“That dress must have cost a fortune.”
“Such a shame that Rhett destroyed her first one. You’d want to wear a dress like that more than once.”
“Even if its first use was so ill-fated?”
Peter turned to his sisters and narrowed his eyes. If he couldhave drawn a finger across his throat without it ending up in the papers, he would have.
Regardless, his intent must have been clear, because the girls closed their mouths and turned their attention back to the bride, who was as white as the dress she wore. She walked like an automaton that had cogs and levers and clockwork motors driving her forward. Her eyes were set on the archbishop, and she gave no indication that she heard the murmurs of the crowd or felt their intense gaze.
Peter winced as she passed him, and he got a good look at the terror on her face. He wasn’t particularly fond of the chit. He thought her spoiled and self-involved and not at all deserving of the friendship his family bestowed on her. But that didn’t negate the fact that she was young and petrified and clearly not happy with the marriage she was about to enter into.
Plenty of people marry when they don’t want to. It is a fact of life.Still, he would never let his sisters feel such dread.
Once Lady Cordelia reached her destination, she handed her bouquet to the tallest of the girls that had preceded her. Only then did her father release her, and Moorhouse grasped her hands in his.
Peter tugged at his cravat. This whole situation made his stomach turn. The sooner it was over, the better. Had they planned a full ceremony with all the pomp and grandeur? Or would they speed up the program, rushing to theI dos to minimize the chance of another escape?
He would never know. The moment her father had taken his seat, Cordelia yanked her hands from her betrothed’s, picked up her skirts, and fled back the way she had come.
“Oh my Lord.”
Peter wasn’t concerned with Winnie’s blasphemy, because it was drowned out by the crying and cursing and general shock of the rest of the congregation.
As Cordelia ran up the aisle, Peter caught sight of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her father was on her heels. He’d have ahold of her before she escaped.
Winnie reached across Meg to grab Peter’s coat, clenching the wool in her fist. “Cordy,” she whispered.
Lady Cordelia passed them.
Grimacing at the likely consequences, Peter stuck a foot into the aisle, and her father fell with a sharp grunt.
“My good man,” Peter said, leaping from his seat and crouching beside his peer. “Are you all right?” Both of them were large, and the aisle was blocked. Neither Moorhouse nor any member of Cordelia’s family could navigate around them.
Peter looked over his shoulder as he stood to offer the duke his hand. Cordelia had paused for the briefest second to glance behind her. Catching Peter’s eye, she gave a small, thankful smile, and then disappeared.
Dear Booklover,
Being content with your cat for company is far preferable to an unwanted and unhappy marriage. I am relieved that you have that option when not everyone does.
—Captain of the Nautilus
“All I’m saying is that next time they should station someone at the door to the church.”
“Do you really think there is going to be a next time?” Eleanor Wright asked as she closed the brass latches of her typecase, running a hand over the walnut lid. Around them, the printing press whirred and hummed in rhythmic motion as tomorrow’s paper finally went to print. The presses had stopped the moment news broke of that afternoon’s scandal, and Eleanor had been called to theTimesoffices urgently so that she could typeset the latest column about the aristocracy behaving badly.
“She is the only daughter of the Duke of Thirwhestle. Of course there will be a next time,” Mabel said, as she and Lillian retrieved their purses and tucked their stools beneath Eleanor’s typesetting bench. “Besides, I refuse to believe a woman as beautiful as Lady Cordelia Highwater could possibly end up a spinster.”
Lillian shrugged. “If the next lord possesses an ounce of intelligence, he will forgo the usual celebrations and whisk her away to Gretna Green.”
“That wouldn’t work,” Eleanor replied. “There are far too many ways for Lady Cordelia to escape on a three-day trip to Scotland. She’d end up bolting through a cow field, never to be seen again.”
“At least the entiretonwouldn’t be in attendance to watch.” Mabel inched closer to the others as they made their way through the printing house toward the street. She was still rattled by the scowls of the men who worked there and the insults they said just loud enough that Eleanor and her friends could hear but the foreman could not.
Eleanor had become accustomed to the bitterness. She was a woman working in a man’s space. Composing type was usually gendered work, and though the London Society of Compositorshad relaxed its rules around women taking up the craft, most printing houses continued to employ men exclusively.
Unless they were in a bind. Unless there was a breaking story that stopped the press and speed was of the essence. That’s when they would send for Eleanor.
She held her head high as she strolled past the paper’s regular compositors, ignoring the way they glowered. She could set type five times faster than her nearest competitor, and they resented her for it. They also resented the rather obscene amount of money that she was paid to rescue an edition at the last minute.
