The Proposal

Photo prompt: Sue Vincent


“You might as well open your eyes now.”

His gravely voice was somewhat amused but carried in it the edge of impatience she’d recognized from her own father. A dismissive tone that simultaneously mocked and tolerated females’ flair for the emotional while also warning said females to not mistake momentary patience for leniency.

Muriel swallowed any sign of sigh. Her body ached from three days rattling on wooden wheels over rocks and gravel and muddy ruts and unexpected pits. To make matters worse, the girl-servant who’d been her companion since childhood, hadn’t been allowed to accompany her, and the rough hands of service women who did not know her, had tied her stays too tight and left the knots digging at her ribs and the small of her back.

She’d closed her eyes in part to manage the ever present nausea of travel forced on her at the opposite direction of movement. However, a goodly bit of it was in order to allow herself at least a semblance of private space in the confines of the carriage. His eyes undressed her either way, but at least she could pretend to not see it.

Her time for privacy was up.

She forced her eyes open and nodded the politest smile she could manage at the man who would be her lord and father-in-law (and if his leering told her anything, also the master of her body, son or no son).

He scared her and his eyes were cruel, but she’d learned at a young age to hide revulsion under a lowering of lashes and to nod compliance as means to reduce inevitable harm.

“You are a girl-child, Muriel,” her mother would soothe and scold her as she gently rubbed salve onto what new welts and bruises another lashing had left on the child. “No matter what they do or ask of you, you must not disobey.”

And yet even her mother, the mistress of the manor, who embodied the balance of stately conduct and humility before her betters, sported the occasional split lip from her husband, Muriel’s father, along with other wounds in areas best left unmentioned. All a female could do was walk the tightrope in attempt to limit scope and frequency of pain.

Muriel raised her eyes to meet the heavy brow of the man who occupied the seat across from her. She calmed her voice so it not reflect her fretting mind.

“Have we almost arrived, My Lord?”

His eyes flicked to the window and she leaned to look through the opening, acutely aware that this brought her body perilously close to his lap.

The lake sprawled at the side of their conveyance, the water undulating lightly in the breeze as afternoon clouds gathered. Into it grew a spit of rock and on top it a castle, stout in stone and strong in somber presence. It was far larger than the house she’d left behind. Gloomier and more glorious, too.

She wondered how long it would be before she could once again see it from this or any vantage point. Some lords did not allow their women to leave their rooms, let alone the courtyard. Especially not the newly arrived, who might attempt to steal a path out of marriage by seeking the luring company of nymphs at the bottom of lakes.

She let her gaze linger on the castle before straightening.

“It is beautiful, My Lord,” she said.

His eyes narrowed then relaxed and she was glad she didn’t need to lie about it. He’d probably know if she had.

“Your new home,” he noted, almost kindly.

Her stomach lurched. Home or jail, there may not really be a difference. Still, as the carriage continued toward the future that this man had proposed and her father had accepted, she felt she may have passed some test that if she managed to maintain the credit of, could bring her — if not safety or protection — then perhaps a lesser measure of misery.




For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto challenge


26 thoughts on “The Proposal

    • Thanks, Crispina. Yes, a devastating reality of women’s history and for millions of women and girls in all too many places in the world an ongoing reality where it is not considered wrong, or at least not ‘culturally’ wrong, even if laws pay lipservice (that is not enforced) to saying that it is wrong.
      Women survive by dissociating. By squelching parts of themselves and deadening their lives into drudgery. Some find something to hold to in their children, in other women (if they are not too isolated) who perhaps provide some form of support if not consolation. Some don’t survive.
      That women had found the courage to even try and stand up to such overwhelming brutality against their self-worth as independent, equal human being, is a marvel to me. I am less surprised that (insecure) men fight tooth and nail to maintain their supposed superiority, than I am that women and girls tried – and in some places succeeded, in steep price for themselves – to shake off at least some of the yoke they were saddled with.
      Yet it remains a battle, and in many places even the first steps will require help from those of us who have more freedoms by now.
      Women and girls are still possessions in many places. They can be sold. They can be bartered. They have no rights. They have no recourse. They cannot vote. They cannot leave the house alone. They can be beaten and raped by their ‘guardians’ with impunity. In many ways, for many women, the reality in the story remains reality today.
      We have a lot more work to do, as human beings – women and men who care about girls and women – to change that.
      (Off the soapbox…)

      Liked by 2 people

    • I wholeheartedly agree that the world as a whole needs to learn to love and respect one another — and the one planet we all share.
      An excellent police detective I’d once given a deposition to in order to assist in a criminal case’s investigation once told me “the law doesn’t always mean justice.” He was lamenting the gap, and the good man made a sober point that stayed with me: We can do our best to change laws so they get as close as possible to justice. But it does not mean the same and often does not achieve the same, though that may well be the aim of some.

      Liked by 1 person

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