Winnifred didn’t think anything could make her wedding day worse than the dismal imminence of marrying Bertram Woodbine. Until she looked at her dress.
Apparently, Mother had commissioned the dressmaker to sew a few last-minute alterations to a ball gown Winnifred hadn’t had the chance to wear this Season. The yards of ivory taffeta with puffed sleeves and tiers of batting-stuffed rouleau at the hem were now enshrouded in an overlay of scratchy silver tulle and applique flowers dotted with pearls.
“I look like a meringue left in the confectionary shop window too long and covered in cobwebs.”
“Nonsense,” her mother said, coming up behind her in the oval standing mirror. “You look lovely in it.”
Winnifred might have gasped if not for the additional whalebone in her corset and stomacher reinforcement. Instead, all she managed was a silent pantomime of openmouthed surprise. It wasn’t like her mother to dole out compliments. Well, not without adding something derogatory.
“I do, truly?” she asked, her reflection lighting with a hopeful smile.
“Of course. This gown is so exquisite that it will draw all the attention away from that unruly nest of hair atop your head.”
Ah, of course. She should have known.
They’d had a similar near-tender exchange earlier. Before Winnifred was dressed, Mother had come into her bedchamber with a gift—a pair of new silk stockings, embroidered with a row of tiny silver-threaded shells on either side.
“Your grandmother gave me a pair of stockings like these on my wedding day, as well. She’d spent weeks ensuring that every embellishment was just perfect.”
“And you stitched these for me?” Winnifred had asked and received a modest smile in response.
“I suppose it’s my way of being with you as you take your steps into your new life.”
Touched by the tender gesture, she sniffed. “They’re simply beautiful, Mother.”
A moment had passed between them, giving Winnifred hope that she was being seen and loved for the person she was.
But then Mother added, “I’ve always found that vertical stripes offer a comely, narrow appearance.”
Winnifred had made no comment. She’d simply sunk down onto the tufted bench at the foot of her bed and slipped on her stockings and garter ribbons, choosing to focus on the thought behind the gift. At least Mother had been trying. In her own way.
Besides, Winnifred had much larger worries on her mind. Even larger than my calves, she thought dryly as she stared at her doomsday dress again.
In a matter of hours, she would be Mrs. Bertram Woodbine. The wedding breakfast would follow, along with scowls from her new husband. After that, she’d discover what new lodgings her dowry had purchased. And then . . . the wedding night.
She swallowed down a rise of bile, thinking about being crowded and jostled and breathed upon in Mr. Woodbine’s nuptial carriage.
“You’re looking rather green, dear,” Mother said absently before her reflection left the looking glass and began to bustle about the room. “Try not to be ill, for it makes your freckles noticeable. As it is, we’ll have to apply lemon juice before we go.”
A bitter taste lingered on the back of Winnifred’s tongue. “I feel ill because I’m about to marry a man I don’t even like, let alone love. I don’t think lemon juice will alter the fact.”
“Consider it a blessing in disguise. I’d made the mistake of falling in love with your father”—she expelled a harsh, impatient breath—“and just look how that turned out. We can barely stand to be in the same house together. No, you and Mr. Woodbine are starting off with indifference and that is much more agreeable.”
“It would be even more agreeable if I didn’t have to marry him at all,” she said bravely into the looking glass, waiting for a response.
Ever since hearing Jane and Ellie’s plot to help her run away, she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The certainty that she didn’t want a life with Mr. Woodbine grew larger by every passing second. And now, an urgent need to be heard welled inside her.
“We are speaking of the rest of my life, after all,” she persisted after a nervous gulp of air. “I don’t want to spend it in misery. Perhaps that sounds dramatic and even maudlin, but it’s true. I am certain that any hope for my own happiness will die a quick death if I stand beside him in the church.”
Again, silence was her only response. She didn’t even hear her mother’s footsteps.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Apparently, Mother had stepped out and Winnifred had been emptying the contents of her soul to a vacant room.
Issuing a self-derisive laugh, she began to turn away. “So, I think I’ll simply refuse to marry him. Surely, you and Father don’t care about appearances so much that you’d force me—eeeeee!”
Mother hadn’t left the room at all. She was standing behind her. Frowning.
“Have I taught you nothing?” she asked, tapping her foot beneath the hem of an exquisite lavender gown. “Appearances are all we have. Women in society are never happy. When we converse, we keep to trivial topics—where we went on holiday and what new baubles and fabrics we’ve purchased. We brag on the skills of our dressmakers while concealing the fact that we can’t breathe and we’re always hungry and our breasts are sagging. We sip from teacups while monotonously gulping down rumors. Day after day. We complain about the heat, the cold, and our husbands with equal fervor while never revealing our deepest fears. And we do this because we’re all miserable and we need each other.”
“Mother . . .” Winnifred said, stunned. “I never knew you felt that way.”
“Then, clearly, I’ve failed.” She threw up her hands, moisture glistening in her eyes. “And to think of all the years I’ve wasted trying to prepare you for the disappointments you’ll face when I’m not around. A mother’s love is never appreciated.”
Turning away, Mother began to storm out, only to stop abruptly at the sight of Father standing in the doorway.
The viscountess sniffed and issued a cursory nod. “Julian.”
“Imogene,” he responded in turn, standing tall and broad-chested in his maroon coat, his russet brows knitted together as his gaze drifted from her to his daughter and back again. “Something amiss?”
“If I thought it would make a difference, I might bother to tell you.”
His wife straightened her regal shoulders, then pushed past him, storming off. And he watched her go, his square jaw clenched all the while.
By way of greeting Winnifred, he said, “The carriage is waiting. And this”—he lifted a brown paper parcel and took three long strides into the chamber—“arrived from Mr. Woodbine a moment ago. Well, don’t just gape at it. Take it.”
She did, but was more puzzled than ever. “Are you certain it’s from Mr. Woodbine?”
Her father merely arched a superior brow in response. She’d categorized these subtle forms of expression years ago, deciding that the higher the arch, the more she’d stepped over the line. They went from I’ve sired an idiot—and this was usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes—to how dare you question me, peasant?
This one was somewhere in the middle. The I know everything arch.
Tentatively, she took the parcel, wondering what Mr. Woodbine could possibly have sent her. A book itemizing all the foods he forbade her to eat? A wilted corsage? A dead rat?
Yet, as she pushed aside the paper and carefully opened the lid of the carved wooden casket, her breath caught.
It wasn’t something terrible after all.
On a bed of red velvet lay the most beautiful, lustrous pearls she’d ever seen. The perfect ivory spheres formed a necklace, four strands high and held together by a silver clasp. She dared to brush her fingertips over them.
No matter how she felt about him, this was certainly a nice gesture. “I never expected something like this, and from Mr. Woodbine of all people.”
Her father issued a grunt that she interpreted as him sharing a similar sentiment. Then he reached down and took them, holding the necklace aloft and bidding her to turn around with an impatient shooing motion.
When she did, she saw the card lying underneath. Reaching for it, she flicked it open as her father fastened the strands.
My dearest Ophelia,
Let this token of my love be your companion. Let each perfect pearl kiss your neck in my absence.
After I’ve married that cow and performed my dreaded duty for this one day apart, I shall be yours forever more.
With undying ardor,
B
Winnifred’s eyes blurred. She wasn’t sure if the tears stinging her eyes were from disappointment or from fury.
“Wait,” she managed on a choked whisper. “I need to send this back.”
Her father clucked in disapproval, continuing to fuss with the clasp. “Nonsense. Refusing your husband’s gift is no way to begin a marriage. If he wants to spoil you, then let him.”
A hot tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek as she issued a papery laugh. “They’re not for me.”
And before her father could say a word, she showed him the card.
His hands went still, and he said nothing for a moment.
Then he continued his task and gruffly stated, “Your dowry paid for these all the same. It will serve him right to see them on you. And in the future, he will learn to be more discreet.”
He fastened the pearls to her neck. The prettiest shackle one could ever imagine.
Winnifred felt another tear slide down her cheek as she tossed the card into the box and closed the lid. Wiping the tracks away, she made three decisions.
One—those would be the last tears she would ever shed over Mr. Woodbine.
Two—she refused to live the rest of her life being treated like a sack of money.
And three—she was going to run away from her wedding.