Set in a similar style to Jane Austen, about an arranged marriage. A pretty girl is made to marry a man who is grossly overweight, but will she ever love her obese husband?
I was born into an age where the King was thought mad and the Americas sought their independence. I was born into a society that deemed, for a girl of my superior position, it was correct and proper for my father to choose my husband. From a very early age he would say to me, “Sarah, marriage is a union based on trust and respect, between a man and a woman bred from equal class backgrounds, who thus share the same values and principles of life. To be diverted by the notion that love is the driving principle will do nothing but court unhappiness and disappointment.”
As I grew older I observed that my father had omitted one other driving force in the choice of an appropriate husband. Money. Leaning towards the celebration of my twenty first birthday I became acutely aware of how certain rich and worthy men took a growing interest in our family, especially since my figure had rounded into graceful curves and my mother had permitted me to wear the highly fashionable lower cut bodice. Likewise my father’s interest in various prestigious lords and their offspring grew, to the point where often he would be away for days on end visiting their estates and, no doubt, bartering my worth. It therefore came as no surprise when my father returned from one such visit and announced that I was to wed Lord Hartingdon’s only son and heir, Percy.
My first introduction to the intended bridegroom was a cool, formal affair, the two fathers watching every minute flicker of emotion across my face to see how I might react to the plump, sweaty hand, thrust into mine. Smiling, and quietly greeting him “good-day”, I hid my revulsion beneath a well practised façade of congeniality. Lord Percy was a man in his mid twenties blown wide by overindulgence. His thick, dark hair, sat plastered across his head in a flat, unfashionable style. The little beads of perspiration that erupted from the over exertion of rising from his chair to greet me ensured it remained tidily in place. His smile parted thick lips to show a hint of yellowed teeth and, although not an unpleasant smile, it lifted his cheeks in such a manner that his dark eyes nearly disappeared behind the involuntary hills of puffed out flesh beneath them.
We all sat in awkward silence for a while, Percy’s huge bulk spilling out across the chaise long one of the servants had bought in for his comfort, the chair proving to be less than adequate. He wore black breeches, a black waistcoat over a clean white shirt, a black jacket and a clutch of laced cloth at his throat in the style taken on by every fashionable gentleman about town. Along with the sweet aroma of a delicious fragrance devised, especially for men, by a certain Madame Bouvaire, my future husband did at least offer the impression of a gentleman who had tried his utmost to impress through a show of impeccable taste.
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