Rose Brandon- Her Mother's Daughter.

Chapter 3

3 days later /I was used to being alone. I'd been raised alone, everything I did, I did alone. I can remember several occasions of being dandled on the knee of the late King Henry. He used to call me his little niece, his sweet poppett, and told me I looked just like my mother. I adored him; I was devastated when he died.
I went for a walk in the gardens, strolling amongst the roses. I picked a blood red one, and sniffed it. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I turned around to see my father, his blue eyes glinting. I quickly dropped into a curtesy, holding my light grey skirts out.
"I wish for you to come to my study. We must have words." He turned on his heel, and I trailed behind him. He stalked into his study, and I shut the door behind me.
He sat behind his desk, and instructed me to sit before him. I did so, shaking slightly.
"You are to be married." He said coldly. A shiver ran down my spine.
"I will not." I whispered.
"You will. It is the The Duke of Northumberland. His wife recently died, and all of his children have been struck down by the plague. He needs a young wife who can give him heirs."
"My lord, please." I cried, falling to my knees. A small smile overtook his face.
"That is exactly the reaction your mother had when she was told she was to marry me." He told me. I ignored him and continued to plead.
"You are marrying him." He rose, and lifted up my chin. "You will be a duchess."
"I will not." I said, chin up. Why would I want to marry? I knew about the duke of Northumberland, 45 years old, the Kings advisor, the king in all but name,and very ambitious and cruel. Father hit me hard across the face, knocking me flat on the ground.
"Your wedding is next Tuesday. I will send some stylists to help you pick out a dress. I will be present though, I must make sure you pick something suitable. Leave me." I struggled up and walked out of the room. Married. I was going to be married. To a 45 year old man. In 4 days. I shuddered. I went and lay on my bed, refusing to let myself cry. I imagined my mother, and pictured what she'd tell me. I imagined her flipping her hair, standing up straight, and swearing she'd never surrender. I told myself to do that too.
2 days later.
It was the week of my wedding, it was the day after tommorow. I stood, whilst dressmakers took my measurements. My father sat, keeping a critical eye on me.
" I would like her to wear the purest white. With a silver belt, with diamonds hanging off of it. It must be low cut." He said sharply.
"Will it need long sleeves, sir?"
"It is winter, of course it will. The sleeves should be made out of velvet, and the dress silk. There should be thick silver embroidery on the bodice."
I shivered as I imagined myself in this dress, on my wedding night.