Ch. 60: Arranged Marriage
I look intently over the letter in my hand, ensuring there are no mistakes in the message:
Lady Westmont,
I’m glad to see that your sales are improving.
Perhaps consider marketing to even more exclusive clientele – nobles?
Spend less on ads, go by word of mouth.
Introduce private consultations for important parties.
Consider buying more exclusive fabrics.
Do continue to hold onto our monthly 20% until I am able to collect.
.....
-Pandora
The scrawl is a little messy as I am still mastering the art of writing with my left hand, but legible.
“Your highness, shall I place the letter upon the windowsill?” Emma asks as I fold the letter neatly and place it in its envelope.
“That would be very helpful,” I say with a smile, as the ledge of the window is too tall for me to reach even upon the tips of my toes.
We stand in the narrow gap between Arabella’s and another famous store in East Bend. There is a marked difference between the East Bend and our other upper-class haunts where we sell flowers. It is quieter, despite the beautiful day. Patrons do not stroll along the streets, instead discreetly exiting expensive carriages to enter salons and exclusive shops. This is where nobles come to play, the streets still shining from the dedicated nighttime cleaners who upkeep the luxurious neighborhood.
With our funding, Lady Westmont, the crying Arabella from the Spring Ball two years ago, has managed to open her clothing atelier in East Bend, a prominent and famous fixture in the webnovel by the time Clara transmigrates into the story. The building is cream-colored, with white trimmings and a striped awning. In the short time we have lingered, not a soul has entered the store, but the numbers she provides us each month let me know that her dresses have been selling well. I know that Lady Westmont will eventually figure out how to run her business perfectly, but I see little harm in providing her some modern marketing advice to bring her earlier success.
Emma grunts as she reaches up and places my letter upon the window sill, as we have done for the past several months on the first day of each month. I crouch, my small frame growing even smaller, and watch patiently.
“Is there a response letter?” I ask the struggling maid. My rough skirts pool on the ground beneath me, but it is of little matter as this is East Bend. My clothes are more likely the dirty the ground than the ground is likely to dirty me.
Emma turns to look at me, slightly puzzled.
“No, your highness,” she replies, patting the ledge once more for good measure. I frown slightly, my chipper mood at the improving weather slowly melting away like an ice cream cone under the hot sun.
“How peculiar,” I mutter to myself, standing up straight. I know that I’m in a precarious position. After providing Arabella’s with a lump sum to open her business, I have only asked for 20% of all the profits she made. However, I am still living within the imperial palace and cannot collect my own money. On the basis of trust, I always ask Lady Westmont to hold onto the money for me for me to collect some day in the distant future. In return, she tallies her profits and tells me how much she has made in a return letter. In this manner, I have managed to make 250 golden tickets from Arabella’s over the past few months, or 2500 gold coins as each ticket is worth 100 gold coins.
But today, there is no return letter.
“Perhaps it’s just late today?” I ponder to myself, biting my lip nervously. Waiting is not a luxury I have. Whenever Julian completes his business at the constable office is when Emma and I must return to the imperial palace.
At this moment, a low keening noise assaults Emma and I’s senses. Emma has a quick reaction time, whipping away from the window and in front of me, her hand settled on her apron pocket threateningly. I know for a fact that there is a dagger in there, but the royal guard stopped training Emma a long time ago. She tells me she learns simply by watching, but unease still fills me as we both freeze for the next minute.
Time ticks on and the sound doesn’t get any louder or quieter. It is clearly coming from the back of the building and pauses every couple of second before it resumes. Emma relaxes her stance, but her hand is still settled on the pocket.
“Shall we go look?” I ask cautiously. First, we don’t find our return letter and then we hear suspicous noises. Only the protagonist in a horror movie would think nothing was wrong with the current situation.
“Why?” someone wails sorrowfully from the same location as the sound. The muffled sound of someone blowing follows and Emma and I regard one another with a look of embarassment as we realize that the keening sound was simply a woman crying.
Strolling around the corner of the building with our baskets, Emma and I happen upon a young woman crying on the steps leading to the backdoor of Arabella’s. She wears a woman’s equivalent to a suit in this era: a full black skirt with a matching short business jacket, followed by a ruffled white blouse beneath. Her dark brown hair is piled atop her head in a prim bun.
“Miss, are you alright?” I ask quietly, falling easily back into my childlike mask.
Her face had been buried in her hands as she cried pitifully, but as she lifts her head it takes all my willpower not to jump. I know for certain that this is Lady Arabella Westmont, the owner of this fine atelier, even though I haven’t laid my eyes on her since that night at the Spring Ball.
Lady Westmont looks up at me, but she doesn’t see me, her eyes blank and spilling enough tears to successfully replace the grand fountain in the middle of Winifred Plaza. I recall how there was no reply letter waiting for us on the window sill easily conclude that something must have occurred that has made this poor girl grief stricken enough to forget to send us a return letter. However, despite being her business partner, I am an anonymous partner she hasn’t met and a child at that. It will be tricky to get an answer from her mouth.
Pursing my lips, I make a quick decision and indicate for Emma to give me a defective lily that we didn’t sell earlier that day.
“For you, my lady. You are too pretty to cry like this,” I say sweetly. At first, it seems like Lady Westmont doesn’t hear me once more but I manage to stubbornly coax the flower into her hand. A few of the white petals are crinkled, yet not only does Lady Westmont not notice, her loud sobbing slowly dies down.
Emma and I give her a moment to gather herself before I pat her hand and look endearingly at her face. “What happened, miss?”
Splotches of red stain her nose and cheeks, but Lady Westmont has a good gene pool as she still looks lovely. She wipes her nose loudly and looks a little embarassed, but speaks to me nonetheless.
“I-I’m,” she starts, her voice still thick with sorrow, “I’m getting married.”
It’s as if there’s been a thunderbolt on a clear day, even the stoic Emma widening her eyes slightly. If Lady Westmont wasn’t so focused on twirling the flower around her fingers, which are covered in slender bandages, she would’ve seen our strangeness.
I clear my throat and continue. “Isn’t getting married a good thing? You can wear a pretty, white dress and ride around on a pony!” I exclaim childishly.
Lady Westmont lets out a slight hiccup sound, one that I latently realize is a chuckle.
“I suppose marriage can be like that, if you know and love your groom,” she replies, her hands suddenly tighten on the stem of the flower, bending it a little bit, but the young woman doesn’t seem to notice.
“You don’t love him?” I ask curiously, dying to know who it is. I know that arranged marriage is common in this world, especially for the wealthy. However, I have always foolishly assumed that because Lady Westmont’s parents are deceased and she has no guardians as she is in her early 20s, it would be of little conflict.
“God, no!” she exclaims, laughing bitterly.
A fresh round of tears fall from her eyes. I pat her back in genuine comfort, finding a strange kinship with this orphaned girl. When I was engaged all those years ago to that douchebag, Jonathan, it was only because I could see myself spending the rest of my life with him. I can’t imagine what it’s like making vows of forever with someone I don’t even know.
I roll up my sleeves and get in a fighting stance. I pat my chest and shout, “Who is it? My friend and I will find him and beat him up!”
Emma, to her credit, follows along with my act and similarly drops into a far more threatening stance than me, her eyes narrowing. But to Lady Westmont, we are just playing children and she has a good laugh at our expense.
“Oh, how quaint,” she says, patting my head. “But you girls wouldn’t stand a chance against a member of the royal guard.”
I cross my arms and allow a doubtful expression to cross my face while eating up the clues Lady Westmont is unknowingly dropping.
“Are you sure about that? All they seem to do anyways is march around in their fancy uniforms anyways.”
Lady Westmont pats me on the head once again. “You’re too cute. But no, he is a rather important member of the royal guard and has numerous accolades and awards under his belt. Not to mention, he’s rather... large.”
Her expression darkens as she continues to talk about her mystery groom. I’ve got an inclinging in my head about who it is, and my stomach turns as I continue to try to coax answers from my unknowing business partner.
“That’s good then! My mommy says that marrying a rich man is the smartest thing a girl can do. You won’t have to work anymore and you’ll be taken good care of,” I tell Lady Westmont in a comforting manner, even though I’m just stoking the coals of rage.
The spark of my words causes a full fledged fire. “Take good care of me? Ha...” Lady Westmont says slowly and dangerously.
I wisely back up as she spryly jumps to her feet.
“Take care of me? I’m no fool. Sir Berrick just wants to marry me so that way he can take advantage of my stupid father’s name and gain the admiration of the army! So who’s really taking care of who?” she yelled angrily at the wall before her.
My heart skips a beat as I recall the large hand that wrapped around my ankle and the bright flash of sunlight that had blinded me when I was tugged ruthlessly out from under the hedge. The flat, lifeless gaze of a towering knight that was permanently burned into my memory. A shiver runs down my spine. Sir Berrick is one person I can go the rest of my life without ever seeing again. Lady Westmont’s reaction now makes perfect sense to me.
I can see that there are a lot of pent up emotions within her, the anger and sadness fighting one another to make itself known. It’s a terrible feeling, to realize your fate is no longer in your hands. A feeling I have been forced to swallow down on the daily for the past two years.
Lady Westmont kicks the wall for good measure as well, her breath heaving from her chest. She doesn’t turn around for a while, just breathing. My gut starts tingling and I have a bad feeling.
“But the real question is,” the young woman asks slowly, not turning from the wall, “Why are you so curious anyways?”
“What?” I ask stupidly. Emma is vigilant and her hand settles on her apron pocket, but I indicate with my hand for her to stand down.
“As I said, I’m not a fool.” Lady Westmont says, spinning from the wall furiously. “So who do you work for, huh? Did someone pay you to come and witness my embarassment? What’s the point?”
The woman is quick and she clenches my arms tightly so I cannot run. Her voice grows shaky as tears fall once more.
“Can’t you people leave me alone? I said I would no longer participate in high society, but you’re so determined to make my life hell! I didn’t ask for this marriage, go and tell your boss that!”
I process the information Lady Westmont is giving me as she shakes the living daylights out of me. I knew Lady Westmont had been bullied by other noble girls for her family being awarded a noble title instead of earning one, but I didn’t know that she had been chased out. And from the way it sounded, she was still being harassed by some of them.
I think back to the poisonous gazes thrown my way in the imperial palace and the deadly gossip I occasionally overheard that could ruin an innocent person’s reputation overnight. High society was a lion’s den, disguised under fine jewels and immense wealth. And the queen of the lions was my dear ‘mother’, Empress Katya.
The pieces all suddenly fit together, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I last saw Sir Berrick at Sunrise Palace, my wonderful sister’s humble abode. Thus, if he is marrying Lady Westmont, there is only one person who can decree that.
“D-Did the empress decree your marriage?” I ask, my brows furrowed and my face serious, a farcry from the childlike act from earlier.
Lady Westmont stops shaking me and regards me suspicously.
“Of course, who else can?” she replies, as if it was incredibly obvious. “Now, answer me. Who- Who are you?”
I look up at Lady Westmont and suddenly grin. “Call me Pandora.”
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