Upon arrival at the main door, where his efficient butler stood with their coats, he promptly twisted to Kelmarsh as a thought had been preying on his mind this morning.
“Should anything happen to me…in the future. Look after Aideen, won’t you? I need to know she’ll be protected.” His friend nodded, eyes grave and knowing. “And you also, Winterbourne. For some reason, she favours your acquaintance.”
“Of course, old fellow,” he replied, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “But no moretristus canistoday. We live for the moment as the future is forever just that. Now,” he said, running fingers through his immaculate hair despite a night on the chaise – how did he do that? “Have you anything other than black for your wedding? Or else the mourners… I’m sorry,guestsmay get the wrong idea.”
Rakecombe thought for a moment. “I have an off-black waistcoat with charcoal thread running through it.”
“Hmm. I’ll send something over. No need to thank me.”
∞∞∞
Aideen sat. Twitched. Fiddled with her lilac wedding gown. Even her toes jiggled in the silk slippers.
Everyone had abandoned her, citing the absurd notion that she needed some time to herself this morning before thebig event.Time to gather her thoughts and to rest.
She didn’t.
Only when reading did she ever have restful thoughts, the story transporting her to another place, but she could hardly bury herself in a book now: the words would be a hodgepodge.
Furtively, she gazed over at a purple box deposited on the side table.
Sophie had brought it earlier as an additional wedding gift, but she’d made Aideen promise on her lucky clover not to open it until tonight. What Sophie didn’t know, however, was that her lucky clover had never performed as wished and she’d given up on the dratted thing a year ago.
The wedding gown rustled as she stood and meandered in a roundabout way to the box as though someone was watching her through a crack in the door. She skirted a chair and peered at the many flowers on the mantel – from everyone except her spouse-to-be.
Well, if the entire family were going to leave her alone, what was she supposed to do?
Covertly, she skimmed a finger under the box lid. There was something silky, something–
“Miss Quinlan?”
“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me,” she shrieked, turning and knocking the box to the floor.
A lady, and there was no doubt this was alady, stood in the doorway. The Duchess of Rakecombe – soon to be addressed as Dowager.
Oh heavens.
With spine straight and head high, the duchess perused Aideen from mauve slippers to the violets in her hair. The lady herself wore an exquisite deep navy gown with matching pelisse – a fashion plate of sophistication, and even though Aideen was taller than the older female, she felt lower than a snake.
“Miss Aideen Quinlan,” the lady repeated, her tone all hauteur.
Was that a question or a statement or a command?
“Yes, Your Grace.” She gave her best curtsey, kicking the box under the table.
“Hmm. An unusual given name. It means ‘little fire’. Are you?” A fierce glare followed that question.
Aideen considered a clanker, but they were to be related and she would only be able to hide her true nature for so long.
“Yes. I have been known to be.”
Her Grace’s eyes began to fill with tears and her lip quivered.
Fiddlesticks, as Mrs Beckford would say.
The small woman dashed towards her and Aideen flinched, but then…
Uncle Seamus was good at hugs, hearty and strong; they smelled of smoke and wood. Mrs Beckford’s were appreciated, but always at a distance as they creased one’s gown. Sophie’s were mad and tangled.
