future's gonna be okay ☽

Lord Beaufort, with his wrinkled face, his joints that you could assume were dealing with rheumatism or arthritis, as well as his questionable set of teeth, was not the man you envisioned to wed once you came out in society. Despite how it’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence for debutantes to be paired with men who were perhaps thrice their age for the sake of procreating heirs easily in the peerage, you were naive to hope that your case would differ, considering your family’s status and wealth.

But you realized it was exactly your family’s status and wealth that would bring you to downfall, as it seems like all that mattered to your parents was that you were going to be wed to a reputable man, regardless of whether said man looked like your great-grandfather rather than your supposed to be spouse.

“Yes,” your mother said, her expression blank and already unyielding.

“And Papa truly agrees to this match?” you pushed further, still in disbelief of what you were hearing.

“Dearest, your father has already spoken to Lord Beaufort, and he can attest that you will be taken good care of.” She sighed. “I know the duke is not… the most handsome man there is as of late, but he can provide for you and his character is well spoken for.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Given that he is willing to wed a lady as young as his daughter.”

“He doesn’t have a daughter.”

“That isn’t the point!”

Your mother never appreciated your ability to freely be sarcastic and so outspoken with her. Some mamas would say that it was because she was too lenient, too uncaring to let a well-bred girl as yourself feel too comfortable in speaking your mind, that you turned out to be this way. But regardless of how your mama has been strict in raising you, she was also insistent to never let your own spark of life be dimmed, knowing that individuality was always an esteemed trait no matter what.

“We have given you ample time to find a match of your own, ____,” she said, bringing you out of your trance as you stared helplessly at the fire in the hearth. “And now you are five and twenty. You need to have a husband.”

“Do I?”

She took a seat beside you on the settee, moving from her previous position on the single armchair across you. Here, she grasped your hand warmly, and your composure cracks a little bit. “I have no doubt in my mind that if the world was kinder to women, you wouldn't need a man by your side. But alas, society carries on to be harsh, and it vexes me whenever I think about the possibility that once your Papa and I are no longer here—”

“Do not speak of that as if it’s soon.” You cut her off with a frown.

She let out another sigh and continued speaking. “I only wish that you do not end up alone. You are my only child. Of course, you may live with your uncles, or aunts, or other relatives if worse comes to worse, but a husband would be far more reliable if it came to it.”

“And I suppose you think Lord Beaufort would suffice.”

“Well, he has offered for your hand. And he had promised that once you fulfill your duty to give him an heir, then you may be free to do whatever you want. You may even travel the continents. Isn’t that what you have always wanted?”

You scowled, not masking your expression into something else even though you knew you looked like a child about to throw a tantrum. You refused to be swayed by early promises and gave your mother ammunition to fill your head with fantasies you weren’t even sure could be fulfilled.

“Also, you should know that he is not that old. You exaggerate on that part. ”

You snapped your eyes back to her in outrage. “He is the same age as Papa.”

“No, he is not.”

“Alright. Then how old is he?”

“He is eight and forty.”

You blinked. “That doesn’t make it any better, Mama.”

She closed her eyes and gave your hand one last squeeze before telling you to go to your room and get ready for supper, knowing that regardless of what she will say to convince you to see the better light of things, you will only argue and make points she could never admit were true.

Later on that night, as you stared out of your window and fixed your gaze up at the starry sky, you could only wish for some miracle to happen that would prevent you from marrying that old duke. You wanted to believe that you weren’t as hopeless as your parents perceived you to be, that although you have had seven unsuccessful seasons and was essentially considered a spinster by most of the peerage—surely, there would be a man who would marry you not because he and your father already had a signed agreement about it.

In fact, you didn’t even require a love match. You thought you’d be naive to still hope for such an opportunity.

You just wanted to have the freedom to choose your life partner. To personally know a man, ensure that he was kind and intelligent and perhaps even funny, before you took his name and be under his care. If there was something you agreed with your mother, it was that the world was indeed cruel to women, hence you did not want to be put into a situation that would gravitate it even more.

“Perhaps I should just run away and fake my death,” you muttered to yourself, fondling with the hem of your chemise. “Or pose as a man and purchase myself a commission. That would be better than sharing a bed with that old man.”

You shuddered almost immediately after the thought, cursing yourself for letting you imagine that horrid image. of being bedded by that elder.

Going back to staring up at the sky, you admired the twinkling stars and spoke again, whispering a wish that you knew would never come true for there was no comet to hear and grant it, yet muttered anyway just in case: “Just… if any godly being out there is listening… please don’t let me marry Lord Beaufort,” you said, feeling foolish but undeterred. “If I get out of this predicament, then I swear… I’ll, uh, I’ll…” you trailed off indecisively, “I suppose I shall endeavor to give up iced champagne and french pastries for a whole year. I’ll eat plain porridge until my body rejects it and then I shall be content with only surviving by drinking water.”

As soon as you finished saying that, you laughed to yourself, aware that you sounded ridiculously insane.

However, the next morning, as you joined your mother and father at the dining hall to break your fast, they were looking at you with such concern that you could not help but raise an eyebrow and ask them what was the matter.

“It is Lord Beaufort,” your father said.

You took a hefty bite of french toast. “What about him?”

“I’m afraid we have received terrible news this morning from his solicitor.” Your mother shared a look with him.

You waited, confused why they were dragging this out too long. It wasn’t like you had requested that they give you daily updates about your incoming nuptials, so they certainly did not need to act suspenseful for whatever it was that they heard from the person probably handling the documents regarding the betrothal.

“Sweetheart, we were told this morning that the duke passed away,” your father told you.

You ceased your chewing, the fork you were holding landing in a loud clank on the plate. “What?” you sputtered.

“Very tragic, yes.” Your mother frowned, reaching over to path your hand. “He was found by his valet in his bedchamber, so it seems. We can only be grateful that he at least died peacefully in his sleep.”

“I… I—” You were so lost for words, and your mother noticed it immediately, mistaking it for sadness rather than pure shock.

“Oh, Dearest, are you alright?” she asked. “It’s all very sudden, I know. From what I’ve heard, the duke was even seen at the gentlemen’s club yesterday appearing completely healthy.”

Still, you were speechless, blubbering like a fish out of water as you remembered the wish you made under the stars last night.

It was merely a foolish request. You didn’t really specify for him to be dead. You just wanted to be free—to have a groom that was chosen by you and who you could rely on. That could have been achieved in numerous ways, such as your father withdrawing from their agreement or the duke having better sense later on and terminating the engagement.

Trying not to hyperventilate, you abruptly stood up, your chair scraping noisily against the floor as you excused yourself from your parents, not bothering to hear their replies for you were too focused on rushing to your room and intending to rationalize everything that had happened in the past 12 hours.

Surely… you weren’t the cause of Lord Beaufort’s death, were you?

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