Chapter Twenty-Seven
“It needs more flounce,” Aunt Valentine said.
Cassandra groaned. “If you add anything else, I’ll faint from exhaustion halfway up the aisle.”
The white monstrosity she was swimming in had a surplus of pearls, lace, taffeta, and a four-foot train.
Drowning in ruffles and frills, it was as if the entirety of Madame Fournier’s boutique had dropped on her.
It really was too much, but Aunt Valentine wouldn’t rob her of the bridal experience, even with a time crunch.
“I don’t see why we can’t go with something simple,” she said once more.
“It’s your wedding dress, Cassandra!” Caroline gushed. “One you’re going to pass down to your own daughter. Aren’t you even a little excited?”
Excited? Not quite. Nervous, yes. Stressed, yes.
And sad, if she could admit it. She had always dreamed of walking down the aisle in her mother’s dress.
Mama had adored Seth. Cassandra rather liked to think she would have approved of her choice of husband, if not the method of acquiring him.
She would have loved to see Cassandra walk down the aisle in her dress.
Even if she was ashamed of me. But that dress and those dreams were back in Lincolnshire.
They would sit in the attic, collect more dust, and wait for Caroline.
“What is his favorite color?” Aunt Valentine asked, lifting Cassandra’s skirts to watch them fall.
“You look lovely in blue.”
Cassandra smiled at the memory, and the tension eased from her shoulders.
“Blue.”
“Madame Fournier,” Aunt Valentine called out.
“Add a royal blue sash—yes, Cassandra, you need a sash. Raise the hem, cinch the waist—she is a tiny thing. Remove the train. Drop the neckline to here.” She gestured to a place low on Cassandra’s bosom and said pointedly to the modiste, “And less flounce. We will need it before Thursday.”
Thursday.
Four more days and she could see Seth.
It had been a week since she had seen him, though it felt like a lifetime.
Restless, she had found no comfort in sleep.
She spent her nights staring up at her canopy, listening to Caroline breathe in the bed next to her, and wished it was Seth instead.
She didn’t know if it was better or worse that a fresh reminder of him arrived each morning.
His bouquets spelled devotion, longing, and perseverance.
She felt his love in every bloom, his absence in every moment, and she missed him.
She missed his teasing grin and his too-loud laugh, the way his eyes matched the sky, and how it felt to be in his arms.
When had she begun to need him like this?
Aunt Valentine and Lord Bolderwood had formed an alliance and shouldered the burden of the wedding preparations.
Other than some input on color preferences, there had been nothing expected of Cassandra, to her relief.
If Cassandra had little input, she knew Seth had none, which might have been for the best. If left to him, they would likely be married in a barn.
The thought became more appealing by the minute.
And really, there was no need for pomp and circumstance.
The only guests would be Caroline, the Dorchesters, Lord Bolderwood, and maybe Matthew, if he forgave her by then.
A possibility that seemed less and less likely each day.
He hadn’t spoken to her. Not that he had time, if she were being fair.
In between his duties as Viscount and setting up a new factory, she had scarcely seen him.
He had swiftly stripped her of all administrative duties concerning the Cooper Estate and instead hired an accountant and a secretary.
He gave Aunt Valentine an astounding amount of funds to tend to the sisters’ needs.
No small portion of that went to Madame Fournier, the woman with her nose in the air, sharp pins in her fingers, and the monumental task of clothing her.
She would need dresses, garters, slippers…
and nightgowns of lace and silk. Her jaw dropped when Aunt Valentine presented the first flimsy garment.
She flushed at the thought of wearing one for him.
If she captivated him when he couldn’t see her, his jaw would more than drop.
He might stop breathing. Suddenly too warm, she returned her attention to the dress she was wearing.
“Do you think Mr. Reeves will like it?” Caroline asked.
“I think she could wear a flour sack and he would approve.” Jasmine grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about what it looks like. It’s not as if she’ll be wearing it for—”
“Jasmine!” Aunt Valentine shot a pointed look at Caroline.
Madame Fournier’s eyebrow twitched.
“Oh please, Mama. Caroline could teach you a few things.”
“I considerably doubt that.”
The corner of Caroline’s lips lifted innocently. Leaning on her toes, she covered her mouth and whispered into Aunt Valentine’s ear something that Cassandra could not hear but made the older woman turn scarlet. Sitting primly, she huffed out an indignant, “Well!”
Cassandra laughed, feeling light for the first time in days.
She stopped to take everything in. Surrounded by mirrors, she saw herself from every angle and couldn’t find one she recognized.
Somewhere hidden under the trappings of fabric and jewels, right out of reach, was the future Mrs. Cassandra Reeves.
She would be a wife. A mother. She knew in her heart Seth would be a good husband and a good father.
For once in her life, she wasn’t afraid of the future, but impatiently awaited its arrival.
And Seth’s.
Four more days.
“Jasmine, take Caroline next door for an ice. There are other delicate items to add to Cassandra’s trousseau that young eyes—even knowledgeable ones—shouldn’t see.”
“She’s talking about what Cassandra will wear on her wedding night,” Jasmine said matter-of-factly.
Without missing a beat, Caroline quipped, “It’s not a flour sack?”
As the bell above the door to the shop trilled with their exit, Aunt Valentine smiled comfortingly at Cassandra and held her hands. “Almost done, dear.”
“Is that Lady Dorchester’s voice that I hear?” Lady Sherborne shrilly sounded through the curtain.
Cassandra groaned.
That means Lady Honora is here, too.
“No, no, no. Chin up. Chest out. Shoulders straight,” Aunt Valentine said under her breath and gestured to her own mouth. “Smile.”
She opened the curtain.
“Prudence,” she sang, gliding over to her.
“Good morning, Lady Dorchester.” Lady Sherborne curtsied.
Behind her, Lady Honora looked as though her mother had dragged her there.
Shadows darkened the skin under her eyes.
Her brown hair was pulled into a chignon so severe it stretched the skin of her face and sharpened her eyebrows.
She sneered at Cassandra, her usual ennui replaced by hostile disdain.
Cassandra narrowed her eyes in response.
Not even Lady Worthing yet, and already acting the part.
Lady Sherborne coughed, and Lady Honora gave a perfunctory curtsy to Aunt Valentine.
“Good morning, Lady Dorchester.”
“Perhaps we are early,” Lady Sherborne mused. “I could have sworn that our appointment was at eleven.”
“Is it eleven already?” Aunt Valentine gave her an apologetic smile. “The blame lies with me. We’ve overstayed. We’ll get Cassandra out of her dress”—Lady Honora rolled her eyes with a snort—“and we’ll be on our way.”
“No need to make haste on our behalf. We are here for the same purpose, after all.” Lady Sherborne turned to Cassandra, and her smile faltered. “What a fascinating dress. Congratulations to you, Miss Cooper on your… speedy nuptials.”
“And to Honora, for hers,” Aunt Valentine cut in, and then paused. Her voice laced with concern at Lady Honora’s appearance. “Dear, you look pale.”
“She has been agitated all week. Young brides and their theatrics. I’m sure you understand.” Lady Sherborne clucked, and then simpered. “Come with me, Lady Dorchester, let’s leave these girls to catch up. I simply must have your opinion on this silk brocade.”
“Of course.” Aunt Valentine smiled and gestured to the modiste. “Madame Fournier if you would be so kind?”
Madame Fournier followed Lady Sherborne from the room. Pausing at the curtain, Aunt Valentine shot Cassandra a look that said behave. “We’ll be just outside.”
The curtain fluttered closed behind her.
Abandoned, Cassandra stood on a pedestal, unable to move with pins against her skin.
She tried to follow Aunt Valentine’s advice as Lady Honora circled her like a shark, examining Cassandra from head to toe as if she were a new species.
She picked at lace and tugged at embedded pearls, scowling as if each stitch offended her.
Cassandra fought the urge to slap her hands away.
“Good morning, Lady Honora.”
Lady Honora stood in front of her and scoffed. “Some dress. I’m surprised they’re letting you marry in a church.”
Cassandra adopted her own air of ennui.
“St. Paul’s Cathedral, in fact.”
“Nothing but the best for Lord Bolderwood’s son, hm?” Lady Honora put a hand to her cheek. “What a shocking announcement to make on the same day Mr. Reeves compromised you under his own roof. I suppose what they say is true, a grandchild can turn any man’s heart. Have you thought of names?”
“We’re both being married by special license,” Cassandra parried, darting her eyes to Lady Honora’s stomach and then to her face. “Have you?”
“Here’s a name for you,” she said, icy and lethal. “The Wager Wife. Captain Reeves’ Gallant Exploit, indeed.”
Confused by the insult, Cassandra frowned.
Aunt Valentine hadn’t allowed her access to the society papers.
It wasn’t as though anyone was banging their door down with gossip about her incident in Hampshire, but now she understood.
The pamphlets. Her own moniker, no different from a schoolyard taunt.
Wager Wife.
How absurd.
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”