The she-wolf in the Tower

She feels better

*Rapunzel*

Two more days passed before I felt well enough to drag myself out of bed. Layla finally insisted on a doctor’s visit; the man simply confirmed what my common sense had already told me: I should remain in bed in the dark. I am not to play my cello.

“Has Father inquired how I am?” I ask on the morning I feel well enough to join my stepmother for breakfast in Layla’s chamber. Layla is wearing a robe that falls open in a cascade of silk ruffles. She looks as delectable as a peach tart.

“He has not,” Layla says, choosing another grape with all the seriousness of someone selecting a diamond ring. She must have started on another slimming regime.

I sit down opposite, pick up three pieces of cheese, and pop them in my mouth. “Beast,” I say, without much rancor. “His only child could have died of the influenza, and he wouldn’t have noticed my passing.”

“He would have noticed,” Layla says, inspecting the grapes once again. “He may not notice if I expired, but if he had no one to play the cello with, that would probably make an impression.”

“Just eat some!” I snatch up a handful and drop them into Layla’s lap.

There is nothing I can do for Layla’s marriage, but the whole situation does get me thinking after I find my way back to my room and into a hot bath.

I am betrothed to an Alpha prince whom I wouldn’t be able to pick out from a crowd. That fact doesn’t actually bother me much.

It has been impressed upon me from the age of five that my very large dowry and my blue blood ensure that my marriage will be a matter of dynastic lines, a way to create children and to concentrate wealth. I have never conceived of marriage as more than a meeting of… hopefully… compatible minds.

However, I definitely wouldn’t want to live through the kind of drama that accompanies Layla and my father’s marriage. Hopefully, the man with the enchanting Scottish burr in his voice will be a reasonable fellow, with as little nonsense about him as there is about me.

In fact, despite my irritation with his lack of courtship, the truth is that Montrose’s swift proposal is a point in his favor, as it indicates that nothing about my person has entered into his decision. He had likely decided to marry me before attending the ball, and he has danced with me merely to ascertain that I don’t have a hump or a wooden leg.

I sink lower into my bath, letting the water lap at my chin. I find this explanation of my fiancé’s brisk proposal very reassuring. I wouldn’t care for an impulsive man. I much prefer to think of Montrose as having made a reasoned decision.

I never want to face the sort of emotional storm that surrounds my father and Layla. Never.

When I finally rise from the bath, pink and wrinkly, my natural optimism is restored for the first time since I fell ill. I can handle a man like my father.

My stepmother had made the mistake of falling in love, probably because my father had wooed her with such unexpected ardor. If Layla didn’t care so much, she wouldn’t flirt with other men to try to get her mate’s attention. And if he didn’t care so much, he wouldn’t get so angry. Surely Montrose and I can avoid that vicious circle by establishing some ground rules for suitably mature discourse.

In fact, why wait until we meet again? It might be a good idea to express my ideas in writing.

The more I think about it, the more I like the sound of an exchange of letters. I will write my betrothed, and lay out what I consider to be the features of a successful marriage. He is in Brighton; very well, I will send a groom there with a letter in hand. It will take the man only a day if he goes by mail coach. An Alpha prince who travels with two carriages and eight footmen shouldn’t be difficult to locate.

Pulling on my wrapper, I wait until my maid leaves before I sit down at my writing desk. My demands must be tactfully phrased. Mutual respect is an obvious requirement. And plenty of time alone: I don’t want a mate who trails me about and interrupts my cello practice.

The most delicate issue is that of mistresses. As I understand it, a gentleman generally has a mistress. I don’t have a strong objection; one could hardly claim that a vow between strangers, motivated by power and money, is sacrosanct. On the other hand, I do not want my husband to treat me with the cavalier disdain that my father demonstrates toward Layla, staying out all night, and so on.

And I definitely don’t wish to catch a disease from a she-wolf in my husband’s employ, if that is the right terminology for such an arrangement. I pull out a sheet of letter paper and pause. Should I specify that such a disease would be grounds to break our betrothal?

Surely my father would have asked that question.

I make a mental note to check, and begin to write. At the end of an hour, I have filled two pages. I read them over and find them quite satisfactory.

The letter is respectful, but candid.

To my mind, honesty is the most important thing between mates. If only my father would tell Layla that he loves her desperately, and feels hurt every time she plays the coquette with other men, and if only Layla would tell her husband that she is starved for affection and feels wretched about her inability to bear a child…

Well, then they would have a marriage, instead of this unending series of battles cobbled together by a wedding ring.

I ring a bell and give the missive to the butler, Willikins, with instructions that it be taken to Brighton without delay.