Rose Brandon- Her Mother's Daughter.

Chapter 1

In this story, Charles Brandon lives till 1595
1549 I am my mothers daughter. I have always been told that, angrily by my father, wistfully by my grandfather. I have her face, her temperament, her intellect. My father hates that about me. He despises any mention of my mother. She died 8 years ago, when I was 4 years old. I can remember her very well, her slim, laughing figure, and her sparkling blue eyes.
"You are my favourite, Rosie. Ignore your father." She would say to me after my father yelled at me. She would hold me tight, and come and sleep in my bed, whispering to me in the darkness. She was very young, only about 18, always laughing, spinning round and round. Apart from when she was with my father. She hated him just as much as he did her. Today is my birthday, my 12th Birthday. Would she have been proud of me? A messenger came to the door of my chambers, breaking me out of my thoughts.
"The Duke of Suffolk orders your presence in his chambers." I nodded and put the book I was reading down. I walked to my fathers chambers and prepared myself for a telling-off. I knocked.
"Come in." He shouted, in his deep voice. I went in and curtsied deeply.
"Father." I said, surveying him, sat in an armchair.
"Daughter." He rose and kissed the top of my head. "12 today, I believe?"
"Yes, sir." I said. He reached into his pocket and brought out an envelope and a velvet box. He handed them both to me.
"Your mother wrote this to you when you were almost 4 years old. She hid it amongst her possessions. After her death, I searched her possessions and found this. It says on the envelope to give it to you on your 12th birthday. I have no desire to know what nonsense your mother wrote to you so I have not looked at it." I fingered the letter; I couldn't wait to find out what my mother had wrote to me. I looked at the jewellery box.
"What is this, sir?"
"A present from me to you. Now leave me." He snapped. I curtsied and walked out. I went back to my chambers. Collapsing onto my comfy reading armchair, I opened the jewellery box and saw an emerald pendant, in the shape of a teardrop. It was hanging off a silver chain. I snorted; yet another meaningless jewel gifted to me by my father. I put it aside and opened the envelope. I looked at the note, and saw it was written in black ink, in a fine Italian hand.
Dearest Daughter, my sweet Rose,
You are twelve years old now, my darling. Whilst I write this letter, you are playing with a doll on the mat, any studying your father has ordered you to do abandoned on the carpet- at my request! I love you so much, my sweet.
You are my daughter, my favourite. I am so proud of how intelligent you are, how beautiful you are. Even if your father is not, I am. Walk around with the knowledge that your mother loves you and is so proud of you. Walk with your head held high; you are the granddaughter of a princess, and the great-granddaughter of a King. A Howard, more than a Brandon.
12 years old today, you are at marriageable age. I know your father will marry you off to the highest bidder, and, I know I will not be there to prevent it. I have consumption, angel, and my time is running out. That is why I've written you this letter. Whoever you are married to, whether they be young or old, handsome or homely, you must never ever become a slave for them. You are a woman, not a slave.
My paper is running out, you are on my knee right now, cuddling up close. What are you writing Mama, you ask. Something for when you are older, sweetheart, I say; you pout and say you want it now. But you are in no need of it now, you know your mother adores you. But, I know that by the time you are reading, I am gone.
I love you so much. I am so proud of you.
Remember, you are my daughter. Your mothers daughter. Your future is unwritten; know your rights.
Your adoring mother,
Cecilia Howard
I wiped away a tear. I smiled and put the letter away, the memory of the smiling, dancing woman, spinning around in my brain.
But married- I had not thought about the fact that I was now of marriageable age. I did not want to be married- I wanted to be free. But, if I was not married, I would not be free from my fathers smacks and yells.
MarjorieTrevejo CarmenAlvarado229