Emma looked at the door again. A swell of voices came and settled. She saw a shape in her mind. A door closing somewhere else. A man who did not look back.
That sinking feeling returned yet again, more devastating than ever.
She did not want to humiliate herself with hope. She did not want to walk out and find pity in other people’s mouths. She placed her hand on her stomach in a bid to anchor herself.
A footman came to the door. He had the look of a messenger who would rather carry wine. “I am afraid it is bad news, my Lady.”
Emma felt Melody shift beside her but said nothing.
The footman continued anyway.“It appears there was no carriage at St. James’s. There never was. The sacristan made inquiries.”
Aunt Agnes stiffened. “Nonsense.”
The vicar put a hand on the doorframe, his fingers curling slightly. “We will give it five minutes.”
Emma did not say yes or no. She looked at Melody. “Take off my gloves.”
Melody blinked. “Here?”
“Now.”
Melody undid the tiny pearl buttons and slid the gloves free, revealing wrists that looked too pale against the dress. She then folded the gloves and set them on the chair.
Suddenly, the air became suffocating. Emma needed space to breathe. Something to do.
She needed toscream.
But she couldn’t. Not here, and especially not with the statement she was trying to make with this wedding.
She crossed the short distance and opened the door to the nave. It took no effort. The room beyond was full of eyes. Heads turned, and whispers rippled like a sheet being shaken.
She stood on the threshold and let them see her. Her gown was perfect, her hair was fixed, and her face was utterly composed.
She stepped onto the aisle and felt the tile through the soles of her slippers. There was an empty space at the front, where a man should have stood. She looked at it and then looked at the faces around it. A woman pressed a hand to her mouth. A gentleman stared down at the floor, seeming unsure whether to bow.
Emma did not cry. Not at first.
She went very still, feeling the weight of each gaze the way rain collected on a coat. It slid off because she did not give it a seam to catch.
It grew clearer with each stare she had to endure, and the words rang over and over in her head, like the bells fixed to the top of the church she stood in.
He is not coming.
He is not coming.
Her breathing seized for a fraction of a second, and she clenched her hands into tight fists, unable to hold on to anything.
The vicar came to her side. “Lady Emma,” he said quietly. “We can move to the vestry. We can spare you this.”
“No,” she said. “There is nothing to spare.”
She stood there for a heartbeat longer and let the truth settle over her. Then she turned and walked back to the antechamber. Her hands did not shake. Melody followed her and shut the door with care.
In the antechamber, Emma stood before the mirror and looked at the woman in yellow who had believed that a door would open for her if she waited in the right place. She reached up and removed her veil, then laid it on the chair. She unpinned the small spray of orange blossoms and set it beside the veil. She then took the pearl combs out of her hair one by one and placed them in a neat row.
Melody hovered at her shoulder. “We can exit through the side door and cross the mews. Your aunt can speak to the guests. She knows how to make it sound like a sudden illness. You can rest, and then we can think about what went wrong.”
“No,” Emma said.
