It’s my wedding day. The skies open up and sheets of rain and hail pelt the stone terrace where the ceremony is to take place. I suppose that any other bride would be in hysterics by now. But I don’t have time to fret over the weather, because I’m wanted elsewhere. Or I think I am. I walk stealthily down an unending hallway inside an English country manor as the rain and hailstones strike the windowpanes in a savage rhythm. My heart is pounding from nerves and exhaustion. Wedding jitters? I’m just thankful I chose a simple bias-cut gown instead of one of those corseted numbers. Besides, as a woman of forty, a corset would make me look like I was trying too hard, or worse, like some desperate reality show contestant.
I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone has noticed me, but the hall is empty. Down the grand staircase I glide, managing to move past wedding guests stuffed inside the enormous ballroom without detection and fling open the doors to the driveway. I hate getting wet, but not today—today the rain is liberating, so out I go, my bare feet making muffled, crunching sounds on the gravel as I start to walk faster. And I think that only six months ago everything was normal. I knew who I was. I had a job, a home, friends … a life that made me happy. Who knew turning forty would be so fraught? It wasn’t supposed to be this way, it was supposed to be just another birthday, just another number. But that’s not what happened.
A huge thundercloud rolls overhead, threatening to let loose. I can’t see through the rain. Not far enough to catch even a glimpse of what I came to see. Of whom I came to see. I take it as a sign. I pause and take another look at the stately mansion that’s now behind me. It is a beautiful estate deep in the English countryside. I should go back. There’s still time. A menacing clap of thunder shakes the ground. The storm isn’t letting up. Good or bad omen? The wind picks up and lifts the edge of my soaked dress, revealing my bare legs. I must decide. No one knows I’m here. I can dry my dress. Redo my hair. Going back isn’t exactly a hardship. After all, what woman in her right mind would try to escape a Jane Austen fantasy come true?