Broken Bride

I return to my morning paper, letting the boys come up with their own little conspiracy theories. They know all they need to know, that Matilda is mine, and that she is off-limits to them.

“She is more dangerous than either of you,” I murmur as I lift my coffee to my lips.

Bobby snorts. His arrogance has not been mitigated by our rough night together, but his rage has settled to a safe simmer.

Mark says nothing. I know he is the most disturbed by her presence, though Bobby might act his concern out more. Mark is the one likely to do something stupid, like try to rescue her. He is a good man who has been forced to be bad for too long. I have been expecting a rebellion for quite some time, and I am certain my bride will provide a catalyst.

We eat our respective breakfasts in relative calm. Then, just when I think everything is settled for the moment, there’s a sound on the stairs, footfalls which bring all our eyes toward the door.

Tilly is coming down the stairs, her doll-like features composed. She has such bright, wide eyes, and a perfect mouth. There is something Hepburn about her. In another life, she could have been a movie star.

“I thought she was locked up,” Bobby says.

I thought she was too.

“I’m hungry,” Matilda says in that quiet, shy way she has.

“You should be in your room. Mark will bring you something to eat.”

She looks at me with those sweet blue eyes. “But I’m hungry.”

“Give the girl something to eat,” Mark says, predictably. “Here, Matilda. There’s toast, and coffee and…”

Bobby glances at me with an aren’t you going to do something about this look.

Meanwhile, Matilda has taken a seat next to Mark and is nibbling at a piece of toast which he has buttered for her.

There is a very quiet anarchy taking place beneath my nose, and I must say it amuses me. Handling a woman is so very different from a man. When men break out of confinement, there is violence and anger, and running. When Matilda does it, there is toast.

Bobby slams his fist down onto the table and glares at me. “So she just gets away with whatever she wants, huh?”

* * *

Tilly

Bobby is angry. I don’t know why. When I tried the door, it opened. I heard voices and followed them, and now there’s food. Is breakfast a big deal here too? Do they have their own silent rituals? I kind of doubt it.

“She’s getting away with breakfast, Bobby. We can’t starve her,” Mark says.

“She wasn't going to be starved.”

I eat my toast and let them argue. I’m used to raised voices and angry threats. But I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, and I’m ravenous.

“If I was locked away, I’d stay locked away.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Mark replies.

“Fuck this.” Bobby drops his butter knife, stands up and storms away.

Angelo’s eyes are on me. I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. He gives me a long look, then returns his gaze to his tablet.

“Matilda will need clothes,” Mark says. “I should take her shopping.”

“Are you planning on taking her shopping, or are you going to try to escape with her, Mark?” Angelo asks the question with a casual drawl.

“There’s no escaping you, Angelo,” Mark says, a hint of a curl of disdain on his lip. Neither of these men really like Angelo, but I do think they love him. Everybody here seems like a captive, one way or the other.

“No,” Angelo agrees. “There’s not. And you’re not going shopping. Not until I’ve punished Tilly.”

I let out an unintentional squeak. I can’t help it.

“What?”

“I told you to stay in your room, and you didn’t.”

“I can go back to my room…”

“You may as well eat,” Angelo says. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Mr. Vitali, I didn’t mean to make trouble, and I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed breakfast. I’m sorry.” I put down my toast and stand up. Mark reaches out and pulls me back down in the chair.

“Angelo,” he says. “She’s your wife. She should eat with us.”

“She’s my wife,” Angelo agrees. “Not yours. I decide what happens to her.”

He talks about me as if I am a possession.

“This is petty, Angelo.”

“Thank you for your feedback, Mark. Fascinating.”

I get up and leave the room. Mark is right. This is unfair, cruel, and petty. I suppose I am learning what my new husband is like the hard way. I am not surprised. My entire life has been lived the hard way.

As I’m going back to my room, I can’t help thinking about Angelo. He is the center of all things here. He became the center of things in England too. My father died, and he was there, waiting to pounce. He must have known ahead of time. He must have been part of it, somehow. It would be easy to blame him, to scream and rant and cry and pretend as though Angelo Vitali is the reason why my father is dead. But I know that’s not true. There’s only one person to blame for that.