Chapter Thirty-Three Birthright
Chapter Thirty-Three
Birthright
It was no secret that every woman out in society would murder their own fiancé for the chance to have their own custom Agatha Lark wedding dress.
As Poppy looked in the mirror, she found it wasn’t hard to see why.
Agatha had outdone herself, crafting a masterpiece out of ivory silk the same shade as the elephant tusks that hung in the Sutherlands’ sitting room.
Long bishop sleeves puffed below the elbow before tightening in a long cuff down her forearm.
Half a dozen buttons fashioned from Welkish pearls adorned each one.
A silk-and-pearl choker concealed her scar from the museum.
The skirt, puffed up with layers of tulle, was further weighted down by handcrafted silk roses in Montrose scarlet.
Poppy’s gown would be as coveted as the man she would marry, if not more.
She’d be the envy of every woman in the chapel, yet she’d trade with any of those ladies in a heartbeat.
Despite her resolution to end her engagement, her parents had dismissed her pleas, writing them off as a case of cold feet.
It did not help her cause that she couldn’t give them a sufficient reason beyond the flimsy excuse of incompatibility, but she wasn’t confident that they would believe in the truth.
As Agatha arranged the bridal veil over her face, she couldn’t help but feel as though she were being fitted for a burial shroud instead.
“There,” Agatha said, stepping back. “It’s simpler than I would have liked, but . . .”
The couturiere trailed off awkwardly, leaving the end of the sentence hanging in the air: But I didn’t have enough time.
Poppy didn’t begrudge Lark for her grievance; if anything, she felt the same way.
In less than a week, she’d be married to Richard, her place cemented at his side.
The thought didn’t inspire the satisfaction that it used to.
When it became obvious that Poppy did not intend to reply, her mother cleared her throat. “It’s perfect. We are both so grateful to you.”
“Of course.” Agatha pinched Poppy’s cheek. “Anything for the future marchioness.”
She flinched backward. Agatha took her hand away quickly.
“Madame Lark, do you mind giving me a moment alone with my daughter?” Demetria suggested. “His Grace is in his office down the hall. One of his staff will give you the final check.”
The couturiere looked relieved by the suggestion.
She gathered up her pins and measuring tape and hurried out of Poppy’s bedroom.
Once Agatha closed the door behind her, Poppy’s mother rose from the settee and came to stand behind her.
In the mirror, Poppy’s gaze met her disapproving stare.
Though her face was mostly obscured by the lace veil, she kept her features cold and impartial.
Mother and daughter stood like that for a moment, each sizing up the other.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” her mother said. “It’s one thing to have cold feet. But must you be so sullen and ungrateful in front of the couturiere?”
“Forgive me, Mother,” she bit out. “I will endeavor to better conceal my discontent at being forced to the altar.”
Her mother gave an aggravated sigh. “Where is this coming from? It was you who rushed to get married. We are not forcing you!”
Poppy couldn’t argue with her there. She had pursued Richard, chasing respect and security, but she now knew better than to expect either of these things from him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Yet you insist on going forward with this. What is that, if not forcing me?”
“I still don’t understand why you wish to end the engagement.” Her mother softened her voice, coaxing, “Be honest, now: What has changed?”
The truth perched at the tip of Poppy’s tongue, but Richard’s voice whispered in her head: Who do you think they’ll believe?
The rules of this game had been written by men like him, putting all the cards in his hand.
He was a white, wealthy, attractive man who was well respected in the community.
Meanwhile, Poppy was a brown woman who had been exiled for seven years over a single necklace. The truth didn’t serve people like her.
“I’ve changed,” she answered honestly. “I returned to marry Richard so I’d have a place in the nobility, as a marchioness, and as the viceroy’s wife. But I don’t want that anymore.”
“Why not?” Her mother’s bewilderment was plain on her face. “It’s your birthright.”
Poppy turned, lifting the veil away. “No, Mother. A birthright is something you’re entitled to, not something you have to marry someone else to receive. By this definition, the only birthright I have is vicereine.”
Her mother’s confusion gave way to realization, which morphed into disbelief. She thrust a reprimanding finger into Poppy’s face, parting her lips, but a familiar voice spoke first.
“What’s going on in here?”
Her father stood in the hallway. He surveyed the scene: Poppy standing on the tailor’s box like a cold statue on a pedestal, her mother on the ground, reaching up as though to tear her down.
“Madame Lark has outdone herself,” he said. “But it seems as though neither of you is happy.”
Her mother spoke first. “Poppy doesn’t want to marry Richard!”
Her father rubbed one hand across his wrinkled forehead. “This again? I thought we were clear. You must marry Richard, Poppy. Your reputation is precarious after your abduction, but no one would dare impugn the honor of the next Montrose marchioness.”
“I don’t wish to be marchioness,” she said, just as her mother said, “She wants to be vicereine, Clarence.”
He grew still, knuckles tightening on the cane. Though Poppy still stood on the tailor’s box, he was tall enough to look her in the eye as he said, “Poppy, it’s true you have succeeded where most would fail. But the office of the viceroy?” He shook his head. “That is truly impossible.”
His lack of faith burned like acid. “Why not?” She kept her chin raised. “I am your heir, and the role is always inherited by the heir. Am I being passed over because I am a woman? Or is it because I am Virian?”
“Both,” he said, unrepentant. “I have always been honest with you about the hurdles you’d face as my adopted daughter. There are very few people who would not challenge the legitimacy of a lowborn woman, especially one without a title.”
“I am prepared for adversity,” she said. “At least the struggles of being vicereine would come with a measure of power. A viceroy’s wife is nothing but a glorified broodmare.”
Her mother gasped, paling.
He slammed the butt of his cane against the ground. “Apologize to your mother.”
Poppy blew out a breath. “Mother, I apologize. I meant you no slight. But the position is essentially that—to provide an heir for the viceroy’s office. She has no title, no official duties, no political power, no purpose other than to provide a male child.”
“I’m sure you can have Richard delegate some official duties to you once he’s inherited the role,” her mother said. “He gifted you an orphanage, after all. I’m sure he’ll include you.”
Like hell he would. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Why must I rely on the Montrose name to give me power when I am a Sutherland? I should be vicereine. Anything less would be to rob me of my inheritance.”
“Do you think that we seek to rob you?” her father glowered.
“We saved you from a life on the streets. I’ve spent a fortune on nothing but the best governesses, tutors, even the best college for you.
Everything I’ve done has been to enrich you, to give you the skills you need to survive in the world.
You can read, write, and do sums, which is more than most Virian women can say, but you are ungrateful to the very end. ”
Shame stung Poppy’s cheeks. Her father’s lecture reminded her of Samina’s, the flip side of the same coin.
“I am grateful,” she said, thinking of the families in Sanivali.
“Don’t think I’m not aware of all the ways in which I’ve benefited from my upbringing.
But just because I gained much doesn’t mean I didn’t lose much as well. ”
“Lose?” her father repeated, as though it were a foreign word. “What could you have possibly lost?”
All the bitterness Poppy had felt in Sanivali came bubbling to the surface. “My language.” Her voice broke, but she raised it louder. “My culture. You raised me to speak your language, uphold your values, practice your traditions. I never learned my parents’ traditions—”
“We’re your parents,” Demetria cut in. “We raised you.”
“After you took me from another city,” Poppy said. “I know nothing of my birth parents.”
The duke sighed deeply, dragging the heel of his hand down his face.
“We have been over this, Poppy. You’ve asked us this before, and no one knows who your birth parents were—the factory that killed them did not keep accurate records of the workers it employed.
Finding out who they were was impossible. ”
“So you say,” she said. She had believed that answer as a child, but her time in Sanivali had shattered the way she saw her father. “You have control over the police division, so forgive me if I find that difficult to believe. Did you even try?”
“We tried where it mattered!” her mother cried.
In her corner of the room, she had started shaking violently, her face pale, as though the intensity of her emotions were physically taking a toll on her.
“You had nothing when we found you, but we gave you a home, even gave you our names: Poppy Demetria Sutherland. We loved you like you were our own, because to us, you are our own. We adopted you with the best of intentions, and you could not have had a better life with anyone else.”
The pain in her voice cut Poppy deeply, guilt and yearning welling up in the wound.
She hadn’t meant to make her mother cry.
For a moment, she debated dropping the issue to avoid distressing her further.
But now that she had seen the world that she had been taken from, she couldn’t ignore it.
Until her kidnapping, she’d been the version of herself the Sutherlands had chosen for her.
But in captivity, Poppy had found there were multiple versions of herself—some lost to the past, and some that were still shrouded in the future—and she refused to let her choice be taken from her again.
Her father took another step forward, taking one of Poppy’s bare hands and patting it between his.
His wrinkled skin felt soft as suede. “I know the grass always seems greener on the other side. But remember—Virian culture is inferior and primitive. They ascribed value to a person based on the circumstances of their birth, limiting the social mobility and economic opportunities of those who had no magic. We raised you better than that, with the values of the Founder. All men have purpose. Anyone can rise based on their merit and hard work.”
Poppy looked down at him. “If that’s true, then name me as heir to the viceroy’s office. If all are equal, then the title ought to be mine, because my rights would be equal to any natural-born male heir of yours.”
He hesitated, his lips parting as he struggled with this. Finally, he relented. “I will give it thought, Poppy. But your wedding will take place as planned.”
“But—”
“No,” he declared. “It’s not up for debate.
To back out now would cause both families immense embarrassment and would only fuel speculation about what happened during your abduction.
If you become vicereine, then you will need the support of the First Families to achieve anything.
A viceroy is only as powerful as the allies he keeps. ”
Or she.
With that, he beckoned to his wife, who took his arm. They walked out of the room together, her father leaning more heavily on his cane than when he’d entered.
Poppy stared at herself in the mirror as Lark’s assistants came back into the room to unbutton the gown.
If her parents would not help her end the engagement, she’d find her own way out.
The assistants undid the last button, and the wedding dress slid off Poppy’s frame, freeing her from its horrible weight.