That quiet voice inside her, the one she’d learned to ignore, stirred.
“Have you told anyone else?” Mary-Ann asked.
Mrs. Bainbridge shook her head. “Not yet. Though I daresay, half the village will know by sundown. I believe his lordship sent a notice to the London Gazette as well as the Sommer Sentinel. We all know how London and Sommer-by-the-Sea thrive on gossip.” She took a sip of tea.
“Will the wedding be here or in London?”
“That,” Mrs. Bainbridge said with a sigh, “is already a matter of debate. I thought here, for simplicity’s sake. Barrington is discussing the event with me as if it were a military operation. He mentioned his family’s tradition of large weddings. Personally, at this point, Gretna Green sounds good to me.”
Mary-Ann chuckled. “You know you don’t mean that. I believe your Lord Barrington enjoys showing you off just as much as you enjoy being seen on his arm. I’ve seen your face light up when he enters a room.”
“I suppose I must be more careful to control my feelings, especially around you.”
“I don’t think you can.” Mary-Ann shook her head and tried not to smile.
“Excuse me, Miss Mary-Ann. One final turn, please,” Mrs. Pembroke asked.
Mary-Ann executed a grand sweeping turn and let the skirt fall around her.
“Yes,” Mrs. Pembroke nodded, “the length and weight are perfect.”
“Mrs. Bainbridge, have you chosen your gown?” Mary-Ann nodded to the dressmaker, pleased as she was.
“Not yet. I’m torn between two gowns. One makes me feel like a duchess. The other makes me feel like myself. Naturally, I’ve chosen neither.”
Mary-Ann grinned. “Then you’re waiting for a third to appear to help you make a decision?”
“Or for a modiste to invent one that satisfies both sides of my nature.” She gave Mrs. Pembroke a wink.
“If you crave a diplomatic gown,” Mrs. Pembroke said while she gathered her pins, “I will gladly create one for you.”
“I wouldn’t have anyone else create a gown for me.” Mrs. Bainbridge took another sip of tea. “I’m in no hurry. We haven’t decided on a date for the wedding yet. That appears to be another negotiation.”
They shared another laugh. The moment stretched comfortably while the dressmaker packed up her things.
“Rodney,” Mary-Ann murmured, the name barely above a breath.
Rodney Wilkinson was a good man. Kind. Steady. Thoughtful in a way that made her feel cherished, seen. He listened with quiet sincerity and never sought to impress. Their courtship had been proper and patient, marked by gentle laughter, shared goals, and a quiet understanding that had deepened over time.
Their life together would be calm. Respectable. Safe.
She smiled faintly and adjusted the sleeve of her gown. It would be a good match, better than most, by any measure. She was proud of the choice she had made.
Still, the smallest ripple of doubt stirred, not about him, never about him, but about herself.
Would she be a good wife? Would she know what to say, what to do, how to be enough for a man like Rodney? Could she make him happy, truly happy, beyond duty and affection?
She drew a breath, letting it out slowly. It was a solemn moment. No wonder her hands trembled.
The sound of muffled voices in the foyer reached their ears, an urgent male voice, low and sharp. It sounded like a commotion until a loud crash, followed by Mr. Hollis, the butler’s voice.
Mary-Ann frowned. “Did someone—?”
The dressmaker straightened. “Shall I see what’s amiss?”
But Mary-Ann was already moving. She slipped from the small, raised platform, her slippers silent against the carpet, the gown rustling around her legs. She crossed the parlor, opened the door, and entered the hall just as another voice, low unmistakable, cut through the air.
Her heart stopped.
