Sage lapsed into a sullen silence, and Braelaura tapped her cheek. “Don’t pout. I can’t do this properly if you make such a face.”
She tried to relax her brow, but her thoughts made it impossible. Her uncle’s desire to have her settled and out of his hair would weigh heavily against his wanting to do right by her. He’d likely consent to the first man he thought wouldn’t mistreat her, but that wasn’t a recipe for happiness. Sage brooded as her aunt continued to apply creams and color to her face for what felt like an hour. At last she held up a hand mirror so Sage could see the result.
“There,” Braelaura said. “You look lovely.”
Sage stared at her reflection with morbid fascination. Not a freckle showed through the smooth ivory paint. Her lips were bloodred in striking contrast to her pallor, and her high cheekbones had an unnatural hint of pink. Violet powder on her eyelids made her gray eyes appear almost blue, which was probably the intention, but they were barely visible between her curled and blackened lashes.
“Is this what ladies at court look like every day?” she asked.
Her aunt rolled her eyes. “No, this is what a nobleman’s bride looks like. What do you think?”
Sage twisted her scarlet lips in distaste. “I think I know why Mother ran away.”
*
Sage struggled to balance in the ridiculously heeled shoes as they made their way from the washroom to the front of the house. At the porch steps, Sage positioned herself behind her aunt, eyes downcast and hands folded to display her painted nails. Villagers loitered in nearby doorways and gathered at windows to catch a glimpse of the newest bridal candidate, and Sage flushed under her makeup. Did they stare because they didn’t recognize her, or because they did?
Braelaura pulled the bell by the door, and a clang echoed through the streets, drawing even more attention. The matchmaker took almost a full minute to answer the door, and a trickle of nervous sweat ran down Sage’s back.
The door opened, and the matchmaker stood imperiously in the door frame. Darnessa Rodelle was a tall woman, nearly six feet, and her graying hair was bound in a tight knot on the back of her head. At fifty, she had the shape of a potato dumpling and the fleshy, flabby arms that bespoke a life of comfort and good food, but her mouth twisted like she smelled something offensive.
“Madam Rodelle, Mistress of the Human Heart,” said Braelaura, in what Sage assumed was some traditional greeting. “May I present my niece, in the hope your wisdom can find a husband to match her grace, wit, and beauty?”
Sage pulled her skirt away from her trembling knees and curtsied as low as she dared in the wretched shoes.
“You may, Lady Broadmoor,” the matchmaker replied with a grand sweep of her hand. “Bring the maiden forth so she may honor her family name.”
Sage rose and took a few steps forward. It felt like a play, with lines, positions, costumes—even an audience. A sick feeling began building in her stomach. None of this was real.
“Is marriage your wish, Sage Broadmoor?”
Sage flinched at the name change. “It is, mistress.”
“Then enter my home so I may learn your qualities.” The matchmaker stood aside to let Sage pass.
*
Sage caught one last glimpse of Aunt Braelaura before the door closed, cutting off shadows and blending them into the gloom of the parlor. A thick, braided rug dominated the floor, with a low tea table centered on it and an upholstered sofa to one side. Though little light passed through the heavy linen drapes, Sage was relieved they were drawn against prying eyes.
The matchmaker circled her slowly, looking up and down. Sage kept her focus on the floor. The silence became maddening. Had she forgotten something she was supposed to say? The skin under her corset itched as sweat soaked the fabric. Stupid, useless, nasty chamomile powder.
Finally the woman directed her to an uncomfortable wooden chair. Sage lowered herself onto its edge and spread her skirts in a fan around her. She tried rotating her bodice to provide some relief from the itchy sensations. It didn’t help.
Mistress Rodelle sat across from Sage on the wide couch and fixed her with a critical eye. “The duties of a nobleman’s wife are simple but all-consuming. She places herself first in his affections with her looks and pleasing manners…”
The phrasing annoyed Sage. As long as she was pretty and in a good mood, her husband would love her? People needed love most when they weren’t at their best. Sage blinked and refocused on the matchmaker, but the thought stuck in her mind like a thorn.
On and on the woman droned: she must be submissive; she must be obedient; she must be gracious; she must always agree with her husband. More about how she had to be what he wanted. The matchmaker leaned forward, tilting her head to look down her nose.
Abruptly she realized Mistress Rodelle had stopped speaking. Had she ended with a question? Sage answered with what she hoped the woman expected, question or no. “I am ready to be all this and more for my future husband.”
“The greatest desires of your lord…?”
“Become my own.” Sage’s responses had been drilled late into the night. It felt absurd, though, to make such a promise when she had no idea what this husband would want. Given the exaggerated claims this dress made about her figure, he was bound to be disappointed in at least one regard. The series of questions continued, and Sage’s memory easily supplied the answers. So little effort was required, in fact, that it began to feel silly. None of the answers were her own—they were just what the matchmaker wanted to hear. The same answers every girl gave. What was the point?
“Now, moving on,” the woman said, interrupting Sage’s thoughts. Her lips curled back in a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Let us talk about your more … intimate duties.”
Sage drew a deep breath. “I’ve been instructed in what to expect and how to … to respond.” She hoped that would be enough to satisfy her.
“And should your firstborn be only a daughter, what will you say when you place the child in his arms?”
Next time I will have the strength for a son was the answer, but Sage had seen women suffer difficult pregnancies. Even the best of them were sick in the beginning and massively uncomfortable at the end, and that was before the laboring began. The idea of doing all the work of bearing a baby only to apologize stirred a smoldering furnace within. The heat of her anger felt delicious, and she embraced it.
Sage raised her eyes. “I will say, ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’”
Mistress Rodelle pinched off what initially looked like a smile before settling into annoyed expectation. “And then?”
“I will wait for my husband to say she is almost as beautiful as me.”
Again the smothered smile. “Girls are useless to a lord. You must be prepared to apologize.”