Guava and Trail Mix
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: The Maiden Whitehall
Rating: G
Challenge: Guava #26: dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, Trail Mix #1: down the aisle, FOTD: parse
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 600
Summary: The marriage of Lord Edward Ashdown and Verity Whitehall: why it happened, what went wrong.
Notes: They’re disastrous, these two. Also, I met someone called Verity yesterday and her name made me like her more... Parse (transitive verb) 3-- to examine closely or analyse critically.
She looked absolutely radiant-why, of course she did. In the eyes of Verity Whitehall, there was no other way to be. Her sweet blonde hair was tied abundantly with daisies and pearls, and it swept down her back in a gorgeous tide of platinum gold. The dress she wore nearly blinded the room: whiter than ivory, than alabaster, whiter than a star in the night sky. It poured from her hips, swanned down her back: the dress seemed almost to have organically grown over her body, to have formed a beautiful shell of petals around her delicate frame.
Facing her husband-to-be, she smiled her slow, self-satisfied smile. One edge of her red lips moved up further than the other, and she knew that he noticed. The bishop spoke heavy, solemn words that did not resonate within the frivolous, blithe form of Verity Whitehall. She was being bound forever, yet she did not see it as such. She couldn’t.
Lord Ashdown looked even more immaculate than usual, which hardly seemed possible. His powdered wig had not a hair out of place, and the velvet of his jacket was a rich dark blue that seemed almost to glow, bathed in a silvery shine from the brilliant lights cascading through the large windows all around the chapel. Perhaps he could not be called handsome in the same way some of the valiant men that had fought for her hand could, but he had symmetrical features and a distinguished look to him.
If his aesthetics had not attracted her to him, then what had? Oh, do not underestimate the superficiality of Verity Whitehall: it was the money, of course. Lord Ashdown had heirlooms and mansions coming out of his ears, and not to mention immense wealth.
Not that Verity was in any better a position: Ashdown wasn’t the smitten man that she thought him to be. Aren’t you precious? he thought with the slightest of smirks as he regarded her perfect, doe-eyed face. Verity’s single positive feature was her impossible swan-like beauty. It wasn’t just the way she looked: it was her languid, swinging walk-the way her eyelids dropped just a fraction before she smiled. And those eyes! They were a molten honey colour, amber thawing into gold frosting into black, real heartbreaker’s eyes. But he knew her: you could not court a woman for a month or two without knowing her at least a little.
It had just been one of the many Games of Ashdown’s life. And with Games, it was about Winning. So many men had wept, had sweated, had bled for Verity Whitehall’s hand in marriage-and here he was, about to take it for his very own self. He was the Winner, as he was always destined to be. Her dozens of suitors were not happy about the match, but Ashdown didn’t give a damn: who cared about other people? Verity certainly didn’t-she had left behind her a trail of broken hearts and empty promises, of mistaken words and collided identity, all thrown back in the vastness of her own carelessness.
Did it really matter? In Ashdown’s opinion, it most certainly didn’t. He and his new wife would retreat into their immense wealth, into their family webs and their seaside manors, and all would be well, forever and ever, Amen.
Of course, that was the idea. The thing was that as they slipped rings onto each other’s fingers they felt too smug to feel any love. And that was why the marriage of Lord and Lady Ashdown was going downhill from the very instant it began.