The Reluctant Heiress

Small Rebellions

The bedroom they gave me was hopelessly lovely. It was a Regency daydream in high summer, the buttery sunset streaming in through the window and the gentle breeze whipping up the gauzy curtain liners to dance. Perhaps it would have been better suited to an upscale, albeit old-fashioned, hotel than to a young woman’s boudoir. But it was gorgeous nonetheless. And far bigger than my bedroom back home.

Hell, just the bed alone was bigger than my entire room at home.

It was a luscious four-poster with silken sheets and a pile of pillows a metre high. Meeting every expectation of my wildest imaginings, it was everything I could have ever dreamed of. If it was the kind of thing that I was prone to dreaming about, anyway.

This was home, I tried to remind myself. I lived here now, inside this historical show home. Honestly, I was a little surprised that there weren’t red ropes or ‘do not touch’ signs everywhere.

I dropped my rucksack in the middle of the floor as soon as my guide shut the door behind me, stooping to admire the filigree moulding around the massive fireplace. Straight across from the foot of the bed, it was a wide thing and just as elegant as everything else in the room. It was filled with real-life logs, pine-fresh and waiting for winter.

That the carpet was so perilously cream next to the hearth, I wondered if they ever lit it.

It was too much, too…everything. My eyes were overwhelmed for the second time, bouncing off the bed, the floral wallpaper, the curtains, the wingback chairs that sat before the fire. I didn’t know where to settle, off-kilter and unsure in the orange haze of approaching evening.

Surely, I was dreaming… And all of this was a polished, stunning nightmare that my subconscious had summoned to make me grateful for everything I had, everything I would have if I worked hard enough for it. To show me that everything could be worse.

A quick pinch to the forearm robbed me of that comfort.

 Eventually, the overstimulation ebbed and I stepped further into the room, my gaze finally settling on the one dark spot. A smart navy dress draped across the bed, not a single wrinkle in sight. Below the hem a pair of black heels sat on the carpet, their slim stalk making my heart patter in fear for my ankles. Or my neck.

If they didn’t so obviously need me for my eggs, I’d have thought they were trying to kill me.

I muttered as much to myself, reaching for the white tag sticking out of the dress’ modest neckline.

What the— My eyes nearly fell out of my head at the sight of the small, embossed numbers in the corner. It was easily more than a year’s salary…not that my wages had been much really, but still…

I stiffened, tag still in hand.

But I didn’t have a job anymore, did I? Or school. Would they send me to school? s**t- how was I going to tell my boss I wouldn’t be in for my shift on Saturday? And what about my exams? Would I be allowed to take them?

All that studying…

Oh, god. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t have a mobile to call anyone either, not that my father would have allowed me to keep it.

Face falling into my hands, I slumped into one of the armchairs. Stupid, stupid. Stupid. How had I allowed this to happen?

I’d never owned a mobile, never wanted one either. It would have made it too easy for Johnathon or my mother to keep tabs on me or call me home. Not that I went anywhere, just the library, the coffee shop or Jac— The boys had a piece of paper with the landline for the few places I went, in case of emergency.

It was embarrassing how short-sighted I had been. Here I was, completely isolated with no one to blame but myself. All because I’d wanted to keep a sliver of freedom…

Pushing myself out of the chair, I went to the dress that was laid out for me. I thumbed its edges, taking note of the beautifully neat stitching and felt tears well up in my eyes. First my family and my life – pathetic though my father thought both – then my future and my name.

I clutched the dress to my chest. And now they wanted my dignity too.

Was I just some doll to be dressed up and paraded around for suitors? So that I might provide a proper, appropriate, suitable heir. Perhaps I was to have no joy in this scant existence than the pleasure of marrying some snobbish, hook-nosed tomcat and popping out his brats.

The seamed wailed as they were torn asunder by my fury.

Fuck them. I wasn’t wearing that dress. Not for even a second. They couldn’t make me. Oh, they could turn up their noses and make their snide little comments but I wasn’t going to let them turn me into a placid marionette. No one but me pulled my strings. I was a free-thinking, determined person…and I wasn’t going down without a fight. Even if that fight boiled down to a few snarky comments, small rebellions that they probably wouldn’t notice, or making them wait for their precious heir. They could take everything from me…but they wouldn’t take who I was.

With a laugh I threw the dress in the wastebasket; it wasn’t any good to anyone now. Should I go down to dinner in my clothes? No, too obvious with the nebulous threats hanging over my head. No doubt my father was happily cut my brother off without remorse. I’d seen the smile he’d worn when he’d put Johnathon in his place, felt the cold dig of his fingers into my jaw…

No, not my clothes. I needed something else, something less direct.

Marching to what I hoped was a closet I threw opened the doors and gasped.

It had to be as big as the bedroom itself was, maybe even a little bigger and lined wall to wall. Racks and shelves and inserts that housed clothes and shoes and accessories galore. The garments were arranged by type, a little placard above each section: gowns, cocktail dresses, day dresses, trousers, blouses...on and on and on. From the blackest of blacks to the whipped softness of cream and white; a perfect trip through the rainbow each.

The plush carpet cushioned my fall when I dropped to the floor, overcome. The myriad of textures alone…velvet, chiffon and tweed. Each beckoning me forward to touch and feel.

It was excess. Vulgar luxury of the highest order. Who in their right mind needed so many clothes? There had to be at least a hundred sets of shoes alone. 

Oh, how I wanted to hate it and everything it represented. But I couldn’t suppress the shiver that flowed down my spine as a silk sleeve slipped through my wandering fingers. My skin was too rough, too dirty even though I had only showered that morning, just too…too poor.

The racks of garments looked down on me as silent jurors and I was sure they’d find me guilty of the crime of poverty. Unappreciative and undeserving. Poor me, kneeling on the floor, ready to serve a life sentence…all for the curse of being born to one Richard Hawthorne.

Swallowing bitter bile, I forced myself to my feet and marching towards the line of dresses a similar length to the one I’d torn up.

I wouldn’t let them change me. I wouldn’t.