Chapter Text
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♠ ❛ —— O Romeo, Romeo!
wherefore art thou Romeo? ❜
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No one ever called Rose by her rightful name. The townspeople, only knowing her by her exterior and ignorant of the other qualities about her, called her “Beauty.” Her family, as most families tend to do, had several names attributed to her. Since Rose's first name was "Elizabeth", her brothers and sisters tended to call her “Lizzie” or “Eliza.” And her father, as the girl was his favorite of all of his children, called her his “Darling Lizzie Rose.”
Although the girl never minded so much the latter of these sobriquets, she much preferred to be called “Rose” and “Rose” alone. Rose was simple. The image the name created in one’s mind and the taste it left on one’s lips was who she wanted to be known as by others. With the addition of Elizabeth, or even her surname “Bourne”, other images, tastes, colors, and scents made headway into one’s mind. And these other senses did not reflect her. She was Rose and Rose only.
But, as most flowers do, Rose had a dainty delicacy about her. When someone called her with a name that was not her own, she did not have the sharpness to stand forth and correct them. This no doubt was caused by the regular trimmings of her thorns she underwent: Each day, the girl was blamed for the family’s misfortunes by her two elder sisters.
“Lizzie should cease all her romantic daydreams of a man, and go ahead and marry one, as we did. Then Father wouldn’t have to worry about her wellbeing or anyone else’s.”
“If only Lizzie would put down those books of hers, she could have any man she wanted. And if ever a man came along with enough money, he could salvage her, father, the manor, all of us.”
“If only Father stopped buying her all of those books and paintings and such things, he wouldn’t have had to file for bankruptcy.”
Of course, they never spoke these words to her face, but she often overheard them speaking through the walls of the gathering room whenever they came to visit the manor. If her two elder sisters, who were wed to respectable—although fortune-less husbands—already thought so low of her, then how could she ever correct them for such a trivial thing as her namesake? Surely, they would scold her for that as well, and then continue to call her “Lizzie,” as they always had.
And so, Rose came to only dream of being called her rightful name. She settled for such travesties as “Miss Bourne” and “Eliza Dear,” with the hope in the far regions of her mind, that perhaps, someday, someone would pass her by on the street, with the ability to understand her every thought, and know that she had never been anyone but Rose. For, Lord knows, she would never have the piercing courage it entailed to tell them her real name.
The young woman, at nineteen, knew it was her time to be wed. Her sisters had been married only a few years before, when they had been eighteen and she, fifteen. But the girl longed for the man who would call her “Rose,” instead of “Miss Bourne” or “Elizabeth.” She was destined to wait for that man on the street, and if he never came, she determined that she would become an old maid.
It seemed such an odd thing to everyone else—the most beautiful girl in town, destined to become an old maid. How could they allow such a tragedy to occur? It was the people's moral duty to see that every respectable, eligible maiden in the town be married off to a respectable, eligible gentleman. It was time, and yet, the young woman seemed to not want marriage. Even though she could bring prosperity to the family by batting an eyelash at any fortunate gentleman who crossed her path, she never played such games.
Over the past two years, multiple suitors had visited the manor, asking for the young woman’s hand in marriage, as well as offering up their respective fortunes. And even though, with each day that passed the father’s money depleted, more suitors arrived—for Rose’s beauty had only grown. But the merchant turned each one of them away, arguing that his youngest child was not yet ready to be handed off in marriage. Truthfully, the old merchant would miss his daughter’s quiet company in the midst of his two unmarried, rambunctious sons. He also felt that—to be perfectly frank—none of the men were good enough for his daughter.
Only one man—although no one was quite certain if he could even be called as such—in town, the old merchant was sure, was good enough for his youngest daughter, his Darling Lizzie Rose. And that was the baron who lived at the top of the mountain, high above the rest of the village, across the valley and fields and forest.
But hardly anyone had seen this man. Moreover, myths and tales had been passed around town for years that he was deformed, or at the very least, unagreeable. Even so, the merchant had connections with the baron’s mother: the baroness. They had done business together years before when he had sold textiles to the castle, and always remained close friends—even as his business declined.
The baroness never spoke of her son’s appearance, but rather, his accomplishments—accomplishments much greater and more varied than any mere feats of Rose's suitors. Each time the merchant visited the grand castle, he became astonished with the most recent round of the baron’s achievements. His Darling Lizzie Rose would have been astonished as well.
But the man knew it was not meant to be between his daughter and the baron. For, even if he had not lost his fortune and squandered all of his money, he was still a middle-class merchant, with no title and no background. Moreover, since youth, the baron had been engaged to the daughter of a wealthy gentleman who lived the next town over.
But, if there were some way, some hope, some chance, that the merchant could marry his youngest, most beautiful daughter off to the accomplished, wealthy—albeit mysterious—Lord Ashworth, he would.