Soulmate Stories

“How did you arrive, my dear?” 

I am sitting in the same room that now has been lit with so many candles it feels like the middle of the afternoon. The lord's orders, his party has joined him in the room and four or five men are milling about hunting for invisible non-existent threats. His page stands a few steps away grey powdered wig threaded with so many ribbons it looks almost like a nest of hummingbirds have decided to take residence in the man's hair. He would be entirely dismissable yet when looking into his eyes a keen, calculating intelligence shines through.

He has been staring at me since he entered the room and learned who I was. I try not to glance at him. The rest are routiers with their long blades and leather overclothes. Lord D’Armagnac stands behind me. His large hand resting with surety on my shoulder, thumb rubbing comforting circles into my skin. 

I have not moved since I revealed the mark, instead others have moved for me. A servant bringing a cup of water which the lord did not permit me to drink. Despite my dry lips and soft pleas. Instead once his retinue entered he had one of them pass me their water pouch. I greedily swallowed half of it but none made comment. 

A fur has been draped over my legs one from the bed, making my legs feel soft and warm. Lord D’Armagnac has not left my side either looming over one shoulder or the other for the hour duration we have stayed here. 

At first I do not hear his words, the rush of people and things from the event having thoroughly exhausted me. It is not until I feel a squeeze from his hand do I realise what he has said. 

“My lord, I arrived by couch.” 

One dark eyebrow raises on his forehead. “My men did not find any couch that might be governed under your family.” 

I glance down, letting my fingers run softly along the little threads of warmth from the blanket covering my lap. “No, my lord, I did not bring out the couch. It was hired.” 

There is no sound of startlement or surprise; he just seems to let his hand rest more heavily upon my shoulder. Almost pressing me down into the chair I am sitting in.  

His voice when he speaks carries a note of disapproval however and my back stiffens at the sound of his voice like I am a child getting a scolding. “That was foolish of you, this was foolish of you, why did you not approach me during visiting hours?” 

I licked my lips trying to find the words to explain the frantic panic I have felt since I realised who my father has chosen as my sister's husband.  “My lord, I am not of the right blood to request a visit.” 

He lets out a little sigh as if contemplating the statement. “I suppose there is truth in that. Still, a woman of your breeding should know better.” 

My back straightens a little the pride I feel for my courage flaring up. “My lord, I had no choice, the wedding is so soon, and I have heard you were planning on leaving the country. I could not wait.” 

His thumb on the skin of my upper arm stills, pressing down instead until I feel the first vestige of pain. I try to move away, shifting and flinching as I might but his hand does not allow any give. Finally, when the skin is starting to burn he relents running his thumb softly over the area until it is once again smooth. “Who told you that?” 

“Gossip my lord.” I reply meekly. 

He finally removes his hand from my shoulder, smoothing over the fabric of my dress sleeves as he does so. Shifting with grace until he stands in front of me looking down at me. He reaches his hand out and without asking I hand him the blanket in my lap, which he neatly folds on the bed next to us. 

With quick movements he is bending down and before I can protest softly kisses my forehead. His lips are plush and dry. He raises without comment offering me his hand which I take gingerly. Disgust coils through me at the affection gesture. Made worse by the bored look on the great lord's face, as if he is just going through the motions. 

We walk out of the establishment as such my arm clutched in his, his party trailing behind us and in front. A wall of muscle and men between us and the world. The establishment has been cleared and we pass no one, not even the ladies of the house as we exit the building. Even the ground floor is clear, Joseph’s chair is left vacant and I wonder where they have all gone off to. 

His carriage is already waiting for us as we exit through the back entrance. The alleyway is dark and vacant despite the sound of loud revalories so close by. Four horses standing around the carriage and an outguard ensuring we are left alone. We get in and with a tap of his cane the carriage begins to move. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the party following is given horses and joining the rest of our convoy. 

We do not speak, I do not even ask where we are going. Lord D’Armagnac does not make conversation either, glancing out the window a contemplative expression on his face. 

 Passing by flickering torches and loud laughter until we reach the cloistered homes of the lesser nobility. As we approach the townhouses he finally glances at me, seeming to examine me carefully. I shift uncomfortably at his sharp gaze but hold my expression not willing to relent that as well.

“You're not as pretty as I expected.” 

I breathe in sharply not letting the insult piece through my skin. Instead like all comments about my appearance I sniff slightly the haughty expression learned from my mother. “You're not as intelligent as I was told.” 

His eyes narrow as if insulted but as I begin to shift again becoming visibly nervous he lets out a bark of a laugh leaning his head back and his eyes turn a little less cold and a little more amused. “So there is some fight, I was getting worried.” 

I sniff again, my face still a hard mask. I have given up too much to play some game with him tonight. “I barged in on you.” My voice is steady, no note of nervous straining in the sound despite how I feel. 

He lowers his eyebrows, his dark eyes turning almost sensual examining me with a different look in his eyes. Gooseflesh breaks out across my neck and a faint blush colours my cheeks so unused to such attention. 

“So you did, I might need to curb that rash nature of yours.” He licks his lips, the motion drawing my eye and forcing me to focus on how stark his pink tongue looks against his red lips. The blush creeps even more thoroughly across my neck. “Rash tongue too.” 

I glanced up at him startled out of my focus on his physical majesty, my face turning cold once again. “Well, my lord, it is not like I asked for you either.” The pained edge I have been trying to keep out of my voice this entire time is clear and I know he can hear it.

He makes no comment however, glancing out the window as the carriage begins to slow a bitter expression crawling over his face. Darkening it until his looks rather than entice me, revolt me.

“Fate is a cruel mistress, girl, to have given you to me. I will take care of you, as best I can, I won’t bother you much, you're not exactly appealing to my appetites.” I almost flinched, insulted despite myself.  “But you shall bear my children, you're the only one who can, you shall be my wife.” For a second he pauses, looking almost unsure. Hesitant. He does not glance at me at all now, just stares resolutely out the window. “I am, I am sorry.” 

I look him full in the face, my eyes more alert than I think I have ever had them. Studying every contrast but the coldness has returned and I can gleam nothing from his mind. 

 When we reach my home, I see no lights in the windows. A startled sense of relief comes over me that I will not have to deal with questions tonight. 

That fades however when I see Lord D’Armagnac getting up and slipping out of the couch. His arm offered before me. Numbly I take his hand quietly stepping out of the extravagant couch. 

Four great horses neighing and stomping around us.

He guides me to the front door, half dragging me as we go. His knock on the door is not gentle nor is it polite. I know it has woken half the house. For a few minutes we stood there. He was straight backed and tall, his head held high and me dejected and slumped over. Ignoring years of etiquette training with the exhaustion I am feeling weighing heavy on my bones. 

He knocks again hard and fast. 

It does not take long until we can hear a commotion inside servants' waking and raised voices. One of the windows lights up a moment later and a curtain in it is pushed aside. I cannot see who is glancing out at us.I know that whoever it may be will be in a state of surprised shock. 

There are footsteps pounding against the wooden floors even through the door but neither of us moves. His grip on my arm was strong and unyielding. 

When the door does finally open it is Samathna’s face peering out at us. My maids pale freckled cheeks masked in the cool deference she is so good at painting her face in. She bows deep and low, full curtsy. Her voice is raspy and fully awake, she must have been waiting up on me. 

“My lady. My lord?” 

She has even changed into her best nightclothes. Guilt turning a little in my stomach and knowing she was concerned enough to wait up on me. 

The great lord only gives her a brief glance, eyes cold. “Get me you master, girl.” 

Samantha glances at me out of the corner of her eye but does not dither otherwise curtsying low one more time and then making her way into my family's town house. Our one footman appeared in her place mere moments after she left bowing as deeply as she did. Matilda, my sisters lady maid moving around behind him lighting our candles. 

“My lord. My master seeks for you to reveal your intentions at coming at such a late hour. George didn't even glance at me as he spoke. Ignoring my presence almost entirely. Not until he turned to me fully. 

“And how did you come to be an acquaintance of our lady?” His eyes a watery blue, hiding his thoughts. 

Lord D’Armagnac patted my hand gently turning to face me, his eyes softening and a little smile on his lips. “That is not a story for stoops, now take me to your master, I have a request of him, and will reveal all in the process.” 

George's eyes lighting with that particular gleam that means he has found a truly fascinating piece of gossip bows again retreating back into the house. Lord D’Armagnac does not peer away from my face and I turn it slightly as if to hide it from him. He allows none of that however his hand reaches up, turning my face and my blushing cheeks his way. Letting his thumb stoke the skin softly. Almost as if in a trance. 

“Good Sir!” It is my father’s voice that snaps us both out of the strange air that has overtaken us. The anger in it clear, my father must not have been informed of particularly who this visitor is. “The impropriety, you should be ashamed of yourself!” 

We both turn to face him, the great lord's hand falling from my cheek to my hand. My father marching toward us with an wrathful look on his face almost missing a step at seeing just who is at our door. Correction himself a moment later but with the insulated airs of a man who knows others have seen him wrong. Running one hand strictly down his frock and the other coming up to adjust his night cap. 

His wiry frame turned the motion into one of a mouse before a cat. Once he realises what he was doing he drops his hands from himself as if burned instead balling them up behind him. Effecting as regal an air as he might try to acquire. 

He stands where George stands bowing almost as low as him, his leg extended. For one long moment Lord D’Armagnac does not give him leave to rise. Just watch him squirm and I realise that this lording of his power is something he must commonly do. 

When he does give my father permission to stand it is with the dismissive voice of a gambler with a harlot he has grown bored with. 

My father blushing slightly at the insult, does not comment on the man’s rudeness standing to his height puny before the great lord. 

“My lord, what may be so urgent as to seek my family's presence so late in the evening?” 

My father does not even glance at me but unlike Goerge this feels far more insulting. Still I am used to it and I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth. Lord D’Armagnac however, seeming to pick up on my discontent lets his thumb start to rub a little circles on my palm. The gesture helped me to relax.

“Did your man not inform you of what I have said?” He peers down his nose at my father, entirely dismissive. 

“Yes, my lord of course, come in, come in, please forgive our lack of hospitality. We simply did not expect your arrival.” My father lets himself stand back waving his hand as if to offer the great lord our house. 

He does not glance at my father again, instead turning his eyes forward as he forcefully guides me through the entrance way and into the hallway light with a few candles that cast long shadows over the floral wallpaper. 

The hallway is small and I have to almost press myself into the side of him as he leaves my father behind, almost seeming to know where all the rooms are before we even arrive in one. I can hear my father hurrying after us and the servants before us fluffing pillows and lighting candles. I think that is how Lord D’Armagnac finds the visiting room: the sound of the three servants in the house rustling around. 

The room is one the nicest in the house with all our best China and artwork on display. Our couches are even made of velvet. My mother, also in her evening clothes, is sitting primely on one of those fine seats. Sitting primely. 

Lord D’Armagnac places us in front of her, and my mother goes to join her so we are placed opposite and opposite each other in the room. The servants bowing low and departing a moment later as they light the last candle. The room is still cast in dark shadow despite their efforts. 

My mother gripping her hands together, white knuckled, the only sign of her displeasures keeps her eyes downcast which is proper.

“Please lord, inform us why you visit so late? Why is my daughter with you?” Her eyes glancing over to me are evident in them. My father however does not even glance at me instead continues to place all his attention on the great lord. Yet, there is a twitch of disgust not for the lord but me. I know that with every fibre of my being. My father is disgusted by me. 

I thought I was too exhausted to care, but I still can feel a burning in my stomach. Years of burning simply getting hotter and hotter as my father continues to ignore my existence. 

Lord D’Armaganc sits straight beside me, draping one arm around my waist, a break in decorum. My mothers knuckles become even tighter but neither comments on it. 

The weight of it is heavy and warm and has hand curling possessive in my side. Spalled across my stomach and raised gooseflesh wherever it touches. Be it from discomfort or awareness I couldn’t answer. Still, it causes me to stiffen and try to inch away but his arm is like a band of iron and I meekly consign myself to it once I realise he has no intention of releasing me from the uncomfortable position. 

“Is it your place to question me?” Both my parents look at him confused but he gives them no chance to respond. “It was your daughter who accosted me in the night. Your daughter who snuck from her bedchamber to one of the most dangerous parts of the city without a soul aware of her little misadventure.” 

His thumb starts making little circular motions again, this time on my waist. I think I can feel them even through my whale bone corset. It makes even more gooseflesh rise on my skin.

“Yet, I was the one to return her, little care you must have for your children.” For a moment Lord D’Armagnac lets his words hang in the air and then as if an after lets be disdainful. “Sir.” 

My father's lips quiver, his face as red as a tomato now but still my father does not comment instead bowing before this great lord half his body bent where he sits. 

“I deeply apologise, my lord, and ask for your charity of feeling in this matter.” His voice is strained but that is the only sign of his repressed anger. My mothers knuckles are becoming even whiter. 

Lord D’Armagnac peers down at my father with cold, blank eyes and then as if bored dismisses him from his sight glancing up to observe the room, with reproach. 

“Enough, you have my charity good sir, with a caveat.” 

“We are very poor my lord, I can not give you much.” My father’s voice is not even strained anymore, just cold and hard. The disgust now entirely forgotten in return for mounting rage. 

The great lord snorts as if amused by the thought, the sound harsh in the still air. “Worry not. I would want nothing of yours, but one thing. Now rise good sir.” 

My father does his back as straight as wall as he stares at Lord D’Armagnac. “My lord?” 

My mother glances between us with a sudden knowing look in her eyes and so goes very, very pale. Her knuckles as white as snow. But she doesn't speak a word. 

I glance at my father instead, not being able to bear looking at her. Something so very sad and defeated in my veins. My father however, doesn’t even glance my way. His eyes entirely focused on the man next to me. It is the longest period of time I have been with my father, I can’t help the bitterness adding to the already volatile cocktail of emotions in my mind. 

Burn, burn, burn that pit in my stomach goes. 

There is no pause, no hesitancy, the great lord does not even check to reconsider just forges on. 

“Your daughter, I wish for her.” 

My mother looks down her face with a delicate mask but her knuckles clenched so tightly now she might cut herself. My father however looks almost relieved. His anger hidden behind giddy excitement. His hands shook from the surprise. 

He still does not look at me. But his body tenses and he turns as if to look at me. 

His face swings from insult to jubilation in a parody of expressions. Still, he realised the opportunity to settle on polite deference. The colour however never leaves his cheek and I know he is biting down his anger. 

“My lord, you should have simply said so, I will get Alice now.” He moves to get up but Lord D’Armagnac amused voice halts him. 

“Alice? Ah the younger one, no you have me mistaken I meant your other daughter.” 

My mother makes no comment, just stares down at her lap. Staring down at dark hair. My father however must blink a few times as if to contemplate what the man has said. Then with an almost fall he lands softly on the couch. 

For the first time he seems to realise my presence in the room. Glancing at me briefly with this startled eyed look. “My daughter? You mean to take Elizebeth?” 

Then the startled look clears and his cheeks turn a little pink. “My lord, I would not permit my daughter to be a mistress.” His voice is almost pleading now, as if trying to make Lord D’Armagnac. 

For a brief moment a spark of something like fondness arises, at my father’s defence of me even half hearted as it was but then the hurt comes. The hurt is boiling over and I am glad no one has asked me to speak. I am sure if I would, tears would quickly follow. 

For the first time I was surprised by the great lord's smooth voice. So off balance by the question even he was taken off-guard. 

“Mistress? No you misunderstand me, I mean to take her for my wife.” 

My father for a long moment stares at the ducal heir in something bordering comprehension then as if a candle lick is set a flame his face brightens even more, almost grinning in something approaching joy. The anger is completely gone now. 

The bit in my stomach grows hotter and hotter, until it feels like I am holding back a downpour of sobs. 

My mothers shoulders start to shake and even the servants freeze the room going so still, it is as if it was a painting. I hold my breath feeling tense and sad and angry all at once. Then with a grin splitting his face my father continues. The first one to gain back his senses. 

“My lord, we would be glad to give her to you in matrimony. When shall you like the wedding?” 

His voice has the slithering quality to it now he sometimes gets. I let out the breath I am holding in the whoosh of air dispensing all my anger and just leaving this black hole in my chest instead. 

The great lord pulls me close, his arm forcing me over until I am flush against his side. His warmth makes me blush even further. His thumb is still in motion. I breathe in sharply and try to lean away but he doesn't allow me to escape just pressing more strongly. I wiggle a little but I'm too tired to really resist and slump into his embrace a second later.

“I will plan that, just know that I wish for her to be more securely kept than before, if need be I will send some men to guard her while I make adequate preparations. Is that of agreeable nature to you?” 

My father grin dims a little but he nods his head almost to quickly looking like a slobbering dog. 

“It shall be done, my lord. And we need no men, do not concern yourself with such, she shall be under lock and key until the wedding, you have my assurance.” 

I do react to my fathers words. Just let them flow over as the rain might flow over a sheep's coat. Staring down at where Lord D’Armagnac is wrapped tightly around my middle. Watching his wrist muscles flex. 

He does not smile, this lord of mine at the news except for a small indulgent one. “Perfect. You will hear from me in the coming days.” 

He gives me one more tight squeeze around my middle. With a flourish he lets his tall frame bend, gracing me with another chaste kiss on my head. I keep it bowed just staring at my hands as my mother does. Watching the knuckles turn paler and paler as I squeeze harder and harder. 

He is gone a moment later leaving the house as he came, a storm of fine furs, and silken coats fluttering as he walks out the entrance. My father sees him out all smiles, and generous bows. My mother however stays in the room with me. We can hear their voices speaking softly down the hall but neither of us go to listen. 

Instead my mother stands straightening to her full height, her willowy body one tall reed. Swaying toward me and joining me on my couch across from her. 

For a long moment we do not speak, just let the sound of the candle fluttering about break up the silence of the room. When she does her voice is steady and measured. Controlled. Her body however is on the very edge of the couch, she looks as if she will fall with the slightest tap. Or spring from the cushions as a blue jay might take off out the window. 

“Why did you do this?” 

I don’t look up at her too ashamed to meet her eyes. Instead I stare down at my white knuckles feeling the encroaching pain. 

“Alice. I can’t, I couldn’t, I am sorry mama, she deserves better.” 

For a moment again there is silence, thick and heavy, then there is the rustling of clothes and my mothers arms are hugging me. I sit stiff in them, tense. 

“Sweet girl.” Her voice is still steady but it is far less controlled, the edge of grief bordering it. “So do you.” She is steady and strong but I can feel her hands shaking, quivering as they grip me as tight as she can. As if any second I will be ripped from her arms and she will never see me again. 

My shoulders start to shake. I can't help it, the motion unavoidable. I am crying, thick wet tears, a runny nose, ugly crying. Sobbing loudly and with these great big heaving movements. I fall into her arms letting their warmth surround me. 

“I'm so sorry, I didn’t want this, there was no choice, I… oh god, what have I done.” 

She did not speak then just rocked me back and forth. Back and forth the motion is familiar and yet so distant. I am a child again, skirts dirty and muddied, a scraped knee and my mother holding me. Rocking me back and forth, back and forth in that soft voice of hers. Letting the sound carry across the meadow. Where the sun shone bright and the trees swayed with a thousand shades of green. The smell of violets, pasty patches of green smeared into her skirts where I clung to her with my grabby grass stained hands. Her eyes are full of light, beaming with a thousand disparate beautiful, wonderful fantastical thoughts. The sun was shining on her face. 

“I know, I know dear. I love you. Cry, then sleep you will need it.” Her hands are steadied now, her voice no longer shakes. She is clutching onto me holding me as tight as she can. 

I am soaking her night shift fabric becoming wet as my tears drain into it. “But father. He must have noticed that I snuck out. He will be angry.” 

She tenses a little, for a moment as I look at her I can see fear in her face. The raw terror that he brings. Marrying her features into something meek and disgusting. Her hands gripping me tighter. As if reminder herself that I am still in them. The fear clears and she shushes me. The sound gentle. “I will deal with him, cry, cry sweet girl. Get it out now, you will need to be strong.” 

She kissed my forehead lightly, against the crown. The feeling of it soaking through me from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. Warming me with a little fire that blooms in my chest and bade’s away the dark. 

So I do, I wail and sob and scream into her night clothes letting all of it out. Until it feels like I am dry inside and even still I cry. 

And all along she holds me warm and strong and sad. Her hands quivering, the tiniest bit. Clutching onto me with everything she has. But making no other sound.

I love her for it, I love her so much I don’t think I could ever love anyone else ever again as strongly. 

Even as I watch her little brows furrowed with grief, the crows feet stand a testament to it. A little light in her eyes. The last flickering embers of a candle. Dark and deep and so complex to my own watery blue. There are universes in those eyes. I watch them. And I love her.

Because she allows me to cry.