My Love for a Kingdom -- Chapter 11

[artemisms]

The week leading up to the wedding was turning out to be one of the busiest weeks of Emerson’s life. Between Rohan and his parents, he was finding himself obligated towards some person or another nearly every spare minute of every day.

Every day at noon, for instance, he must have lunch with some important person or another. This was all apparently arranged by his parents, who were using both his marriage and his physical presence in the house to strengthen ties with other aristocratic families-mainly, families whose friendship would benefit the Ratliff’s, whether through trade agreements or political influence with the council. Rohan had bragged to him once about the newfound powerlessness of the nobility, but Emerson was growing more and more convinced that his fiancé was a little naïve in that regard. Then again, it was just one more reason why marrying the son of one of those aristocratic families was going to prove so beneficial to Rohan’s plans for the future of Meryton-and the O’Corrain family’s coffers, no doubt.

Dinner continued to be the same overly grand and stately affair it had been his first evening here. Since his family was soon to become even more wealthy than it had been before his birth, various aristocratic guests jostled and schemed their way into receiving a place at the high table; he found his opinions on matters of state, religion, economy, and the like being asked after and taken seriously-not as if he were being quizzed by his professors but as if his opinions genuinely had weight. He stuttered and stammered his way through most of these conversations, feeling himself turn red once as he tried to remember Professor Oberton’s lecture on manorial farm rights. He was always certain that afterward, his listeners were content to find him a great fool and no impediment towards their own schemes and goals.

Even more dangerous, he realized, were those who asked after his fiancé’s opinion on these same subjects. He didn’t want to lie about Rohan’s intentions, but he was equally afraid of making his future husband any enemies when he knew Rohan intended to use his newfound aristocratic connections to forward his own ideals. Here, though, he was glad to be thought of as a fool; the schemers likely thought he would be ruled head and heart by his husband and therefore would not consider him a threat.

He explained as much to Rohan, one early afternoon while they were waiting in one of the drawing rooms, anticipating lunching with Rohan’s uncle and aunt. His fiancé looked equal parts amused and annoyed as he tried to convince him of the benefits of his apparent ignorance-it was the sort of expression only Rohan could pull off, really.

“Well,” he said after awhile, his forehead wrinkling slightly, “I suppose their suspicions about you are partially right. You didn’t always get the best marks in school, did you?”

Emerson’s mouth dropped, his face immediately flaming. “That’s your response?!”

His fiancé’s mouth twitched a little, green eyes twinkling. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think you’re stupid. Just rather ... highly unmotivated.”

Emerson scowled. “Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now.”

“Now, the Holbrooke’s last night. I noticed Lady Holbrooke paying you particular attention. I think if she’d had just a little more to drink she’d have had you in her lap before the dessert had been served.”

“Har, har.” Emerson rolled his eyes. “Very funny.” But even now he could still feel the soft press of her hand against his knee under the table, the smell of her perfume overpowering the roast duck before them.

“I’d have called her out on it, but I didn’t think it would be polite to challenge a lady to a duel.”

Emerson snorted. “I thought you were a liberal.”

“I’m too well-mannered to be truly liberal. What did she say to you? Did she seem to gravitate towards any particular topic?”

He nodded. “She kept asking me about your schooling. She made it seem like she was concerned I might be marrying a poorly educated man, but I think she’s worried your style of education might catch on in her own county. It seems like there’s talk of a school being built in Holbrooke County.”

Rohan seemed disappointed. “Is that all?” He frowned. “Well, she won’t be able to do anything about that. My ‘style’ of education is the future of education, and that dogmatic academy of yours is the past.”

“She did say that she thought my parents ought to have lobbied to raise the tax on public education in Cassex County.”

His fiancé waved a hand. “That’s their answer to everything. Raise the tax on education, on property, goods, roads. But they haven’t that sort of power anymore. They may sit on the councils, but they don’t own them as they used to.”

“It’s your uncle who has all the power,” Emerson ventured. “Isn’t it? As the mayor of Meryton.”

Rohan looked surprised, and even a little uncomfortable. But then he only shrugged. “You could look at it that way. But my uncle was elected by the people of Meryton. Half the council members have been elected.”

“It costs a lot of money to run a campaign, though, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Then it isn’t as if just anyone has the chance to rule Meryton or any other city or county. If that Muller wanted to go into politics, for example, he couldn’t, because of the money.”

Rohan seemed unconcerned by his hypothetical, actually stretching his legs out and crossing his boots on the nearest empty chair. “Most working people are too busy to think of politics. But Muller is a good example of the type of man who’s clever enough to make a go at it. All he’d need is a sponsor or two.” He tilted his head, a thoughtful look coming to his face. “I wouldn’t be unwilling to support him.”

Crap, Emerson thought, Mack’s going to kill me.

Rohan, he’d come to realize over the last week or so, was every bit as scheming as the aristocrats he sat down with and was forced to converse with each night over dinner. Rohan had no qualms about using people to get what he needed-his needs and desires just happened to be a little more altruistic than those of, say, Lady Holbrooke, who feared the education and liberation of her own surrounding townspeople. No, Rohan was more ready to sacrifice the ease and comfort of a few-not excluding himself-so as to bring about the same to those who suffered and needed it most.

Even now, though, it was hard to think of marriage to the handsome merchant as “sacrifice” on his part. Rohan was a good person, he was finally allowing himself to think. And things could always have been worse. It could have been the recently widowed Lady Holbrooke, for example, who had been sitting opposite his parents on that fateful day he was Summoned by Lady Melburne...

“Mayor and Mrs. O’Corrain are here, chi-hata,” said the little maid who cleaned the guest room where Rohan stayed when he was here-where they were now, in fact. He and Rohan both stood quickly, his fiancé’s aunt and uncle entering the room a moment later. The uncle was a very serious-looking man, his dark eyes spearing Emerson’s and making him swallow quickly, his fingers rubbing absently together. The aunt was more personable, though she had that clever look about her, her dark green eyes and slim figure suggesting that she was the O’Corrain by blood.

“At last we meet the young chi-hata who’s so charmed our little Rohan,” she said, her mouth pressing together, not quite able to hold back the smile there.

From the corner of his eye, Emerson though he saw Rohan actually color a bit.

“Don’t tease the boy, Alyss,” said the uncle gruffly. “Here, you, let me shake your hand.”

It took Emerson a second before he realized the man was addressing him; mutely, he held out his hand, his body jerking forward slightly as he was received of a firm, pumping sort of handshake. He shook the aunt’s hand next, recognizing that teasing glint in her green eyes-it matched her nephew’s to a “T.”

“You’ll forgive my husband’s disdain for rank and title,” she said with a slight smile. “It’s a habit I fear has rubbed off on my nephew, as well.”

Emerson blinked. “Rohan has never been anything but respectful towards me, kir O’Corrain.”

“Has he?” barked the uncle suddenly, looking toward his nephew. “Haven’t made your mark then yet, have you, my boy?”

This time Rohan definitely blushed, though Emerson couldn’t imagine why. “I beg your pardon, Uncle, but I can’t think how that’s any business of yours.”

“And it’s impolite to speak of such things before your young fiancé, Rohan. And you’re to call me Alyss,” she added, giving Emerson a quick smiling look. “I’ve a certain distaste for rank and title myself, you know.”

“I think ‘Mrs. O’Corrain’ will do, ma’am,” Emerson said, his own cheeks pinking. A flustered Rohan was such an unusual thing that he couldn’t help catching the feeling himself.

“I suppose it will. Come here and give your aunt a kiss, Rohan.”

Emerson could see that there was real affection between his fiancé and the two people who had apparently raised him. But as they settled down for a light lunch together, he sensed that there was some slight stiffness between Rohan and his uncle in particular; however, he couldn’t quite put his finger on the origins of this faint discord, and he was soon convinced that the man simply did not like him-though why this should unsettle Rohan was beyond him, unless his fiancé simply strove to please the man on some sort of filial level.

After awhile, Mrs. O’Corrain expressed a desire to go outside on the veranda, to taste the fresh country air. Rohan volunteered Emerson to accompany her, and he was only too eager to get to his feet and lead the way, leaving the other two men to glower at one another in peace.

“You mustn’t take poor Niles’ feelings personally,” his fiancé’s aunt said to him, once they were outside together, her gloved hands resting on the marble railing overlooking the gardens below.

She turned and smiled at him, and there was genuine affection in the expression. “I for one am happy how Rohan has chosen. You’ll make him a good partner, in every sense of the word, I think.”

“Thank you,” he said, flustered anew, not really knowing what else to say.

“Niles is annoyed with him for marrying into the aristocracy,” she continued, smiling out into the garden again. “He has never been pleased with his own decision to marry into my family, though that he did for love, at least.”

“Does he hate us that much?” he asked after a moment, frowning. He was familiar with aristocratic disdain for those beneath them, but a dislike from the common people towards their social betters was a sentiment unknown to him. He honestly hadn’t ever really considered it.

Mrs. O’Corrain laughed. “Us? You place us in the same category then, you and I?”

Emerson felt immediately chagrined. “No, I-I didn’t mean it like that. That is-our rank in life may be different, but I’m sure I’m not any better than you or your husband. Or your nephew, for that matter.”

She smiled. “You are a sweet thing, aren’t you?” She sighed, but not as if she were genuinely uneasy. “Niles feels Rohan should work to get what he wants, you see. He doesn’t want to see him marry into it. Plus he knows what a romantic that boy is, for all his formulas and blue prints and business plans. He hates to see him marry for anything but love.

“But I’ll set his mind quite at ease about that,” she said after awhile, her voice soft and gently amused, as if she were sharing a joke with herself.

After they’d both left, he asked Rohan about that, about what his aunt had spoken to him about once they were alone.

“Do you think she’ll convince him that you were right to marry me?” he asked, both of them standing out on the veranda now, the servants within cleaning up afterward. “She seems to like me at least. Maybe she’ll convince your uncle that the irrigation channels and the steam boats and all that stuff ... that they’re more important than marrying for love.”

“Perhaps,” Rohan agreed, but he seemed a little embarrassed for some reason. But before they could discuss it further, another servant arrived to inform him that the family portraitist was finally arrived, and he needed to bathe and make his way to such-and-such hall, to be dressed into his wedding things and asked to stand like a ninny for the next several hours until dinner. There, of course, would follow yet another tedious, humiliating conversation with someone who either wanted something or hoped to profit from his well-connected and now newly-wealthy family. Dinner was then always followed by retiring for the night, and as it was considered gravely rude to visit after dusk, he would likely not see his fiancé or his friends for the rest of the day.

He managed to fit in a few board games with Arthur and Marta over the next few days, but until the wedding itself, he never got another chance to speak with Rohan. Two evenings before the dreaded day itself found him in Arthur’s room, the three of them seated on the immense canopied bed with a Barbarians and Soldiers board between them. Emerson had only two little blue soldiers left on the field, his sad little “army” flanked all sides by Marta’s yellow barbarians, while Arthur’s green thieves practically covered the remaining spaces of the board. Emerson was so bad at Barbarians and Soldiers that he’d frequently pair up with Mack, and together the two of them could at least hold their own against the other two. But without Mack, his strategic efforts proved even worse than usual, and he was contemplating suggesting a game of cards to spare himself the humiliation of being beaten so swiftly, when Marta suddenly said something that made him completely forget about the game.

“Oh,” she said, looking up from the board, “Miranda Ellsing and Kara Marpulin have arrived.”

Arthur looked up as well, his normally vaguely soft violet eyes sharpening.

“Great,” said Emerson, rolling his eyes. “This whole farce wouldn’t be complete with those two showing up to taunt me.”

“Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself, Remy. This isn’t about you. This is about getting revenge for Mack’s sake.”

Both he and Arthur looked at her, Arthur sitting up from where he was lying down on the mattress beside the game board.

Marta smirked. “I knew that would get your attention.”

Emerson frowned. “Yeah, and? How are we going to do that?”

“You aren’t going to do anything, Remy. You’re no good for this; you’re clumsy as an ox, and you can’t go two feet without someone recognizing you.”

“Harsh but true,” Arthur quipped, beaming when Emerson shot him a glare.

“Now, this is the plan.” She scooted closer towards the both of them, tucking her skirt up under her legs. “I’ve already let slip to my maid here that Kara and Miranda both have contracted a venereal disease called hypostymotosis. It’s a wart that emits this sort of squishy, yellowish pus when it bursts.”

Emerson just stared at his friend.

“That’s disgusting,” he said after a moment.

“It is,” Arthur agreed, but he was grinning.

Marta grinned back. “It’ll be all over the servants’ hall by now. The others will be asking the maids assigned to look after those two witches if it’s true. And that’s where Arthur and I come in.”

She slid off the bed then, going over towards a basket she’d brought with her, reaching inside and pulling out two little cloth satchels, each tied with a reed ribbon.

“Here,” she said, handing two to Arthur. “That one’s yours. Open it up.”

Emerson watched as he did, frowning as it revealed dozens of tiny little yellow fruits. He never seen them before, but one thing was for sure: they smelled awful.

“Pummel fruit,” Marta explained. “If you crush them together, they’ll form a nice creamy paste. All we have to do is sneak into their rooms at night and smear those into their underwear. The maids who come to take the washing in the morning will find it, and the rumors will be confirmed. By noon tomorrow, the whole household will know about it, and by the day of the wedding, all the guests will know. And not a soul will dance with them, since as everyone knows, hypostymotosis causes infertility, plus those nasty warts can be easily spread to one’s sexual partners. And they itch like crazy, too.”

“You’re insane,” Emerson said after a moment. He felt breathless with awe-at the sheer audacity of the plan.

“An insane genius,” he finished.

“I’ll take Kara,” Arthur said. “Everyone says she dropped the melon on Mack’s head.”

Marta, still glowing over Emerson’s stunned comment, nodded in approval. “Make the witch suffer, Arthur. Then I’ll take Miranda. I may add a little brambleberry juice. The third and final stage of the disease is a bloody discharge.”

“Martella Savignon,” Emerson said, looking steadily at his friend. “You are an insane and evil genius. And right now, I’m so in love with you, I could kiss you.”

When Marta just smiled and blushed, he immediately recalled Rohan telling him once that he thought Marta might actually have a crush on him. But before he could feel stupid for what he just said, Arthur suddenly wrapped his arms around her and said, simply, “I’ll do it,” and pressed silly loud kisses all over her face until she laughed so hard she started yelling at him to stop, or else risk prematurely crushing their berries.

That night, Emerson went to bed equal parts excited and nervous-excited about his friends’ plans, but nervous that they would get caught while sneaking into Kara and Miranda’s bedchambers. Marta had assured him, however, that all would be well; she’d obtained (i.e. “stolen”) some clothing from the servants’ communal spare linen closet, so if either girl woke up, she or Arthur could simple pass themselves off as someone come to stoke the fire up a bit. As the nights were getting progressively colder, this was an entirely believable excuse, and would probably not even be necessary. Nobody really notices servants, after all, Marta pointed out. Except Mack, Arthur had quipped. Emerson had rolled his eyes.

The day before the wedding was a blur. There was the final fitting for his wedding clothes, during which he had to convince the seamstress for the millionth time that he did NOT want a wedding train for his ceremonial gahi. He was already going to feel self-conscious enough, trussed up in these ridiculously fine and frilly wedding things while Rohan beside him would be dressed in his usual (albeit nicest) sensible merchant’s pants, boots, and jacket. The seamstress had assured him that if anyone was to be looked down upon, it was his commoner fiancé, for the wedding clothes would make the difference in rank between them visibly apparent to all. To prevent himself from choking the woman with her own threads, Emerson decided to simply use the religion card and attempt to persuade her that his austere fashion senses were due to piety and not mere modesty.

“I pray to Anren every day,” he said, affecting a serious look. “I know he would look down upon me were I to flaunt my riches in such a manner.”

The seamstress looked immediately chastened, not to mention in awe, as it was rare for a member of the aristocracy to claim such devotion towards the god of paupers.

“Yes, of course, chi-hata,” she agreed, bowing her head and apparently agreeing to drop the subject of the frilly gahi train once and for all. Emerson just rolled his eyes and, for the hell of it, sent a quick prayer of thanks to Anren.

The rest of the day moved rapidly, daylight shifting quickly to evening, with dinner being even more tedious and difficult to navigate than usual. He was so tired by the end of it that he wasn’t quite sure if he really did tell Lord Aubrey that hunting was a barbaric sport and that the man sat his horse like a great big basket of compost heap on the back of a quivering ass. As he fell face first into his pillow that night, he thought perhaps he’d really said the first part, maybe, but that he’d thankfully kept the second to himself. A small consolation, since Aubrey was a renowned huntsman, and probably would have no interest in any of Rohan’s little projects now that he’d been so roundly insulted by the man’s future ninny of a husband. Well, Aubrey could go **** himself, he thought with a drowsy sigh. With his horse, for all he cared...

He had only a few hours’ sleep, his head still slightly dizzy with wine, when the servants ushered him awake again. He almost fell asleep in the bath, the warm water doing nothing to revive him, but the realization that in a couple hours he would soon be legally bound to Rohan O’Corrain seemed to do the trick. From there on out, he was a nervous wreck, fussing at the servants for pulling at his hair, tripping over his khami, and almost spilling orange juice onto his richly embroidered gahi. Marta came in at some point, herself trailed by a maid who kept trying to braid her hair for her, presumably to keep him company and settle any pre-wedding jitters.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” he snapped. “It’s a political wedding. I don’t have any pre-wedding jitters!”

“Then what about that kiss?” his friend persisted, finally offering to stand still so her maid could attend to her hair.

“COULD WE NOT TALK ABOUT THAT?” he said, his face blooming red from exasperation. “There was no kiss!!”

“Almost-kiss then. Fine! What do you want to talk about?”

“Kara and Miranda. Does everyone know about their hypostemo … whatever?” He raised his arms obligingly, so a servant could tie the gold satin sash around the top of his khami, the silk sides of the khami pants folding over a bit, his embroidered undershirt already tucked in, the beautiful gahi flowing down over and around it all.

Marta gave him a darting look, since they weren’t supposed to talk about THE PLAN in front of anyone-even servants.

“I was just curious,” he said, rolling his eyes at her paranoia. “If anyone had found out about it yet. Since, um, you know ... they’ve had it since this summer.”

Marta huffed. “Well, I heard two ladies whispering about something this morning over breakfast, and I could’ve sworn I heard their names. But I guess we won’t know until the wedding ball.

“This is hardly a proper topic for a young lord and lady,” said a gruff older servant. Emerson winced, feeling the metal prong of a hair ornament scrape against his scalp.

Marta smirked. “Well, Emerson becomes a man tonight, so it’ll be proper enough then.”

“Marta!!” he cried, but she skipped away, laughing, before he could pinch her arm or yank her hair the way she deserved it.

Once he was finished being primped, poked, and prodded, he was finally given leave to head down to the church. Most of the guests had walked, but the wedding party were to arrive by carriage. Marta told him that Rohan and his attendants and family were supposedly already there and waiting, as were the rest of the guests. She and Arthur were to ride with him, since they were his attendants, while his parents were to ride in the carriage that preceded his.

“It’s so embarrassing,” Emerson moaned, his hands over his face as they rode the short ride to the church. “A political marriage to another man!”

“Are you still going on about that?” Marta asked. “You’d rather be married to some fat and fertile noblewoman, is that it?”

“No,” he moaned.

“It isn’t a political marriage anymore,” Arthur said calmly, and he only smiled back at Emerson when Emerson lifted his head from his hands and stared at him.

“Whatever,” he finally managed to say. Which, he had to admit, was not exactly one of his all-time greatest comebacks.

“Emerson,” said Marta, moving swiftly to sit beside him. “Listen to me. You have got to understand something, once and for all. I’m tired of you being such an idiot about this.” She sounded so exasperated, he actually sat up a bit and stopped feeling sorry for himself for a moment.

“Look,” she continued. “You have to know that Rohan is in love with you. You have to.”

When he just stared at her like a guppy, she gave a little snort and took him by the shoulders, actually giving him a little shake. “But even more importantly, you have to admit that you’ve fallen in love with him yourself.”

At this point, however, the carriage pulled to a stop, a footman swinging the door open, unfolding the little steps, and holding a hand out expectantly, forcing Marta to turn away from him and descend first. Arthur stepped out next, then finally Emerson, his head buzzing with what his friend just told him. Even though, on some tiny, barely acknowledged level of his brain, he could admit that some of what she said was true. But it was too strange to acknowledge it aloud, to even meet her eyes as they all three made their way into the church. He paused to say a few obligatory things to his parents, his mother and father both offering him traditional marriage gifts, and he doing the same for them. Then they all fell aside, and Rohan came to stand beside him, his fiancé offering him his hand, Emerson laying his own over it without even thinking.

But I’m not the woman, he thought furiously, and after what Marta said to him in the carriage, he couldn’t even look at his fiancé without flushing deep red. This wasn’t my choice. I’m not in love with him. He swallowed, his fingers curling over Rohan’s hand. I’m not!

“Ready?” Rohan asked, his voice low.

Emerson did look at him then, saw the twinkle in his green eyes, saw how handsome he looked in his wedding clothes, his hair swept back, tied back but low with a dark ribbon, not high like Emerson’s and the other surrounding nobles.

“Yes,” he said.

And then the doors opened, and the music began to play