Word Count = 502 + title and signature ; I wrote it
for the First/Last category but it turns out to fit
several others, notably Edge and Period.  


Copyright 2004 by asparkle2 at yahoo dot com.  All rights 
reserved (except for SSC stuff).

To My Family
=====by sparkle=====

"I'll be back."

I inwardly shuddered.  "I expect so," I answered 
eventually.

"You'll be ready."

It wasn't a question.  It never was.  As Mother 
says, it is a man's privilege and duty to impose as 
he deems appropriate in his wife's bedchamber.

Despite Mother's explanations, I didn't expect 
this.  After all, the maids express sunny smiles 
after sneaking off into the cellars with a footman.  
They go willingly, eagerly.  I wish because they 
are from the poor classes, but I know otherwise.  
Duty doesn't make the Duchess of Argyll glow during 
her morning ride  I can hardly sit a chair.  
Neither does Lady Brentwood show evidence of 
suffering after enduring the marital bed long 
enough to birth six children.

You know I want children.  Vehemently, I swore to 
endure if it meant a baby.  After all, Mother 
instructed me to accommodate Abernathy if I ever 
wanted one.

So I prepared.  Rather morosely, I waited.  And 
waited.  And waited.  An eternity that night  dear 
God, I thought, what is he planning?

And then he was there, in my chamber, a place meant 
to be my sanctuary. 

He stepped beside me, bent over the foot of the 
bed.  One hand came down on my back, pressing me 
down.  With a sick feeling, I tried desperately not 
to tense.  The bruises were always worse when I 
stiffened.

I cried out only because it was the leather strop, 
something meant for recalcitrant boys at Eton 
wearing trousers.  I knew screaming did no good, 
but it bit deeply into my bare buttocks with the 
precision and harshness of a military company on 
its relentless march toward battle.

How women endure long marriages is beyond me.  
Sensible, informed women with the luxury of choice 
ought accept only very older men.

He paused, and as always, demanded, "Who owns you?"

The words could have come from any anonymous man 
pulled from the street, I realized.  I felt nothing 
but despair.  Not that it mattered, for my answer 
was one second too slow.  The strop landed, 
repeatedly and rapidly, across my thighs.  

Between my helpless screams, I squeaked out, "You-
you-you do."

Abruptly he stopped, grunted his approval, turned 
around and left.

It is a ritual I have borne for five eternal years.

Awkwardly, painfully, I rose and hobbled across the 
room to my escritoire.  My fingers fumbled with the 
center drawer, pulling it open.  Three months, I 
decided grimly.  In three months we would have been 
married five years.  If I was not pregnant by 
then...

My fingers reached out and touched the cold metal.  
The pistol winked in the dull lantern light, 
mocking me.  I shuddered.

Let there be a child, I begged God, before I must 
decide which one of us will survive this marriage.

Tonight is the fifth anniversary of my anguish.  I 
sent the staff off before Abernathy came to me.  As 
you are reading this, you know his fate and 
understand that removing myself posthaste to Italy 
was necessary.  

Please forgive my desperation.  

Forever fondly,

sparkle