NOTE: I did post this story about a month ago, but I had to take it down and create a new account to post my non-Phantom fan fiction. Long story short, someone was sending me private messages, harassing me about not updating Phantom stories and basically putting me down for even writing Disney fic. While I will deal with that separately, I don't want that to hinder my progress with other stories. So it's best to keep them separate, I suppose. Sorry for the confusion.
Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on Disney's Pocahontas. It should be obvious that this is FICTION. It's an alternate history. I know the real facts but this is a romantic fantasy story at heart so please don't lecture me on history…I already know. Thanks. Also, I don't know if this storyline has been done before, but I've had this idea since 2004. I'm only getting around to writing it now. Sad, I know.
At the Edge of the World
1606
London
The heavy drapes were flung open as unwelcome light invaded Anne's bedchamber. She instinctively threw her arms over her face and rolled onto her stomach when the blankets were torn from her bed.
"No sleeping in today, Miss. Your father wants to see you downstairs," Sarah announced with her shrill, high pitched tone that always grated on Anne's ears. She rolled her eyes and stretched lazily as two more maids entered with a rather ornate gown.
"What is that for?" she asked nervously. Her question was ignored but two of the maids eyed each other knowingly as they went about the task of dressing her like she was a lifeless doll.
Anne carefully descended the creaking staircase, worried that she might trip over the many heavy skirts of this new gown. It was exceedingly difficult to maneuver within the confines of this silken prison. The lace and gilded trim scratched her soft skin like a garland of little thorns.
"Father?" she found him eyeing a chair by the mantle. He shook his head after a moment's consideration and kicked it aside with a grunt.
"No, no. Wont' do. You'll just have to stand."
"Stand? For what?" she asked.
"Your portrait."
"Portrait?"
"It will be sent to the governor. If he likes it, which he will, then the arrangement will be final. Took me seventeen years but I've found you a husband, girl. Even without your mother to raise you like a proper lady. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"A…husband, father?"
"Very well. No thanks for your aging father. I have come to expect nothing else from you, girl. Your husband won't be as tolerant as I have been," he said as he made his way to the door. He crept along with a limp. His boney fingers were clenched around a cane which he used to balance himself. Mr. Forrest was indeed aging poorly. His stringy white hair fell loosely from his balding head. His dull, narrow eyes peered from behind small wire framed spectacles.
Tolerant, indeed. Anne was only able to contain her mounting dread and outrage because of years of harsh upbringing. Tolerant. She would laugh at the mere thought if she didn't think he'd respond with a resounding slap against her jaw. Mr. Forrest did his job well, even without Mrs. Forrest. Anne was raised with a solid understanding of what would be expected of her.
She had always known that as a woman, she was just a pretty piece of property to be sold off in marriage. She took her father's unpleasant news with passive silence. Raised to be obedient and submissive, she never dared voice a single complaint even as she was now expected to surrender her life, body and soul to a man she had never met.
The painter arrived and Anne took her place beside the mantle without a word. She stood with a look of peace and serenity on her face to hide the raging turmoil within her. The maids had pulled, pinched and pinned her hair into an elaborate style before decorating her smoothed and twisted locks with strands of gems and beads. Her hair had been pinned back so tight that her head began to ache. The pearl earrings jangled frantically at the slightest tilt of her face.
Even after finding a way to abide her elegant torture devices, Anne's heart raced faster with each minute that passed without answers to her burning questions. A governor. She had never met any governors and so she could not begin to guess who her suitor might be. Perhaps he would be kind and sweet. Perhaps he would turn out to be a lover and a companion instead of a cold master. But as she continued to stand beneath the weight of fine silk, jewels and the scrutinizing glare of her father, she knew such hopes were useless. Mr. Forrest was not concerned with finding a good man to make Anne happy. If Mr. Forrest would benefit from the match, then she could marry an ogre for all he cared.
"Pinch your cheeks, girl. You're pale," he croaked with a frown. Jolted from her train of thought, Anne stirred for a moment before the painter intervened.
"She will be fine, my good Sir. I will add some color to her cheeks on the canvas. No need to trouble yourself, Miss Forrest," he said with a smile.
Anne held her poise, trying not to let her anxiety creep into her expression. When it was complete, Anne studied the portrait over her father's hunched shoulder. The painting shook in his unsteady grasp. To her father's dismay, the painter failed to capture the few strands of gold that often shone from her auburn locks. He did manage to convey the sharpness of her nose and the narrow curve of her chin. But her brown eyes seemed large and full of sadness.
Despite her father's criticism of the portrait, it was sent straight away to meet the governor's approval. Within weeks, the engagement was announced and Anne's fate was sealed. After three months without so much as a letter from her husband-to-be, Anne was dressed up in smooth, creamy silk and itchy gilded trimming once more. A veil was placed over her head and covered her pale, sad face. She was paraded out of her house and through the streets of London to the cathedral. Onlookers followed, anticipating a large wedding feast at the end of the long ceremony. Despite her best efforts, Anne could not ignore the comments of the crowd.
"She's a pretty one! Thin, though. That's a shame. He'll crush her for sure!" her heart skipped a beat. Judging from snide remarks whispered in nervous tones, her future husband was prone to some ridicule even though it seemed none would dare utter such offenses in his presence.
"Ah, so the pathetic social climber has snatched up the Forrest girl, eh? Poor thing. She does look pretty, though."
Anne thought she might faint before reaching the cathedral steps. What sort of horror was she to be delivered into? She ascended the steps as Anne Forrest, the daughter of a miserable old man but free and happy to tend her own garden and help herself to any book in her father's library she wished. She would be leaving this cathedral as Anne Ratcliffe, obedient wife to a cruel governor.