces at my words. He lets me go and stumbles back into his chair. I should run away while I can, but my feet won’t take me. Instead, I stay still, my chest heaving as I try to calm myself, after my fiery explosion.
“I went to university and studied Art. It was fun. What would your specialty have been?”
“My what?” My voice is quiet now.
“What would you have focused on? Fine arts? History of Art? Digital Arts?”
“History.”
“I did digital. Art on computers. Why history?”
I look back at the chair, and he nods for me to sit.
“I like learning about paintings, the history behind them, and the artist who painted them. I like learning why they made certain strokes the way they did, and what it reflects about them in the painting.”
“I’ve seen you looking at all the paintings around the house.” He relaxes back into his chair and crosses his left ankle over his right leg. I sit forward in mine. I’m still anxious being here and want to be ready to run, should I need to.
“You have some good examples. Do they come from the Duke’s work with the London galleries?”
“He’s well connected when it comes to purchasing artwork. It helps him get the ones he wants.”
I laugh — it’s a sweet and genuine chuckle, which catches me by surprise. I’ve no idea where the sound comes from.
“What?” he asks curiously. He is intrigued to know what has triggered me to let my guard down around him.
“I was just thinking. I hope that those contacts didn’t advise him to spend a lot of money on Van Gogh’s Poppies. I doubt that’s the original since it was stolen eight years ago in Egypt.”
It’s his turn to laugh, this time. I feel as though it's a private joke he’s not ready to share with me.
“I don't know the price my father paid. It would serve him right if he had indeed been tricked. He’s too pretentious when it comes to art. He likes the finest and will often overlook pieces by more modern artists.”
“Modern artists are just as good as the Old Masters, in my mind. Is that why you chose digital to specialize in?” I’m slightly scared of the accord we have formed. I know my facts when it comes to art. For someone with no formal qualifications, I’m well read. Discussing masterpieces with someone is enjoyable.
“I learned a lot about fine arts and history from my father. I guess choosing digital art was my way of fighting against what he expected.”
“You and your father seem to do that a lot.”
“Can we get off the conversation of my father, please. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” He shuts down the conversation with no room for me to continue it, in any way.
“Sorry.” I pick up my glass and drink the last mouthful of brandy. He holds the bottle up to offer more.
“No, thank you. My father never allowed me to drink a lot. It’s probably best I don’t have too much.”
“Did your father allow you to do anything?” he enquires with genuine interest.
“Not really. I had my friend, Tamara, my maid’s daughter. I was allowed out once to a restaurant with her. But I had to have a bodyguard with me, and even then, my father called us home before dessert when he found out that several male friends of Tamara’s had arrived at the place we were eating.” I pause and go silent. I’m trying to find a good memory of my father. Currently, they’re all tainted with the hate I now feel toward him. “He once allowed me to go to an art sale. He brought a Van Gogh picture there. It was a wonderful experience, even if I did almost go into shock when he offered twenty million for the picture.”
“Twenty million? That’s a lot.”
“Yes, you would think that he’d have it locked away never to see the light of day, but he displays in our dining room, sometimes.” I laugh again, and he smiles at me. The conversation we’re having is natural and not strained, but I still feel nervous because of the situation I’m in.
“I’ll have all your art books returned, so you can read more about the history of paintings.”
My good mood is sullied. He's just reminded me that I’m a slave here. I can do nothing that he, himself, doesn’t allow. I sit a little more upright in my chair, and my manicured nails grip the seat.
“I’m to be here a long time, then?”
“A while longer.”
“And then?”
“Depends on my choice.”
“So my fate, my life, rests in your hands?” I purse my lips together, and I can feel the anger rising in me again.
“It does.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t get it. You tell me you don’t want to marry, but y
et you continue with this,” ‒I hold my hands out‒ “whatever it is. Put a stop to it. Let us go.”
He sighs heavily.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's my fate, just as it’s yours. It’s my birthright, nothing will ever change that. Please, Victoria, just accept what’s happening, and it’ll all be much easier for you.” He gets to his feet while speaking and holds his hand out to me. I look down at his hand as though it’s severely infected with all manner of diseases. He actually expected me just to accept this.
“I see it, now. You’re a coward. That’s why you go along with this. You may be resigned to the legacy of your succession.” ‒I get to my feet and push past him with surprising strength and head to the door‒ “I never will be, though. You and your father have started a war. One you won’t win.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NICHOLAS
I shake the three-quarters empty decanter of brandy. I think I should stop drinking. Since Victoria left me alone with her stinging words, I’ve drunk another three glasses. I’m not inebriated, but I’m on the way. I need to keep my wits about me while my father’s on his mission to have me married off and not in a way I care to.
It is getting late. I get to my feet and stretch my legs out. I must’ve been seated in the same chair for a couple of hours. I’m an energetic person, most of the time. I love to go to the gym, swim, play tennis, horse ride, and drive cars really fast. Sitting down reflecting on life isn’t something that I do all that often, but I’m feeling lethargic and have no desire to exercise. Maybe reading for a bit will quieten my mind and send me to sleep. I stumble in the dark to the library. The great-grandfather clock strikes eleven at night. Damn, I really was sitting there for a long time. I run a finger over the shelves searching for something that captures my attention enough to read. Nothing. Most of these books I’ve read, at some point in time — the remainder are just too old and boring. I turn around to look at the other side of the room, and my gaze goes instantly to the antique chest of drawers that sits proudly by the heavily carved door at the entrance to the room. My chest tightens — I know it's time as I take slow steps closer, toward the unit. I pull open the drawer, containing my mother’s diary, which she wrote after she was brought to Oakfield Hall for the first time. My father’s arrogant enough to just leave it lying around. The information it contains, I’ve been told, is potentially destructive. But then, I’m sure my father would just claim madness as the reason for my mother’s words. I pull the diary out and stroke the embroidered cover. It's covered in the most elegant silk and etched with a monochrome of her name, Katherine. I was five when she died. She was only a year older than I am now. I barely even remember her. I open the cover and turn to the first page.
