An impertinent affair

1. The Yardwell Sword

It wasn't an unusual day. Nothing had ever been unusual in the Duke of Yardwell's only daughter's life. It had all been predictable.

Monotonous. 

Superficial.

And lonely. So very lonely.

And loneliness brought close habits. Elizabeth's only legacy she had got from her late mother. Or rather, the only legacy that had survived. Painting. 

That afternoon, sitting alone on the ground, tiny grass strings brushing her bare feet time and again, Elizabeth was drawing a sword. 

Not the flowers, nor the scenery, neither the birds-it was a sword that had stuck in her mind since the day she had seen it framed on the King of Demonire's private collection of war artifacts. 

And since then, it hadn't escaped Eliza's mind. It had been just a sword. Something she had seen a lot many times, but never touched. Never held. Never used.

Because weak did not hold swords. Because women did not hold swords. Thank goodness she didn't believe in that.

In her world, that didn't quite matter. But in the real world, it did matter. Women without power were mere broodmares. Bidding to her father's, brother's and then her husband's wishes.

But she didn't want to survive. She wanted to live. By ruling her lands, her very bountiful lands of Yarwell.

It was that singular, sharp and slender sword that she had been painting in complete isolation and silence. It was not elaborately painted, rather the opposite. It was simple, yet not austere, sharp and quick. Not beautiful to ones eyes, but not displeasing either.  Charming, aristocratic and powerful, the sword looked. 

The perfect royal mix.

Elizabeth Mary Isabella Conway, the only daughter of the Duke of Yardwell, could as well be described as the sword she had been drawing.  

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The window of her room gave an explicit view of the countryside. The myriad hues of gold, yellow and red of the setting sun merged together and the painting drawn by Nature itself was picturesque in every possible manner. 

The isolated castle she lived in gave little warmth to her, the aloofness of which had always bitten into Lizzie's heart and she found it hard to get rid of it. It was a cold castle. But Eliza was colder. Fiercer. And an admirer of silence.

After all, her father had been a great teacher. Silence is the language they conversed in.

As she sat alone on the windowsill, a book spread open on her lap but long forgotten in favour of the magnificent sunset, her mind wandered off to her desires, which, she was well aware won't be granted by the society. Freedom. Freedom to do what she liked, wear what she wanted, speak what she thought, engage in activities that appealed to her, and not the society's image of a 'dutiful maiden' . But she was given a chance. Oh yes, she was. A chance at freedom. And in hell she would lose this ticket to remain unmarried, and subsequently, unshackled.

Nothing in this world would prevent her from her goal.

Just as she was beginning to drift into the world of her radical thoughts and of what she desired, she was rudely woken up from her reverie by an insistent knock on her door.

"Come in", she answered as a scullery maid wobbled in and dipped into a hurried curtsy. 

"His Grace has requested for your attendance in the entrance hall, my lady", the maid said, her demeanor a clear indication that the Duke had certainly not 'requested' an audience with her, rather ordered her to march down the stairs, and appear before him without further delay.

She bristled at the thought, but forced her temper down. Because talking with her father without her mind stable and temper in check led to disastrous circumstances. Something she wished to avoid at every cost.

And so she did, but she certainly had no inkling as to what this little exchange between her father and herself, that February, would have on her future, thereafter.

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