My Uncle Greg sold me to a man twice my age to settle a debt. I thought my life was over when I was shipped north in a blizzard like a piece of cargo. Then I left my name in the frost on a stranger’s window, and everything changed.
Part 1
My Uncle Greg sold me to a man twice my age to settle a debt.
I thought my life was over when I was shipped north in a blizzard like a piece of cargo.
My uncle had described me in a letter to my future husband as a sensible, plain girl who would give no trouble.
I was to be married to a man I had never met, simply because it was convenient for the men in my life.
The coach ride took six hours through the worst winter storm I had ever seen.
We were forced to stop at a remote inn when the snow made the roads impassable.
The inn was packed with stranded travelers crowding around the only fire.
I found a cold corner and ate the small piece of bread I had brought with me.
I had no money for warm food or drink.
I watched the wealthy travelers complain about the inconvenience.
Then a small child, separated from her wealthy mother, began to cry loudly.
Her mother merely shouted for someone to stop the dreadful noise.
A tall, finely dressed man with a cold, guarded face stepped away from the fire.
He knelt down on the dirty floor in his expensive coat and spoke quietly to the little girl.
He offered his hand, and the child stopped crying immediately.
He led her back to her mother, who slapped the child without a single word of thanks to the man.
The stranger returned to his spot, his expression completely unchanged.
I knew in that moment that he was hiding a deep well of kindness behind that icy exterior.
Later, as he passed my dark corner, he stopped.
He held out a steaming cup of wine toward me.
He did not look down on me with pity.
He simply told me I looked colder than he was, and that he would be grateful if I took it off his hands.
I wrapped my freezing fingers around the warm cup.
We spoke only a few sentences in the crowded, noisy room.
He told me he was traveling south to be married.
I told him I was traveling north for the exact same reason.
We were two strangers being forced into lives we had not chosen.
Then the moment passed, and he returned to the fire.
The next morning, the storm broke, and the coaches prepared to leave.
I saw his grand carriage being readied to head south.
Its windows were completely covered in thick, white frost.
A sudden, overwhelming urge seized me.
I wanted to leave one tiny mark on the world before I disappeared into a loveless marriage.
I walked up to his carriage window.
I pressed my gloved finger against the glass.
I traced my name into the frost.
Megan.
I did not wait to see if anyone noticed.
I climbed into my coach and let myself be carried away to my fate.
I arrived at the house of my betrothed, Craig, later that day.
He was a comfortable, indifferent man who looked at me the way he might inspect a new piece of furniture.
He informed me that he expected a quiet house and a sensible wife.
He made it perfectly clear that he would never care about my thoughts or my fears.
I spent three days in that cold house, waiting for the wedding.
I resolved silently that I would do my duties, but I would never pretend to be joyful.
I would keep my inner self entirely my own.
I thought constantly of the man at the inn.
I was glad I had left my name on his window, even if it had melted away miles ago.
It proved that for one brief moment, I had been real.
On the night before my wedding, I sat alone with my dress laid out across a chair.
The wind was howling outside the dark windows.
I was trying to make my peace with the fact that my life was effectively over.
Then I heard the frantic sound of a horse galloping into the yard.
Someone began hammering on the front door with absolute desperation.
I heard Craig shouting in outrage at the intrusion.
I stepped out of my room and looked over the railing of the stairs.
And then, piercing through the wind and the protests of my fiancé, a voice I thought I would never hear again demanded to see me.
