Yours Truly (Petekey)

III.

Written by HellaBrendon

Michael James Way.

It is not without anguish that I get up this morning because as the days go by and the sun rises once again, the birthday ball draws closer. Surely father does not mean for me to find a bride within a week of my birthday? If his only concern is grandchildren, I do not understand why I must marry in such haste. Gerard and Lindsey have been married for quite some time now – why they do not have children of their own, I do not know.

Children never liked me much, anyway. I don't take it personally, the feeling is more or less mutual. In fact, I dare think that if I had a smudge of a choice in the matter I'd live the rest of my days the way father is living his now: quite alone. That is the way one will end up anyway, regardless of whom you marry or when you marry or if you marry at all.

I do not see the point in marriage, quite frankly, my father could have dozens upon dozens of grandchildren following the logic that I am not uncappable of undoing my trousers without being married. Why, if father really was that desperate for an heir, I'm sure I could spend a little time today creating six or seven. In fact – if it was quite so dire, father could create some for himself.

Is the need to marry and procreate so dire? So dire as to force me, the anti-social son, the son without an inkling of social etiquette, the son with only one pair of shoes, to marry? So dire as to force me to marry a young lady for whom I have no appetite and in whom I see no appeal? For a moment, I waste time thinking about what it might be like not to live in this house. Not to live with this man. Not to live with this name.

What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. The Way name is quite a burden for I would rather work fields than marry a woman. Her name yet undiscovered, I can be almost certain there is no way I will remember it. No way I shall call her anything other than 'wife'. No doubt I shall hate how that word sounds in my mouth and hate the way it tastes.

There is no doubt in the mind of a developed being that forced marriages are not as good as those of choice. How many aristocratic marriages do you know that are all but unhappy? I know not any marriage that is anything but unhappy – tight lips and thin smiles cannot deceive those with minds like mine.

It dawns on me that I am late – that I have remained in my bed sheets for too long and that I will keep father waiting for a moment too long if I do not force myself through the anguish of getting dressed. I dress so fast I can hardly remember whether or not I have worn appropriate undergarments and on the trip down the stairs I realize that I have, indeed, worn the appropriate undergarments. But in my haste, have put them on backwards.

It is uncomfortable and the staircase further aggravates the situation, but the single moment in which my brain compares the minor discomfort of my undergarments to the reaction of my father of being kept waiting, is all it takes to convince me I can change it in a spare second after breakfast.

Once I am seated at the table, I pull the handwritten note out of my pocket. A small thank you note with my signature for the maid who served our coffee yesterday at breakfast. I can no longer remember her name or shade of skin but logic tells me that when breakfast is served and Maria arrives, I can pass the letter to her in the highest hope she may know the girl and might thank her for me.

I wonder, for just a moment, whether I could marry Maria. At least she is a woman I know and trust. It is difficult to trust a woman, especially those that my father suggests as wives. With fair skin and deep eyes but shallow minds, it is hard to imagine having much intellectual conversation. A high social status and a wealthy name does not an intellectual make.