Chapter 10
“Where is it, then?” Hester demanded, throwing open the curtain of the dressing stall with the flourish of a seasoned actress, nearly smacking Lavinia in the face with a length of striped muslin. “Nancy, if you are hiding in there—”
From the far side of the partition, Nancy said, “If you must know, it is hideous, and it is not my color. No further questions.”
“Nonsense.” Hester plucked the muslin free and held it up to the gaslight, squinting at the delicate embroidery on the hem. “This is precisely your color. You look as if you were poured into it by some benevolent goddess.”
Nancy emerged, one eyebrow raised and the other in its natural position of withering skepticism. “If so, the goddess has a peculiar sense of humor.”
Fiona, lounging across a velvet-cushioned bench in a way no duchess should, signaled for the modiste’s assistant. “We’ll need the nightwear catalogues,” she called. “And the Irish lace. And the stockings with the daring little patterns at the ankle.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Nancy, sliding back behind the curtain. “I have already bought more of those than I can wear in a lifetime, thanks to my mother’s crusade last week. If I acquire one more item of French silk, I’ll be smothered in it before the ceremony.”
“An excellent way to go,” said Hester, tossing the muslin at Lavinia, who caught it with surprising grace.
“Besides, it could be worse. Anna sent me an entire trousseau, all marked ‘modest and practical,’ then swapped out half of it for French chemises she claimed were ‘more atmospheric.’ I didn’t discover the switch until my wedding night. ”
Nancy peeked out. “And what did you do?”
“Laughed myself sick. Thomas nearly died on the spot.”
Fiona winked. “But I’m sure it must have been a pleasant surprise, Hester dear. If not for you, for your husband.”
Lavinia smiled, timidly at first, then more confidently as Hester and Fiona began cackling like a pair of unrepentant witches.
“If you don’t want to wear them, Nancy, simply refuse,” said Lavinia, folding the muslin into a perfect square. “It is your wedding, after all.”
“I refuse most things as a rule,” Nancy said, gathering her skirts with military precision and marching out from the stall. “But I will admit, if I must endure the ordeal of matrimony, I would rather do so wearing nothing less than the softest linens money can buy.”
“That’s the spirit,” Fiona approved, patting the space beside her. “Sit, and allow yourself to be pampered by people who have nothing better to do than argue about ribbon colors.”
Nancy sat, glancing sidelong at the pair of them. “Lavinia, you have not said a word in ten minutes. Are you composing a list of my flaws, or simply judging me in silence?”
Lavinia went pink, then managed, “I am thinking that if I ever wed, I will skip the shopping entirely. It’s rather overwhelming.”
Hester grinned. “That is because you have yet to discover the joy of making a shopgirl blush.”
Nancy stretched out her legs. “You could make a bishop blush, Hester. I have seen it.”
“I pride myself on it,” said Hester, unwrapping a package of sugared almonds from her reticule and handing them around.
The modiste herself entered, trailed by three assistants and enough taffeta to clothe a battalion of debutantes. “My ladies,” she cooed, “such a pleasure. The final fitting will be ready in one hour. In the meantime, perhaps a look at the mantles? Or the newest Parisian veils?”
Fiona waved her off. “No need. We’re here for the company, not the wardrobe.”
The modiste, momentarily nonplussed, exited with her minions in tow.
There was a brief, perfect silence, filled with the comfortable chewing of almonds.
Hester, dusting sugar from her lap, said, “I cannot believe you are actually doing this, Nancy. Getting married. You, who once vowed to retire to a nunnery and torment the world with pamphlets about the futility of romance.”
“I still believe in the futility of romance,” Nancy said, popping an almond into her mouth. “But I believe even more in keeping promises.”
Fiona looked at her, really looked, eyes shrewd. “You are nervous.”
Nancy snorted. “Is it so obvious?”
Hester patted her knee. “Only to those of us who know you better than you know yourself.”
“Then you know that if you smother me in sympathy, I will break out in hives,” Nancy warned.
“Not sympathy,” said Fiona gently. “Admiration.”
Nancy looked down at her hands, unsure what to say.
Hester pressed on, as if breaking a fever. “Are you worried about marrying the Duke?”
“I…no,” Nancy replied, then shrugged, searching for a word large enough to contain the man. “He is unyielding, to be sure, and impossible perhaps...”
“But,” Fiona prompted.
“But he is not entirely unkind,” Nancy finished, softer than she meant. “I think perhaps the world has been cruel enough to him, and now he is determined to return the favor.”
Lavinia said, “Most men are, if you give them half a chance.”
“That is why I prefer women’s company,” said Hester. “So much more direct. If a woman wishes you ill, she will tell you. Often in writing.”
Nancy snorted. “See? This is what I will miss after I am consigned to Scarfield’s mausoleum of a manor. Actual conversation.”
Fiona leaned in. “You will not lose us, Nancy. If anything, you will need us more than ever.”
Nancy blinked at her, then shrugged it off. “I suppose you are right.”
She looked around the shop, at the mirrored walls and riotous fabrics and the three women who had rescued her from herself more times than she could count. There was a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the tea or the almonds.
“My father still thinks I am deranged,” she confessed, voice low.
“He is a man,” said Hester. “He will adjust.”
“It is a shock,” Lavinia added, quiet but firm. “To all of us. You have never been one for conventions.”
Nancy regarded her. “And yet, here I am, drowning in them.”
Fiona smiled. “You can swim, darling. Better than anyone.”
They fell silent again, but it was not uncomfortable.
After a minute, Hester said, “Do you think he will be a good husband?”
“Scarfield?” Nancy considered the question. “I think he will be an efficient husband. As for good—” She shrugged. “What does that mean, anyway? He will not beat me. He will not bankrupt me. He will almost certainly never bore me. Perhaps that is enough.”
Fiona pressed, “But can you trust him?”
Nancy looked away. “I trust him to keep his word. That is something.”
Hester thumped the bench. “If he ever so much as raises his voice at you, I will march to Scarfield and challenge him to single combat.”
Nancy laughed, loud and unguarded. “You would lose. He is a champion fencer.”
Hester grinned. “I have never fought fair.”
They all laughed then, even Lavinia, whose smile was shy but genuine.
Fiona touched Nancy’s hand. “If ever you need us—truly need us—you know where to find us. No matter what.”
Nancy squeezed her hand, surprised by how much she meant it. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you three are going to make me cry,” Nancy said, making a show of dabbing at her eyes with a lace scrap. “And it’s not even the wedding day. Save your sentiment for the spectacle.”
“We will,” said Hester, “but I reserve the right to weep shamelessly at the reception.”
“Agreed,” said Fiona.
They sat, munching almonds and admiring the ugly, beautiful future stretching before them.
When the modiste returned with a tray of tiny cakes and a reminder of the time, they rose together, a phalanx of friendship, ready to take on the world—or at least the next round of fittings.
Nancy left the shop that afternoon feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She was still afraid, but it was a manageable fear. Like the fear before a battle, or the leap from a high place when you know there is something worth landing for.
She had her friends. She had the twins. And, God help her, she had a duke waiting at the end of the aisle.
What could possibly go wrong?
Night brought no relief. Nancy lay abed, listening to the clock ticking with a stubborn will that would not let her sleep.
She had spent the evening rehearsing her composure in the privacy of her dressing table mirror.
Now, without witnesses or distractions, the mirror image dissolved and left her only with herself.
She tried counting the day’s peculiarities, but her mind wandered instead to Fiona’s warnings—Never trust a man who can make you forget your own name with a smile, darling; he will surely find a way to use it against you.
Hester had laughed at that, but even Hester’s confidence had a sharp edge: If he ever breaks your heart, I will hunt him to the ends of the earth and collect his ears as proof.
Nancy tried to recall all she had ever wanted. Marriage had not been a consideration, and even if it had, it was not with notions of romance or love. She tried to imagine Scarfield softening, but it was impossible.
She threw off the blankets, restless. Could Father be right? Was this some mad performance, a last-ditch gambit to save face and salvage the family pride? Or worse, was it a genuine, awful leap into the unknown, the sort of risk that ended with one or both parties broken?
But then she remembered Clara’s desperate little voice in the nursery: Are you taking us away? She remembered Henry’s hollow eyes, the color of old grass, the way he clung to his rabbit as if it could bring his mother back.
“I will not abandon them.” She said it out loud, just to hear it echo in the empty room.
Sleep did come, eventually, but it brought no comfort. Nancy’s dreams were crowded with uncertainties.
She stood on the moor behind her childhood home. Teresa was there, barefoot and smiling in a way Nancy remembered from the days before the world had sharpened its claws. She was holding the twins, one on each hip, and laughing at something Nancy could not hear.
“Will you promise me?” Teresa asked, reaching out, her hand cold and impossibly light.
Nancy took it, felt the pressure of bone under skin. “I promise,” she said, not sure what she was promising, but knowing it was everything.
“Good,” said Teresa, and stepped back, dissolving into mist.
The air changed, and suddenly Nancy was alone in a house full of closed doors.
She ran down the hallway, opening each one in turn—behind the first was a cradle, empty and rocking.
Behind the second, Clara and Henry, small and frightened, clinging to the bars of their bed.
The third door opened onto a long, dim hall, and at the end of it stood Oscar.
He did not move. He did not speak. He simply stood there, immovable, arms folded and head lowered, the set of his shoulders so familiar and so final that Nancy felt terror bloom in her chest.
She tried to call to him, but her voice would not work. She tried to run, but the floor was syrup and her feet would not obey.
When she reached him, he turned, but it was not Oscar’s face. It was her own.
She woke with a start, heart stuttering in her chest, sweat cold on her neck.
You fool. You are afraid of yourself.
She pulled the blankets around her and watched the sky grow pale with dawn, waiting for the courage to do what needed to be done.
She would protect those children. She would keep her promise, no matter the cost.
But the man at the end of the hall was waiting, and she knew—better than anyone—that there are some doors you cannot close, once you’ve opened them.