Married To The Crown
A Victorian Romance
The morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Ashford village like a shroud, and Eudora Sinclair felt it seeping into her very bones. She stood at the window of their modest cottage, her fingers pressed against the cold glass, watching her father return from the manor house with shoulders more burdened than when he'd left.
"Eudora," her mother Winifred called softly from the kitchen, though there was a tremor in her voice that hadn't been there yesterday. "Come away from the window, dear."
But Eudora couldn't move. She had counted every step her father had taken up the lane, had seen the envelope clutched in his weathered hands the one bearing the royal seal. For three weeks now, their family had lived under a cloud of dread, ever since the debt collectors had come. Her father's crop failure, her brother Silas's medical expenses after the accident at the mill, the harsh winter that had stolen half their livestock it had all accumulated into an impossible sum.
The door creaked open, and Howard Sinclair entered, his gray eyes finding his eldest daughter immediately. In that moment, Eudora knew. She had always known, really, since the day the proclamation had been read in the village square. The newly crowned King Walter Enfield, twenty-eight and unmarried, required a bride. Not a princess from a neighboring kingdom, not a lady from the aristocracy, but a commonera gesture, they said, to unite the crown with its people.
"Papa," Eudora whispered, finally turning from the window.
Howard crossed the small room in three strides and took his daughter's hands. They were rough, these hands, marked by years of working the land, but they trembled now. "He has chosen you, my dear. Out of all the eligible young ladies in the kingdom, the king has chosen you."
Cordelia, Eudora's younger sister, gasped from the doorway. At sixteen, she still saw the world through eyes that believed in fairy tales. "Eudora! You're to be queen!"
But Eudora saw only her father's face, saw the relief warring with guilt in every line and crease. She understood what wasn't being said that the king's offer had come with a settlement, a sum generous enough to clear all their debts and secure her family's future. This wasn't a romantic proposal. It was a transaction, and she was the currency.
"When?" Eudora asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
"A fortnight," her mother answered, moving to stand beside her husband. Winifred's eyes were red-rimmed. "The coronation and wedding are to take place on the same day. It's unprecedented, but the king insists."
Silas limped into the room, his leg still weak from the injury that had started this cascade of misfortune. At nineteen, he was meant to be the family's future, not its burden. "You don't have to do this, Dora. We'll find another way."
But there was no other way, and they all knew it. Eudora looked at each of them,her proud father who had worked himself to exhaustion, her gentle mother who had sold her mother's jewelry piece by piece to buy medicine, her earnest brother who blamed himself for circumstances beyond his control, her dreamy sister who deserved a season in society and a proper match.
"I'll do it," Eudora said quietly. "I'll marry the king."
The words hung in the air like a vow, binding and irrevocable. Winifred let out a sob and pulled her daughter into her arms, and Eudora allowed herself a moment of weakness, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and bread that meant home. But even as her mother held her, Eudora's mind was already racing forward to a future she couldn't fathom,to crown and court, to a man she'd never met, to a life that would be anything but her own.
That afternoon, a carriage arrived bearing the royal seamstress and three ladies-in-waiting who would begin Eudora's transformation. They descended upon the Sinclair cottage like a flock of elegant birds, their fine silks and cultured accents entirely at odds with the simple furnishings and threadbare rugs.
"Miss Sinclair," the eldest of them said, surveying Eudora with an appraising eye. "I am Lady Beatrice Thornton. I've been tasked with preparing you for your new role. We have much work to do and very little time."
Eudora stood in the center of her family's sitting room while they circled her, measuring and murmuring. Through the window, she could see villagers gathering in the lane, their faces pressed with curiosity and wonder. Already, she was becoming something other than herself a spectacle, a symbol, a story for people to tell.
"The king," Lady Beatrice said as she directed the seamstress to pin fabric at Eudora's shoulders, "is not what you might expect, Miss Sinclair. He's a complicated man. Dutiful. Severe. Some say cold." She paused, meeting Eudora's eyes in the mirror they'd propped against the wall. "But he chose you himself, from the portraits and descriptions we provided. That must mean something."
"What does he look like?" Cordelia asked breathlessly, hovering near the doorway.
Lady Beatrice smiled slightly. "Handsome, in a stern sort of way. Tall. Dark-haired. He has his father's strong features and his mother's dark eyes. He doesn't smile often,I've been at court for three years and can count on one hand the times I've seen true mirth on his face. The weight of the crown has been heavy on him even before it was formally placed there."
Eudora absorbed this information silently. She tried to picture this man who would be her husband, this king who never smiled, but could conjure only shadows. What manner of man chose a bride from a portrait? What manner of man would expect love,or even companionship,from such an arrangement?
As if reading her thoughts, Lady Beatrice added, "He's not cruel, Miss Sinclair. Merely... burdened. His father's death was sudden, and he's had to navigate treacherous political waters while managing his own grief. He needs a wife who can be both consort and confidante. Whether he realizes it or not."
The fortnight passed in a blur of fittings and lessons. Eudora learned to curtsy low enough to satisfy protocol, to address nobles by their proper titles, to manage the heavy skirts and trains she would wear as queen. She learned which fork to use for each course, how to sit with perfect posture for hours, how to nod graciously while revealing nothing of her true thoughts.
At night, she lay awake in her narrow bed, listening to Cordelia's gentle breathing beside her, and wondered what the king did in those same dark hours. Did he think of her at all? Did he have doubts? Or was she merely one more item on an endless list of royal responsibilities?
On the eve of her departure, the Sinclair family gathered around their worn dining table for a last meal together. Howard said a blessing, his voice breaking on the final words, and they ate in near silence, each trying to memorize the others' faces, the feeling of being together in this place that had always been home.
"Will you come visit?" Cordelia asked, tears streaming down her young face.
"As often as I'm able," Eudora promised, though she had no idea if that would be true. "And you'll all come to the palace. You'll have apartments there, Lady Beatrice told me."
But they all knew it wouldn't be the same. After tomorrow, Eudora would belong to the crown, to the kingdom, to a man named Walter Enfield whom she'd never met and couldn't imagine loving.
That night, Winifred came to her daughter's room and sat on the edge of the bed. She stroked Eudora's hair as she had when Eudora was small, and in the candlelight, she looked older than her forty-six years.
"I wish I could spare you this," Winifred whispered. "You deserve to marry for love, to choose your own path."
"I am choosing, Mama," Eudora said, though the words tasted like ash. "I'm choosing all of you. That's its own kind of love, isn't it?"
Winifred's answer was to hold her daughter close, and they stayed that way until the candle burned low and sleep finally claimed them both.
When dawn broke over Ashford village, it brought with it a royal carriage and an escort of six soldiers. Eudora emerged from the cottage in a traveling dress of deep blue silk, her chestnut hair arranged in an elaborate style she barely recognized. Her family stood in the doorway, and as she turned to look at them one last time, she tried to burn the image into her memory,her father's proud bearing despite his tears, her mother's brave smile, Silas's solemn face, Cordelia's waving handkerchief.
Then she climbed into the carriage, the door closed with a decisive thud, and she was carried away toward a future she couldn't fathom, to a crown she'd never sought, and to a king who did not smile.
The girl who had stood at the cottage window watching the mist was gone. In her place sat Eudora Sinclair, the future Queen of England, and she had never felt more alone.