My Hand in Marriage

A woman, not older then five-and-fifty, stood facing the garden, watching her sons enjoying the late afternoon heat amongst the flowers. A piece of paper dangled from her fingertips. The paper was fresh, and the ink barely dry; one could still see the wet pigment shining in the sunlight.

         They had finished dinner not more than an hour ago, and all three of her boys had turned themselves out of doors after their meal. This was an unusual occurrence, but not unheard of. As soon as their tea had been drunk, Rudolph usually went straight to his piano, Otto to his books, and Friedrich… well, Friedrich generally stayed at the table to socialize.

         Friedrich did love to socialize. She knew that his father had made the right choice by deciding that he should be the recipient of the paper in her hand, but she internally lamented his departure, for she dearly loved his company. He would have to eventually hear the news that the talks had finished, though.

His mother turned her back on the garden, the sun forming a halo around her greying hair, and looked at the paper again. There was no going back on it now: she had transcribed it from the telegram, had wrote it out in plain German, and it was done. A done deal.

She dropped the hand holding the paper to her side, sighed as if letting go of something she had carried for years, and made her way outside.

“Friedrich, there is a telegram for you to read,” she made herself smile as she handed her second child the paper, dry now from her time spent walking along the path.

The other two boys set down their lemonades and eyed each other – they had both known that this telegram was going to arrive eventually – in fact, they had all known. “I had a feeling it would be soon,” Otto remarked to Rudolph under his breath.

“Mmm,” Rudolph agreed, not looking at his oldest brother; he was watching his mother, who was trying not to tear up while Friedrich read the telegram through.

Otto shrugged and resumed drinking his lemonade, barely affected by this change in his brother’s fate. Rudolph had more sympathy for the brother two years his senior, as well as for his mother’s maternal desire for her children to remain close to her for the rest of her days.

Having finished reading, Friedrich looked up from the paper and into his mother’s eyes, which were brimming with tears. “Don’t cry Mutti, please don’t,” he smiled, trying his best not to tear up. “I mean, how could I possibly expect to properly receive a young lady without proper chaperoning?” He winked, which automatically brightened his mother’s countenance. “I need a household that is run properly as well, of course, until my wife can take over…”

Suddenly, his mother’s mind was filled with ideas – a townhouse in London, new experiences in a new country… “Well of course you do! Why did I not think of this myself? Let me go tell your father,” Her smile widened as she walked back down the path she came, very much the opposite to ten minutes ago.

Friedrich smiled ruefully as he neatly folded the paper and slipped it into his breast pocket, watching his mother’s obviously more chipper gait as she walked into the house. Rudolph caught him grinning, and remarked “You planned that, didn’t you?”

Friedrich shrugged, “Could I really be expected to tame the ‘Scottish lass’ on my own? I would have needed a woman’s touch anyways.” Technically, he needed the help of an etiquette teacher – or he imagined that there was a high chance he would – but his mother’s domestic prowess would suffice; besides, this would indulge her desire to see more of the world.

He had, of course, been thinking of it for a while, but he had needed an appropriate opportunity to bring it up. Appropriate to him, at any rate; he had always held a spot in his heart for surprises and melodrama.

Rudolph leaned back in his chair, amused at watching his brother’s little plan unfold. Otto, who had been staring at a nearby bush, resurfaced to remark, “Just hope she doesn’t inform Oma that your little fraulein needs straightening out, or you might get more than you bargained for.” He chuckled to himself as he traced his finger across the rim of his glass.

Friedrich and Rudolph exchanged glances, silently communicating that they thought Otto both intolerable and intolerant. Their Oma wasn’t so bad… In small doses. Friedrich mulled this over in his head: if she did end up coming, she would then be living with him and his mother… He shrugged internally. If it happened, it happened. This whole deal was rather out of the ordinary in the first place; perhaps having more family members about would be a good thing.

He went to bed that night thinking about his looming trip; according to the telegram, he was to leave in a few days, and propose a few days after that. He didn’t even have a ring yet, and he didn’t know whether or not he would be inheriting his mother’s, or if he would have to purchase one. Should he be purchasing a German ring, or a British one? Clearly German-made would be the best choice, but would she even appreciate the gesture? Not that he cared for that; for his own peace of mind, he wanted it to be of the best quality. After all, he was giving it, and he preferred the best.

And he didn’t even know what she looked like! He had heard that she was blonde and kind, not that that told him much. She could have a broken nose and three fingers on each hand, for all he knew.

In his mind he had fabricated the most preferable way for her to look: curvaceous, rounded body, a perfect hourglass; long curled eyelashes, dark against perfect pale skin; perhaps some freckles, but very faint, he liked subtle. Her hair of course he would prefer in a classic style, not exactly what the trends demanded at the moment, but something more reminiscent of the early nineteenth century, Roman-inspired.

If he didn’t find such qualities, he was hoping to bend her to his desires; he, after all, had very distinct desires.
He was also willing to bet his horse that her German was atrocious… He sighed before blowing out the candle on his bedside table; knowing his luck and his preferences, she would have to be improved upon.

He drifted off to sleep thinking of curvaceous red-haired women, clad in plaid, dancing in a circle on rolling hills, and singing uncharacteristically in perfect German.

***
“Mummy, you know I can’t speak a word of German! I keep telling you this…”

“Celia, I don’t care; I told you, the telegram was sent today, and it is done. He is coming within the week to propose, and you have no choice.”

“Why did it have to be a German? You know perfectly well I can speak French and a tad bit of Itali—”

“Would you give it a rest? Miss, you are being incredibly ungrateful,” her mother crossed her arms and let out a sigh; this conversation had been repeating itself for the past few months. “Your father has arranged a marriage for you that is not only beneficial for the family, but rather advantageous to your future. You will not have to worry about monetary issues or business ventures, only running your household and pleasing your husband!”

         Celia, a young girl of twenty, was hardly thrilled at the prospect of a domestic life. She kept a scrapbook of places that she read about under her bed, and longed to go somewhere else other than the Great Isle. She would even have preferred heading back to the Highlands to being a shut-in in some dusty estate. “I want more of a life than that,” she grumbled, knowing her argument was fruitless.

“Well you can try and go about wearing pants, but you’re not a man, and will only be laughed at,” her mother shot back, internally cursing the suffragists for planting ideas other than domesticity in her daughter’s head.

Celia was prone to mood swings, but she was not drastic enough – and had too much femininity – to go about wearing pants or cutting her hair short and masquerading as a man. To placate her mother at this late hour, she joked “Only because men’s hips do not twitch when they walk.”

“Some men’s do,” her mother couldn’t resist the chuckle that rose from her throat, and with that, the discussion was over.
Celia retreated to her room, retiring for the night to mull over her future: she had known for a while that she had lost this battle. She brought out her scrapbook and thumbed through the pages and the places: Egypt, Asia, even Canada seemed an interesting place to here. “Farewell to any plans of seeing you,” she murmured as she closed the book and returned it to its place under her bed. “Hello children and decorating and arranging…”

She had no idea what Friedrich was like; she only knew his name. And that he was German. Other than those two pieces of information, he was a shadowy figure somewhere on the horizon, someone whom she was to be with for the rest of her life, but whom she didn’t even know the hair colour of. With her luck, he was bound to be fat and moustached; she hated moustaches on young men – maybe he wasn’t even young! Maybe she was set up to inherit from some ancient soul, and that was the business deal. She didn’t even know the business deal; she hoped with all her might that this was not it.

She had imagined how she might like him to be, and had surmised that what would please her most would be a man with non-threatening features, slender and blonde. Yet he would have to be masculine and charming, and strong enough to carry her. Very little body hair, of course, as that was heinously unsightly to her. Not that she had seen a man without a shirt, but she imagined that hair would only make the image considerably more horrendous.

She drifted off to sleep that night imagining Germans yelling at her, and an entire troupe of fat old moustached men attempting to kiss her hand.

***

Friedrich stood in front of his wardrobe, which was bare save for what he was about to put on. The rest of his clothes were packed away in trunks for the voyage on which he was about to embark. His mother’s clothes were also already neatly packed, and their collective luggage was waiting downstairs to be loaded into the carriage.

The things he had packed himself, trifles like his sketch papers and writing set, he had packed mechanically throughout the week, in a sort of suspended disbelief. He had had to repeatedly tell himself that this was an adventure, and that he was doing it to better his life and his family’s. Adventure is your forte, isn’t it, he reminded himself as he took the last pair of pants out of his wardrobe in order that he might put them on.

Instead, he threw them down on his bed and sat down beside them. He was adventurous, to be sure, but he knew he had to be on the top of his game. Out of his brothers, he had been chosen because he could keep up social pretenses, and he did have the ability to woo a woman with words and charms and all manner of other silly things that women liked.

Not that that was what was bothering him. If she was pretty, the whole conquest seemed a rather fun challenge, in fact. No, the thing that got him was that no one had asked him if he had wanted to do this; he had been told, expressly and quite frankly by his father, that he was to marry this woman, in order that his father’s expanding business might be able to make it to the Great Isle.

It was such a lucrative venture, and Friedrich would not have agreed had he seen no merits in it… In fact, he saw some merits, but it still seemed a flawed and rather loose plan in his mind. His mother had persuaded him that it was best, and that it would be a good opportunity for him, etc. etc. In truth the reason he was really going was to please the family; Britain hardly seemed an adventure compared to those more exotic locales such as India and Japan.

But he still wasn’t happy that literally no one had even phrased it as a question. He did not like being told what to do, but he would still do it… He shrugged and took his pants in hand, pulling them on slowly; without the reasons of family, or marriage, or business, at least it gave him something to do.

He would miss German food, of course. And German culture. And German women. And German language… English was like…German’s uncouth younger brother, with choppy sentences and a hardly musical accent. Still, at least he wasn’t being shipped all the way to America: he had heard horror stories of the ways they butchered the language of the very land they had renounced.

His thoughts were wandering. His thoughts tended to wander whenever he thought of what was to come, only because he could not, and did not wish to, envision it until he came upon it. He took the tea from his bedside table, now cold, and sipped it pensively as he contemplated finishing getting dressed.

Being ready meant that he would have to leave. Leaving meant he would be finalizing his decision. Finalizing his decision meant that his fate was sealed for life, his soul bound to this mystery woman whose family was so essential to the success of his own…

There was a knock at his door, a soft one, and he stood hastily to grab his shirt from the open wardrobe. As he was tucking it in he called, “Yes?”

“Your mother is waiting for you in the foyer for your departure, sir.”

“I’ll be down within five minutes, if you would tell her so,” he replied, now tying his cravat. He was surprised at himself to see that his fingers shook slightly.

He got through the tying though, and stuffed his arms through his vest, buttoning it on the way downstairs.
His mother caught him at the top of the staircase fixating on the top button of his vest, and she chuckled. “Taking your time this morning Friedrich? Unusual for you, my son.”

“Everything is out of the ordinary now,” he remarked as he sat down to tie his shoes. Upon standing, a servant came forth with his jacket, and as he shrugged it on, the feel of the familiar garment comforted him. He pulled on the gloves he was handed, took up his walking stick, offered his free arm to his mother, and stepped out of the house towards the rest of his life.

***

The air this morning was chilly, and Friedrich desperately wished to be back at the townhouse having kaffee, just as he had been not half an hour before. But he was here to propose, signing his life away for the possible success of his father. He made a face before ringing the doorbell, knowing he was expected. He checked his pocket watch: he was exactly seven minutes early.

         He tapped his foot as he waited for the doorman, not knowing why he felt like being so difficult. He knew she was supposed to be polite at least, despite being let to run wild in the Highlands as a child, no doubt.

         And barely anyone here spoke German; he was allowed to feel difficult if he wanted to, he wasn’t at home. The door opened, and their doorman looked surprised to see him standing there.

         He put on a practiced smile that appeared to be genuine, and the doorman conducted the expected courtesies of household servants, sending him through to the sitting room, where he was told the women of the house were waiting for him.
         As he stood just outside the doorway, the doorman attempted to read his name off the calling card he’d left last night, when he’d “asked for permission.” Of course her father had had to say yes – if he wanted a partnership with the Von Hamelns, he needed to say yes. “Asking” had only been a formality.

         Cloth rustled, the soft crinkle of muslin and silk, as he entered the room and the ladies stood, smiling at him politely. The mother was observing him openly, which he found disconcerting and incredibly forward.

         Instead of showing this in his face, he bowed to the women, and upon standing straight again, guardedly took a look at his future fiancée. She was wearing a green dress, which pleased him, and her hair was a soft blonde colour, sprinkled through with highlights of strawberry, casually arranged in soft ringlets down her back. She had a small waist and chest – he preferred the former, but not the latter – and he would have to examine her closer up to determine the size of her hips. She was small, at any rate.

         Both ladies curtseyed to him, and murmured gratitude at his visit. Her mother asked him to sit down, and the doorman left the room. He knew he was about to break propriety with what he had to say next; but then, this whole “deal” was breaking propriety. His father was unconcerned with the finer details of society, interested purely in business.

         “I would like to request a private audience with Miss Marchand,” he inclined his head towards her upon standing. She did not look surprised.

         Her mother gave her a stern look before passing out of the room, curtseying to him on the way out.

         He remained standing, as did she, and they looked at each other. After a while, she attempted a smile, “You may address me, Mr. Von Hameln.”

         He had never heard such a prefix in front of his family name, and had to do his very best to stifle a laugh, or to stop himself from correcting her. He looked at her again: her hands were bound together in front of her waist, and they were quivering.

         “Are you afraid of me?” He found himself asking, surprising himself.

         He had apparently surprised her also, as she stepped backwards involuntarily and widened her eyes. Excellent: outward displays of emotion. She already looked flighty.

         “No sir, I have no reason to be; I have just met you, and you seem to be of the most honourable sorts of men.”
         “My mother has met you, I assume,” he stepped closer to her, wishing to inspect her closer.

         “I have been introduced to both your mother and your grandmother, yes,” she purposely looked away as he came to stand in front of her.

         “Well then you shall have no objection to what I have to say next; if you have met my relatives you shall know perfectly well why without my telling you.”

         “I have never met your father, sir, and only know what mine has told me: if I accept you, and I intend to for my family’s sake, our fathers will be entered into an official business deal?”

         “That is not for a woman to discuss,” he narrowed his dark eyebrows at her before dropping down on one knee and taking her hand. Finally, she looked back at him.

         “I wish not to persuade you by tidings of passionate love, when I have only just made your acquaintance,” he began, and her cheeks turned pink. “Miss Marchand, will you marry me?”

         “I suppose I must,” was her reply, which caused a desire to be violent to rise up in his chest, only just quelled by thinking of torte and kuchen.

         He rose to his feet and turned his back on her, knowing that he was being incredibly rude. “Now that we are to be married, I expect your thoughts to centre on pleasing me, and little else.” He thought he heard her gasp, and smirked a bit in spite of himself. He was doing a lot in spite of himself today, it seemed.

         He turned back towards her, bowed briefly, and quitted the house, leaving Celia to stew in her dislike, especially of the way he pronounced his double-us.

         She glanced down at the newly acquired piece of jewellery and sighed. Keats and Donne would be disappointed in her, but especially Keats. Mary Shelley would have slapped her silly. She resisted the urge to break down and cry, blinking rapidly before going to join her parents at their breakfast table.

         “Must I give my entire life to this man?” Celia could not resist planting her foot more firmly than usual upon the ground as she crossed her legs under the table.

“Celia, you have to know how important this deal will be for the family,” her mother began, casting a look over at her father for support. “Right, Mr. Marchand?”

         He looked up from his paper distractedly, glasses almost slipping off the edge of his red nose. “Oh, oh yes dear, very important, money and all…”

         She waved a hand in his direction when he resumed reading, and continued to lecture Celia. “It is incredibly important that we join the two families with a marriage; the Von Hamelns are a very old German family - their status of nobility dates back to the twelfth century, goodness.”

         “Mummy, I’ve already heard all of this, I know,” Celia answered impatiently, already tired of hearing about the “Von Hamelns” and their extensive family history. “Really, this man? He has two brothers…”

         “Sauce! His two brothers are employed elsewhere, in service to their family I am certain. And enough of that ‘Mummy’ business, you cannot go around in public any longer calling me that; why, you’re past twenty years old, for goodness’ sakes!”

         Her father barely looked up from his paper as he interjected, “Now, dear, she can call you Mummy if she likes…”

         “It makes her sound like an infant! She has done nothing her whole life, and now she has the chance to be married into an incredible amount of money; my, even her brother had the sense to go and do something-,”

         “I’m surprised he didn’t catch some sort of disease,” Celia muttered, standing up from the breakfast table after popping a single grape in her mouth; breakfast for her had been early, and taken in the kitchen with the servants.

         “Miss, where are you going?” Her mother called after her as she left the room.

         “To dress for lunch at the Brandon’s!” she called back, just wanting to be alone.

         Her mother came to follow her, “And why ever do you need to go there for lunch? You know perfectly well we have enough things for lunch right here.”

         Celia resisted the improper urge to roll her eyes, and responded, “Because I would like to announce my engagement to my friends, if I may be permitted.”

         “Propriety demands that you cannot; your father must hold an engagement party to let it be known.”

         “Well she has invited me for lunch today anyways, and it would be rude to decline on such late notice.”

         Her mother was about to reinforce that she could not say a thing, but Celia assured her, “Don’t worry, they will find out when everyone else does.” And, standing on the stairs, she tore the ring off and handed it to her mother. “Here, give this to Father until I may wear it in public.”