Where The Marigolds Grow - 1 - Roots

It had been another long, slow summer day. The air was thick with heat that turned dirt bone dry, and would make you feel as if your skin was melting off your bones. The cicadas could be heard screaming down by the creek that lay down the hill where Elizabeth sat comfortably up in a tree. Her journal laid open in her lap, charcoal pencil clinched tightly. Her face was scrunched up into a sour expression as she brooded about her current situation.

Her father had received a visitor. Elizabeth had seen him ride in on his small buggy from her bedroom window that morning. Seeing such, and realizing the rather unfortunately reality that seemed to be slowing encroaching upon her, had seeked to further herself from. So, despite the fact her father had forbidden her from going outside since the start of the summer, she had snuck out her window, dashed across the roof, and climbed down the trellis, before running off across the fields of unbloomed marigolds to her favorite hill where she often would spend afternoon napping in the sun. Though running off would only put off the inevitable for a few hours at most before someone realized she wasn't inside and someone was sent to fetch her.

Some part of Elizabeth knew this. She always did. Her future had been determined for since she was born. She was expected to be the perfect daughter hailing from the Duke family. But she was not perfect. She wore britches despite her father's distaste. There is no world where Elizabeth can imagine she could ever stomach such things. Ever do such things.

Perhaps that is why her father and mother loved Margaret more. Her younger sister was what they wanted. Obedient. Quiet. Small. Margaret looked like them. Pale, blonde hair, blue eyes. Like she belonged with their family. Margaret was the perfect image of what a Duke ought to be.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth did not. In fact, so much people often stared at her - with faces that looked as if they were working through some sort of improbable sum in their heads - and would whisper. And Elizabeth knew what they spoke about, about how she was surely a bastard child. It was plain to anyone that Edward was in fact her father, afterall, she shared the same roman nose and square chin as him. That was where similarities ended. Her skin was blonde like her families, yet three shades to dark. Her skin was bronze in color, and her eyes the same dark brown of the mud in the bottom of the creek.

Mother would not speak of it. She never has. She only smiles at Elizabeth – that small, tired smile – and she says she mustn’t worry about such things. That it's not important. That Elizabeth is her daughter, and that is all that matters. Elizabeth wished she could believe her. She truly did. But she could always see the pain in her mother's eyes when she said such. She knew how distant she could be, all while being warm to Margaret. Elizabeth knew better. She knew it was not true.

Her father wasn't any better. He doesn't even pretend. He doesn't call Elizabeth his daughter unless he must. He barely speaks to her at all unless it is to remind her of her place. She has learned that it is best to keep her head down in his presence. To stay quiet. It's easier that way.

"Elizabeth!" A high pitched voice called.

Elizabeth's eyebrows furrow at the sound of her little sister's voice. It was quicker followed by huffing and puffing, and the clumsy footfalls of a child crunching grass as she clumsily made her way up the hill. Elizabeth sighs. So much for avoiding her father. Margaret finally stumbled to the top of the hill. She takes a moment to catch her breath. Margaret squints up at Elizabeth. Elizabeth glances to her side, and watches as the girl places her hands on her hips, pursing her lips at her.

"Elizabeth! Father wishes to speak with you." Margaret calls up to her.

"I don't care what father wants," Elizabeth states flatly, finally closing her journal. She fixes Margaret with a glare. She wasn't in the mood to speak with anyone. Especially not their father. "Go away!"

Margaret frowns, scowling. "Fine! Spend all day up a tree. It wouldn't matter anyway. You're such a chowderhead that you're going to end up an old spinster!"

"I am not!" Elizabeth shouts, completely offended. She was perfectly likeable!

"Are too!" Margaret taunts. She sticks her tongue out at Elizabeth, before turning tail and running off.

"You brat!" Elizabeth shouts, slipping her journal into her pocket before climbing down the tree. She gives chase after Margaret. She wasn't sure on what she planned to do once catching her. Just that she ought too.

Margaret shrieks, "Last one back to the house is a bad egg, Elizabeth!"

Of course, Margaret beat her back. She had a headstart afterall. Even if Elizabeth three years senior of Margaret who was thirteen, there was little she could do about that. Elizabeth watched as Margaret happily skipped up the porch stairs. She turns to face Elizabeth proudly.

She laughs. "I win! You're the bad egg!"

"You cheated!" Elizabeth retorts, tough before she can say anything more she front door swung open.

Margaret's tutor stands in the doorway. She looks rather miffed. "There you are! Now come on inside. I trust you informed your sister Mr. Duke wants to speak with her."

"She did." Elizabeth answers for Margaret.

"Good. You run along and speak to him," the tutor says, taking Margaret gently by the shoulders and showing her inside. She looks down at her. "It's back to classes with you."

Despite the sour look on Margaret's face she maturely does as she instructed, and Elizabeth watches the two disappear into the house. She did not go to her father’s study right away. Rather she sat on the porch for some time, hands clenched in her lap. The thought of speaking with her father sat heavy in her chest, like a weight she couldn't shake. So much so it made her stomach turn. She had never been able to predict her father’s moods, but she had learned to read the silence between his words. She knew he wished to marry her off soon, and she knows that whatever he has to say will not be something she wished to hear.  

But beating the devil around the bush would not spare her. If anything, it would only make him angrier. So she stood, smoothed the wrinkles in my britches, and went inside.The house was quiet as she walked. There are moments in life where certainty settles into the bones before the truth is even spoken, and this was one of those moments. The grandfather clock ticking steadily in the hall, mocking her, counting down the seconds like a funeral bell, seemed to confirm such to her. And then, all too soon, she was there. 

Elizabeth knocked once.  

“Enter.” It was the only word muttered from the other side of the door. Gruff and firm. It left no room for argument. Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before turning the doorknob and pushing the door open.

Her father’s study has always felt suffocating. The heavy bookshelves lining the walls, the thick curtains drawn against the sun, and the ever-present smell of pipe smoke. Edward, her father sat behind his desk, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him, papers stacked in neat piles. He did not look up immediately, and when he did, it was with that measured, calculating look he always gives her. The one that reminds her she is something to be managed, not something to be loved.

“You took your time,” he says, not looking up from the papers spread before him. His voice is calm. Too calm. That is never a good thing. It means he has already decided her fate, and he is simply waiting for me to accept it.  

Elizabeth say nothing. She can't. It is as if all of a sudden her mouth has went dry.

“Sit.”

Elizabeth remained standing, not budging an inch from where she had stepped inside. For a long moment, Edward studied her. His expression was unreadable, save for the slight furrow of his brow. A hint of displeasure at her disobedience, perhaps, or simply at her very existence. Elizabeth kept her back straight, and her hands pressed against her sides. She would not let him see her unease.  

Edward's fingers tapped against the desk, slow and deliberate. “I have made arrangements for you,” he says, as though he is speaking of an investment, a business deal, something clean and transactional. “A suitable match. One that will benefit this family.”

Elizabeth could not could not breathe. A match. A marriage. A husband. With such things came money. Money to line my father's pockets.

“You will be taken care of,” he went on, as though she had already agreed. “You will want for nothing. It is more than most women receive.”  

“No,” she says immediately, her voice sharp, cutting through the thick air like a blade. A great roaring of her own blood pumping filled her ears. Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms almost hard enough to draw blood.

Her father's eyes darken. “You misunderstand me, Elizabeth.”

“No, I understand perfectly,” she sneered angrily, pointing a finger at him firmly. Her tone was accusatory. “You mean to marry me off! You mean to sell me like a piece of property!”  

His expression did not change, but something in his posture shifts. A tightening of the shoulders, a firming of the mouth. A warning. “Do not raise your voice at me.”

She doesn't lower her voice. “And who is this suitable match?!”

“Mr. Hargrove.”

The name alone makes her stomach turn. She has met him before – he's an older man, nearly forty, with a belly that strains against his waistcoat and eyes that linger too long. She remembered the way his eyes settled on her at the last town gathering, and the way they watched her for far too long. The same way a feral dog might stare at a slab of meat it was forbidden from touching. It made her want to gag.

“He’s wealthy,” Edward continues. “A respected businessman. He’s shown interest in you.”

Elizabeth shakes her head, grimacing. “He’s old.”

“He’s established.”

“He’s disgusting,” Elizabeth shot back. She was desperately trying to figure some way of getting him to drop the subject. Of finding an out. But it was as if her brain were scrambled eggs. The perhaps it was her own fear and panic blocking her judgement.

“He’s going to be your husband,” Her father says firmly.

“No!” Elizabeth says again, louder this time. “I will not marry him.”

Edward's hand slammed against the desk, the sound like a crack of thunder. Elizabeth flinches. For a moment she thinks today will be the day he snaps and she'll find out how far her father would go to keep her in line. He does not strike Elizabeth however.

“I have given you everything,” he hisses, “Shelter. Education. A name. And this is how you repay me? With defiance?” 

Edward rises from his chair, moving toward her with the quiet, dangerous grace of a man who does not need to raise his hand to be feared. He stops just before Elizabeth, his face unreadable. “You will do as you are told. This is not a negotiation, Elizabeth. You have no other choice.”

Elizabeth glares at him, even if what he said was true. She had rejected every other suitor. Her breath was coming fast, and it felt like her heart pounding against her ribs, desperate to be free. There is nothing in her father's gaze but finality. He has made his decision, and he does not care what she wants.

The truth settles in Elizabeth's bones. She was to be given away. Caged for the rest of her life. But she wasn't a prize to be auctioned off. She wasn't a bird to be caged and told when to sing. Elizabeth did not speak another word. She turned on her heel and walker out of the study, her head held high even as the weight of his command settles over her. Her father doesn't call after her. He doesn’t need to. He thinks she will bend, and will shatter under the weight of his will.

She wouldn't. She will leave. She will run. She will not be caged.

She didn't remember walking back to her room, or closing the door behind her. Elizabeth only knew the anger burning in her chest, the suffocating weight of it. She waited until the house was silent; until the lamps had all been dimmed, and the servants retired to their quarters. Only then did she move with purpose.

Elizabeth broke into the pantry first. She wrapped food in a cloth; bread, dried meat, anything that would last. Then to the hall closet where the lanterns are kept. She tucked one beneath beneath her arm along with a small tin of oil. It would get her far enough surely. Then she crept into her parents room, she careful to avoid the squeaky floor boards as she went. Her father's wardrobe loomed before her. It was filled with fine clothes, pressed and perfect. She took only what she would need; take a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a coat that is far too large. It would do.

Once back in her room, she changed swiftly. The trousers feel strange. The fabric was stiff against her legs. The coat is heavy on her shoulders, and practically swallowed her whole. She wrapped her hair tight, tucking it beneath a hat. When Elizabeth looked in the mirror, she saw someone else. Someone who could vanish into the night.

She took one last breath, then opened her window. The night air is cool against her skin. The stables were not far. If I she could reach Athena, she'd be gone before anyone even knew was missing. She swings one leg out of window, then the other. Once more she dashed across the room as quietly as possible, and down the trellis she went. Once on the ground she froze listening. There were no voices. No signs of movement.

She ran through the garden, past the back gates, and into the pasture beyond them. The stables are dark, the scent of hay thick. Athena shifts when she hears Elizabeth, ears pricking forward. Elizabeth presses a hand to the horse's muzzle. She hushed Athena gently, stroking her mane. “We have to go,” she whispered. Elizabeth worked quickly, saddling her in the dark. She tried to keep her hands steady even as her mind raced. Elizabeth's heart slams against her ribs as she lead the Athena from her stall, and out of the stables.

And then, with one last look at the house behind her — the house that had never truly been her home— Elizabeth pulled herself up and swung into the saddle, and rode. The night air whipped against her face, the wind tearing through her borrowed clothes. Athena’s hooves pounded against the earth, fast and steady, her muscles bunching beneath Elizabeth as we tore through the fields. She didn't know where she was going. Just that she had to get away. Elizabeth pressed her heels into Athena’s sides, urging her to move.

Down main street they went! The town blurred past them. Athena moved like a shadow, swift and sure, her breath was coming hard and fast beneath Elizabeth. She urged Athena onward, faster and faster. The edge of the town and the endless darkness of night which lay beyond it loomed ahead. She clenched her jaw and pressed lower against Athena’s neck.

The darkness of the night swallowed them whole.

Elizabeth did not stop. She would not stop. 

She would never go back.