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The first time his marriage is arranged, he's too young to remember the details.
A family friend of his mothers, if what he's told by the staff still around to remember it is true. It had been a favor, more then a dealing. His father approved of it because of the business ties it opened, and mother wanted to keep personal bonds close to heart, and so he was wed to a girl he'd not even known the name of at an age he where he'd not even understood the concept of marriage.
He never gets the chance to meet her, is the thing. Not in any capacity that he can remember. She's a good few years younger then him, gets on better with his sister then him. Though he's pretty young himself, so it's not as odd as it could be. He remembers being, maybe 7, and watching the the two of them (Because he's old enough to do that then, though he mostly sketches rather then interfering) run around screaming in the garden, until the nanny comes out and scolds them for their noise and misbehavior, then gawk and squawk at the mess the two had made of their dresses.
But all of it is rendered irrelevant, because his mother dies of illness, then his sister, then. Well. It's a shame, really. He probably could have grown to like her, as sticky handed and mud caked as she tended to be. He's not as torn up about it as he could have been, too embittered by the death of his sister to be mindful of it. But looking back on it when he's older, it kind of hurts to think about. He's not foolish, of course. He knows it probably has more to do with her immediate connection to his sister. Rose tinted glasses of simpler times. But it still hurts.
His father tries again. But with his age, he comes to become unpleasant. Now - There are many unpleasant men in the world. Many of them find themselves in marriages, and with his families wealth his father is certain of it being no trouble. But his father is less sociable then he is, approaches these things like business deals, and Edgar prefers to travel for his art. So he still tries, and often he fails. He never really remembers their names, for as often as they come and go. But really, its the last attempt that has his father give up on arranging him a marriage
His father gives him the normal talk. Be polite, be respectful. The Claude family is well known for their art, something he should like, but he finds too on the nose, and he finds himself bored of the family immediately.
She's not an unattractive girl, he supposes. Blonde hair that goes down to her shoulders in these loose love curls that are so in style. Her hair is pulled back with a bow, and she looks across the table to him with these massive, blue eyes. He's thrown off by her youth. Of course, it's not rare. He's beginning to hit that age where his arrangements may come to be significantly younger then him. But she reminds him somewhat of his sister, what with that innocent, bashful look she seems to carry, and it makes him feel somewhat uncomfortable about the whole affair. The way they've dressed her is of no help. She's not even wearing a corset yet, her dress clinched and shaped with a bow rather then a frame.
When she glances up at him, it's to offer him a wary, careful smile. He sighs, and goes back to pushing around his food.
He finds her in his studio, which immediately puts him in a bad mood.
They're not supposed to meet alone. Not immediately. Not that he's ever cared for technicalities like that, but he doesn't like people in his space, let alone without warning. Especially so, since he'd been planning on locking the door and avoiding the rest of the event in here as long as he can manage. His father would have noticed eventually, of course, when the talk of business and trade died. But he takes what respites he can, and he can't take it with her here as she is.
It doesn't help that she's giving him this look. He hates the look, all wonder and marvel at what he assumes to be his talent. Annoying as shit. He closes his eyes as he waits for her attempt to cozy up to him, to give praises she doesn't entirely understand and offer comment she only slightly believes. Instead, what she asks is;
"You like art?"
It throws him off, somewhat. He says, "Yeah," blankly, and his brows furrow a bit at that. How little must she know of him, if she doesn't even know that? It makes him no less comfortable with the whole affair.
She carefully wanders forward, picking up one of his paintings, "They're incredible," She says, in the awestruck tone he'd been expecting earlier.
"Yeah," He repeats, a bit more annoyed than before. But she hardly seems phased by it, be it because she's truly nonpulsed, or because she is simply too naive to notice. She pauses. Seems to consider something, as she places the canvas back down. Then she pivots, hard and quick, and begins to dig through her pockets, until she plucks out what seems to be a small, half carved stone. She holds it out for him to take, almost expectant, her eyes still wide.
"Here," She says, and there's a note of pride to her voice as she says it. He takes it. To humor her, mostly, but he takes it nonetheless. Her hands are cut up, a few wounds along the palm and callouses against her finger tips. He'd not noticed it at first. The wounds are so old that they're almost not there, and the callous so subtle that even so close he almost misses it. It's a sculpture of a bird. A crow, by the looks of it, which he finds an odd subject to sculpt. He recognizes it as marble, something he needs to turns over in his hand a few times to do. She beams at him, and explains, "I wasn't supposed to bring it. Any of my supplies, really. But I- I couldn't help myself. And if you like art, then maybe..?" She trails off, and whites the marble dust off on her dress. The dress is dark enough that it leaves hand print shaped impressions behind. Though he's in no better sort of way, his good clothing touched with paint at the edges of his sleeves.
"It's not bad," Is how he eventually appraises it, and it's with this tone he doesn't entirely mean to take. Kind of distant. A bit uninterested. He immediately notice the change in her expression, frozen on her face and so he tries to be careful when continuing, "It's- It's just that the technique is a bit rudimentary. There's not a lot of detailing on the feathers, and the shape is off. It's still recognizable as a crow, far better then a lot of people can do. And ah. Of course, sculpting isn't my main medium, and I've heard birds are particularly hard to shape properly," Her gaze turns down, "But it could use some work."
She blinks at him, "Right," She says, and her tone hardly seems as elated as it had been. But she's still smiling, running her hands loosely along her dress, "Thank you for your honesty. You're not wrong, I suppose. Truth be told, birds aren't my strong suit, so..." But he can tell that he's touched some kind of nerve when the conversation dies there.
He does well not to grimace,"Of course, you're still young-"
Now that gets her eyes to narrow, and face flushing a deep shade of red, "I'm three years older your senior," She spits, tone embarrassed enough for even him to pick up on, and her hands immediately curling into the cloth of her dress.
He can't help it. He laughs.
"What? You look like a-" He says. But she's looking at him with such conviction and immediate anger that his expression falls, and jaw clicks shut. And he realizes that she's serious. Whether the claim is true, or she sincerely believes it to be true, he's unsure. But all he can find in himself to say to that revelation is, "Ah. I see. It's like that then."
For a second, they stand together. She's fuming at him, though he can hardly find it in himself to be embarrassed. The stuffiness of his workshop is beginning to make his head heavy, and he holds that little bird in his hand as open palmed and careful as he has been. She scrambles to take back the sculpture in hand, and he puts up no fight in giving it back to her.
She offers him one final look, as though willing to give him the chance to apologize. He doesn't. He see's nothing to apologize for, and he's under no immediate concern to appeal her to him. And so, she turns heel and leaves the workshop, slamming the door hard behind her. It shakes a few of his brushes, and causes his paint water to vibrate, but when he's left in the blissful silence he finds nothing but relief in it.
His father chews him out that night. Edgar makes no attempt to defend himself, beyond giving him this exhausted, perplexed look. Apparently he'd made her cry, which seems ridiculous, if she's really three years older than him. The Claude family had been understanding as a whole, but understandably, had decided to look for another suitor.
And so, his life goes on. His father concerns himself with his business, and Edgar concerns himself with his art, and the idea of marriage is killed after that. If he can't handle being married into a family of artists, then who could he handle. He kills his mentor, and gets a letter to that accursed manor.
//
She's already there when he gets there, is the thing.
He doesn't recognize her immediately, is the other thing.
A lot has changed about her, and she's otherwise someone he's met once before, years ago. Her hair is longer now. More ragged, and dirty, and tangled. The curls that had once seemed to hold so easy have dulled down to waves, and she wears this horrid, painful looking contraption on her head. She wears make-up now, but it's a mockery of it, like she had the idea of what make-up should look like, but no real practice in applying it. He lipstick smears and eyeshadow runs, a harsh contrast to pale skin. The scars that once only existed on her palms now exist on her arms and legs, and her dress is torn and dirty.
The wheel chair is also new. He almost doesn't notice it, what with how she's attempting to stab him with that sculptors pick. She still smiles now, but it's manic, and sharp. Her eyes hold this wild look to them, and her hands shake when she raises them. There's no sign of nobility left in her. She chokes and shrieks when she's hit with a pallet, slams her hand into the arm of her wheel chair and laughs something cruel when she finally manages to down them.
She still looks young, despite everything.
He knows better than to mention it.