Over the next few days, her mother seemed determined to do whatever she could to stoke Elizabeth’s excitement about her coming nuptials. They went to the dressmakers to try on wedding gowns, and she stood still as they draped various textiles across her shoulders.
The dressmaker pushed an armful of fabric into her arms, and she ducked behind a dressing screen and changed. The dressmaker helped her with the corset, and then pinned the skirts this way and that until the dress draped artistically around her figure, flowing out behind her in a long train.
The gown was, admittedly, stunning.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing the most extravagant gown that gold could buy, but all she saw was a beautiful doll—forbidden to think or feel.
Her eyes lined with silver, and her mother murmured from beside her, “You lookbeautiful. I think this is the one.”
She hated that her mother was pretending that any of this was normal.
Perhaps itwasnormal. Maybe she had just escaped this fate a few years longer than most. She pressed her lips together, thinking of the young noblewomen who were now ‘happily married’ and wondering if they were really so happy or if they had looked at their wedding gowns and felt like this.
Hopeless. Lost.
Her mother was determinedly cheerful for the rest of the day, as though her cheer could be infectious. She took Elizabeth shopping for new clothes, claiming that she would need a new wardrobe as a soon-to-be-married woman. Her mother even bought her a new bracelet, claiming that Duke Howard would love it.
Her jaw tightened at the mention of his name.
After her mother felt she was sufficiently bribed, Elizabeth was dragged to a florist shop where she was interrogated about what colours and decor she wanted in the ceremony.
“I don’t care,” she replied listlessly.
The florist’s face fell.
Her mother quickly jumped in, making apologies for her. Her mother gestured grandly around the room and said in a brusque tone, “My vision is this. Delicate, tasteful. Pink and white flowers. Crystal everywhere.” The florist nodded eagerly and bustled around the shop, trailed by her mother, who waxed eloquently about her ideas for the wedding.
Elizabeth ignored them and sat by the window, watching people meander past the shop. Elizabeth caught herself searching for a dark head of hair, but the demon was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had left Briarton for good.
After leaving the florist, her mother took her to her favourite lunch spot in Briarton, a small bistro with brick walls covered in vines of briar rose, a type of rose that was nearly a weed here, with large pink petals and long piercing barbs. Elizabeth loved this bistro, for all its beauty, it still felt a little wild—homier somehow.
The owner’s wife came up to them with a handkerchief tied over her hair, holding a silver tray with two cups of tea. “Hello, Lady Ashcroft and Lady Ashcroft, lovely to see you again.” The woman greeted them with a cheery smile. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a salad, please, and a few sausage rolls if you have them,” Elizabeth said, smiling politely.
The owner’s wife said warmly, “We do! Baked them fresh this morning. My husband says they’re my best yet.”
Elizabeth felt a pang in her chest. “Yes, please. Thank you.” She sipped her tea, feeling depressed. “Mama, I’d hoped I would have a marriage like you and father do,” she said finally, still unable to meet her mother’s eyes.
“I had wished that for you, too,” her mother replied. She opened and closed her mouth several times, a pained expression crossing her features before it was gone in a blink, replaced with a warm smile. “You’ll see the duke soon. Perhaps, with time, you’ll grow to enjoy each other's company?”
“What do you mean, I’ll see him soon?”
“Duke Howard has kindly offered to host the next ball in Ambrosia.”
“When?” she asked, horrified.
“In two weeks’ time. It will be good, I think, for you to see Howard Manor and his home city. You can think about what you’ll do there once you’re settled.” Her mother smiled encouragingly.
Elizabeth’s heart sank.
So soon.
She took a deep breath, refusing to panic. “Do you think our new gowns will be ready by then?” she asked, hoping for an excuse that would allow her to missit. “And I’ve been feeling under the weather today. I, er, might be coming down with something.”
“Not to fret! We have two whole weeks for you to rest up and feel your absolute best, and the dressmaker assured me that they would be ready in time,” her mother said happily, completely misreading the look on her face. “I think the lavender will look beautiful on you, dear.”
***
