The Remarried

Chapter three

"We are meeting your new family today," Ms. Bonham informs me the next morning.

"We?" I raise my brows. "Haven't you met them already?"

"I have," she nods. "But I am your custodian. I'll oversee everything until your wedding."

"All right," I say. It's actually easier to have someone telling me what to do, at least now. It gives me more space for my own thoughts and plans.

"Please, pack all your things before we go. We won't be returning here. Your new home will be in Windsor."

I gasp. "You will let me live in his house? Before we get married?"

"This is a remarriage," Margaret reminds me with a condescending smile. "We don't need to fear any... misappropriations."

Of course we do not. I don't have any value now. Not before he gives it back to me.

When I descend the stairs, dressed in a light blue cashmere sweater and pastel pink skirt, my hair falling on my shoulders in wild cascades, Ms. Bonham gives me a borderline disapproving look. "You could have worn something... matching," she says.

"These were my only clean clothes," I reply calmly. "And before you ask about my hair, I don't have anything to fix it with, only a hairbrush."

She purses her lips and beckons the driver to take my bag. "I just wanted to say that you should try to make a good impression."

"Why? I thought he couldn't refuse anyway."

"Of course he can refuse," she frowns. "There would be sanctions, yes... but he does have a choice. You had it, too. Do I have to remind you of it, Miss Wellard?"

"No, thank you. My memory is quite good, Ms. Bonham."

The driver opens the door for me. She stops me before I can get in the car. "One more thing. It will be better if you call me Margaret," she says. "It won't attract attention if we go out in public."

"Which we will?"

"Most likely, yes."

"Very well. Margaret."

I sit in the black leather seat and the driver closes the door. When Margaret sits next to me, she is composed and calm as ever. So am I. I don't see her as my contender anymore. I have other enemies now, and I can't wait to meet them.

It takes us barely an hour to get to Windsor. I know that we are approaching my future home when we have to stop at a roadblock guarded by soldiers in black uniforms. The areas where politicians and other important people live are secluded like this, guarded by soldiers twenty-four seven. Nobody except the residents can enter the area without a special permission.

Which, as I find out, we have.

The car criss-crosses between mostly white houses half-hidden behind carefully painted fences. The gardens are an excess of wealth, hundreds of varieties of vegetables and flowers intertwined with crushed stone walkways just a shade larger than sand. There is a difference between these gardens and those I remember from our district in Nottingham. These gardens are not functional. There are no sandboxes nor swings for children, no piles of things that are not needed in the house, no machines for woodwork. These gardens are for display only.

Then the car stops, in front of another white house with a huge garden, seemingly no different from the others.

"We are here," Margaret announces and gives me her professional smile. "The Wintercourt Mansion."

***

In person, Senator Wintercourt looks even more imposing than on television. He is very tall and muscular, with broad shoulders, just the right way to make all his fancy suits justice. His hair is more tousled than would be acceptable during an official meeting, and combined with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt and the absence of tie it adds to the leaned back attitude he has. Like he is just another father meeting the fiancée of his son for the first time and doesn't want to frighten her by wearing a tuxedo at a table full of polished silverware.