being Colin’s wife, wearing the clothes he’d bought her, traveling to her father as if she were a dutiful daughter—all those things turned her from a humble estate-frog into a lace-princess. Eventually, at least, she and Colin would return home, to her land, to her crops, and she would put on her old frog-clothes and return to work. Surely it would be that easy. Or would her old self, the one unafraid to dirty her hands in estate work, be lost to her? She held out her hands, imagining field dirt under her nails. Without thinking, frog-Emmeline touched her princess-self in the mirror, but she felt only cold glass, not another’s flesh. Could she be both the princess and the frog?
“Ah, look there.” Mrs. Burns, still staring out the window, broke into a titter, breaking Emmeline’s reverie. “Your cousin’s met the duke now. And that curtsy! I didn’t know a woman could curtsy that low and still stand up.” The parson’s wife paused. “Oh, dear me, I guess one can’t. She appears to be stuck.”
Emmeline left her troubled thoughts in the mirror to join Mrs. Burns at the window. Sure enough, her cousin Stella stood balanced mid-curtsy.
“That’s odd.” Mrs. Burns giggled. “Before she curtsied, her husband and a tall lad were right by her side. Where have they gone?”
Emmeline watched as Colin and the duke helped Stella to stand.
“She must be embarrassed, poor dear. She’s batting that fan fast enough to cool Hell.”
Emmeline said nothing. More likely, Stella had rehearsed that failed curtsy for hours, to gain more of the duke’s attention. The duke should likely check his pockets to see if they’d been picked.
“Ah, look, she’s fainted a bit onto the duke’s arm, and he’s having to escort her into the chapel.”
Emmeline smiled in spite of herself. She had no question that Aidan Somerville, the Duke of Forster, could manage Stella and her stratagems.
A sharp tap at the door preceded the entrance of Mr. Jeffreys, Lady Emmeline’s majordomo. With Maggie’s exit, he had come to retrieve Mrs. Burns.
“Isn’t Lady Emmeline such a lovely bride, Mr. Jeffreys? And this dress! Right out of last month’s La Belle Assemblée, isn’t it?” Mrs. Burns placed her arms akimbo and studied Emmeline. “Your Lord Colin is a very lucky man, my dear.”
“I believe Lady Emmeline would appreciate some time for . . . quiet reflection and prayer.” Jeffreys as always chose his words with care.
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Burns kissed the air next to Emmeline’s cheek. “Don’t you worry, my dear: I will join you at the back of the church. Mr. Burns has a lovely homily planned. He’s borrowed a bit of fire and brimstone from the Calvinists, but transformed it to the fire of human passion, or something like that. I’m never quite sure. He’s such a clever man, my Mr. Burns.”
Then she was gone.
The room turned quiet. Without Mrs. Burns’s chatter, Emmeline’s anxiety reasserted itself in full force, the tension in her chest making it hard to breathe.
From the window, she could see that the duke once more stood by his brother’s side. By his presence and his smiles, the duke demonstrated to all that he approved of Colin’s match.
Her match.
She forced herself to breathe in slowly. They were always meant to marry, she reminded herself. Colin had declared that intention years ago, and no one—except her—had found it remarkable when he’d finally asked for her hand. She’d done nothing wrong in accepting. It was a fine match, and he would be a fine husband.
She studied Colin from the window. To her cottagers, he offered hearty handshakes. To the village spinsters, he gave a gracious half bow that left them blushing and tittering. To everyone, he was charming and kind. But of course he was.
When had she known him to be anything else?
She loved him. Of course she did. She always had. Their life together would be happy, pleasant, cheerful, useful. He would let her run her estate—she would let him do his secret work for the Crown. Why then did she feel her life might be ending rather than beginning?
* * *
She joined her dog, Queen Bess, at the warm hearth. Bess, sensitive to her mistress’s emotions, raised her eyebrows, and Emmeline leaned down to scratch the dog’s head. “There, girl. It’s all right. I’m merely anxious. Nothing to be worried over.”
The dog leaned her head into Emmeline’s hand, and Emmeline blinked back tears.
“You love him too, girl, don’t you?” Emmeline rubbed Bess’s ears, until the dog’s tail wagged. Emmeline stood for several moments, letting the fire warm her. But the chill she felt deep in her chest couldn’t be lifted. “If we were to run, girl, where would we go? Can you see us, both with bad legs, limping across the field?”
With a sad laugh, she turned back to the window. But she moved wrong, and the old pain shot angry through her leg. She gasped, and Bess pulled herself to her feet, instinctively positioning herself between Em and any furniture. Em rested her hand gently on the dog’s broad back, grateful for the extra support. When the pain subsided, she moved more slowly, careful to step just right. Bess followed at her side.
She’d stepped wrong with Colin when she’d agreed to marry him. Had he asked her privately, she could have tested his heart and hers. But he’d chosen Stella’s house party, with Stella and all her friends watching. Even at the moment she’d said yes, her heart had cried out no. Afterwards, she’d found herself carried away by Colin’s assurances. “It was always supposed to be you and me, Emmie,” he’d tell her as they planned the wedding dinner or looked at maps to plan their wedding trip. But in all the months of their engagement, Emmeline hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep.
Marry or run? Whatever decision she was going to make, she had to make it.
She surveyed the carriage yard where Colin and the duke greeted their guests. Sam Barnwell, her estate manager, had joined them, introducing those few Colin didn’t know. During her wedding trip, Sam would care for her estate. She had no worries there: he had been her steward for years.
Behind Sam stood Colin’s family, his brothers—Lords Seth, Clive, and Edmund—and their elder sister, Lady Judith. Her family. They had welcomed her into their hearts from the moment Colin—still a boy—had announced his intention to marry her. They had visited and written faithfully. Herself little better than an orphan, she’d drunk in their affection. They had been her confidantes, her friends, and she couldn’t imagine a life without them. Her hand clenched.
Seeing Colin’s family should calm her, not make her ill at ease. She had nothing to fear, but even so her chest constricted, and her sense of near panic swelled. She picked up her walking stick, so much more necessary in the last weeks, repeating, “All shall be well. All shall be well. All manner of things shall be well.” But the familiar litany offered her no peace.
At that moment, a carriage she didn’t recognize pulled into the yard. Colin’s friend, Lord Walgrave, stepped out, then handed down a dark-haired woman.
Lucy.
Even from a distance, Lady Fairbourne appeared frail and too thin. Emmeline’s guilt welled up, thickening her throat.
Emmeline watched for Colin to notice Lucy’s arrival.
