Juliette

1

I have always been enamoured by the idea of marriage. When I was young, nothing seemed more exhilarating than spending the rest of my life with one special person. I would splay on her back across the branches of the old cherry blossom, gazing up at the thousands of blushing velvet buds as they fell in a magnificent canopy above my head, and imagine my future husband. In my innocent mind, he was a fairy-tale prince: tall, handsome, charming. Sometimes I would reach out my hand to let the curtain of flowers brush across her skin, like the soft kiss of an affectionate lover.

On my thirteenth birthday, Father provided me with a name: Aurelius Sedgewick. That name graced my desirous lips every day for a year. I would whisper it to myself with delight every morning as I lay in bed, pondering how a man with that name might look and behave. With every repetition, the image became bolder. Aurelius Sedgewick. Aurelius Sedgewick. Aurelius Sedgewick. The words became engraved on the walls of my psyche.

With every year of my adolescence, my patience wore thinner. Each night, I begged Father to relent, and wept until dawn when he denied me once again. He did not understand how I yearned for my fiancé’s touch, to be loved, adored, worshipped. Aurelius Sedgewick. Aurelius Sedgewick. He intoxicated my dreams, seeping through the layers of my mind like honey. Aurelius Sedgewick. At fourteen, I was an eager child. At sixteen, I was a lustful girl. By eighteen, I was a desperate young woman.

At last, Father pronounced I would be married on the day of my nineteenth birthday. I had almost given up hope by then. The trunks were packed and the attendants chosen. New gowns were commissioned and made. On the morning before I was due to leave for my fiancé’s estate, I returned to the rugged, knotted cherry blossom of my girlhood. It was in fruit now, the glossy black cherries hanging tantalizingly over my head like smooth gemstones. I ran my hands over the twisted trunk, letting the rough bark caress my fingers one last time as I clambered up onto the sturdiest branch. It was not so easy now I was grown.

Once settled, I plucked the nearest cherry, nibbled at the sweet flesh, then tossed the shrivelled stone to the ground. With some luck, a bird would pick it up and plant another tree elsewhere. I ate a dozen more, until the crimson juice stained her hands and lips. Then I washed myself off in a stream on the way back to the house, though not before pocketing the last of the stones. Perhaps I could plant it in the grounds of my new home.

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On the morning of my nineteenth birthday, my carriage pulls up outside the castle of Lord Aurelius Sedgewick. Butterflies fill my stomach as I step out into the cool air. Father insisted when we parted that I dress extravagantly, so here I am, laced into a lush baby-blue gown with a tight empire waist and nothing but a flimsy white wrapper to keep me warm. Peals hang at my neck and ears, declaring to anyone who sees me that I am a fresh young bride with rich prospects.

The white brick of the castle gleams in the sun, ornamented with winding branches of ivy and wisteria. A footman greets me at the entrance, bows briefly, then opens the doors for me. Another servant is waiting in the hall, clad in crimson velvet that is made all the more striking by his dark eyes and smooth, ebony skin. I follow him further inside, trying to swallow my nerves and focus on what lay ahead. I have to impress my husband. Is my posture correct? Am I smiling just the right amount? My father’s brusque instructions flash through my mind with every step.

The interior of the castle is breath-taking. My skirts trail along the flawless marble floor, while the white and gold vaulted ceilings open up above my head as if we are in the royal palace itself. However did Father manage to secure such an affluent match? He may be wealthy, but he is also the grandson of a mere merchant. It must not have been easy to marry me off to a noble family. I gasp in awe. In just a few hours, I will be Lady Sedgewick, mistress of this entire estate.

We stop just before another set of double doors, and the servant turns back to me. He is at least a head taller than I, handsome enough to make my heart flutter, but his eyes are surprisingly sorrowful.

“We shall wait here until His Lordship asks for you, Ma’am,” he says.

My words stick in my throat. I do not have the courage to ask his name. “Thank you,” I manage to force out of my mouth, hoping I will be able to speak to my husband with more eloquence.

The doors unfold in front of me to reveal another even grander hall. At the other end are two figures: one man and one woman. I glance sideways to the servant for reassurance, and he nods encouragingly, before leading me across the polished floor.

“Miss Juliette Reynolds, My Lord,” he announces, then nods at me to step forwards.

Upon a closer inspection, my anticipation begins to collapse. The gentleman is short, lean, and balding, with small beady eyes that study me like beetles. He must be nearing forty, I estimate, maybe the father of my fiancé? I avoid his gaze and observe the young lady beside him, who would be beautiful but for the natural sneer her lip seems to curve into. Her auburn hair is braided into a complex chignon that I know my own maid could never master, and her lilac gown outshines my own effortlessly. I feel like a painted doll in comparison, a commoner who thinks a pretty dress can conceal her true identity.

“I thought Reynolds said she was a beauty,” remarks the lady archly. I shrink away, intimidated by her directness.

“Leave us, Malachi,” barks the gentleman in a gruff tone, ignoring her comment, “And for God’s sake man, lighten up. You’d think his mother had died; that is, if he had one at all.” He turns back to me. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.” I summon all the courage in my body. “Will I be seeing my betrothed before the wedding, My Lord?”

The lady cackles cruelly, and I quickly regret my words. “Oh, isn’t she just delightful? Dear Miss Reynolds, this is Lord Sedgewick here.”

My heart falls from my throat to my feet in a second. How can I marry such a bitter old man? Why did Father never mention this, in all his years of secrecy? And who is this insulting woman?

“The ceremony will begin in two hours,” snaps Lord Sedgewick, “Which should give you enough time to prepare. I expect a prompt arrival. Your maids await you upstairs. Malachi will escort you to your rooms.”

And with that, he marches out of the hall, closely followed by the rude young lady. I am left completely alone. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I hold them back. Now is not the time to cry, I tell myself. I walk back the way I came and am relieved to see Malachi again.

“This way please, Ma’am,” he says courteously, gesturing towards the voluptuous staircase that dominates the entrance hall.

We ascend it together, and I cannot help asking, “Who was that woman with Lord Sedgewick?”

A shadow of dislike crosses his face. “That was Miss Anastasia, the ward of His Lordship’s father. Don’t worry about her, Ma’am, she treats nearly everyone like that. You see, she was the clear favourite to marry His Lordship before he was betrothed to you.”

“Oh,” I murmur softly.

“Please step this way, Ma’am. These are your rooms, through here.”

He halts besides one of a row of white doors with gilded handles, bows, and says, “I will be back in an hour and fifty minutes to escort you to the church, Ma’am.”

I watch him walk away sadly. Is this what the rest of my life will be like? Being led from door to door with no-one who will speak to me kindly but a servant?

With my excitement completely diminished and my spirits fallen, I wait until Malachi is out of sight before I sigh and push open the door.