#ruby somerset

[endlessly-cursed]

Riddle Era- Lawrence Somerset

"𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚."

Name: Lawrence Noah Somerset 

Nicknames: Laurie 

Birthdate: 12th of March 1931 

Zodiac Sign: Pisces 

Personality Type (MBTI): tbd 

Blood Status: Half-blood 

Nationality: British 

Physical Appearance

Hair: Brown 

Eyes: Blue/green

Height: 1.88m 

Weight: 78kg 

Body Type: Average build 

Skin Tone: Fair 

Distinguishing Marks (scars, birthmarks, etc.): tbd 

Background

Hometown

Lawrence grew up as the heir of Winbourne and had a faily normal childhood as a nobleman. Despite the contant wars, his parents did their best to raise him as a normal child. 

Family

Mother: Margaret Odette Somerset, neé Taylor ( @camillejeaneshphm​ ) 

Lawrence adores and admires his mother. Both of them have a great relationship and he always shows her great respect. He also has in high regard her counsel and does his best to make her happy 

Father: Vincent Alexander Somerset 

He became the Viscount of Winbourne in 1952 after his mother, the famous and widely beloved Primrose Gray stepped down and allowed him to take her place. He admires and loves his father despite his past sins and is his best friend apart from his brother. 

Younger brother: Philip Charles Somerset ( @camillejeaneshphm​ ) 

He and Lawrence are very close, and are the definition from the sun and the moon. Where Lawrence is persuasive, social, charming and a lady’s man, Philip is shy, awkward, introverted and homosexual. He was always overprotective of his brother -even more than any of his sisters- to the point of giving him the house in Madeira to protect him from the harsh laws against homosexuality of the time, safe and away from danger. 

Sister nº1: Elizabeth Primrose Somerset ( @camillejeaneshphm​ ) 

Lawrence loves and admires his sister. Her strenght and cunning helped them bond and he was very fond of her. The two of them were friendly rivals at Hogwarts and would always join him in training, for she, as the eldest daughter, had her duties. Though the moment she could, gave up her rights and moved to the USA where she worked as an Obliviator at MACUSA and met her future husband. 

Sister nº2: Gia Alexandra Somerset II 

The most beautiful of the three sisters, she was very much like her grandmother and he was very protective of her, and she took over Elizabeth’s role and did it to perfection. She also trained Laurie’s future wife and was very respected until the end. 

Sister nº3: Ruby Celestia Somerset 

The youngest and Laurie’s favourite, they had very much in common and he adored her and saw her as his baby, and was thus the most overprotective when it came to his sisters. They were the closest despite the age gap and held her in high regard, often spoiling her. 

Hogwarts

House: Slytherin 

Best Class: DADA, Alchemy and Arithmancy 

Worst Class: HOM, COMC 

Boggart: Losing his claim to Winbourne like his father did once 

Riddikulus: He instead loses his trousers 

Patronus: Lion 

Patronus Memory: Getting drunk with Phil and laughing about it for the first time at Winbourne’s winery 

Mirror of Erised: Having his family with Millie and in Winbourne 

Amortentia (what he smells like): peppermint, pine trees, freshly baked cake, gillywater and smoke 

Amortentia (what he smells): chanel nº5, cherry blossoms, meadow grass, strawberries and milkshakes 

Career

11-18: Hogwarts student 

19-35: Philantropist

36-Death: Viscount of Winbourne

Personality & Attitude

Priorities: His family, his claim, Millie 

Strengths: Cunning, smart, loyal to the end, ambitious 

Weaknesses: Proud, haughty, a bit of a prat 

Stressed: During exams, riding those bloody brooms 

Calm/Comforted: With his family, reading the ledgers of Winbourne, in Millie’s arms 

Favorites

Colors: Red, green, golden and black 

Weather: Heavy raining on a winter night 

Hobbies: Reading the ledgers of Winbourne, golf and reading 

Fashion: Laurie dresses according the 1940s/50s England fashion, rarely never missing trends 

Relationships

Significant Other/Love Interest: Millicent Daniela Abbott 

Witty, beautiful and from the Sacred Twenty Eight, she minded little that Laurie was a half-blood and was a third daughter of the Abbott family. She was a Ravenclaw and a year younger than him and was smart, creative and with a gift for people. They fell in love after WW2, especially during the celebrating of its end and were soon betrothed. Millie and her mother-in-law got along greatly and educated her to be the next viscountess. They had three children: Charles, Tatiana Primrose and Meghan Marie. 

Friends: tbd 

Rivals: tbd 

Trivia

He proposed to Millie on Christmas Eve night in the same field of primroses as his father and grandfather did 

He’s a confident man and rarely blushes or is shy, contrary to Phil 

He can play the piano 

Like his many ancestors, he doesn’t like being away from Winbourne for long and did his honeymoon on English soil (the colonies at the time) just in case while Gia II was in charge for a while 

He was top of the Slytherin class and helped Slytherin win the prize of the House Points 

He also got a degree on Oxford of Law, Economics, Political Science and History 

He also hatched a plan just in case any of his children were squibs: his son would go to Eton College meanwhile his daughters would go to St. Paul. This plan was passed onto his son until nowadays 

His brother Philip was meant to inherit Harrendale, but he gave up his claim and instead gave it to their cousin Julia Fersen 

He also didn’t enjoy big events and did only two, which were one of the hottest events, for it was a very exclusive list 

[blueiscoool]

Gigantic Marine Reptile Fossil Found by 11-Year-Old Girl and Father

A massive jawbone found by a father-daughter fossil-collecting duo on a beach in Somerset along the English coast belonged to a newfound species that’s likely the largest known marine reptile to swim in Earth’s oceans.

Scientists consider the blue whale, which grows up to 110 feet (33.5 meters) long, to be the largest known animal ever to exist on the planet. But it’s possible that the 202 million-year-old reptile, known as an ichthyosaur or “fish lizard,” may have rivaled it in size.

The ichthyosaur’s jawbone, or surangular, was a long, curved bone at the top of the lower jaw just behind the teeth, and it measured more than 6.5 feet (2 meters) long. Researchers believe the creature, named Ichthyotitan severnensis, or “giant fish lizard of the Severn” in Latin, was more than 82 feet (25 meters) long, or the length of two city buses.

Justin and Ruby Reynolds, who live in Braunton, England, recovered the first pieces of the jawbone in May 2020 as they looked for fossils on the beach at Blue Anchor, Somerset. Ruby, 11 at the time, spotted the first chunk of bone, and then she and her dad found additional pieces together.

By Ashley Strickland.

[storyofmychoices]

My Top Ten Choices Love Interests

Thomas Hunt

Bryce Lahela (tied)

Mal Volari (tied)

Levi Schuler

Beckett Harrington

Trystan Thorne

Troy Hassan

Nia Ellarious

Ben Park

Ethan Ramsey (I did really enjoy him once... I wish I could go back to that... then I could finish Love & Scotch)

Honorary Mentions

(Emo)Drake Walker (@the-soot-sprite) (He's my LI okay)

Flynn O'Malley

Bartender from ROE

Valax

Tyril Starfury

Imtura Tal Kaelen

Aerin Valleros

Andy Kang

Justin Mercado

John Somerset

Damien Nazario

I wish they were Love Interests

Astrid Thorne 🥵 (PLEASE!)

Bas Thorne 😭

Vasili Thorne 💚

Kaspar 😍 and Emika ❤️ Thorne

Lydea while I'm at it 💖

Patryk lol jk hard pass!

Luke Watanabe (I love him and Ruby but I also love him, okay?!)

Addison Sinclair (in RCD)

All the mermaids

@choicesfandomappreciation

[names-galore]

Summer Themed Names

Includes masculine, feminine, and androgynous names.

Apollo

August

Bay

Cali

Capri

Caspian

Coral

Dawn

Gardner

Golden

Helio

Julia

Julian

Julius

July

June

Juno

Lake

Leo

Luka

Lux

Luz

Meadow

Ocean

Pearl

Ray

Ruby

Sandy

Sky or Skye

Sol

Soleil

Solstice

Somerset

Storm

Summer

Sunny

Tide

[tumblezwei]

Modern AU WhiteRose Meetcute were Curious tries to fucking eat Somewhat and then they're like: "h-hi o.o"

I know this would probably be at like, the vet or somerset realistic for a rat and a cat to be in the same room, but I like to think that Weiss walks Curious on a harness and just saw Somewhat walking beside Ruby and thought "awesome, free lunch."

[spythegreat]

Crown of Edward VI ( Kingdom of America Lore )

Imperial Crown of Edward VI. Or the Crown of England Is a s the imperial and state crown of Kings of England The imperial crown created by Everart or Everard Everdyes for Edward VI’s coronation is indeed a fascinating piece of history. The term “imperial” refers to a style of crown characterized by its raised arches, which was a significant feature of this particular crown. Everdyes crafted this crown using scrap gold from the Secret Jewel House, including a set of nine letters “I” or “J”, which might have been initially made for Edward’s mother, Jane Seymour. The crown was adorned with pearls from Henry VIII’s personal items and potentially included the large balas ruby known as the Black Prince’s Ruby, which originated from Myanmar. The detailed description of the crown in Edward’s inventory highlights its luxurious composition, with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and a significant number of pearls, culminating in a large balas ruby at the top, pierced and set with a small gold cross. This crown was not only a symbol of royal authority but also a showcase of the wealth and craftsmanship of the time. Everdyes’ contributions to the royal regalia didn’t stop at the crown; he also crafted a coronet for the Duke of Somerset, using diamonds that belonged to Henry VIII. His commitment to his craft and the royal household is further evidenced by his return of unused pearls to the Jewel House after the coronation. The location of his workshop at Westminster Palace indicates his prominence and the trust placed in him by the royal family. The large ruby in Everdyes’ crown, described in 1604 as “a verye greate ballace perced,” suggests that it remained a notable gem in the crown’s design for many years. Such pieces of regalia are not only valuable for their material worth but also for their historical significance, representing the artistry and opulence of the Tudor court. And it IS Currelnty Is Uses By The Kings of England

[kaiyves-backup]

A massive jawbone found by a father-daughter fossil-collecting duo on a beach in Somerset along the English coast belonged to a newfound species that’s likely the largest known marine reptile to swim in Earth’s oceans.

Scientists consider the blue whale, which grows up to 110 feet (33.5 meters) long, to be the largest known animal ever to exist on the planet. But it’s possible that the 202 million-year-old reptile, known as an ichthyosaur or “fish lizard,” may have rivaled it in size.

The ichthyosaur’s jawbone, or surangular, was a long, curved bone at the top of the lower jaw just behind the teeth, and it measured more than 6.5 feet (2 meters) long. Researchers believe the creature, named Ichthyotitan severnensis, or “giant fish lizard of the Severn” in Latin, was more than 82 feet (25 meters) long, or the length of two city buses.

Justin and Ruby Reynolds, who live in Braunton, England, recovered the first pieces of the jawbone in May 2020 as they looked for fossils on the beach at Blue Anchor, Somerset. Ruby, 11 at the time, spotted the first chunk of bone, and then she and her dad found additional pieces together.

[yo-sostenible]

Una nueva especie de este grupo extinto de pez lagarto, descubierta por dos aficionados a la paleontología y analizado por científicos europeos, pudo llegar a medir más de 25 metros de largo. Su reinado no duró mucho: se cree que se extinguieron durante el evento de extinción masiva del Triásico tardío. Recreación de cadáver de Ichthyotitan severnensis arrastrado a la playa. / Sergey Krasovskiy et al. Por Eva Rodríguez Justin y Ruby Reynolds, padre e hija, comparten un interés común: la búsqueda de fósiles. En 2020, mientras paseaban por la playa en Blue Anchor, en Somerset (Reino Unido), descubrieron un fósil en una roca que alguien había dejado junto a un trozo de piedra caliza con cristales de pirita. Se trataba de un hueso enorme que fascinó a Justin, que se quedó observándolo mientras su hija seguía buscando hasta encontrar otro aún mayor enterrado parcialmente en un talud de barro. Eran los restos de un ictosaurio titánico, como pudo corroborar más tarde Dean Lomax, paleontólogo de la Universidad de Manchester con el que contactaron al sospechar que se trataba de un hallazgo importante. “Estaba muy emocionado. Fue la segunda pieza la que nos permitió identificar los restos como parte de una mandíbula de ictiosaurio al buscar en internet y encontrar el artículo de 2018 de Lomax, Paul de la Salle y otros”, dice a SINC Reynolds padre. “Desde que me puse en contacto por primera vez con Lomax nos hemos reunido en el yacimiento para buscar más piezas. Mi familia y yo también estuvimos varias veces con Paul de la Salle y su esposa Carol y fue entonces cuando se recogieron la mayoría de las diferentes piezas del estudio”, añade. La última pieza de hueso se recuperó en octubre de 2022.  Los restos fosilizados de esta segunda mandíbula gigante miden más de 2 metros de largo. Los expertos corroboraron que provenía de una nueva especie de ictiosaurio enorme, un tipo de reptil marino prehistórico, del tamaño de una ballena azul. Las estimaciones sugieren que habría medido más de 25 metros de largo. El estudio se publica hoy en la revista PLoS ONE. Lomax quedó muy impresionado de que Ruby y Justin identificaran correctamente el descubrimiento: “Reconocieron que coincidía con la que describimos años antes. Les pregunté si les gustaría unirse a mi equipo para estudiar y describir este fósil, incluyendo darle un nombre. Aceptaron la oportunidad”. “Para Ruby, especialmente, que es una científica que no solo encontró, sino que también ayudó a nombrar un tipo de reptil prehistórico gigante. ¡Probablemente no hay muchos jóvenes de 15 años que puedan decir eso!”, continúa. Víctimas de una extinción masiva Estos animales, muchos de los cuales se parecían a los delfines modernos, evolucionaron por primera vez durante el período Triásico temprano, hace unos 250 millones de años. En unos pocos millones de años, algunos de ellos evolucionaron hasta alcanzar al menos 15 metros de largo, y hacia el Triásico Tardío (hace aproximadamente 200 millones de años), a especímenes más grandes, incluido el recientemente descrito que han denominado Ichthyotitan severnensis, que significa ‘lagarto pez gigante del Severn’. “Ictiosaurios como este probablemente tenían pocos depredadores de los que preocuparse, aparte de otros de su especie más grandes. Por supuesto, la historia es diferente para los juveniles: seguramente eran presa fácil para la mayoría de los animales como tiburones o plesiosaurios y, por tanto, serían seleccionados para crecer rápido con el fin de encontrar lo antes posible refugio en su gran tamaño”, explica a SINC Marcelo Perillo, coautor de estudio en la Universidad de Bonn (Alemania). Sin embargo, su reinado no necesariamente duró mucho. Si bien algunas especies de ictiosaurios continuaron vagando por los océanos durante millones de años, se cree que se extinguieron durante el evento de extinción masiva del Triásico tardío. Después de este tiempo, los ictiosaurios gigantes de la familia conocida como...

[cavenewstimes]

Paleontologists unearth what may be the largest known marine reptile

The fossilised remains of a second gigantic jawbone measuring more than two metres long has been found on a beach in Somerset, UK. Experts have identified the bones as belonging to the jaws of a new species of enormous ichthyosaur, a type of prehistoric marine reptile. Estimates suggest the oceanic titan would have been more than 25 metres long. Father and daughter, Justin and Ruby Reynolds from…

[endlessly-cursed]

hp women appreciation week; favourite sister dynamics

the seymour sisters: adelaide, blanca, céline, dana, ellen & nimueh seymour

the bellerose sisters: odette, alethea, angelique & sabine ( @kathrynalicemc @cursebreakerfarrier @magicallymalted )

the gallardo sisters: rocío, almudena & jimena

the somerset sisters: elizabeth, gia & ruby ( @camillejeaneshphm )

the arcano sisters pt.1: reyna, margrethe & wilhemine arcano ( @kathrynalicemc )

the vixen twins: sybil & delphine

the arcano-thorne sisters: syvanna and lennox ( @kathrynalicemc )

the somerset twins: diana & beatrice ( @camillejeaneshphm )

elizabeth balinor, twin sister of cecilia

eleanor thorne, twin sister of marcellus

honourable mentions: irene demiurgos, sister of adonis; prim and nadia @gcldensnitch ; esther & beatrice brown ; georgie & divya parsons @unfortunate-arrow ; catalina rosier, twin sister of albert

[beautifulbizarremagazine]

Congratulations to Ruby Hyde Photography on receiving an Honourable Mention in the 2022 Beautiful Bizarre Art Prize, for her work “This is No Place” [Digital Photography]. Awarded by this year’s amazing sponsor, INPRNT.

“Ruby Hyde is a conceptual fine art and fashion photographer based in Somerset, UK. She is a self-taught artist, creating visual dark fairytales that explore emotive concepts and embrace the juxtapositions between light and dark. Ruby works primarily with natural light, viewing the process of creating her work more as painting than as a technical endeavour, often using Photoshop to elevate her work beyond the bounds of reality.”

Get all the information about this year's Beautiful Bizarre Art Prize Winners on https://buff.ly/2J5O3c5 [link in our profile]

—

#beautifulbizarre #beautifulbizarreartprize #inprnt #photography

[dailytudors]

20 FEBRUARY 1547: The Coronation of Edward VI

Edward VI was the last Tudor King and the first true Protestant King of England. On the eve of his coronation, Edward made his procession from the Tower of London to Westminster. There were many pageants that greeted the boy-king as he rode horseback dressed in a jerkin of white velvet decorated with diamonds, rubies and pearls.

*“His gown was a fine mesh of gold with a cape of sable, whilst the horse he rode upon was draped in crimson satin beaded with pearls.”

The Imperial Ambassador Francois Van der Defelt was not impressed and when he met the king, he spoke to him in French to which his uncle, the Lord Protector and now Duke of Somerset, reproached him and told him he should speak in Latin instead because the king “understood better than French.” Defelt had no more good things to say about the King or the Archbishop of Canterbury who refused to speak to him because of his Catholic beliefs.

As for the pageantry itself, it was nothing short of glorious. Everything went according to plan. Protocol was followed. The Marquis of Dorset [Henry Grey, husband to Frances Brandon and father to Jane Grey] carried the sword of justice in his role as Constable of England and Edward was flanked by John Dudley and his uncle [Somerset]. Next came the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, the pensioners and the other guard.

Pageants greeted the young king. These were not rehearsed and many had to be improvised. Of these was one of children who each represented one of the four virtues: Grace, Fortune, Nature and Charity.

Like his first Tudor ancestors, Edward VI’s procession on the eve of his coronation served to leave its mark on history. The Tudors knew the importance of imagery and how powerful it was to manipulate or rewrite history. At the same time, it evoked the tales they themselves kept perpetuating of their legitimacy. For example the phoenix was his mother’s badge, standing on a golden tower with its wings spread up and nature flourishing as a result. Edward was making a powerful statement, and his uncle helped too perhaps, about his parents’ marriage as lawful and true. And also establishing his legitimacy. His sisters would do the same for their coronations [especially Elizabeth whose glorious pageantries marked the contrast between her future reign and her sister’s]; emphasizing on their legitimacy and lineage through their parents. The female consort played an important role here. Although she was not physically present, she could still be seen [and remembered] through her insignia. Secondly, the red and white roses were powerful symbols and reminders of the legitimacy of the Tudor line, or what they called their right to inherit the throne. It reminded everyone of the wars fought between brothers and cousins, that ended with the destruction of Houses Lancaster and York (represented by the red and white rose) and the ascension of the Tudors who brought about peace when their first monarch, Henry VII (considered the heir to the Lancastrians) married the beautiful Elizabeth, Princess of York.

The truth we now know is very different but it was a tale that worked very well for the Tudors and it simplified the conflict, and it gave their line legitimacy.

The procession had lasted nearly five hours and ended at six o’ clock.

The following day, the real show began when Edward was taken by barge to Whitehall where he was received by the guard and pensioners. Passing them into the chamber of Court of Augmentations, he donned the Parliamentary robes he was wearing and put on a robe of crimson velvet ‘furred with powdered ermines’. From there he went to Westminster Abbey under a canopy borne by the barons of the Cinque Ports. At his right and left was the Earl of Shrewsbury and Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of Durham. John Dudley, the Marquis of Northampton –Catherine Parr’s brother, William Parr- and his other uncle, Thomas Seymour bore his train.

At his entrance into the Abbey, Cranmer began the address, asking the congregation “Will ye sirs at this time, and give your wills and assents to the same consecration, enunction, and coronation?” To which they responded “Yes, ye, ye, God save King Edward!”

In spite of the great response, the coronation which still followed the precepts set by Liber Regalis (c.1375), had been altered significantly and certain ceremony and addresses cut down not to wear the King, but more than that, because it was against the new tradition that Cranmer and the Reformers wanted to impose for their “new era”. The crowd who was aware of the changes, was explained by Cranmer the reason for this changes in a sermon to the King. He said that the alteration was due to the fact that before, Kings had atone for their actions to the clergy or somebody else, including their people. This time Kings were infallible. They were demi-gods of a sort. Edward as the Reformist king would account to no one and the clergy had no right “to hit Your Majesty in the teeth”. Nevertheless, he reminded that as God’s anointed sovereign he still had to have certain virtues for he was a messenger of Jesus and his representative on Earth.

*Taken from Edward VI: The Lost King of England by Chris Skidmore

Read more here: https://tudorsandotherhistories.wordpress.com/2015/02/20/the-coronation-of-the-last-tudor-king-edward-vi/

[camillejeaneshphm]

Elizabeth Somerset’s profile:

BASIC INFO

Quote by Character: “To dream is to waste time, but luckily I have a talent in procrastination.”

Full Name: Elizabeth Primrose Somerset

Nicknames: Lizzie (by everyone), Eliza, Ellie

Gender: Cis woman (she/her)

Sexuality: Omnisexual

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Species: Witch

Blood Status: Pureblood

Date of Birth: 12 November 1935

Race/Ethnicity: White British

Nationality: British

Short Bio: One of the five children of Vincent and Margaret Somerset, Elizabeth is a cunning and intelligent woman. Being the third-eldest of a group of five siblings has to mean something, right?

Personality: Very cunning, a bit of a manipulator

Languages: English, Spanish

Likes: Chocolate, being right, dresses

Dislikes: Fish, physical fighting

Greatest Flaw: Pride

Greatest Strength: Cunning

Place of Residency: 

birth-11: Winbourne

11-17: Alternates between Winbourne and Hogwarts Castle

18-22: Winbourne

24-retirement: New York City, New York, USA

Retirement: Winbourne

Future Career: Obliviator with MACUSA

APPEARANCE

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Brown

Skin Tone: Very Pale

Height: 5’7

Weight: 54 kg

Physique: Very thin

Style Choice (what they like to wear): Lizzie is very fashionable, though she always keeps comfort and cost in mind!

Accessories: A bracelet from her mother, a necklace from her brother

Inventory: Her wand, hairpins, needle and thread

Scars: A scar on her lip where she bit through it as a kid, several on her shoulders and back from her training with MACUSA. 

Face Claim: Keira Knightley

Voice Claim/description of what they sound like: Keira Knightley

MAGIC

Wand Description/Picture: Blackthorn, Phoenix feather, 13 ¼ inches

[Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. This does not necessarily mean that its owner practises the Dark Arts (although it is undeniable that those who do so will enjoy the blackthorn wand’s prodigious power); one finds blackthorn wands among the Aurors as well as among the denizens of Azkaban. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish.]

Wand reaction when chosen: Rough wind

Boggart: Her family, dead

Riddikulus Form: They get up and do a stupid dance

Patronus: Fox

Patronus Memory: Philip teaching her the names of flowers. 

Animagus: none

Amortentia (what they smell like): Lizzie smells of soap and cotton, with something that might be champagne. 

Amortentia (What they smell): Unknown (she is open to this interaction!)

Mirror of Erised: Her family happy and healthy

Misc. Magical Abilities: Wandless magic

Favorite/Created Spells: Obliviate

SCHOOL LIFE

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Ilvermorny House: n/a

Organizations Joined: MACUSA

Apprenticeships: Apprentice Obliviator

Professions: Obliviator with MACUSA

Best Subjects: DADA, Charms, Transfiguration 

Worst Subjects: History of Magic

Favorite Teachers: n/a

Least Favorite Teachers: n/a

Class Proficiencies (OWL grade, n /10 or ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆):

Astronomy: A

Charms: O

DADA: O

Flying: A

Herbology: EE

History of Magic: P

Potions: A

Transfiguration: O

Ancient Runes: EE

Arithmancy: A

STATS

Power (magic): 7/10

Power (physical strength): 4/10

Intelligence: 10/10

Skill: 8/10

Teamwork: 6/10

Speed: 9/10

Defense: 6/10

RELATIONSHIPS

FAMILY:

Father: Vincent Somerset (@endlessly-cursed)

Mother: Margaret Somerset (neè Taylor)

Siblings:

Lawrence Somerset

Philip Somerset

Gia Somerset

Ruby Somerset

Friends:

Closest In-Game Friends:

n/a

Closest MC friends:

None yet (open to interaction)

Love interest:

None yet (open to interaction)

Dorm mates:

None yet (four open spots)

Rivals:

None yet (open to interaction)

Enemies:

n/a

Pets: None

[pedros-mustache-main]

if you leave before the start (i)

summary: he’s your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to be his wife.

word count: 7.7k+

series masterlist

chapter warnings: arranged marriage ceremony, unlikeable reader (y’all she is a straight up meanie!), alcohol, language, innuendo

glastonbury, somerset, england. 1840.

according to your father, it is a good match, a very good one indeed. 

he has wealth, status, a sizable estate. you have a healthy dowry and connections to parliament by virtue of your father. he will give you a safe life in the countryside, and you will provide him access to the inner-workings of government and an heir to carry on his family name. together, you will live in wedded bliss—no troubles, no worries to turn your hair gray, but perhaps the odd village scandal to keep things interesting.

really, you should be happy. dozens of your friends have gone to the marriage bed and found themselves sated by romance and fripperies. you are no different from say, sally, who met her intended the day of her wedding and wrote to you a week later that her husband proved to be a delightful man with amiable qualities. in all truth, you are merely one in a long line of women who have been pawned off to the highest bidder. you are not the first to meet such a fate, and you certainly won’t be the last. there is nothing unique about your situation. your father reminds you of such when you smash a chinoiserie vase to the floor at his pronouncement that yes, you are to be married to gwilym lee on the first of the month and you will be quiet about your rage.

god, you hate them both.

you’ve seen this gwilym lee only once, on the day of his meeting your father. you’d crouched at the top of the stairs, peering over the railing into the vestibule below where your father stood with mr. lee, shaking hands over the arrangement. from your vantage point, you could see mr. lee was tall and well-built, that he had a soft, genial face, and a well-trimmed beard peppering his jaw. when he’d laughed at your father’s joke—the timbre of his voice filling the hall—you’d risen to your feet, rushed to your room, and slammed the door behind you with enough force to ensure everyone in the house knew of your distaste for the matter.

insufferable prat. where did he find the nerve? entering your home, passing pleasantries with your father, all the while intending to steal you from the nest like a common viper? it makes your blood boil.

so much so that on your wedding day, stood before the mirror in your room, a cream gown pinching your waist and pearl-pins digging into your scalp, you want nothing more than to take ahold of the mirror and ram your knee into the glass, shattering the pane. you hate it; you hate every bit of this. and your father is sorely mistaken if he thinks you will go quietly.

you look magnificent, this you will concede. the gown your mother bought suits you well, though it is a tad demure for your taste. it’s silky to the touch, the short sleeves capped by an inch of lace. your back is held straight by the tightness of your corset, and the neckline exposes the crest of your shoulders. it’s simple—nothing compared to the gown rebecca wore on her wedding day—yet it should leave those in attendance breathless. you smirk as you glance over your shoulder, your eyes running over the cloth buttons decorating your spine and the swath of garment circling your feet. yes, though plain, it will do; you are the diamond which sparkles within the box, the true gift.

a knock sounds on the door of your bedroom, and you shoo your maidservant to answer the call.

“your mother, miss,” abby whispers.

you huff, twisting side to side as you smooth a hand over your stomach. is that a wrinkle? you frown as you pick at the fabric. “let her in.”

the door creaks as abby widens the opening, and your mother, with all her self-important and put on airs, sweeps into the room. she’s dressed in her statement color of purple, and a heavy necklace rests around her slender neck, the diamonds glittering in the light pouring through your bedroom window. she stands behind you, her delicate hands on your shoulders, her gaze shimmering with unshed tears.

“oh, my dear,” she says. “you look marvelous.”

you arch a brow in a silent challenge. “i know.”

if your mother sees the bait dangling before her, she does not rise to the occasion. she merely tightens her grip on your shoulders, the edges of her smile stiffening. “i’ve brought you something. an early wedding gift.” removing her hands from your shoulders, she motions to abby, who brings forward a square, velvet box. “this was my mother’s before me and her mother’s before her. now it is yours.”

abby opens the box to reveal a gold necklace within. the necklace chain is thin, the heart shaped locket at the end trimmed with yellow garnet stones. four small birthstones, each no bigger than the width of the nail on your pinky, rest in the center of the heart. 

“the birth stones of your family tree,” your mother says, noting the way your eyes linger on the colored stones. “i’ve added yours—sapphire—next to mine.”

emerald, aquamarine, ruby, sapphire. four women, four lives, four marriages arranged by money, position, and power. 

you wave your fingers in dismissal. “it’s gaudy, mother.”

in the reflection of the mirror, there is no mistaking your mother’s disappointment. it swallows her face like a shadow and erases the single spark of joy dancing around her irises. she looks down, fiddles with her fingers, and you are struck by her frailty in that moment. she’s haughty on her good days, a tyrant on her worst, but she’s never frail. you open your mouth, unsure of what will come out, but then you see her wedding ring and you look away.

“tell me, mother, since i am to be married in much the same fashion as you: will this gwilym insist on sleeping with the maid staff as your husband does?” her head lifts, fire lurking beneath her gaze. you narrow your stare. “when was the last time father laid his hand on you outside of the public eye?”

there’s a long pause as your mother considers you with her fire-laced eyes. you can feel the heat of her glower on the back of your neck, and you stand straighter. 

“i’m sorry i ever birthed you.” her voice is low, gravelly. 

you snort in amusement. “at least on this we can agree.”

she shakes her head, and a curl tightly wound against her scalp breaks free of its pin. “you will be a curse upon your husband. i am sorry for him.”

“i take that as a compliment. any man willing to all but purchase his bride deserves nothing but a wretched wife.”

turning, you lift a veil from the end of your bed. you hand it to abby and lower your knees to aid her in the process of pinning the veil to the crown of your head. once your veil is attached, abby slides a stem of baby’s breath behind each ear. you apply the finishing touches—pearl drop earrings, elbow-length gloves, a pair of silk heeled boots, a pale pink bow over the laces—then face your mother.

“well?” you spread your arms. “how do i look?”

your mother reaches out and brushes her fingers along the edge of your gloves. “like a dream.”

you tilt your head as you gather the train of your veil from the floor and shove it in abby’s waiting hands. “funny,” you say. “this feels a lot more like a nightmare.”

sidestepping your mother, you glance over your bedroom one last time then hurry down the stairs to the overcrowded foyer. as per your father’s request, the household staff have arranged themselves in two formations on either side of the room. it is unlikely you will return to this house after the marriage ceremony. you parents will come and visit you at mr. lee’s manor home, and you will never have the pleasure of darkening the halls of your childhood home again. thus, it is time to say goodbye and, loathe as you are to admit it, you feel a lump of emotion rise in your throat as you survey the faces you’ve seen slip from room to room or wait behind every corner your entire life.

your father stands before the door, already cloaked and ready with his top hat. he nods to the staff and then meets your gaze. he beams with pride, with pleasure, and you feel sick to your stomach.

“well, i dare say it is about time we made our way to the church.” his shoes clip against the marble floor as he crosses to your side. “you look a picture of a blushing bride, m’dear.” he offers is elbow, and you fit your hand in the curve of his arm.

with all the air of queen victoria on her way to marry prince albert, your father parades you down the foyer, his steps slow and regal. the servants on either side bow or curtsey in deference, the tops of their heads the last thing you shall ever see of the people who have been your confidants in moments of crisis and your playfriends in childhood. the air in your lungs feels hot, and something wet pricks the corners of your eyes.

it’s all slipping away before your very eyes—anything you once held dear—and you are powerless to stop it.

two footmen pull open the double doors, and sunlight streams into the hall, sparkling in its intensity. for a moment, you are blinded. you lift your hand to block out the sun, blinking against the pain lingering between your brows. 

“[y/n]?” your father must mistake the moment as sentimentality rather than pain. “do not cry, m’dear. you are on the threshold of a new life.”

you lower your hand and turn your face to him. he’s smiling, truly convinced of his goodness to you. he looks older than you remember. his beard is peppered with gray, his forehead wrinkled. when did he age so? when did you stop paying attention?

the weight of the universe presses in on your shoulders, and you wish for all the world that you could turn back time and be his little girl again, content to worship at his feet. but you are his jaded daughter now, on the precipice of ruin, and he is your condemner, not your savior.

“father, i—”

he cuts you off with a finger. “mr. lee is a good man, [y/n]. he will take care of you, of that i am sure.”

“but i—”

“no buts, daughter. what’s done is done.”

at his gentle prodding, you leave your childhood home and any girlish notions of love behind.

your walk down the center aisle of saint peter’s church feels much the same as your walk down the foyer of your once-beloved home. guests stand on either side, wide skirts and tailored suits smooshed in the narrow pews. your footfalls echo in the cold chamber. it’s a steady beat, unlike the rapid tempo of your heart. beside you, your father radiates all the joy you should be feeling as the bride, so you feel no compunction to paste a smile on your face. he’s happy enough for the both of you. 

the only difference between your walk down the aisle and your walk down the foyer is what lies at the end. 

at home, there had been sunlight. it blinded you, yes, but it was warm and comforting against your frozen skin. it reminded you for the briefest of moments that the sun continues to rise on the darkest days. perhaps, you’d thought, at the end of the tunnel, there is hope for you yet...

here, between the gray stone walls of the church, there is a man waiting for you at the end of your journey. the sight of him—tall and effortlessly handsome—grinds that sliver of hope to a pulp. you’ve never hated anyone more, and your future stretches out before you in a chasm of disappointment.

it’s hard to focus when your father kisses your cheek and hands you off to gwilym. the blood rushing to your ears is loud, and it clogs the rest of your senses. you can barely breathe, so stunned by the turn of events that has brought your existence to this. the hatbox of girlhood fripperies that is shoved beneath your bed—full of ribbons and wedding announcements and dried flowers from the garden, each an image of the life you thought you would lead—withers to dust in the back of your mind. it is replaced by a steel trap, and when gwilym places his warm palm in yours, you lock your heart deep within the trap’s depths. you resolve then and there that no man shall move you—not one.

you cannot seem to tear your eyes from gwilym’s profile as the priest begins his droning. you knew gwilym to be handsome in the brief glance you’d stolen from the top of the stairs, but he is unnervingly good looking up close. from the vantage point of any of the wedding guests, you’re sure you look like a besotted fiancé, but your scrutiny runs deeper than mere appreciation. it confounds you. how could a man such as this one, with his grecian face and soft eyes and curved mouth, resort to a bride package? surely he has a handful of paramours eager to be in your position. he could have his pick of the litter.

but then you remember: you are more than a bride. you are an open invitation to a seat in parliament and an untainted womb and pretty piece to hang off his arm. disgust roils in your stomach, and you finally look away.

a low bench digs against the flesh of your knees when you kneel to take the lord’s supper. you open your mouth, accept the thin wafer and the wine, and snap your jaw closed. gwilym has the audacity to reach for your hand and squeeze your fingers while the priest recites a blessing. without sparing him a glance, you pull your hand away, thankful for the layer of fabric that kept his skin from touching yours.

during the vows, you meet his gaze. you’ve never seen eyes so blue. they look like the english sea, pale and dark and churning with foam and still all at once. you move your stare to the center of his forehead and repeat the vows when you hear your mother roughly clear her throat after you hesitate too long. you trip over the word obey and sneer at the idea of life with gwilym until death.

it’s the pronouncement of a kiss that hurtles your attention forward. the blood pumping in your ears drains; the buzz of frustration at the back of your head fades; and all is silent. 

“gwilym, you may kiss your bride.”

gwilym looks between your eyes as if he’s considering. you narrow your stare on a challenge, and something flickers across his face. frustration? disappointment? you cannot tell.

when he leans forward, you stiffen and move your chin a fraction to the right out of impulse. he hesitates, then, and you can feel his breath fan the side of your face. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

his mouth lands on the corner of yours, nothing but a brief touch to signal two souls becoming one. to you, it feels like a slap to the face. unbidden tears rise to your eyes. you choke them back when gwilym turns you to face the wedding guests. you know less than half the people in attendance, your family being smaller than his, and the unfamiliar faces smiling back at you needles the anger simmering below the surface.

how dare they all turn out in their most resplendent gowns and pressed suits and grin and clap as if this wedding were more than a sham! how dare they congratulate gwilym when he ushers you down the aisle as if you were no more than a prized hog won at the county bazar!

you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

there is no time to make your hatred known as your mother comes to sweep you along to the wedding breakfast. she tears you from gwilym’s side before you can share a single word with your new spouse, and she tucks you close in the carriage bound for hiraeth manor. 

her breath is warm against the side of your face, and her fingers adjust a loose strand of hair slipped from the chignon at the base of your head. her motherly doting, so out of character, threatens to break you entirely, fraught with emotion as you are, so you turn your head to face the window. the somserset landscape hurtles by, the rolling hills and towering trees, and you bite hard on your lower lip to keep the tears at bay.

“you shall be ever so pleased with life at hiraeth, [y/n],” your mother says. “your father is not without his wealth and position, but the lee family? goodness, they put us to shame.” she reaches for your hand and curls it between both of her palms. “you will have hiraeth to run, of course, and then the townhome in bath and forty-five thousand a year? you will want for nothing, daughter.”

you say nothing. you keep your gaze trained on the countryside, your stomach weak with the jostling of the carriage.

“i do wonder if i have trained you well enough for the job of running a household. hiraeth is larger than whitemarsh, to be sure, but—”

“mother.” you blink and remove your hand from her grasp. “stop talking.”

she is quiet a moment before whispering, her voice edged with thinly-veiled anger, “[y/n], I know we shared our own disagreements this morning but you are my daughter and i am pleased for you. you would do well to recognize what an opportunity your father has given you in this match.”

you do not hesitate in a biting retort. “the moment you allowed father to barter me off in exchange for a bump in position i ceased being your daughter. i am my husband’s wife now.”

“continue with an attitude like that and you will be a cuckolded wife, left alone to wither while the world continues to turn.” your mother’s nostrils flare. “you are lucky mr. lee is of a forgiving nature. any other man would have your tongue snipped after hearing such insolence.”

“i wouldn’t know about mr. lee’s character, mother. I have yet to exchange pleasantries with my husband.”

your mother falls silent, and her skirts rustle as she scoots away on the padded bench. the movement, small as it is in the cramped interior of the carriage, sends a sharp pain through your heart. you clear your throat to swallow a sob. 

you will not cry—not now, not ever.

but truly you want to cry. you want to curl your head in her lap and release the tears you’ve been tamping down since your father told you of the match. you want her to stroke your hair and tell you it will be alright, that you’ll be alright. you want her to tell you that she’s sorry.

she’s not sorry, and she would never cradle you. she did not swaddle you in her arms as a babe; she won’t start now.

the carriage takes a sharp turn, sending you lurching against your mother’s side. you grunt with the effort it takes to reposition and disentangle yourself from your mother. she fusses with her now-wrinkled skirts and tuts under her tongue about proper decorum, but you’re not listening. you’re too busy leaning forward, your head knocking against the window pane as hiraeth manor comes into view.

“fuck me,” you breathe, throat gone dry in surprise.

your mother give an unladylike snort of derision. “yes, i’m sure he will—eventually.”

hiraeth makes whitemarsh, an altogether stately and proud manor home, look like a factory worker’s hovel. it is large, sprawling over the hilltop on which it overlooks rolling meadows on all sides. the tan facade glitters in the reflecting pool at the base of the hill, and an ancient willow’s dangling limbs skim the water’s surface. you shrink back against the bench as the manor draws closer. it seems to grow with each moment, new wings and additions sprouting before your very eyes. all this—yours to manage. the task is a formidable one, and your mother must know she has not prepared you for something like this.

the carriage rumbles over a cobblestone drive edged with flowering shrubs and rolls to stop in a circular receiving area. a nondescript footman unlatches the carriage door, and you tumble into the fresh air. you try not to gape, really you do, but it’s hard when such an estate looms before you. if your husband will not swallow you, make you insignificant in your own right, then this house surely will.

an arched door tucked in the corner of the courtyard opens on a heavy creak. you turn to see a short girl exit the home, followed by a wiry woman. the girl drops to a curtsey, her pale cheeks flushed.

“welcome to hiraeth, miss,” she says, a heavy lisp on her tongue.

“mrs. lee, how wonderful it is to finally welcome you to hiraerth!” the wiry woman stretches out her arms to take your hands. her sculpted face pulls into an eager smile, and you resist the urge to lower your defenses. “my name is mrs. brown and i’m the housekeeper here. this is angelica, your personal maid. we thought we’d be the first to greet you before escorting you to the breakfast. everyone is already here and waiting in great anticipation of your arrival.”

you look between mrs. brown and angelica, gauging their sincerity, before motioning to your mother. “we were held up briefly. my mother gets ever so sick on these winding roads.”

“[y/n],” your mother hisses.

mrs. brown gives an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as she looks over your mother’s pinched face then takes your elbow in hand. “no matter, no matter. you can follow me to the breakfast hall. there’s no time to freshen up now, but angelica will show you to your rooms as soon as she has the chance.”

you bristle at the idea of a room set aside solely for eating breakfast, but as mrs. brown guides you through the winding halls of hiraeth, the idea make more sense with each hallway and room you pass. it’s clear mr. lee has more space than with which he knows what to do. a breakfast room indeed.

the room in question is not far off from the entryway of hiraeth. there’s little chance to take in your new surroundings, so you set your jaw and square your shoulders as mrs. brown opens the door of the breakfast room. you step across the threshold, your mother close behind, and hold your breath.

you meet his eyes—gwilym’s—before anyone else’s. he sits in the middle of the arrangement of tables, an empty seat by his side. you glance at the chair to his right then at the other empty space at the far end of the room. the four tables are arranged in a sort of a square and, if you look the empty spot furthest away from gwilym, you’d be fortunate enough to neither hear his voice or see his face. a towering bouquet of flowers sits in the center of the table, and that spot has a particularly nice view of the white roses. you make to take the spot with the view of the flowers, intent on letting everyone in attendance know your feelings on the matter, but your mother beats you to it.

the bitch.

with a huff, you curl your hands to fists and all but stomp to the only remaining seat. the room is quiet, heavy with anticipation as you drop to the chair. your arms itch to fold themselves over your chest, but you are wise enough to resist. though you will not mask your anger, you will tamp it down to a degree. it wouldn’t do to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the gossip columns. that would be a dreadful start to a life in a higher societal position.

beside you, gwilym openly runs his eyes over your profile. you can feel him study you, but you do not flinch beneath his inspection. you keep your eyes on the centerpiece and drum your fingers on the tablecloth.

rising to his feet, gwilym picks up a glass chalice and lifts it. “my friends, i am very glad to be sharing this morning with you all. since the passing of my mother, hiraeth has been without a mistress, and it brings me great happiness to finally have a wife of my own who can fill this house with as much joy as my mother once did.” he twists to look down at you and settles his hand on your shoulder.

you look up, frozen under his touch. his palm envelopes the entirety of your shoulder. his gaze is soft, much to your surprise. as it was for those brief moments in the church, he looks at you only with tenderness; perhaps even pity. there is nothing angry about his eyes; it seems it might be impossible for his face to be anything but mellow. you harden your stare.

“[y/n]”—your name in his mouth. you want him to wipe his tongue and promise never to speak it again.—“welcome to hiraeth. from all of us to you, i truly hope you will be happy here.”

you blink, your mouth parting when he sits and motions for the covered platters around the table to be uncovered. leaning forward, you lower your voice and speak to him for the first time without the aid of a wedding script.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “all of us to you?”

gwilym thanks the man sitting to this left when he is passed a tray of eggs. he scoops some onto his plate then offers the platter to you. “would you like some?”

“uh—yes, yes—i suppose.” he drops of pile of fluffy eggs onto the cream china then passes the platter to the woman on your right, who you belatedly realize is none other than mrs. brown. you scoff and whirl to face your husband. “mr. lee, are we eating with the hired help?”

the fork that’s halfway to his mouth pauses, and his brow pinches in a confused frown. out of the corner of his eye, he looks at you. “is it wrong to celebrate nuptials with one’s staff?”

you sputter. the linen napkin in your hand bunches in your fist. “yes!” your voice is too loud for the gentle and amiable air of the room, but no one makes a move to correct you. they wouldn’t dare. “wedding breakfasts are for family and friends, mr. lee, not servants and scullery maids!”

gwilym swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs. “this is my family, [y/n]. i am celebrating—forgive me, we are celebrating with our family.”

you must look ridiculous, your forehead wrinkled with a frown and eyes narrowed in disbelief and mouth agape, because gwilym laughs and points to your plate with his utensil. 

“eat your food, wife, before it gets cold. you will come to understand how hiraeth runs in due time. if it eases your anxiety,” he adds, “we will celebrate with my friends in the coming week in bath. that is the celebration you are anticipating, i’m sure.”

he returns to his conversation with the man—the butler or valet or hallboy—at his side, effectively dismissing both your outrage and your petty insolence with nothing but a gentle reprimand. 

you hate him.

you do not eat your breakfast. you sit with your hands fisted in your lap and your jaw set hard. across the table your mother purses her lips and looks pointedly at your plate. you turn your gaze away.

gwilym must truly be a nincompoop if he believes you will simper and bat your eyelashes and allow him to treat the staff as family simply because he is your husband. never have you heard of such a foolish sentiment. there is a clear boundary between staff and family never to be blurred. 

your skin itches, and you long for a hot bath.

as breakfast continues around you, you survey the room. the eggshell blue walls stretch to meet a high ceiling, the trim around the border a bright white. you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the gilded mirrors hanging between a pair of large windows. you look sour, like an over-ripe lemon on child’s tongue. 

the breakfast concludes some time later when the kitchen maids rise from their places to return to their duties. a skinny girl with glittering eyes takes your plate still laden with food. her voice is airy when she speaks.

“did you not like the breakfast, ma’am?” she balances your plate on her forearm, another stacked along the inside of her elbow. her cheeks flush when she moves to take gwilym’s empty plate and he smiles at her.

gwilym answers for you. “of course she did, gildy. what’s not to like when you and mrs. cliff are at the helm? mrs. lee is simply overwhelmed by the talent you possess. she confessed that all your sweets were nearly too delectable, she could hardly take another.”

sucking in her lower lip, gildy beams at the scuffed toes of her boots. “thank you, sir.” she bops a curtsey before scurrying through a side door.

you flash gwilym a harsh look. “i can answer for myself, sir.”

“i would prefer you answer with a modicum of kindness.” he nods his head to the side in consideration. “i’m not altogether sure that’s possible, so i thought i would save gildy the heartache.” he drops his napkin to the table and stands, offering you his hand. “come—would you like to see your rooms?”

spare gildy the heartache? he did no such thing for you when he agreed to taking—no, stealing—your hand in marriage.

you leave his hand hanging midair when you stand, adjusting the bustle of skirts around your legs. “i would, yes,” you say. “it’s been a trying morning, and i’d enjoy some silence and a bath so i can rid myself of the filth eking through my body.”

the jab does not land where you intended as gwilym merely laughs at your discontent. his laugh is loud, startling in the now-quiet breakfast room. he reaches for your arm and fits your hand in the curve of his elbow, patting your still-gloved fingers with his.

“your father said you were a spitfire,” he says, shaking his head in his amusement. “i see now he was not mistaken.”

at the arched doorway through which you entered, you bid your parents a hasty farewell. it is not an overdone affair—no tears, no final embraces. the days where you held your mother’s hand or clung to your father’s leg have long since passed. you merely wave them off with an upward tilt of your chin and a half-hearted promise to write before the yuletide. gwilym makes no comment on the stilted air between yourself and your parents. perhaps he knows you would stamp on his foot the moment a question slipped beyond his pretty mouth. you’re not entirely above stamping on his foot just for the sake of it. you resist the urge, however, knowing there’s bound to be a maidservant or hallboy lurking around the corner, waiting for a drip of juicy gossip to bring back to the servant’s quarters. you’ve already given them enough fodder for one day with your behavior at breakfast.

once your parents are securely in their carriage and enroute home, gwilym tugs you further into the manor. “come, your rooms are this way.”

you say nothing, question nothing, about separate bedrooms. it is a relief, in all truth, though you wonder if he will darken your doorway come the evening. your throat clenches. you pray to all the saints he will keep his grimy hands to himself or you’ll do more damage than a crushed foot.

you pull your hand from the crook of his arm as he guides you, preferring to keep your hands clasped behind your back as you walk. gwilym pauses in his explanation of the home’s original construction. he goes so far as to stop walking, and you pass him before realizing he is not by your side. in the wide hallway—one side boasting an array of polished windows, the other decorated with marble busts of his family tree—he blinks at you.

“you don’t like me very much, do you?”

you have to laugh. the sound resounds in the empty hallway, and you toss your head back in a fit of amusement. “goodness, you’re slow, aren’t you?”

he frowns, the first inkling he may possess anything other than an easy-going nature if pushed. “what is it i’ve done to offend you?”

you gawp and try to keep yourself from falling to the floor in surprise. “you must be joking, surely.”

shaking his head, a line forms between his brow. “no. i don’t understand why you are so cross.”

you turn your face away for a moment, inhaling slowly. you cross to the wall of windows and count to ten. the grounds of hiraeth are lovely—forest green grass, neatly-trimmed hedges. far as the eye can see is yours. in the span of one morning, you have gone from moderately wealthy to blessed beyond your wildest imaginations. your husband is handsome and thus far been nothing but considerate of you. it could be worse. and yet, somehow you feel as if you are the only woman who has been made to suffer a fate such as this.

you turn slowly on your foot and meet his gaze. he’s patient, you’ll give him that. he simply stares at you, waiting for some sort of explanation.

you decide to give him one.

your jaw tightens as long-neglected rage begins to boil in your stomach, and you draw in a deep breath before unleashing your indignation in a measured, even tone that fills the hall with its power.

“i am cross, sir, because i believe you to be a viper. you have stolen me from my comfort of my mother’s nest, and i fully anticipate you swallowing me whole. you are no better than the scottish barbarians who kidnap their brides and hide them away in the countryside. you are a thief and a coward, evidently unwilling—or perhaps unable—to woo his own choice of woman. i did not even have the pleasure of seeing your backside before being made your wife, and for that offense, i will never forgive you. marriage is meant to join two people who at least have been made somewhat acquainted before the ordeal. our marriage is a sham and an offense before god. so, you’re right—i don’t like you very much.”

it pleases you to see him so pale, so undone by your words. his chiseled jaw scrapes the floor, and a flush breaks out on his cheeks. you smirk in triumph.

at the sight of a maid inching along the wall at the far end of the hall, you hold up your arm and snap for her attention. “oh! girl!”

you hasten away from your husband, leaving him in the wake of your outburst. your skirts swish along the waxed, hardwood floor, and you meet the maid halfway down the hall. she stares at you with wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the surface. she must have heard. you’ve never felt more powerful.

linking your arm tightly around hers, you cast a look over your shoulder. gwilym’s hands have turned to fists. “my husband and i are finished speaking,” you say, your voice loud enough for him to hear every inflection. “show me to my rooms, won’t you?”

the following week is a rush of gown fittings, growing accustomed to the running of hiraeth, and attempting to make your husband’s life miserable.

the gowns are meant to fill your wardrobe for the social season. you arrived with a handful of dresses, yes, but with a home in bath, it is likely that you will spend a significant amount of time at dinner parties or galas. so tuesday afternoon, the day after the wedding, you are presented with an array of fabric and fashion sketches. from your place on the fitting stool, you glance over the options and pick your favorites: the teal blue which will come with an embroidered bodice; the scarlet red with lace-fringed sleeves; the dark green which will host tiered-layers cascading to the floor. it’s a hefty bill, but your husband has money enough to spend on four separate wardrobes if you so choose.

wednesday morning, mrs. brown insists you take a tour of the lower floors and accustom yourself with directing the maid and kitchen staff. you begrudgingly follow her and offer tight-lipped smiles to the flushed and nervous faces staring back at you. you truly could care less about the goings-on downstairs; that was always your mother’s job. but your mother isn’t here, and it’s up to you to preside over the well-being of the household staff. there’s so many of them, you wonder if gwilym will have annulled your marriage before you have the chance to commit all their names to memory. you can certainly pray that will be the case.

throughout the week, you revel in spurning gwilym’s kindness. you avoid him, mostly, choosing to take your breakfast in bed and your afternoon tea in the garden. you suffer through dinner with him, sat across from him at the end of a long table. you ignore his polite comments and questions and simply focus on eating your food. when he leaves a gift outside your bedroom door—a single white rose and a newly printed copy of a novel he thinks you might enjoy—you simply turn up your brow and send it back to his office. he invites you to ride about the grounds with him, and you scoff at the idea, turning on your heel and waltzing down the hall without a fare-thee-well.

to his credit, he does not shout, does not so much as grit his teeth. he bears it all with grace and composure, and that’s what frustrates you the most. you wish he would shout. you wish he would tell you to grow up and act your age. something—anything—other than the saccharine care with which he treats you. a snake with manners, it seems.

on friday morning he catches you in the breakfast room. you openly sigh when he enters, setting down your knife and reaching for your cup of tea.

“i thought you had gone,” you say, your gaze trained on your reflection in the mirror across the room. your skin is clear, your hair piled atop your head in a mess of artfully arranged curls and pins. you tilt your head to the side. hm, you really are a sight to behold when done up well. your husband is blessed.

the husband in question drops to a seat opposite you, and, for a brief moment, you note the way his waistcoat fits snug against his broad chest. you look away. “no, actually. i was hoping to steal a moment of your time this morning.”

“you’ve done a lot of stealing from me already, mr. lee.” you slide your gaze to him, challenging. “are you sure you want to continue down this path of thievery?”

as you anticipated, he does not rise to the occasion. he actually smiles and shakes his head in amusement, the knob. you roll your eyes. “your tongue does not quit. it truly amazes me.”

“i’ll have to increase my efforts to anger you, then.”

he smirks, continuing to spread butter across his piece of bread. “there is a party this evening,” he says, catching you off guard with his change of topic. “i don’t know if you recall me mentioning it, but my friends in bath are throwing the two of us a wedding party. we’ll be leaving late this morning in order to arrive before nightfall.”

“oh, that’s a shame.” you place your teacup on its saucer, pat the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then meet his eyes, yours round with innocence. “i’m afraid i can’t attend.”

he pulls an incredulous face. “it’s not an option, [y/n]. my friends are most eager to meet you, and they’ve worked very hard at making this party something you and i will both enjoy.”

a heavy moment of silence passes. you smooth your hand across the tablecloth and smile sweetly, lifting your gaze from beneath your lashes.

“i understand that, mr. lee, and i am sure your friends are lovely people. however, i simply cannot attend.”

his knife hits his plate with a bit more effort than is necessary. you bite your lower lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

“why ever not?” he asks. there is an edge to his voice; it’s slight, but it’s there. your heart lifts with glee.

you shrug, and your earrings sway against your neck with the movement. “well, i just don’t want to.”

gwilym sputters, and his hands clench on the table. inhaling deeply, he holds your gaze, and a muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. if you weren’t so intent on hating the man, you might find his anger thrilling.

instead of shouting, gwilym rises from the table and gently pushes his chair in. he clears his throat and drums a finger along the chair back before saying, “we leave at eleven o’clock, [y/n]. please be ready.”

you bat your eyelashes and take a bite of a pastry, grinning, giving him no promises.

at ten-forty-five you are dressed, but have no intention of joining gwilym on the trip to bath. instead, you study yourself in the floor-length mirror in your dressing room. much to your surprise, one of the gowns recently drawn up had arrived the night before, and after taking breakfast, you’d grabbed angel and had her help you into the dress.

you sway back and forth before the mirror. a wine red, the light catches in the folds of the skirt and the ruching over your chest. a pearl pendant rests in the middle of your breastbone, a teardrop pearl dangling from the pendant itself.

“don’t you like it, angel?” you ask.

from behind you, hands clasped before her waist, angel nods in earnest. “oh yes, mum! you look like a goddess.”

“i do, don’t i?” you pout and turn to face her. “shame about not going to the party. who will see me look so splendid?”

before angel can answer, your dressing room door bursts open. you gasp, whirling to face the storm cloud of a man in the doorway.

“gwilym!” you hold a hand against your heaving chest. “you mustn’t scare me like that!”

he looks well, dressed in a crisp suit complete with black tailcoat and trousers and deep green waistcoat. he wears no tie of any sort, though a gold pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket. despite his arranged clothing, his demeanor is decidedly less put together. his face is splotchy with an angry flush, his eyes boring holes into yours.

“goodness, what has gotten you into a tiff, husband?”

his nostrils flare. “i told you to be ready by eleven.”

“and i told you i am not going. did you not hear me?”

“i told you it wasn’t an option.”

you sigh and level him an unamused stare. “i am ever so tired of people making decisions for me.”

“we are going—together—to bath.”

you glance down at yourself and lift your arms in defeat. “i’m not dressed for the occasion, so i shan’t keep you and make you late.”

gwilym’s eyes dart to angel then back to you. he seems to be weighing his options, whether or not giving in is worth it. he runs his hands around the brim of his hat, his eyes narrowing in thought. finally, he seems to make up his mind. he pops his hat on and just when you’re ready to wave at his retreating back, he stalks into the room and loops his arms around your waist. you screech when he lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh no more than a feather.

mortification and seething anger crashes over you in rush. the feeling is hot, like boiling water beneath your skin. “unhand me, you villain!” you beat your fists against his muscular back.

he says nothing.

“i swear to you, gwilym lee, if you do not put me down this instance, i will scream!”

again, he says nothing. he walks toward the waiting carriage, the hallways and rooms in which you could seek shelter whizzing past you with the speed of his gait. you kick your legs out like a donkey, attempting to connect with something which might impede his progress.

nothing helps.

the outside air is cool against your hot skin, and you fight him all the way—all arms and legs and nails against whatever flesh you can find—until he deposits you in the plush interior of the carriage. he slams the door in your face, adjusts his crumbled waistcoat, and rounds the carriage to the other side. once seated beside you, his breathing labored and jaw tight, he taps the roof of the vehicle.

“onward, smith!” unlike his breathing, his voice is steady, and you want nothing more than to reach across and tear his windpipe out of his throat.

powerless to stop it, the carriage begins its journey toward bath.

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[heatherfield]

“I knew that you’d only married me for convenience. I loved you so much, I didn’t care.... I never expected you to love me, I didn’t see any reason that you should, I never thought myself very lovable. I was thankful to be allowed to love you and I was enraptured when now and then I thought you were pleased with me or when I noticed in your eyes the gleam of good-humoured affection.”

AUs That Nobody Asked For: Red Cricket in “The Painted Veil” by W. Somerset Maugham