The Whitehalls were one of the last families in peerage people still gave half a fuck about. My great, great, great grandmother, Wilhelmina Whitehall, was the daughter of a king.
“I don’t want to marry anyone,” I said through gritted teeth. Duchess began picking up speed, entering the woods.
“Well, ob-vi-ously,” Benedict made an unflattering d’uh face. “You’re fourteen. All you want is to play videogames and fondle your meat to Christie Brinkley posters. Nonetheless, you’re marrying our sister. Too much business between our fathers to let this opportunity go to waste.”
“And don’t forget the estates they’ll both get to keep,” Byron added helpfully, giving his mare a vicious kick to make her go faster. “I’ll say, good luck giving her children. She looks like Ridley Scott’s Alien.”
“Children …?” The only thing preventing me from vomiting up my guts was the fact I did not want to waste the perfectly good brandy currently sloshing in my stomach.
“Lou says she wants five when she grows up,” Byron cackled, enjoying himself. “I reckon she’s going to keep you busy in the sack, mate.”
“Not to mention exhausted,” Benedict leered.
“Over my dead body.”
My throat grew tight, my hands clammy. I felt like I was the butt of a terrible joke. Of course, I couldn’t talk to my father about it. I couldn’t stand up to him. Not when I knew I was always one wrong word away from the dumbwaiter.
All I could do was shoot helpless animals and be exactly who he wanted me to be.
His little well-oiled machine. Ready to kill, fuck, or marry as commanded.
Later that night, Byron, Benedict, and I sat in front of one of the dead foxes in the barn. The Pavlovian scent of death swathed around the room. My father and Byron Sr. had taken all their prized dead foxes to the taxidermist and left one for us to dispose.
“Burn it, play with it, leave it for the rats to eat for all I care,” my father had spat before turning his back on the corpse.
It was a female. Small, malnourished, and dull-furred.
She had cubs. I could tell by the teats poking through her belly fur. I thought about them. How they were all alone, hungry and stranded in the dark, vast woods. I thought about how I shot her when Papa ordered me to. How I nailed a bullet straight between her eyes. How she stared at me with a mixture of amazement and terror.
And how I looked away because it had been Papa I wanted to shoot.
Benedict, Byron, and I were passing a bottle of champers back and forth, discussing the evening’s events, with Frankenfox staring at me accusingly from across the barn. Benedict also obtained rolled-up cigarettes from one of the servants. We puffed on them heartily.
“Come on, mate, marrying our sister isn’t the end of the world.” Byron offered a Bond-villain laugh as he stood over the fox, one of his boots pressed against her back.
“She’s a child,” I spat. Strewn on a wooden stool, I felt like my bones were a century old.
“She’s not going to be a child forever.” Benedict poked the edge of his boot into the fox’s gut.
“To me, she will be.”
“She’ll make you even richer,” Byron added.
“No money can buy my freedom.”
“None of us were born free!” Benedict thundered, stomping. “What’s the incentive to stay alive, if not to gain more power?”
“I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I’m sure as fuck not going to take pointers from a pudgy rich kid who needs to pay the maids to cop a feel,” I growled, flashing my teeth. “I’ll choose my own bride, and it won’t be your sister.”
Frankly, I did not want to marry at all. For one thing, I was certain I’d be a terrible husband. Lazy, unfaithful, and in all probability obtuse. But I wanted to keep my options open. What if I did run into Christie Brinkley? I would marry the shite out of her if it meant getting into her knickers.
Byron and Benedict exchanged puzzled looks. I knew they had no loyalty to their younger sister. She was, after all, a girl. And girls were not as distinguished, not as important as boys in peerage society. They couldn’t continue the family’s name and, therefore, were treated as no more than a decoration you had to remember to include in Christmas card photos.
It was the same with my younger sister, Cecilia. My father largely ignored her existence. I always doted on her after he sent her to her room or tucked her away for being too round or too “dull” to parade around high society. I’d snuck cookies to her, told her bedtime stories, and took her to the woods, where we played.
“Get off your bloody high horse, Whitehall. You’re not too good for our sister,” Byron moaned.