The Sun's Origins

I sit on the balcony, embroidering a throw pillow to send to my cousin, Johanna. She’s just been married, but only to a Baron, and so it is customary for me to send gifts such as this to show both my affection and charity. I never was very good at embroidery, as I become easily distracted, so I allow myself to count the stitches to keep from losing my place. Each number coincides with my life, in some way. 
One husband. 
Two children. 
Three pregnancies. 
Four younger siblings. 
Five nieces and nephews. 
Six horses in our stables. 
Seven years wed. 
Eight handmaids readying rooms.
Nine guests coming to dinner this evening. 
Ten fine gowns to choose from. 
Eleven scars collected over the span of my marriage. 
Twelve other duchesses to hide them from.
Why must other nobles insist upon being so nosy? The last thing I want or need is for a cluster of gossiping hens to notice a flaw on me. 
            My ears perk up at the sound of an infant’s distant cries, and I attempt to ignore them as they grow closer; it can’t be that time of day already. A knock at the door confirms my fear, and I sigh exasperatedly before I set my sewing aside, stand, and smooth my skirts. 
            “You may come in.” 
            Emily enters, a young maid whom I’ve hired for the nursery. In her arms is Viola, the second child I grew unwillingly. She wriggles and wails, her lace cap going crooked as she thrashes her tiny purple fists. Emily looks nervous, as she usually does. 
            “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. Lord Crowe’s orders, and it’s three o’clock already. She’s in a bit of a mood today, the poor dear…” 
            She launches into an explanation of what could be causing the babe discomfort, but I am only half listening. Instead, I am dreading the moment when she’ll hand her over to my care. I must steel myself so that I don’t noticeably grimace. 
            My husband, the Duke of Sussex, had not noticed my disdain for the children, his children, for quite some time. I never considered them to be my own, rather a product of unwanted advances, as well as parasites keeping me tethered to my marriage, and so had resolved to just hire a wet nurse and never deal with them. The Duke was gone for such long periods of time that it worked for a while, until Leopold was three years and Viola was three months. That was five months previously, when the doctor mentioned my “attitude” to the Duke. He decided it was necessary that I spend an hour with both of them daily, to learn love for them as I had done with him. 
            Except that I most definitely had not learned love for him. Nor did I ever for the children. 
            Emily hands me the infant. 
            “Would you like me to stay this time, Miss? Or…” she looks uncertain and worried; she loves this child, though I do not, and does not trust me alone with her. Leopold’s nurse is much the same way, though I don’t understand why. I’ve never harmed the children, nor do I wish harm upon them. 
            “No.” I say sternly. “That will be all, Emily. Send Greta with Leopold in one hour.” 
            She curtsies quickly and scurries from the room. The moment she is gone, Viola stops her crying. She gazes at me intently, as I hold her at arm’s length. Her stare has always been unsettling when no one else is around, almost accusatory in a way. She gurgles, and I cringe at the noise. I sit in a cushioned chair with her in my arms, like an anchor to my ship. 
            The hour with Viola is long, but the hour with Leopold feels longer. He talks now, and asks too many questions. Often he slips and calls his nurse “mumma”, as she glances nervously at me to see if I noticed. I have, but I do not show it. I must have the nurse accompany Leopold, as I simply cannot handle him by myself. He has an inherent need to pull on my skirts and smile up at me with the Duke’s dimples. I can’t bring myself to smile back. He looks just like his father, all dark curls and grey eyes. 
            The moment the clock strikes 5:00, I rise from my seat with haste. 
“Thank you, Greta. That will be all for today, I must get ready for dinner this evening. Important guests, you know.” 
Greta curtsies and collects Leopold in her arms. He looks at me with disinterest, then flashes a winning smile at her with his little fangs. For a moment I am glad, because he seems to have become much more attached to her than to myself. It is in everyone’s best interest. 
Once Greta has gone, my own handmaidens make themselves busy, readying me for this evening. They’ve chosen the luxurious deep crimson gown, and dress my hair accordingly. The necklace that is strung around my neck is from the Duke, a choker of pearls and diamonds. It is impossibly tight around my throat, a reminder of his forceful hold on me. 
The guests begin arriving as I descend the stairs, each of them looking neat and radiant. One steps out from the throng, a vision in violet pleats. She opens her arms in cheer. 
“Catherine, darling! It’s been ages, dear, how have you been?”        
It is Victoria, Countess of the Cotswold region. She and I grew up together, and her sisterly love for me always took second to the importance of her social standings. To put it bluntly, the woman lives for gossip. I feign a smile and move forward to hastily embrace her shoulders and kiss the air above her high cheekbones. 
“Victoria, I have been lovely, and how are you?” 
Conversation continues this rehearsed way for a couple of hours as we adjourn to the parlour. Finally, the Duke enters at last. He is dressed in all his usual finery, showing off as he normally does. He tells the party that he is glad for our company, and that he is ready for dinner. 
We make our way to the dining hall, and sit around the table accordingly. I am at the Duke’s left, as usual. I keep myself from correcting a wrinkle in the emerald green table dressings. The meal goes well enough, until the subject matter switches to children. 
 I have not been paying much attention to anything besides my soup, and didn’t hear that Victoria has asked when we will have another child. She repeats her question for me, and I blush, feeling quite foolish. 
“I’m quite sure that… that is to say… I think that Lord Crowe and I... I don’t know.” 
My answer trails off in a bit of a mumble, and the table is momentarily shrouded in a blanket of inelegance before the Duke begins to laugh loudly and heartily. 
“The poor dear has her hands so full with our two already, we must give her a break before the next one!” 
The table begins to chuckle lightheartedly with him, and the uncomfortable air passes. He puts his hand on mine under the table. It is not meant to be a loving gesture; he squeezes so hard that I feel my fingers may splinter. It is a warning to not embarrass him any further. 
Unfortunately, the topic of babies continues to hang over me like the blade of a guillotine. I am asked many questions about the children, and must invent generic answers and stories to tell. My tone is not light enough, my eyes do not sparkle with the joy of motherhood, and our company can most definitely tell that something is amiss. The Duke’s eyes slowly grow colder and colder as I struggle to maintain the illusion that I love my children. Eventually he gives me a look so scathing that I know I have failed and there is no way I will be safe from him tonight. I put my hand to my head and pretend as though I feel ill. 
“I’m terribly sorry, my dears, but I seem to have become rather unwell. I’m afraid I must leave your company this evening, for fear I may worsen.” I rise from the table and nod my head at my peers. They send a chorus of good nights my way, and I make my way back to my bed chamber hastily. 
I have no intention of going to bed and making myself easy prey. I change into my simplest black dress quickly, as well as my riding boots, and pack a bag of a few essentials. I do not leave so much as a note, but grab my riding cloak and quickly make my way to the stables from the back staircase. 
Cannon, my Friesian mount, is snuffling around in the hay in his stall. He perks up when he sees me, and I pat his nose. I saddle him quickly, and mount him with little difficulty. I then pull up my cloak hood and set off at a trot, away from the manor. 
My plan is simple: I will head for our Summer home in Kingsdown. Once there, I will find a way to live separately from the Duke. The most likely way is to go to court, in London. He cannot touch me there. I will be safe among the other high borns. 
I ride for what seems like hours, thinking only of what lay ahead. The forest path that I follow is dark and unfriendly, twisting and turning about in strange ways, gnarled and unkempt tree branches lurching forward in the wind. Cannon begins to slow down, and I squint to see what causes him pause. 
Up ahead there is a fork in the road. I know it well, as I have traveled the way back and forth to Kingsdown from Eastbourne many times now. Always, we have taken the left, but now there is no road in that direction. The mouth of a lake is there instead. Water laps at the shore like greedy tongues, and Cannon stops completely a good ten yards from it. I struggle to remember where the road on the right goes, and squint in its direction. It looks as though a merry fire is burning in the distance, perhaps at an inn? A flash of color dashes at the corner of my eye, and I turn to see what the cause of it is. There is only a large bird with red feathers roosting on one of the low hanging branches. It looks at me as a starving man would look at a steak, and it makes me want to squirm. 
I decide to take the risk, and go down the road to the right. 
I ride for a long time, and the temperature goes from chilled night air to pleasant, to warm, to toasty. The fire seems like it’s getting closer, but not fast enough. I hear a shriek behind me and realize that the large bird is swooping in, talons extended, to grab me. I spur Cannon into a gallop as the heat rises and becomes increasingly unbearable. Cannon begins to foam at the mouth as he breaks into such a swift sprint that his hooves barely touch the ground. I can hear the feathers of the bird’s wings ripping through the air as it hurtles towards me, and I realize that the fire is closer now than I previously thought. 
It’s not, I realize, the fire at an inn. It is a wild, burning blaze that is devouring everything in its path. Cannon cannot slow down fast enough, though I try to get him to do so by yanking on his reins. He bucks, throwing me from the saddle. 
For a moment I am airborne, completely weightless. The flames lick at the space in front of me, curving like fingers beckoning me to them. The talons of the bird sink deep into my shoulders, and we both plummet into the inferno as one. 
Category:Fiction