Page 50 of An Arranged Betrothal with a Contrite Duke
Lydia gave her sister a small smile.
“I suppose it could have been worse,” she said.
Deborah looked sadly at her sister.
“What will you do?” she asked.
Lydia shook her head.
“I do not know just yet,” she said. “I need to think about this for a little while.”
Deborah nodded.
“Do you want me to let you rest and then bring you some champagne in a little while?” she asked.
Lydia nodded. As much as she loved her sister, she needed to be alone right then.
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” she said. “Thank you, Sister.”
Debora nodded, giving Lydia a reassuring smile.
“Do not hesitate to call for me if you need anything else,” she said.
Lydia nodded again.
“Thank you,” she repeated.
Deborah wiped her face once more. Then, she set the cloth on Lydia’s bedside table and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. Lydia leaned her head back, staring up at the ceiling above the bed. Even after her father’s confession, she could still hardly believe what she had heard. She wanted to be understanding of her father’s plight with money, and why it had been easier on him to offer an artifact in place of a traditional dowry. But why had no one told her what was happening? And how could Michael have spent so much time feigning interest in her that he didn’t really feel?
She knew she wouldn’t sleep. So, a few moments after Deborah’s departure, she got up and began pacing the floor. Her head was beginning to throb, and she knew she would have to try again to lie down and keep a cool cloth on her eyes. But right then, she had a great deal on her mind. And she needed to try to sort through it. Perhaps, if she wrote it all down, it would help her at least a little.
An idea occurred to her right then. She wouldn’t see Michael. But she could write a letter to him. She didn’t feel that he exactly deserved an explanation for her lingering absence from the house they shared. But she also realized that she would likely never be returning, other than for the school. And she thought it was fitting if she let a letter inform her husband that she knew about his scheme, rather than telling him in person.
She hurried over to her desk, pleased to see that it was still stocked with stationery. She freshened her quill pen with ink, and began writing:
Dear Michael,
I struggle to find adequate words to express just how I feel right now. I trusted you, Michael. And I even thought that I loved you. And now, I know that none of it was real, and that you were making a fool of me all along.
I know what Father did with his Greek vase. And I know why he did it. What I don’t understand is how you could do such a thing to me. How could you think so little of me that you could trade my hand in marriage, my very life, for that of some painted clay? History is history… but that’s the trouble. It is in the past. You traded my future for an old piece of the past. And you couldn’t even be honest with me about the arrangement.
I was beginning to develop real, true feelings for you Michael. I even had the foolish belief that you might have feelings for me, as well. Now, I see that I couldn’t have been more mistaken. I can’t forgive you for this, Michael. Our marriage is over.
Lydia
With the letter finished, Lydia sat in her bedroom, clutching the skirt of her dress in her trembling hands. Her eyes were red and swollen, the result of her inconsolable tears. The room which had brought her comfort when she first returned to it after the news now felt like a prison, suffocating her with its opulent drapery and gilded furniture. With her thoughts out of her head, the weight of them finally settled on Lydia. And now that her decision had been made, the finality of it all renewed her tears. She closed her eyes and stayed like that- thinking- without even realising for how long.
The door creaked open, and Mary, her closest friend- whom Deborah had made sure to inform of the situation- entered hesitantly. She took one look at Lydia's tear-streaked face and immediately understood. Rushing to her side, she enveloped her in a warm embrace.
“Oh, Lydia!” she whispered, gently stroking her hair. "Your mother told me what’s happened. How could your father have been so deceitful?"
Lydia pulled away, her eyes shining with the remnants of her tears.
“I cannot believe it myself, Mary,” she said. “To think that my father would use me as a pawn for his own selfish gains... and to know that Michael only married me for this wretched vase on top of that is horrible.”
Her voice cracked, and Mary tightened her grip on her friend's hand. “Tell me what happened,” she urged gently.
Lydia took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. As with her mother and sister, she explained everything her father had told her. Mary’s mouth fell open and she shook her head, clearly in almost as much disbelief as Lydia herself was.
