Bound by tradition

The morning light spills through the narrow window, painting streaks of gold across the wooden floor. I should rise—I know this—but I linger beneath the thin coverlet, listening to the house stir awake. The scent of fresh bread drifts up from the hearth, mingling with the damp chill of early autumn.

Today, they will speak of my future again.

Father has met with the Blackwood family thrice now, and Mother’s hands have been busier than ever—sewing new linens, darning lace, whispering with the other women as if I were a doll to be dressed and set upon a shelf. I have known since childhood that this moment would come. Still, I find myself grasping at the last strands of girlhood, unwilling to let them slip through my fingers.

Does every woman feel this way? This quiet, creeping fear of vanishing into another’s name, another’s house, another’s will?

I finally rise, my bare feet pressing against the cold wooden boards. Outside, the world moves as it always has—crows calling from the thatched rooftops, the river running its endless path through the valley. Somewhere beyond that horizon, a future awaits me.

I am just not certain it is my own.

If I were to describe how I'm feeling in one word I'll say scared, after all i don't even saw more than once.The fire in the hearth crackles as I step downstairs, my hem skimming the wooden floor. Mother is already at the table, her hands busy with needlework, her brows drawn in quiet concentration. Beside her, my younger sister, Anne, kneels on the bench, chewing absently on a crust of bread while watching the doorway, waiting—no doubt—to be given some small task.

“Eleanor,” Mother says without looking up. “You are late rising.”

“I was not sleeping.” I move toward the table, reaching for a piece of bread from the wooden platter.

Mother’s eyes flick up, sharp and assessing. “Were you brooding again?”

I chew slowly, choosing my words with care. “I was thinking.”

Anne smirks. “You do that too much.”

“Enough, Anne,” Mother scolds, though a ghost of amusement tugs at her lips. “Thinking is no sin, but idleness is. Your wedding preparations must not wait, Eleanor.” She nods toward the basket at her feet, filled with fresh linens. “You will embroider your initials today.”

I swallow hard. My initials. Soon, they will no longer be my own. Soon, they will be joined with another’s—stitched into every gown, every sheet, as if to remind me that I will belong to someone else.

“Has Father made a decision, then?” I ask. My voice is steady, though my hands tighten around my bread.

Mother exhales through her nose, threading her needle with practiced ease. “The Blackwoods are pleased with the match. You will do well to be pleased also.”

Pleased. As if I am choosing a new ribbon for my hair.

Anne swings her legs under the bench. “Thomas Blackwood is handsome,” she offers, as if this should be some great consolation.

Mother gives her a warning glance. “That is hardly the measure of a husband.”

No, I think. But it is the only measure I am allowed to consider.

Mother stands then, smoothing the front of her gown before moving toward the wooden chest in the corner of the room. She kneels, lifting the lid, and retrieves a bundle wrapped in soft cloth. When she turns back, I see the weight of the moment in her face.

“This was mine,” she says, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a gown of pale blue wool, its bodice embroidered with delicate vines of white thread. “I wore it when I first came to this house as a bride.”

I inhale sharply. The fabric is well kept, the stitches still strong despite the years. It is beautiful. And yet, as Mother presses it into my hands, I feel its weight in my arms like a shackle.

“Try it on,” she says, touching my cheek gently. “You will look a proper wife.”

A proper wife.

I nod, though my heart is twisting, and I wonder—not for the first time—whether I was meant to be something else entirely. The gown fits well enough, though the bodice is snug, pressing against my ribs as if to remind me of the life closing in around me. Mother stands behind me, adjusting the laces while Anne perches on the bed, watching with keen eyes.

“It suits you,” Mother says at last, stepping back to examine me.

I turn toward the small looking glass on the wall. A woman stares back at me, one I scarcely recognize. The blue wool softens the sharpness of my shoulders, the embroidery making me appear gentler, more refined. A bride’s gown, for a bride who has had no say in becoming one.

A knock at the door startles me.

“Eleanor,” Father’s voice calls from the hall. “Come.”

I glance at Mother, who nods toward the door. “Go.”

With careful steps, I descend the stairs to where Father stands by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. He is not a cruel man, but neither is he one to entertain foolish notions of love or choice. His duty is clear—to secure my future, to ensure our family’s standing.

He studies me for a long moment. “You will meet the Blackwoods tomorrow.”

My stomach clenches. So soon.

“You will speak little,” he continues. “Let them see you as you are—capable, obedient. The match is a good one, Eleanor. A sensible man, a prosperous household. You will be comfortable.”

Comfortable. It is not the word I had hoped for.

“Yes, Father,” I murmur.

He nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, your dowry must be accounted for. Your mother will see to the linens, but you must see to the small things. Your combs, your ribbons, the lockets from your grandmother’s chest. Be sure you take only what belongs to you.”

I flinch at the words. Soon, even my belongings will be sorted, divided between what I may take and what I must leave behind.

“Yes, Father.”

As I turn to go, his voice stops me. “Eleanor.”

I face him again.

“Do not look so sorrowful,” he says, though there is no softness in his tone. “It is the way of things.”

The way of things.

I nod and slip away before he can see the quiet storm in my eyes.

The chamber is dimly lit by candlelight as I sit before the wooden chest, its lid propped open. Inside, my life is reduced to objects. A silver comb, its teeth slightly bent from years of use. A ribbon of faded green, worn soft from being tied in my hair too many times. A small locket—empty, for there has never been anyone to place inside it.

Anne kneels beside me, her fingers grazing the ribbon. “Are you afraid?” she whispers.

I glance at her, my sweet sister, still untouched by the weight of expectation. “I do not know.”

She tilts her head. “Will you love him?”

I let out a slow breath. “I do not know that either.”

Silence stretches between us before she reaches into the chest, pulling out a small leather-bound book. “This is yours,” she says.

I take it gently, running my fingers over the worn cover. A book of psalms, given to me by my grandmother when I was a child. Inside, in the small empty spaces beside the verses, I have pressed secret thoughts—tiny words of longing, of dreams I never dared to voice aloud.

I close my fingers around it. This, at least, will go with me.

The preparations continue late into the night—folding linens, polishing combs, setting aside the dresses that will carry me into this new life. But in the quiet moments, as Anne’s breathing steadies in sleep beside me, I stare at the candle’s flickering flame, wondering—

Is there still a way to claim my own fate?

Or is it already too late?

Sleep does not come easily. I lie awake, staring at the wooden beams above, tracing the familiar knots in the wood as if they might spell out an answer to the questions swirling in my mind. The house is quiet now—only the soft crackle of the dying hearth and the distant hoot of an owl break the stillness.

Tomorrow, I will meet Thomas Blackwood. Tomorrow, my fate will be sealed.

I roll onto my side, my fingers tightening around the leather book resting beneath my pillow. The pages hold the closest thing I have ever known to freedom—thoughts written in secrecy, tiny rebellions pressed between lines of scripture. I flip it open to a blank space near the back and, in the dim candlelight, I press my quill to the paper.

If I had wings, where would I fly?

The words are small, nearly invisible in the dim light. I stare at them, unblinking, as if an answer might form beneath my hand. But there is none.

I close the book and press it to my chest, willing my thoughts to silence.

The Next Morning

Dawn comes too soon. Before the sun has fully risen, Mother has me out of bed, pressing a steaming cloth to my face to flush my skin pink. She rubs a salve of rosemary into my hair, combing the strands until they shine. Anne watches from the doorway, wide-eyed, as if I am being transformed into some creature she no longer recognizes.

The gown is fastened tightly at my back, the embroidery smoothed into place.

“You look a proper lady now,” Mother murmurs, stepping back to admire her work. “See?” She gestures toward the looking glass.

I force myself to step forward, to meet my own reflection. The young woman in the glass is beautiful in a way I do not feel—her dark hair gleams in the morning light, her pale skin is warmed by the flush of early waking. But her eyes… her eyes belong to someone else.

Mother adjusts a ribbon at my sleeve. “You will walk with grace, you will speak when spoken to, and you will show gratitude for this match.”

I nod. What else can I do?

Outside, the carriage waits. Father stands beside it, speaking with the driver. He glances toward me as I step through the door, his face unreadable.

“The Blackwoods will receive us at midday,” he says. “Come.”

I glance once more at the house behind me, at Anne standing in the doorway with wide, sorrowful eyes. I wish I could run back inside, curl up beneath the safety of the old wooden beams and pretend that today is not real.

But the world does not wait for a woman’s hesitation.

So, with a steadying breath, I step forward, toward the carriage, toward the life that is no longer mine to decide.The carriage lurches forward, wheels creaking against the frozen ground. I sit stiffly beside my mother, my hands folded in my lap, though my fingers tremble slightly.

The road stretches long ahead, winding through bare fields and skeletal trees, the winter air sharp against my cheeks. Each turn of the wheel carries me closer to a future I cannot yet see, to a man I do not know, to a life that feels more like a sentence than a promise.

I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

If I had wings, where would I fly?