Brute, p.3
Brute, page 3
Though much shorter than him Louis kept up with his long strides, his friend's breath hitching beside him.
“Ready?”
Narcisse was sure Louis was talking about the ceremony until his eyes found the town square. Why wasn't there another way there? He had never seen the streets as busy as they were at this very moment. Narcisse faltered, realizing that nearly the whole town had come out to wish him well, before squaring his shoulders and adding a slight pep to his step.
“No,” he ground out through his clenched teeth, nodding at the first group of people who approached him. It seemed he would never get used to such attention.
Each and every villager who had come out followed him, chattering and cheering at his side, only stopping when he reached the gated yard of Bluebell’s cottage.
Louis stopped when they were finally out of earshot peering behind them at the crowd that still gathered at the gate. “That was. . .overwhelming,” he grimaced.
Narcisse nodded slowly. “It was definitely something.” A hard laugh rumbled in his chest, and he clasped his friend's shoulder.
“Narcisse?” Louis cocked a brow, gazing up quizzically at his friend.
“Who would have thought the town were going to be so supportive of a marriage to a woman they criticize so!” Shaking his head, Narcisse marched toward the back of the farm to the large oak that loomed in the distance. Louis jogged after him, puffing between his words.
“It's because they admire you. You could marry a horse and they would celebrate for days.”
“Even so! She will become an honored member of society in no time.” No more books. No more libraries. There will be no reason for others to ridicule her. Cooking and cleaning. A wife.
Pastor Dorian was waiting by the base of the tree when they arrived, his hands clasped loosely before him. “Narcisse,” he nodded, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“Pastor Dorian,” he nodded in return, ignoring the disapproval on the older man's face. It seemed not everyone in this town wanted to kiss Narcisse's boots.
The day was quite warm, without a single cloud in the sky. Minutes passed in awkward silence. Narcisse stood below low-hanging branches, Louis fidgeting at his side. He scanned the space around them, trying in vain to keep his eyes from the house, waiting impatiently for Bluebell and Jacques to emerge. Candlelit lanterns of various colors hung from the branches and wildflowers were scattered along the base of the oak. They stood on a dark cowhide rug, the pastor in front of him with a bible in his hands. It wasn't the extravagant wedding he had hoped for, in the aged church on the other side of the village, but it was elegant besides its simplicity. Despite Bluebell being so against planning, she had insisted that no one touch the tree. He was impressed at what she had done.
He heard the back door click; the sound as intense as a round fired from his rifle. He straightened, stiff as a rod as he clasped his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his breeches. With her arm tucked securely in the crook of his elbow, Jacques lead Bluebell from the house in a slow, agonizing walk. Narcisse’s heart thundered, echoing loudly in his ears, and drowning out all other noise. He held his breath, counting each step Bluebell took toward him, releasing it only when she stood before him.
“Whoa,” Louis whispered beside him.
Whoa, indeed. Narcisse could do nothing but stare. She wore a simple silk gown, soft and white as freshly fallen snow, that flowed over her body like water and pooled at her feet. The detailed lace veil obscured her face and draped down the back of her dress, trailing behind her over the leaf speckled ground.
Perfection. The world around him disappeared, and he could see nothing but the woman who came to a stop before him. The glow of her snow-white gown in the morning sun blinded him to all else, like a pair of glittering angel wings.
Narcisse could do nothing but stare. He gulped as he found her eyes behind the veil.
“Hold hands, if you please.” Pastor Dorian's request snapped Narcisse from his reverie.
He held his hands before him, palms up, thankful though surprised when she placed hers in his. Narcisse's breath caught as he felt her soft skin against the calluses on his fingers. Her grip was strong and steady, much more so than Narcisse's. He cringed at the sweat that pooled on his palms but was grateful that Bluebell was either too nervous or polite to react.
Their ceremony was much shorter than most ceremonies, but Narcisse had designed it that way. Although Bluebell was here, although she had agreed to this, there was that small voice in the back of his head that told him she would run. He tightened his hands slightly, as if that would keep her from changing her mind.
He was so lost in thoughts of her leaving that he barely registered her words.
“I do.” Her voice was hollow, as if she no longer remained in her body.
Narcisse’s heart was loud in his ears when the pastor proclaimed, “I now pronounce you husband and wife—”
He had barely given the man time to finish before Narcisse greedily lifted Bluebell's veil. He had expected to find her glowering at him. Instead, he found her wide-eyed, her mouth open in a soft ‘oh’ of surprise. Her milky skin was flushed, her breathing labored. He reached out to touch her cheek and she flinched. He smiled at her softly and gave her one small peck on her temple when the pastor deemed it time to kiss his fiery bride.
“That wasn't so bad, was it?” His smile vanished when her eyes turned icy once more and she narrowed them at him.
Bluebell made to leave the moment the ceremony was over, but Narcisse moved in front of her path. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I have a headache. I'd like to lie down for a bit.” Her words were clipped, her eyes flashing as she watched him, waiting for him to step aside.
“How terrible,” Narcisse frowned. “Allow me to have the horse and cart prepared.”
Bluebell halted. “Is that not father's cart?”
He had indeed had a newly acquired cart brought to his new father-in-law's home yesterday evening, a part of the deal he had struck with Bluebell.
“It is, but I don't want my wife to walk so far when she has a headache. I will return his horse tomorrow.”
“And the cart?” Her eyes narrowed.
Narcisse shook his head in wonder. “It is his, after all. And I do have a cart of my own, I don't need two.”
Bluebell stalked off toward her father without another word. Narcisse watched her as she threw her arms around Jacques and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
“I don't get women.” Louis appeared beside him.
“Does anyone?” Narcisse crossed his arms, the muscles straining against his jacket.
They watched Bluebell in silence, until she stomped back toward them. They both dropped their gaze, neither one wanting to brave the hardness in her eyes.
Bluebell walked right by them, not even pausing to stop when she spoke. “Let's go,” she called over her shoulder.
Narcisse didn't move. “The horse is not ready.”
Bluebell huffed and spun to face him. “I can walk.”
“What of your headache?”
“I'm fine.” She continued down the hill, glancing back once to see if he followed.
“Wish me luck,” Narcisse muttered to Louis before rushing after his bride.
“Slow down,” he called. His long legs struggled to keep up with her persistent gait.
Bluebell tipped her head back, sighing dramatically, as she slowed to match his pace. But then she stopped completely, and he was all but ready to chastise her for playing games with him until he saw why she didn't want to go any further. The town's people were still gathered outside the gate, waiting for Narcisse and his new bride to make an appearance. He came forward, leaving Bluebell behind, giving her the time she needed to gather some courage. He stopped before the gate, giving a feral grin to all who had gathered. They cheered loudly, throwing their hands in the air.
“Narcisse! Did she run?” a man called out.
Narcisse glared at the man, and he shrunk back into the crowd. Suddenly the voices died down, leaving a thick silence. Bluebell came from behind the house, sidling up beside Narcisse. The smile she gave them was strained, and it looked as though she would be sick. He grinned triumphantly as he watched her assess the crowd. She’s mine now.
“Thank you,” he yelled over the din. “My wife and I are humbled that you have all gathered here to wish us well.” The crowd hooted and cheered once more, their voices ringing out around him. “If you would excuse us, we would like to go home and calm ourselves after such a wonderful ceremony. We will ready ourselves and join you all at the tavern for dinner.”
Narcisse could feel his wife seething beside him. He refused to look, refused to acknowledge the fury that simmered in her eyes. Instead, he grabbed Bluebell's hand and said his farewells to the townsfolk, pushing through them toward his cottage. He grimaced as he waited for her to tear her hand away but breathed a sigh of relief when her hand tightened in his. Most people left quickly, running ahead to the tavern, but some followed the couple, chattering away with Narcisse as far as the town center, until finally leaving them to join the others in early celebrations.
When they were finally alone Bluebell released his hand so she could cross her arms. “The tavern?” she hissed.
“Yes. The townies weren't permitted to come to our wedding, so I planned a celebration with them later at the tavern.”
She halted but Narcisse continued toward his cottage, not bothering to see if she would follow. After a few moments she ran after him, appearing at his side once more. “The town has snubbed me since I was a girl, why would I want to celebrate anything with them?”
“Nonsense,” Narcisse held his front gate open for her. “They didn't snub you; they were just afraid.”
“Afraid of what? A girl?”
“Your intelligence and independence, I would say. Most women know to obey and follow orders.”
“I'm not most women.” She glared.
“Oh, I know,” Narcisse grinned. “But that may change.”
Bluebell bared her teeth in a terrifying grin. “We’ll see.”
Narcisse paused, watching her, and the way she watched him right back had his heart leaping into his throat. He pulled the rusted iron key from his front pocket, unlocking the heavy front door before he replied. “Is that a challenge?”
Bluebell gave Narcisse no further reply, pushing past him and stopped in the kitchen. She looked around, and Narcisse suddenly felt stripped bare as she scrutinized all that he had. Her eyes wandered from the kitchen to the parlor, where she frowned at the thick wooden pillars that held his roof up and acted as a dividing wall between the two rooms. Her eyes stopped at the unlit fireplace in the parlor.
Finally she spoke, her voice soft, her eyes trained on the hearth. “You find marrying me some sort of challenge?” She didn't move, as if afraid to step any further inside. “How do you plan on “winning” this challenge? Do you plan on changing me, making me into the perfect wife by forcing me to act and behave in a certain way?”
Narcisse shucked off his hunting jacket, hanging it on a hook by the front door. “I don't see anything wrong with helping you better fit into society.” He shrugged. “This town is very small-minded and only accepts people who act as they deem fit. Do you not wish to fit in? To find companionship with the other women?”
Bluebell finally turned to face Narcisse, her eyes softer than before. “No, Narcisse, I don’t wish to become friends with anyone who doesn't like me the way I am. So what if I like to read, or like to be my own independent human and not follow men around like a lost puppy? I won't change for anyone.”
Narcisse narrowed his eyes slightly. How was he going to rein in his strong-headed wife? It was going to be a hell of a lot harder than he first thought.
“Will you punish me if I don't conform?” Her words were an angry whisper.
Narcisse blinked slowly, not quite certain how she got that idea. In fact, he was even a little offended by her accusation.
“No.” His words were clipped. “I witnessed too much of that from my father to ever think of treating a woman like that, let alone my own wife.” In the twenty-nine years he had been alive the thought had never even crossed his mind. The way his father had spoken to his mother, belittled her time and time again, was burned into the back of his mind. As a child he would cry at the yelling, at the hollowness in his mother's eyes.
Sure, he got angry often and had the urge to fight other men, often entertaining tavern-goers with the brawls he initiated. But he was far from the brute most thought him to be. He furrowed his brows as he moved her aside and filled a pot with water. He sucked in a deep breath, clearing the weight from his chest.
He looked over his shoulder at his wife. She hadn't moved, hadn't spoken.
“Tea?” he asked gruffly as he lit the stove and placed the pot over the flame.
She inclined her head, sliding into a chair at the table, eyes downcast. She eyed the bowl of apples that sat in the center and then reached for one. “I'm sorry.” She breathed on the apple, wiping it on her silk dress before taking a tentative bite. “I didn't . . . I didn’t mean to suggest you would hurt me, or any other woman. I was angry. and I spoke without thinking. Please forgive me.”
He sat across from her and watched her take another bite, a drop of juice spilling from the apple and dripping down her chin. “You don’t need to fear me, or this marriage.”
She remained silent as she wiped her hand across her chin, her eyes focused on some spot on the table.
“Give it time,” he reached across the table and grabbed her free hand, squeezing it tentatively. “You'll see I'm not the worst husband.”
Bluebell finally looked up at Narcisse, her eyes filled with a sadness that had his breath catching painfully in his throat. Surely I'm not that bad?
“We'll see,” she repeated her earlier statement before releasing his hand and gesturing to the pot of water that was near to boiling over on the stove.
Narcisse could feel her eyes on him as he busied himself with the tea.
He placed a steaming mug in front of her before she finally spoke again. “I'm not going.”
He had beside her with his own tea steeping in his hands. “Hmm?” He took a tentative sip, watching her over the rim of the mug.
“To the tavern,” she clarified. “I'm not going to the tavern with you.”
Narcisse sat his mug on the battered wood table before answering. “Yes, you are.”
“No” she crossed her arms, the silk of her dress rustling. “I'm not.”
“Why not?” Narcisse’s grip on his mug tightened, the scalding heat a calming pressure on his palms.
“I can think of far better things than being stuck in a room full of people that do nothing but whisper and call me names behind my back. I'd rather stay here and read by the fire.”
Narcisse wrinkled his nose slightly. He was annoyed by her refusal to join him. But could he truly blame her? She was right about them, after all. And forcing her to go with him would only make it more difficult to win her over. “Fair enough,” he exhaled through his teeth. “I'll tell them you fell ill from the excitement of today, but thank them for their well wishes.”
“They’ve never wished me well, so why does it matter? Tell them what you wish.” He watched as she pursed her lips to blow on the hot tea, before taking a sip.
“I haven't prepared anything for dinner. I had planned for us to eat there.”
She lifted a single shoulder. “I'm not hungry.”
“You will be in a few hours.” Perhaps his first task to win her heart was to bring her back some hot food from the tavern?
“Just light the fire, bring me a blanket and a book, and I'll be happy.”
So, he did just that. When he set out for the tavern his new wife was curled up on his favorite chair beside the fire, with a blanket draped over her lap and a book in her hands.
He could hear the music before he reached the steps up to the tavern; the organ and violins filtered through the open windows, followed by the loud voices of his neighbors.
Their voices were a mix of various stages of drunk, and they belted out words to a song he had heard inside this tavern many a time before. The lyrics were almost unintelligible thanks to the hours of drinking they had entertained themselves with before he had arrived. Narcisse pushed through the door, the cacophony simmering to a quiet din as everyone turned to stare at him.
“Narcisse!” the crowd cheered.
He faltered just inside the door, looking around. Then a brilliant smile, one that wasn't forced, spread across his face. So many people had come out to celebrate his new marriage, and they cheered further when he continued inside. The room was a buzz with mixed conversation and shouted excitement that grew the further into the room he swaggered. The alcohol had been flowing for some time apparently and each person who approached him slurred as they spoke, the breath that washed over his face reeking of whiskey and gin.
“About time,” Louis shouted above the din, gesturing for Narcisse to join him.
He grinned and nodded at each person who stopped him, prying their hands from his coat. “It's been quite eventful,” Louis spoke as Narcisse reached his friend's side.
“It didn't take long for them to consume all the alcohol in the tavern.” Narcisse arched a thick brow.
“Well, when I told them you were going to pick up the tab, they went a little overboard.”
Narcisse paused, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at his friend, who sat at their usual table. “You what?”
Louis's grin faltered at the anger that no doubt flashed momentarily in Narcisse's eyes, but then the smile returned. “You said you wanted the town to know you were still thinking of them after your wife refused to have them at the ceremony.”
Narcisse inwardly applauded the way his friend thought sometimes, but by the way people yelled and swayed and the number of empty tankards strewn all over the tavern he already would have to front a lot of gold. By the time the night was over he was going to have an empty coin pouch.
