Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Chapter 71: Ch. 71: The Ugly Side of Arranged Marriages

My mouth hurts like a bitch as we constantly move further and further away from the imperial palace. I’ve been, for lack of a better term, sitting on my ass the entire time I’ve been in this world. The last time I properly ran was in my last life when I was trying to beat the line to the delicious taco food truck that came to our university campus every Wednesday. Not to mention, I’m a tiny kid probably stuck in the single-digit percentile for both height and weight so I’m covering very little ground with each step.

Bile and saliva mix with the blood, creating a disgusting iron and sour flavor in my mouth that I discreetly spit out when we pause for a break in a discreet alleyway tucked between two oppressive mansions that house individuals I probably saw at the Spring Ball. Emma looks ready to go, her head swiveling left and right as she keeps an eye out for private guards, while I stagger weakly on my last legs, ready to melt into a pool of jelly. After she politely waits for me to take a generous swig from the simple leather canisters of water we brought, her bouncing feet are ready to take off once more.

“Hold on! Wait! Time out!” I cry out, heavy breaths breaking up each word.

I know she’s been secretly spying on the royal guard and training herself in swordsmanship but they must be prepping for the Olympics with the way there isn’t even a hair out of place or a hint of redness on her cheeks. My face is burning hot and I’m certain a splotchy mess courtesy of this cardio and the sun.

“Our odds of getting caught remain high if we don’t get somewhere safe, your highness,” Emma countered, picking up my cloth satchel from the ground and slinging it over my shoulder. I look at her dark eyes, suddenly feeling as if I’m witnessing the spirit of my high school PE teacher inside her.

Mr. Church, is that you in there, reincarnated just like me?

It doesn’t help when the sun crawls higher and higher into the sky, setting an uncomfortable, oppressive heat for us as we move as quickly as we can on foot. Between the imperial palace and the common areas ordinary civilians frequent, there are several streets with heightened security, before evolving into higher-end, quiet neighborhoods with streets you could eat a meal off of and solemn mansions the upper class dwell in.

.....

I may live in the imperial palace, but the trappings of wealth still elude me as they did in my past life. I felt uncomfortable in the alley, knowing the ignoramus living in the home beside me, eating luxury meals of plates of fine china and complaining about not having enough gold tickets to buy the dress they want for the social season, instead of running for their lives. Yet if I had reincarnated into one of them, would I be as critical as I am now?

The excitement of escaping from the palace is quick to leave in the midst of pain, disappointment, and painful reality checking. The two of us around lunchtime make a pitstop at Arabella’s, the luxury boutique’s mauve awnings a welcome sight. The twinge in my boot-covered feet with each step makes me miss stealing a ride in Julian’s carriage to East Bend rather than making all those miles by foot.

“Is it just me, or does it look abandoned in there?” I ask cautiously, leaning close to the window displaying an exquisite chartreuse evening gown. Within the store, instead of the two assistants bustling around like usual, the luxury clothing store appears to be closed.

“We didn’t get the hours wrong, did we?” I lean back in confusion, mopping sweat off my forehead as I meander around the storefront as inconspicuously as possible.

“We have the correct time, your highness,” Emma replies, tapping on the windows.

“Shh!” I exclaim with a finger to my lips.

But suddenly we can spy movement from within the store, a shadowy figure moving towards the clear glass and pine wood french doors to stare at us before the familiar click of an unlocked door sounded. One of the assistants, a pretty, dark-haired girl whose hair was neatly coiffed and nails were clean leaned outside.

“She said you would come. Pandora?” Her demeanor is unfriendly and she cocks an eyebrow at our strange appearance.

“Um... yes. That is us,” I say hastily, taking the lead as we step inside to a thankfully cool interior. She is kind enough to offer us a glass of water, one that is much warmer than the crude thermoses we are carrying and we both chug it down gratefully.

“So where is Lady Arabella?” I ask. “As a representative for her investor, I find it rather odd that she isn’t in at the moment.”

“Yes, that is why I’ve been here waiting for you,” the assistant said. The showroom of the store was empty of its usual display and she leaned back casually against a wall with a sigh.

“Lady Arabella’s gone to be married.”

“Married?” I almost yell before I can help myself. Arabella couldn’t be more than 20 the last time I saw her, which in my world, would be quite young to tie the knot. But I adjust my expression quickly, resorting to shaking my head on the inside. I recall the empress’ machinations in tying Lady Arabella and Sir Berrick together to strengthen her faction’s power in the army thanks to Lady Arabella’s late war hero father, and my heart falls at Arabella’s plight.

“Yep. The guy’s a real prick and wanted to get it done in a quick ceremony at the Holy Church. From the way her last letter went, she must be wed by now,” the assistant answers, her mouth pressed in an unhappy line.

A fierce banging rings across the front door and I almost bang my head on the ceiling with the height that I jumped. Emma and I are on edge, her hand skirting the hidden pocket in her skirt with a dagger. If it’s the imperial palace guards that Katya has sent after me, I won’t return without a fight.

“Wait!” I hiss to the assistant as she trots over to the door. But she opens it before my words are heeded, throwing back a confused expression towards me as Lady Arabella tumbles in. A plain coach, not at all fit for a noble family, looms near the entrance and quickly rides away after she enters.

Her arms wrap around her assistant and a painful wail comes from the young woman. Her clothes are drab and not that of a young, newly married madam. The dull gray walking set, a proper structured jacket paired with a full hoop skirt, appears like something that would suit the fancy of my stern former governess as opposed to a bright youth. Her bonnet, the same steely gray, tumbles from her head in the fervent embrace, revealing a splotchy red face from excessive tears. Her under eyes are so dark it looks like someone wiped soot across them, and they stand out even more due to the weak pallor of her once tan skin.

“Lady Arabella, how do you do?” I ask to be polite, although even a blind man would be able to tell that Lady Arabella, now formally Lady Berrick, is very much not doing well.

“I can’t go back there! Holy Akira, that place is hell!” she sobs, her tears falling continuously like a waterfall.

The concerned assistant guides Lady Arabella to a chair, giving her the same glass of cool water as Arabella’s hysterics slowly diminish.

“There’s to be a war,” Arabella states matter of factly between hiccups, drawing a gasp from the assistant. Although Emma and I already knew, we make a bit of show, covering our mouths and staring at one another in disbelief.

“That man, that – hic! – that animal!” Arabella shivers plainly as if even in the dark-colored long sleeve jacket on a summer’s day, she is still cold. His eyes when he looks at me every night. If it weren’t for the fact that he was called to the frontier in Belhelm – hic! – this very morning, why I fear...,” her hands shake around her glass of cold water and the assistant removes it from her hand and sets it on a tea table nearby. A sliver of bruise flesh peeps out between her glove and sleeve, making me feel nauseous.

Visions of what my mother had endured at the hands of bad boyfriends flash through my mind and despite my abject fear of the mountainous Sir Berrick, I desperately wish I could plant a fist in his demonic face. Abuse. An ugly five-letter word. It seems that for some, this war could be a blessing.

“The things he did... I never thought marriage would be this way. I will just stay in this shop and never leave! He will have to pry me out of here whenever he comes back!” Arabella exclaims emphatically, wiping her face off messily with a handkerchief embroidered with a horse.

Spying the animal, I suddenly leaned in closer, curious if it was the famous Percheron horse of the Mulworth Duchy, Duchess Taylor’s emblem. But my lean-in was caught by the assistant, who was already suspicious of us prior.

“Hmph. Since you can see that Lady Berrick is indisposed at the moment, do return at a later date,” she orders us, her body in front of the former Lady Arabella Westmont protectively.

At her new title of Lady Berrick, Lady Arabella blanched.

“Just call me Lady Arabella! Not Lady Berrick, the name of my beastly husband. And most definitely not Lady Westmont, that cursed family name that caused all this,” she fusses, fresh tears spilling over again.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What can I say? This isn’t my last life, where it was easy to up and move if you don’t like your partner. As far as I know, a marriage sanctioned by the empress is unbreakable unless you approach the empress to dissolve it.

Emma tugs at my hand bringing me back to the present.

“Then please excuse us, Lady Arabella,” I say softly, tactfully calling her by her first name, rather unusual in a culture that addresses women by their maiden names or married names.

Perhaps sorry to kick two little kids out, Lady Arabella’s gaze soften, her red-tinged hazel eyes focusing on us.

“Tell Pandora that I’ll work in the shop as much as I can now that my husband is gone to the battlefront. And I’ll try to set up a way to send in my designs so they’re still made even when I’m... at my husband’s residence,” she ends her statement bitterly, her fingers wrapping fiercely around the handkerchief in her hand as if it’s Sir Berrick’s neck.

I shake my head. “No, don’t worry about the contract and the shop. Just... take all the time you need, milady,” I reply awkwardly but firmly. I see shades of my mother, Dolores, in her and I wished that my mom wouldn’t have had to worry about supporting us financially despite the struggles we faced at home.

We leave in a far more somber mood than we were when we came in, my spirits only slightly lifting as we exit the lavish neighborhoods in exchange for the constant flit and hum of busy city streets. Today reaffirms my desire for my own power because deep down, I know that Young Lord Wolfe was right.

I do need to power to change my fate and fight for my unsteady future. But watching Lady Arabella sob over the shambles of her destroyed life and not being able to give any false comfort, I realize that I also need the power to help change other people’s fate’s for the better.

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