To Wed A Rebel. Sophie Dash

about? And, more importantly, it was what Uncle Osbourne wanted.

      “Father,” said Lottie, turning to the beady-eyed figure trailing behind them. “Can we go and see the animals? Gosh, can you hear them? How do the people in those far-off places tolerate them? Scales and claws – ghastly. I would have them all killed on sight. I bet they’re beastly to touch. Oh, and look! There are little canal boats. Now that is sweet. We must ride them, we must.”

      “Not by yourselves,” replied Mr Griswell, bored and uninterested in all he surveyed. If he was not growing his finances and merchant business, he was not happy. The only time he ever seemed to show real emotion was when money was involved. At least Uncle Osbourne was not like that. Yes, he was reserved, strict and practical to a fault, but he was not as waspish or as spiteful as Lottie’s father seemed to be. Uncle Osbourne had reluctantly taken Ruth in, a skinny child, at five. He had never wanted children; he had never wanted a family. He only enjoyed his work. He thought people were too complicated and a child was an added difficulty he had never anticipated. But a poor relation – especially a young girl – in the workhouse would reflect poorly on his own status. Besides, he’d promised his brother to protect the child and it was, without a doubt, bad form to argue with a dying man. When Ruth arrived, her uncle put in place numerous rules about being quiet, about fitting in around his life, about being as unassuming as possible. Ruth was good at it, for she’d remembered all her mother had said to her in the last few days of her life: “Never be a burden, my darling.” And she never had.

      What little money her father and mother had passed down to her went on her education, and it was a good education. She had made friends in the classroom and she had excelled. Beyond the academy, no one cared about how well she wrote in Latin or her knowledge about geography. No, to be a woman, one had to know the right way to wave a fan, to wear the latest dress, to flirt. Ruth’s face went red at the thought. Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting: it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself. Even if, at times, the prospect seemed…exciting.

      She kept her gaze focused on the assembled guests, lest anyone approach her and expect her to be a real woman, to be like Lottie. “You should stop being so shy,” Lottie had always chided her, “You should be more like me.” But it wasn’t shyness, it was a constant fear, a knowledge that if she spoke up, if she tried, she’d do something wrong. And there was so, so much that could go wrong, especially at a large party such as this.

      “I wish we were back at the academy,” she whispered to her friend.

      Lottie only rolled her eyes. “You would.”

      Mr Griswell ushered the two young women towards a small group who were stood a safe distance away from the performers. Flame conjurers gave the air a smoky smell, their bare feet skimming along the grass as they danced, shining with sweat, nerves like steel.

      “There’s too many damned people here,” said the merchant, inclining his head towards Ruth’s uncle, Mr Osbourne, and a stout young man with them. The latter had lemon-coloured hair and an expression equally as sour.

      “It isn’t decent. It’s no place for a woman, but I do not intend to stay long,” agreed Osbourne. “I have two gentlemen to pay respects to, then we go.” Business, as usual, was the order of the day.

      “That’s him, that’s Albert Pembroke,” whispered Ruth, needlessly pointing to the younger man. “Do you think he will recognise me?”

      Four steps away was her future husband. His belly pressed against his waistcoat and his blond whiskers stuck out from his round, ruddy cheeks. He wasn’t what one would call conventionally attractive – or attractive at all.

      “He’s…he’s taller than when last I met him,” said Ruth tactfully.

      “How old were you?”

      “I was twelve; he was sixteen.”

      Osbourne summoned his niece over with a wave as stiff as his appearance. “I had feared you would be late,” he said, guiding Ruth to stand before Albert, who gave a bashful bow. “It will not be long now, then we’ll be at the church, the deed done and everything as it should be.” The lines around Osbourne’s eyes grew deeper. “Ruth, is that a new gown?”

      “It’s mine,” interrupted Lottie with a toothy smile. “Doesn’t it look lovely? I picked it out.”

      Ruth’s uncle was a banker and firmly disapproved of lavish expenditure. His clients were fond of his frugal nature, as it made their own finances feel safe – as though someone who spent so wisely and dressed so poorly would never ill-treat their savings. Make do and mend was his work ethic and Ruth, as his ward, had adopted it too. Even at Miss Lamont’s Academy she had been the one to darn and mend garments for all the other girls – and allow herself to be taken advantage of.

      Albert shuffled his feet and became exceedingly pink with Ruth’s approach. He went to speak, failed, and left Ruth to begin their stilted conversation. She didn’t, until Lottie nudged her sharply in the back, prompting her to gabble, “Are – are you well, sir?”

      The young man puffed out his cheeks before nodding heavily, blowing air between thick lips. “I’d – yes – well, I am,” he stammered, before adding as an afterthought, “And you are well, I take it?”

      “Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Quite.”

      She rustled up a wan smile, as her uncle and Mr Griswell talked politics and Lottie was swept up by another high society friend to discuss an upcoming garden tour and ball the next day, leaving the couple to themselves.

      “How are you enjoying the season, Mr Pembroke?”

      “I could do without all this nonsense; makes me feel ill.” He flapped towards one tall figure who drew frightened gasps from the crowd as he cradled a large, hairy spider in his hands. “If I wanted to experience another country, I would go there.”

      “I rather like it,” admitted Ruth. “It’s all so pretty, like a dream or something I have only ever read about.”

      “I, well, I suppose it’s tolerable, though it doesn’t match your tolerableness.” Albert beamed, overly pleased at his clumsy compliment. “I never like these events; they’re always too loud and the music too modern. It’s all too heathen for my tastes and anyway…”

      Once Albert began talking, finding Ruth to be a polite listener, he did not stop. Whenever she tried to interject, she was cut off and ushered back into silence. Torches were lit as the sun went down and while Lottie was free to skip off and mingle with other tittering women, Ruth was left to listen to her future husband’s complaints, gripes and moans. From gout to stomach upset, there was no ailment the man did not latch on to. The pair were to be husband and wife. They had a whole lifetime to get to know one another. And yet, as another hour slowly dribbled by, Ruth felt as though she knew everything the man would ever say, think, feel and do.

      It was all arranged, the match agreed, and it would please her uncle. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? She couldn’t rely on her extended family any more. She must accept it. There was no other choice. Albert kept prattling on, and on, and on, while it felt as though a fault line was growing in Ruth’s chest, her ribs, her heart. The smoke was in her eyes; that was all. She didn’t cry, not since she was little, but she was close now, stupidly close – when she’d prided herself on being stronger, better, more removed from her emotions than everyone else. It was all too much, too soon.

       I do not want to be Mrs Pembroke.

      She couldn’t think like that.

      She wasn’t allowed to think like that.

      “Were it not for Godfrey’s Cordial,” continued Albert, “I doubt I’d get any sleep, what with my—”

      “The boats,” interrupted Ruth, attempting a good-natured smile that fell flat. There was a catch in her voice. “Let’s find Lottie and go along the canal, shall we? She’d be