Promises Unkept

A man of words.

The bells chimed out loud under the ajar, silver-blue sky of Hertfordshire, running along the grooves of the valleys and labyrinthine birch forest. Far away, robin sang and its echoes perforated through the peace of the day.

It was early April, new spring and honeysuckles were dotting the forest. The breezes were soft, supple and often had a slight citric essence of lemon grasses in it.

In the quiet, mellifluous mid-morning silence, the small church, standing in the abandoned periphery of the village was lit with post-winter sun.
Outside the churchyard, an almond tree was blooming estranged clusters of spring blossoms, white diminutive flowers hanging down the twigs in a lazy fashion.

And inside, there he stood. So young and unusual, like rain broken loose amidst blistering summer.

Lord Stephen Richard Adelwood_ that was his name, in his black tuxedo, a small round ring delicately placed in his hard, gentle palm.

He was the kind of man they idolized. They desired.

He had in him all they asked for. Hardly twenty seven, he had endoctrined so much of his reign, his own power and influence. Although a successor of great possessions, what he presently possessed was all his own, hard earned custody.

In London, he was renowned for his clever investments. In north, for his ingenious diplomacy over business around estate. His funding went so far as Americas, India and Africa. He was rich even before he was a man.

And man that he became_ he was spectacular. He was beautiful.

Tall and hard to overlook at assemblies, his dark eyes had a proclivity to grab attention with their stunning marsh-green shade. His hair was neither brown, nor blonde and it somewhere impeded between those two tints_ stuck in ambivalence as if, ever complementing his forest eyes.

Today, however_ as he stood solitary at the beautifully embosomed altar of the silent, little village church, his wisdom was failing him. His peace had long gone but now, he was having trouble even in keeping himself together.

His fingers coiled around the soft gold band in his hand, and his knuckles turned white.

He didn't even remember last when he had been this furious although his temper had always been a volatile one.

He was getting married. Today. To a girl he didn't know, didn't care to know and hell, didn't he wish to know her.

He was doing it solely for his old father.

From what he had been told, she was poor. Dejected and uncared for; she was living with her uncle in some remote, wrecked chalet across the village. He had not a trifling idea about how his father even found her in the first place, what the old man wanted, linking her with the family and how on earth was this prospect of marriage came in question.

When Stephan's reservation broke, he demanded it from Lord Adelwood to be informed everything this arrangement meant. But being his father, senior Lord Adelwood was way more stubborn with his silence than Stephen had ever known him to be.

So he redirected his fury at the other party.

At her scoundrel uncle and her.

At her, essentially.

He had started to hate her long before this day. His censure too was reasonable. When his father told him about the consent the girl had placed in this marriage, Stephen tried settling things in other ways.

He wrote to her. Told her unflatteringly straight forth that he didn't have the concurrence in this arrangement and if she would allow him, he could arrange for her a better suit. He sanctioned her a price too, not so much as to offend her but enough to help her out of her deficiencies.

And what did she do? Disregarded him. Still permitted this wedding.

How dare she?! How dare she?!

She never answered him and that led him into the profoundest impressions that she was after his assets.

The vixen!

The waiting air in the empty church grew tense as Stephen grimaced stiffly into the hallowed sunrays filtering through the glass panel of the domed roof above. The only other presence in the row was of his father, his father's butler and Stephen's own Steward.

A carrion crow boasted far out in the desolate churchyard.

Stephen stole a glance at his father and his heart twanged seeing how aged the wonderful man looked now. Then how could he rebel now? How could Stephen refuse his father the only order Lord Adelwood had ever bestowed on him?

He just couldn't.

He might not have been a saint but he sure was a son.

A commotion grew outside the church. The dreaded moment broke onto him; Stephen pressed his eyes shut and sighed. His head was throbbing already.

He stood straighter. Tall. Towering. Charismatic.

With a deep, thoughtful, listless frown arching his head. A ring in his palm.

Her name was Eden. Eden Henley.

The heavy door of the cathedral was pushed open with a loud, rumbling resonance and then, all went quiet.

When she came, she triggered an air with her. She changed something. And something changed.

That was her, beside her uncle_ her hand in the crook of his elbow. Slow. White. Placid.

She was the palest woman Stephen had ever set his eyes upon.
The gown that she wore was white, so was the bevy of roses she held delicately in her hand and yet....and yet, her color had little distinction from the fabric of the cheap silk she wore. She was pale like the roses.

Her hair, on the other hand, and her eyes were striking contrast to her ashen face. They were midnight black. They were darkest ebony against her ivory.

She was tall but slim. Too slim and so beyond any fashion he had known. Well, not beyond infact. Beneath.

And then, when she looked up, when her eyes met his like a swift, sudden calamity...Stephen thought he saw sadness.

Not sadness. Tragedies.

And not one....many.

But those were soon replaced by another light. She watched him with curiosity and another look he knew too well.

Admiration.

He averted his gaze almost instantly. His frown deepened. He told himself that it was not grief her eyes were betraying. It was pure, simple wretchedness. It was depravity. Dejection.

She was not beautiful to look at.

She was as unsightly to his eyes as could be. What inspired this thought to him, he didn't know. Perhaps his resentment. But this just was sure.

He didn't like her. Didn't want her. Could never love her.

He hated, hated her.

And as for contravening his peace, Stephen decided she was going to have hell to pay. He was going to make her life a breathing nightmare.

He was going to show her what his wrath compromised of.

He was a man of words.