Not that Valeria was counting. She had told herself this firmly on the first morning, when she came down for breakfast and found his chair was empty.
She told herself again on the second morning, when she caught herself setting his place at the table before remembering that he was not there. By the third morning, she had stopped going down for breakfast altogether, which prompted Mary to bring a tray to her room and stand in the doorway with folded arms until she ate her toast.
The toast was cold. The butter was too hard. Valeria ate it anyway because arguing with Mary required more energy than chewing, and she had spent what little she had staring at a bedroom door that was not hers.
She had not counted the first day, when the house felt too large and too quiet without Edward in it, even though he had occupied approximately one room and one window and had barely spoken above a murmur.
She had not counted the second day, when she caught herself looking toward the east corridor every time she heard footsteps, expecting the heavy, steady tread that was not there.
She had not counted the third day, when she walked past his bedroom door, stopped, and stood there like a fool for thirty seconds before Mary appeared at the end of the corridor with an expression that could have curdled milk.
She was certainly not counting now, on the fourth day, sitting in her dressing room while Caroline and Mary prepared her for the masquerade ball.
“Hold still,” Mary said, pinning a curl.
“I am holding still.”
“You have sighed seven times in the last five minutes. That is not still.”
“I have not sighed.”
“Eight,” Mary sing-songed, pinning another curl.
The dressing room was warm, dresses laid out across every surface. Mary had pressed the blue dress twice because the first pressing left a crease near the hem that only she could see. She had polished the gold thread with a soft cloth and laid out the pearl earrings that had belonged to Valeria’s mother.
Valeria looked at the earrings. She had not worn them since before Gordon. He had confiscated her jewelry the second week and put it in a locked drawer. She had asked for it once, and he had told her that wives did not need ornaments. They needed obedience.
Mary had found them after he died. Cleaned them and laid them on the dressing table without a word. They had belonged to a woman who laughed too loudly and danced too much and who would have taken one look at Gordon Hansley and thrown him bodily out of her house.
“The earrings,” Caroline gasped, looking up from her swatches. “Oh, Valeria. Those are Mother’s.”
“They are.”
“She would have adored tonight. The masks. The drama. She would have worn something outrageous and scandalized the entire county.” Her voice softened. “Father says I am exactly like her. He does not always mean it as a compliment.”
“You are exactly like her,” Valeria affirmed. “He means it as a compliment every time.”
Caroline blinked. The baby kicked. She put her hand on her belly, and the moment passed.
“The gold mask,” she said. “With the blue dress.”
“Mary already decided on the white mask.”
“Mary decides everything.”
“That is the foundation of our household,” Mary piped up, not looking up from the pins.
“He will be here tonight,” Caroline assured.
Valeria did not ask who she meant.
“He sent word this morning,” Caroline added, examining a ribbon as though it contained state secrets. “Richard saw the rider come in. He is on his way back.”
“Good,” Valeria uttered.
“Good?”
“Good. Fine. I am glad he will not miss the ball. It would be rude to the guests.”
