CHAPTER FOUR #3
And what could she say? She could not tell Margery the truth – even if she could be sworn to secrecy (and, young and excitable as she was, there was no guarantee she'd be able to keep her word), it would only strengthen her arguments against Matilda's plans for her.
A marriage entered into with the intent of deceiving the rest of the world was a rare thing: Constance knew of no one else who had managed it.
It required a very particular set of circumstances, and while she knew little of Simon, she doubted that Margery could be so lucky as to find herself betrothed to a willingly counterfeit husband.
But she also couldn't lie to her niece in good conscience: Margery had trusted her enough to ask the question to begin with, and the least Constance could do was answer her with as much honesty as was possible.
"There's love and there's love," she said, choosing her words carefully.
"No troubadour would ever write songs about Peter and I, but that's not to say we're unhappy in each others' company.
" At least, not when Peter's mood was good.
"I think you'll find most marriages are like that.
Songs and tales of love are beautiful things, but there are few who may live up to them in real life.
And – and I think it is better not to strive for it, when it is so hard to find.
Better to be happy with less than always want more and suffer for the wanting of it. "
Even as she said it, she felt her heart ache.
If she was able to convince Margery, it was all to the good – but it wasn't true.
Jack and Peter loved each other; Matilda and Richard loved each other; and her own parents had loved each other, enough that her father had barely been able to survive the loss of his wife.
And there was Isabel's brother and his wife as well – from what Isabel had said, they were besotted with each other.
Plenty of people found love, real love, even if it wasn't as exciting as what Margery imagined.
So far as love went, Constance was the odd one out.
Whether that was the result of simple bad luck or some deficiency in her character, she couldn't say.
But that wasn't a thought she needed to burden Margery with.
"So you don't love him," Margery said, and Constance sighed. It had been too much to hope, perhaps, that Margery would absorb what she was trying to tell her. "If you did love him, you'd just say it, wouldn't you?"
"We get along well," Constance said. "That's worth a great deal. There are many who can't say the same."
"But there are those who can say more," Margery countered. "Getting along well isn't the same as love. I get along with Gilbert the butcher's boy, and Avice who delivers flour from the mill and Adam who Father buys his tools from, but I don't wish to marry any of them."
"Is there someone you would choose?" Constance asked, relieved that the conversation was moving on from her own marriage. This was far more solid ground. "Someone you'd prefer over Simon?"
Margery gave an indifferent shrug. "There's no one interesting in Linden. I've known these people all my life, and all they want to do is go on living here. I want more."
"And if you can't find it?" Constance asked. "What then?"
The set of Margery's jaw was enough answer to her question, but Margery's words still confirmed it. "Then I'll go looking."
Constance rubbed her temples, feeling tension pulled tight in her muscles.
Their talk was going in circles: she could go on trying to prod Margery in the direction of marrying Simon, but, knowing her niece, she would only bring the topic back to her dreams of adventure.
Perhaps age and maturity would grant her a different perspective on the life she thought she wanted, and whether or not she wished to risk life and limb chasing after it; but for now, she was fifteen and utterly convinced that this was the only way forward for her.
She would have more success in dismantling a stone wall by smashing her head against it than by trying to talk Margery around to her mother's point of view.
"Well, then," she said, and stood. "Shall we go to market, while we're roving? A candied plum from the hawker's cart may improve your spirits."
Still seated on the bench, Margery blinked up at her. "You don't mean to argue?"
Constance gave her a weary smile. "I know when I've been bested – or at least, when you won't be budged.
Either way, it would be a poor use of my time and yours' to go on as we have been, for I don't believe there's anything I could say now that would sway you.
We may as well enjoy the afternoon. And your mother is right in one thing, at least – fresh air and walking will do you good. "
She held a hand out to Margery, who eyed it suspiciously for a moment – though what she thought Constance might do, she couldn't fathom – before taking it and letting herself be pulled to her feet.
The couple at the well had moved on, but as the noon sun had inched to the middle of the sky, others had come to take their place – townswomen with buckets to fill, children shooed outside to play, and hawkers looking to sell their wares.
Constance fished in the purse at her belt and came up with enough coins to buy a sweet for each of them.
The girl who she handed the coins over to them kept her eyes downcast, but lifted them briefly to smile and nod at Margery before moving on.
Constance gave her niece a curious, sidelong look. "Friend of yours?"
"Not really," Margery said, already nibbling at her plum. "That's Nelly – she used to sell with her father, until he caught the pox and died last year. Now it's just her. The little ones like her because she gives them sweets sometimes."