Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  “Not sure if that will ever happen, unfortunately,” Paul says. “A pretty girl like you who also is a Hartson will always invoke some kind of jealousy.”

  Though I nod, I feel slight unease from Paul complimenting me. I try to take it as a compliment and nothing else. But a part of me is wondering if there's some ulterior motive to it. Something to be cautious of. “That's kind of you to say.”

  “No problem. It's only the truth.” Paul then grimaces slightly. “It's always a little worrying. The brothers did grow up very much hating Hartsons. We all do. I have heard of some of the things they say. What they want to happen to them. It's a miracle that we can all get on now, of course. A beautiful miracle.”

  The unease digs deeper, but I don't comment.

  “So when something like the feast happens, it does confirm a lot of people's expectations. That they haven't really changed their stances, even in spite of recent developments.”

  I can barely focus on my game at this point. Desmond's not here. He ran away, so it's easy to see things differently. To know he doesn't like me, but maybe he doesn't mind fucking me. A hole's a hole, right? And of course. They must have boasted of going on raids against my people. Celebrated their deaths in style, while others weep and wail. They must have – I clench my teeth, trying to halt the spiral of my thoughts. I can't let them get to me.

  I can't let reality get to me.

  Desmond doesn't come back all day. I walk through the house, feeling like a bird stuck in a cage. A younger servant, probably a preteen boy, yells “Slut!” at me before running off, giggling with his friends. Great. They're really going out of their way like this, aren't they?

  It's worse when I accidentally eavesdrop on a conversation as I'm passing back to my quarters, where I hear Ethel quite cleanly state, “We'll be safe with what we do. The whore's not going to go running to the Graves just because her desk wasn't cleaned or someone said something suggestive. Just don't hurt her.”

  My blood boils upon hearing this. I can't believe the audacity of her. What's even worse is that she's right. I'm not about to start a war because of their pathetic attitudes. But to think they're deliberately taking advantage of that disgusts me down to the soul. That's what they're going to do, isn't it? Just test and push me to see how much they can get away with. Skirting nearer and nearer to the line without ever crossing it.

  How dare they take advantage of my sacrifice. How dare they treat my misery like a game. Though I'm tempted just to burst into the room, I know it will solve nothing. They will simply bluff and look innocent, and gaslight until I doubt my own mind and what I heard.

  I stalk past them, and no one pops out to check who it is. My mood continues to simmer. I now know for certain that it isn't just ignorance. It's willful ignorance. A delight in pushing me, playing with fire, using the excuse that I'm a Hartson, somehow not thinking me human enough to do anything about their games.

  The anger stays with me long after night-time falls, and I sleep in the bed alone. The next day isn't much better, though Paul is again there, affable and helpful. He even shows me to the stables, where parts of his duties involve picking out the mud from their hooves and replacing the iron plate, grooming them and making sure their saddles are properly affixed. The dozen or so horses in the stables look magnificent, reminding me of my father's own prized beasts. They likely get better care and food than some of the lowlier peasants that scrape together their resources for survival.

  “It always relaxes me to come here. The horses don't care about the nonsense going on in the house,” Paul says, giving me a wide smile. I'm uncomfortable with some of the judgment being flung our way from other servants, and can almost hear the whispers – that I'm probably fucking the stable boy. They won't believe me if I say this isn't true. Even though it's not, and all I want is just people to be damn well nice to me for once.

  Besides, Paul doesn't have much compared to what I've seen of Desmond. There's an intensity to Desmond that draws me to him. There's a promise between us that we'll go further than anyone else. Even though our first time fell rather short of expectations, as both of us were just too sloppy drunk to do anything meaningful, I know the real experience will be different.

  I think, if we dare to let ourselves go, we could drown in passion. It both terrifies and excites at the same time.

  “You know, I've had to attend many lords as they mount their horses,” Paul says, carefully brushing down the white mane of a horse he calls Grazer. “I get to hear things from Rayse, Desmond and their friends a lot. Rayse obviously hates you, but I'm sure that comes as no surprise.”

  “None at all,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “If looks could kill, I'd be dead several hundred times over.”

  Paul chuckles at that, before clearing his throat, stopping his brushing of Grazer's white mane. “I've also heard things about what Desmond says to all his friends. He usually meets up with three of them in total.”

  “Yeah, I know of them,” I say, again feeling slight unease. “What about it?”

  “Well, they think he's wasting his time with you, and also think he should seek to get a second wife if he truly wants to be happy. After all, no one expects your union to actually work. And Desmond, well... I get the impression he's not opposed to it. Though he is tactful enough not to state it out loud.”

  My senses swim. That does sound like something to happen. Desmond clearly isn't sexually satisfied because we're not actually doing anything. I'm also aware not all his friends are quite as affable as Bobby. My position was always precarious.

  He's probably out with those friends now, who will continue to talk shit about me until the cows come home.

  It's that same attitude that causes me to stubbornly listen to Paul and try and learn a little more about the farrier side of horse husbandry. I only ever learned to saddle and ride them, and brush down their coats. Not anything else. He's happy to show me. Just as we're both laughing at some stupid joke about chickens crossing roads, a rider clutters into the stable, getting off their horse rather stiffly.

  Desmond. I sober enough from my excitement to nod at my husband. He doesn't nod back, but instead looks between me and Paul. As if I'm doing something wrong. So I stand there, staring into his dark eyes, defiant. His hair is tousled from the wind, curlier than usual. His lean strength is as attractive as ever, but his face is cold.

  “I don't want you talking to the stable boy,” he finally says, and I glare at him.

  “The stable boy is being nice to me. And I'd like to have some people be able to talk to me without a permanent sneer upon their face.”

  “You realize how bad this looks?” Desmond hisses. “People will see you two together, and they'll assume –”

  “Let them,” I say. “They're never going to think anything good about me anyway.

  “You shouldn't let them. It reflects badly upon us. It makes us look as though our marriage is t –” He stops himself just in time, because Paul is listening, interested, and one servant has stopped in their walking, mouth hanging open.

  But our marriage is troubled, I think. It's been trouble for a while. And it probably always will be trouble.

  “Let's continue the discussion inside,” I say, mouthing a sorry to Paul, who simply nods as we walk off.

  “I have to report to my father, first. Wait for me in our quarters. I'll be with you.”

  “Sure you're not going to just run off again?” I say snidely, and Desmond sighs, less than amused by my words.

  “I won't run off. And I didn't run off before. I left you a note.”

  “How nice. A note. Yes, that made me feel so much better,” I snap, before turning my back on him, and retreating to my rooms. I'm doing as he asks, but I'm angry all the same. The walls feel more like a prison than usual. And here I am, the trophy wife, here to wait for my husband to return from the important meeting I'm not allowed to listen to. Probably in case I report any of it back to my parents. Can't have me passing on Claymore secrets. Though I
do know a few things they would be less than pleased for me to reveal. Like their still in the works alliance with the Tielmans. Their troubles with the Bonecleavers at the borders. Knowledge that the other clans living with the Claymores care less for the conflict.

  I wait about an hour, slumped out on the opulent bed. Ethel bustles into the suite at one point, not even bothering to look at me as she scurries into the wardrobe and plucks out some clothes. She takes a little longer than necessary, and I'm sure she's looking for my Hartson colors. She doesn't find them, though, because I don't trust her intents at all. “Master Desmond has asked me to provide for you some better clothes,” she says, when I finally ask her what she's doing. “He has made it come to our attention that your own ones are limited.”

  “Given the fact that I had to borrow his mother's clothes for the banquet, you might be right about that,” I retort. Wondering how she might use this new incident to continue her pathetic, passive-aggressive game. “I would appreciate it if I would wear clothes fit for a wife, rather than borrow from someone else's.”

  Ethel's lips tighten, and I see it in her face. She's outraged that I spoke back. That I dared speak back. Even though I outrank her, she clearly doesn't think I do.

  “You will be sure to have outfits given to suit your position,” she says, and I can't help but think that's not the most reassuring thing I've heard. “I do hope everything is alright between you and master Desmond, though? There have been some comments among the servants, as I'm sure you're aware of. Ever since the feast, we've been worried that things between you two are not as idyllic as they could be.”

  Worried, was she? Oh yes. She looks incredibly worried. “No thanks to your efforts,” I say, and she halts, eyes bulging slightly. “Or did you think I wouldn't notice how you're trying to encourage the staff to find ways to slight me?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” she says. “We live to serve this house.”

  “Maybe you think you're really smart. Maybe you think that there's no way I'd want to risk all of us on a report to the Graves if it's only small infractions,” I say, gratified to see her sudden look of alarm. I can almost imagine her mind wondering just how I knew. Though I think it would be blatant to anyone.

  Her pupils contract. “Such wild and outlandish accusations.” She's rattled, but trying to hide it. “The servants are good, faithful people. And all have suffered under the hands of the Hartsons.” She bows before me and leaves the room, clutching my dresses, including her mistress's ones. I wouldn't be surprised if she was ordered to retrieve them by the lady of the house, in all honesty. Wouldn't let me hang onto those for too long, after all.

  A few moments later, Desmond comes into the room, tugging at his formal shirt, which seems bathed with sweat. Possibly he's not had the best day, but I refuse to feel sorry for him. He glances at me, and his expression furrows further. “Well, what do you want to nag about?”

  Nag. “What, you don't think I have a good reason to be the way I am right now?”

  “I don't have the patience for it,” he says. “It's been a long, tiring, ugly couple of days. I'd like to be able to come back to peace and quiet.”

  My anger reaches near boiling point, and it's all I can do not to scream at him. “Yeah, that's fair, but you realize that if all you want me to do is shut up and be nice, you should buy a stuffed animal instead or something. Because my feelings don't stop the moment you walk through the door, Desmond.”

  His expression loses some of its hard edge, but his voice remains caustic. “Some would say it's the duty of a wife to wait on her husband. To provide a safe, warm home, a smile, food, and a sympathetic ear to him.”

  “That can still be the case,” I say. “But I'm not about to turn a blind eye to problems, or pretend everything is okay when it's not. You never talked to me about the feast.”

  He lets out a grunt. “We did.”

  “Really? Is there some kind of imaginary conversation that happened where we did? Or do I not remember you promising to tell me in the morning, and then disappearing for two days?”

  Desmond closes his eyes, lets out a frustrated sigh, and slumps down on the sofa. “Fine. Say whatever you want to say.”

  No. He doesn't get to make me feel bad with that sighing. I can think of a million things I want to complain about. They all bubble to my throat, ready to unleash, before the anger peters out of me. “Do you really think that I'm an easy slut?”

  Whatever Desmond was expecting, it wasn't that. He appears less tired, less frustrated as he regards me now. “I don't think that,” he says.

  “Then why did you imply it at the feast? In front of everyone else?”

  He nods to himself, before saying, “I'll tell you the truth of it. Not that it lessens... what I have said, but I hope it'll ease your mind a little.”

  I nod patiently, wondering if he's going to come up with a string of excuses, or something actually heartfelt. I don't think he's a bad person. But we've not really tested our relationship in the traditional ways, either. Possibly because we're not exactly traditional.

  “I drank too much, for a start,” he says. “Wasn't watching my own drink. Bobby was warning me, but I ignored him. I didn't want to be there at the feast. I didn't want to sit there and endure my brother's snide whispering for hours, knowing he's trying to turn everyone against us. Knowing he was feeding that Barrowman his lies.”

  I start at this. I had, honestly, completely forgotten the earlier part of the feast. I did see Rayse over at the Tielman side of the table. I had noticed him glancing over to us as well, but I just assumed it to be typical shitty Rayse problems.

  But of course that would affect Desmond as well. Plus, well, the typical Rayse problems spilled over into that shouting match, so my thinking was rather justified at the time.

  “I was angry at him, always trying to undermine us. Angry that the servants weren't giving you clothes, that though you should be my equal, people treat you less as such. Also – I was still feeling – uh – affected by our dealings before we were interrupted.” He rubs the back of his head, and I flush, knowing exactly what he's talking about. “So I said what I said. Thinking you'd want to leave as well. But you didn't – and I was stupid.” He punches the sofa, now looking at the floor. “My father was right to be angry with me.”

  I'm astonished, frankly, at his honesty, but I appreciate it at the same time. This was what I needed to hear. Just when I thought that maybe we couldn't ever get past this part of our relationship – then he comes out with this.

  “Okay, now I feel less mad at you.” Though I needed to let go of my own anger, too.

  “You do?” He stares at me for a moment, probably unsure of where I'm going with this.

  “Yeah.” I sigh myself, joining him on the sofa. Though there's a small prickle of excitement, it's not quite enough to shift me out of my mood. “I really wanted to be mad at you. Mostly I'm just mad at myself. How useless I feel, how I have to prepare for people disliking me.”

  “Just deal with it and get over it,” Desmond says. “People are always going to dislike you. You're a Hartson.” However, the way he says my surname no longer slips out as a curse. I pay attention to this, one eyebrow raised. “Those wounds don't heal in a second.”

  “I know. It'll be the same back home. If there was a Claymore woman who had to marry a Hartson, I'm sure we'd all treat her horribly.” I'd like to think we were more enlightened and therefore more likely to be kinder, but there's a lot of unhealed wounds our side, too. Too many pointing fingers, with no one quite sure how everything started.

  “I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to talk before,” he then says, his voice gravelly, sounding truly apologetic. “Honestly I just didn't want to deal with you going off at me so soon after my father did.”

  While I can understand that, it is annoying all the same. Still, I suppose what he did was similar to licking his own wounds, staying away from everything until he felt better enough to deal and process
again.

  “I want you to be careful of Paul,” he says, which causes a spike of annoyance. “I understand that you need friends, and that if someone's nice to you, of course that's great and all – but just be careful. His intentions may not be exactly noble.”

  “Why wouldn't they be?” I ask.

  He looks uncomfortable now, but plows on with: “Frankly, I'm worried he might be a plant by my brother. Because ever since you started meeting up with Paul, there's been a steady increase in mutterings about your, uh, easiness to be with men. People think you're being unfaithful to me.”

  I bristle at that, though it's nothing to be angry at Desmond for. He has a point. And given what's happened, he has a right to be suspicious. It's just... I really hope he's wrong. Because I like Paul.

  He won't hold a candle to Desmond, however. “If you're worried about me finding him more interesting, don't be,” I say, shuffling my position. Desmond adjusts, staring at me in a sudden, predatory alertness. “Because I find you way more interesting.” My eyes trail over his body, as I now identify the mood within me I couldn't explain.

  Arousal. Desire and fascination. A curiosity to take off those clothes and expose the body beneath. My mind thirsts for it, twisted into a lightning rod of desire, and I consider seriously reaching across the distance to take him, to finally give into those base desires that burn under my skin.

  He ruins the moment, however, by getting up from the sofa, frowning. “I'm sorry, but I do have to go.”

  Oh, for fuck's sake, I think. What I say instead is, “How come?”

  “My father's throwing a tantrum. The Tielmans are unwilling to ally with us so openly if it's clear that the union between us is tainted. They don't want to be included on the Graves' annihilation list. So I have to attend these diplomatic meetings and assure them that nothing like that will happen. I'll need to trot you out as well at some point.” He sighs. “I know you don't want to hear that, but I really do need to attend to it.”

  “It's fine. I get it. But why can't I come with you?”