Chapter 5

The bleak morning light seeped through the curtains as Cerys woke, her eyes puffy and red from the tears of the night before. The emotional storm had left her exhausted, yet sleep brought little relief. It was the sound of laughter and conversation from downstairs that eventually pulled her from the hollow embrace of her bed. A strange, almost festive noise that seemed cruelly out of place given the turmoil inside her.

Dragging herself to the window, Cerys peeked through the curtains. The front of the house was bustling unusually. Servants moved back and forth, carrying crates and packages inside—gifts that bore the elaborate seal of Count Wellington. Each parcel, no doubt, contained luxuries meant to sweeten the bitter pill of the arranged marriage looming over her.

The sight of these gifts, tokens of a transaction to which she was the central but unwilling commodity, was a grotesque reminder of her situation. Her parents' voices floated up from below, their tones bright and filled with a sickening gratitude. They lauded the generosity of the Count, their words dripping with relief and satisfaction, utterly disconnected from the emotional cost to their daughter.

Feeling a surge of anger, Cerys tore herself away from the window. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye—pale, with haunted eyes that seemed too large for her face. "Is this what I've become?" she muttered to herself, a ghost in her own life.

The reality of her parents celebrating downstairs, while she mourned upstairs, encapsulated the chasm between them. They were selling her future for their comfort, and they did so with smiles on their faces. The realisation was suffocating, and for a moment, Cerys felt a desperate, wild urge to run, to escape the mansion and its gilded cages.

As Cerys descended the last few steps, her parents turned to greet her, their expressions carefully arranged into masks of warmth and welcome. It was a performance honed by years of high-society life, where appearances often mattered more than truth.

"Cerys, darling, good morning!" her mother exclaimed, her voice a chirpy facsimile of affection. Her father, slightly more restrained, offered her a nod and a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good morning," Cerys replied, her tone neutral, her face betraying none of the turmoil that churned within her.

Her mother clasped her hands together, glancing briefly at the array of gifts that now cluttered the hallway. "Such generosity from the Count! He has sent over the most exquisite gifts. It's all quite overwhelming, isn't it?"

Cerys merely nodded, her gaze flicking over the ornate packages with a dispassionate eye. Each one felt like a chain, a golden shackle to bind her to a future she had not chosen.

Her mother seemed oblivious to her discomfort, or perhaps chose to ignore it. "Now, Cerys, there's to be a social gathering this afternoon at the Bellingham’s estate. It's a perfect opportunity for you to meet some of the Count’s close associates. They're very eager to meet you."

The words were like a cold draft in the warmth of the morning sun, and Cerys felt a familiar pang of resentment. She was to be displayed, vetted by those whose opinions would shore up her suitability for a marriage she had never wanted.

"Mother, I—" Cerys began, but her mother cut her off with a practiced wave of her hand.

"Darling, please. It’s important that you make a good impression. These gatherings, they're not just pleasantries; they're where futures are made. And your future, well, it's very bright indeed thanks to the Count."

The implication was clear, and her mother’s words, ‘be good and obedient,’ hung unsaid but heavily in the air. The directive to get ready and present herself as the dutiful daughter was delivered with a smile that chilled Cerys to the bone.

Cerys felt a surge of defiance, but she held it back, recognizing the futility of arguing in that moment. Instead, she nodded, a non-committal gesture that served as her temporary surrender.

"Very well, Mother. I'll prepare for the gathering," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.

As she turned to ascend the stairs to her room, her mother's satisfied nod followed her departure. Each step felt heavy, a deliberate march toward a battlefield where the weapons were words and appearances, and every smile could conceal a dagger.

In the solitude of her room, Cerys allowed herself a moment to breathe, to gather the shards of her composure. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, practicing her smile, adjusting her posture, ensuring that every external detail was perfect, even as her inner world remained in tumult.

As Cerys prepared for the social gathering, her maid brought in the dresses sent over by Count Wellington. They were luxurious by any standard, crafted from the finest silks and adorned with an array of lace and jewels. However, the styles were outdated, and the embellishments were overdone to the point of gaudiness. Each dress seemed more like a costume than a fashion statement, heavy and cumbersome, designed more to display wealth than taste.

Cerys sighed as she fingered the fabric of one particularly ostentatious gown. It was a deep maroon with gold embroidery that covered nearly every inch of the bodice, the skirt ballooning out in a mass of ruffles and lace. The dress was not just unattractive in her eyes; it felt like a reminder of the marriage being forced upon her—oppressive, suffocating, and crafted according to someone else's desires.

"Miss, shall I help you into this one?" the maid asked, holding up the gown with a look that suggested she shared Cerys's low opinion of the selection.

Cerys paused, her gaze moving from the dress to her own reflection in the mirror. The thought of presenting herself in such attire, knowing it was chosen by the Count to display his wealth rather than to honour her tastes or personality, was disheartening. Yet, she knew that wearing the dress might play a strategic part in maintaining appearances.

"Yes, let's try that one," Cerys finally said, her voice resigned. As the maid helped her into the gown, Cerys felt the weight of the fabric, as heavy as the burden she carried in her heart.

Once dressed, Cerys examined herself in the mirror. The gown did nothing to flatter her; if anything, it made her feel like a doll, dressed up for display. The realisation stung, reinforcing the commodification of her very being in this arranged marriage. Yet, beneath the weight of the layers and jewels, a defiant spark kindled within her.

"Thank you, that will be all," she told the maid, who gave a nod before exiting the room.

Left alone, Cerys practised moving in the gown, acclimating herself to its heft and the way it restricted her steps. She rehearsed her expressions too, aiming for a look of gracious acceptance, a mask to wear over any show of reluctance or distaste.