Disclaimer: I am not Gail Carson Levine. Therefore, it logically follows that these characters that you recognise and perhaps some you don't are not mine. They're just ready-made characters I am using. Okay?
Eleanor stood in the middle of the lawn, waving to her father.
"Farewell." She whispered as the wheels of the carriage rattled away, disappearing in a cloud of dust. Reluctantly, she turned and headed back into the mansion.
"El?" Mandy walked into the kitchen. "What are you doing here? You know that your father doesn't like you working in the kitchen." Eleanor turned to look at her.
"But you don't mind do you?" She smiled and shook her head. Eleanor could still see a worry line in the middle of her forehead.
"What's wrong, Mandy?" El put down the mixing bowl, a smidgen of flour on her cheek. "Are you going to get into trouble?" Mandy shook her head.
"I hope not, lass." El dropped the spoon back into the bowl.
"Alright, Mandy. But what do you suggest I do? Sew?" She rolled her eyes in disgust. Mandy laughed.
"Your mother wants you in the study."
El knocked on the door of the study. Somehow, her mother always made her feel slightly nervous.
"Come in." She opened the oak door and entered. Her mother was standing by the window. El paused as her mother turned around.
The Lady Rosalind was a tall, elegant woman. Her long blonde hair was elaborately coiled by around the back of her head, and her sapphire eyes glittered. She was immaculately clothed in a long simple lavender gown that fell neatly and folded around her feet. She was every inch a lady. The light from the window framed her figure, and made her look all the more stunning.
El unconsciously backed slightly away. Her mother reached a delicate, graceful hand out to her.
"Eleanor." Hesitantly, she approached her mother. She kissed the proffered hand, and curtseyed.
"You wanted me, my lady?"
"Yes." The voice was as smooth and sweet as honey, and showed no emotion. "Sit." Again, the hand gestured towards a chair on the opposite side of the desk. El sat herself down, rather ungracefully, and cringed as she saw her mother wince. Lowering herself gracefully into her seat, her mother struck up a lady-like pose and gazed benevolently at her daughter. El felt a twinge of unease. Her mother, in all the sixteen years of El's life, had never shown any maternal concern towards her daughter. Instead, Lady Rosalind preferred the company of other high-classed ladies, and loved to go to cotillions and balls on her husband' arm. El's father was the high-ranking Sir George. He sometimes showed his daughter some attention, but was often away on royal business. He was one of the king's counsellors, the king being King Christian, of course.
El glanced up, suddenly aware of the sapphire eyes watching her appraisingly.
"Mother?" The word tasted sour on her tongue, and she squirmed slightly.
"Yes…" –A dramatic sigh – "Child, you know that I have always had your best interests at heart."
"Yes mother."
"Allowing you the privilege of having a Manners Mistress…and a Dancing Mistress…and all the other teachers…who have given you a full and complete education in etiquette."
"Yes mother."
"I hope you are grateful."
"Yes mother, very, mother."
"Good…good…" She lapsed into a thoughtful silence. El dared not speak or move. Her mother cleared her throat. "I have decided." She said in a business-like tone. "That you are to wed before your seventeenth birthday." El gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Mother!" Her mother looked at her.
"I knew you would be pleased."
"Mother! I am sixteen!"
"Going on seventeen."
"I am young."
"Not so. I was your mother much upon these years."
"But…" El couldn't find words. "Who?" It was the most complete question she could make out.
"I haven't decided yet. But you're a handsome lady. I think we might be setting our sights on the Prince himself, maybe." El let out another gasp. The prince! Prince Jerrold was a handsome lad, perhaps only three years older than her. But she had only seen him from a distance. What if she didn't like him? What if he was a dreadful bore? What if -?
Worst of all, she pondered to herself, as her mother dismissed her. Worst of all, what would happen if Daria never forgave her?