I pad across the room, my hand on my belly, not quite believing I’m growing a new life. A child equal parts of Rowland and me. A baby made from devotion and love.
Rowland hops from foot to foot, wringing his hands. I’ve never seen him look so excited.
With trembling fingers, I lift the lid and push apart the tissue paper to find a delicate white dress.
“I made it especially for you,” he says.
“You did?” I ask, lifting the garment from the box. It’s made of the softest silk, simple, elegant, and shaped exactly to my figure. The tiny stitches forming the seams are more delicate than anything I could ever make. “This must have taken hours.”
“I worked on it at night while you slept,” he says, his cheeks turning pink.
Sighing, I shake my head, awestruck by his talent. It’s beautiful. Clean lines, no fuss, nothing like Blanche’s elaborate minidress. But then this garment was made with love instead of money. And only for me.
I think of the morning of my first marriage, when Mom shoved me into the wedding dress she’d been forced to wear when she married Dad. Grandma had also been forced to wear it when she was a child bride.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, my chest filling with warmth. “Thank you.”
We dress quickly, both giddy with excitement. The dress fits like he measured me in my sleep, but then he’s already memorized every inch. Rowland knows my body better than I do.
I’m too nauseous for breakfast, so I drive us through the countryside in a sports car Edward parked in a hiding spot within the grounds the day he ambushed us. Rowland rests a hand on my thigh, his gaze warming the side of my face.
“Are we meeting the same priest who married Edward and Blanche?” I ask.
“St. John’s is the only church on this side of the island.” He pauses, his hand stilling on my thigh. “And Father Henry’s been with the family for years.”
Cold shivers down my spine. “Won’t he think it’s strange that Edward’s getting married again so soon?”
“The Rochester family owns the church’s land. And the vicarage.” His tone shifts, becoming cultured and cold. It’s the voice he uses when he’s being his brother. “Father Henry knows not to ask questions.”
I hold back a grimace. No matter how many months have passed since Rochester’s death, that voice always gives me the creeps. I had nightmares the first few weeks about Rochester lurking beneath the house, waiting for the right moment to attack.
Each night, I would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming that the monster was here. They only stopped when Rowland took me to the cottage’s burned remains and showed me his brother’s charred corpse.
We arrive at the church, a one-story building of stone walls thick with ivy. An elderly man in black meets us at the door. He’s stooped and gray, looking like he was once as tall and robust as Rowland.
“Edward!” He frowns, his gaze sweeping up and down Rowland’s form. “You’ve lost weight, dear boy. Are you eating well?”
Rowland strides toward the priest with his chin raised and his shoulders pulled back, looking every inch the entitled rich bastard. “I didn’t come here for a discussion on my health, Father. I’m here to get married.”
The priest rears back. I can’t tell if he’s startled by the harsh tone or the thought of another wedding. “Of course, my son. Though isn’t this a little rash?—”
“Would you like to continue having a roof over your head?” Rowland says.
My stomach dips. I guess this is precisely what a psychopath like Rochester might say.
Father Henry nods like he’s used to the Rochester family’s demands. “Well, you’d better come this way.”
He sweeps his arms toward the empty church and limps inside. The ceremony is quick but beautiful. I’m so nervous that I barely pay attention to the religious preamble.
“’Do you, Edward Rochester, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” asks the priest.
My stomach clenches so hard I nearly double over. Even though it’s Rowland playing the role of his brother, hearing that name again feels like jumping from the roof.
“I do,” he replies.
Father Henry turns to me and asks the same. Rowland squeezes my hand as though sensing my dry mouth, my fluttering pulse, the way my gut churns with unease.
It doesn’t matter which name Rowland uses. I know it’s him. This is about transcending survival. About remaining hidden from the outside world. About building a life from the ashes of our combined misfortunes.
