Lucy swallowed and turned away, unable to bear what she saw there.
And Hermione whispered, “Lucy.”
That was all. Just Lucy.
Lucy turned back. She wanted to ask Hermione what she meant. She wanted to ask why she said her name as if it were a tragedy. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. And so she hoped Hermione saw her questions in her eyes.
She did. Hermione touched her cheek, smiling sadly. “You look like the saddest bride I’ve ever seen.”
Lucy closed her eyes. “I’m not sad. I just feel . . .”
But she didn’t know what she felt. What was she supposed to feel? No one had trained her for this. In all her education, with he
r nurse, and governess, and three years at Miss Moss’s, no one had given her lessons in this.
Why hadn’t anyone realized that this was far more important than needlework or country dances?
“I feel . . .” And then she understood. “I feel like I’m saying goodbye.”
Hermione blinked with surprise. “To whom?”
To myself.
And she was. She was saying goodbye to herself, and everything she might have become.
She felt her brother’s hand on her arm. “It’s time to begin,” he said.
She nodded.
“Where is your bouquet?” Hermione asked, then answered herself with, “Oh. Right there.” She retrieved the flowers, along with her own, from a nearby table and handed them to Lucy. “You shall be happy,” she whispered, as she kissed Lucy’s cheek. “You must. I simply will not tolerate a world in which you are not.”
Lucy’s lips wobbled.
“Oh dear,” Hermione said. “I sound like you now. Do you see what a good influence you are?” And then, with one last blown kiss, she entered the chapel.
“Your turn,” Richard said.
“Almost,” Lucy answered.
And then it was.
She was in the church, walking down the aisle. She was at the front, nodding at the priest, looking at Haselby and reminding herself that despite . . . well, despite certain habits she did not quite understand, he would make a perfectly acceptable husband.
This was what she had to do.
If she said no . . .
She could not say no.
She could see Hermione out of the corner of her eye, standing beside her with a serene smile. She and Richard had arrived in London two nights earlier, and they had been so happy. They laughed and they teased and they spoke of the improvements they planned to make at Fennsworth Abbey. An orangery, they had laughed. They wanted an orangery. And a nursery.
How could Lucy take that from them? How could she cast them into a life of shame and poverty?
She heard Haselby’s voice, answering, “I will,” and then it was her turn.
Wilt thou have this Man to thy Wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?
She swallowed and tried not to think of Gregory. “I will.”