The Chadwick Ring by Julia Jeffries

of tiny buttons up the back, Ginevra regarded her reflection dispassionately in the long mirror. It was a beautiful dress, she admitted, certainly no one could deny that. Her father, giddy with relief that his financial worries were over at last, had sent to a fashionable London dressmaker, demanding that she spare no expense in providing his daughter with a bridal outfit that would “rival that of Princess Charlotte herself.” The couturiere responded admirably, not so much because of Sir Charles’s orders as because she realized the advantages inherent in dressing the future Marchioness of Chadwick, and the resultant gown was a miracle of restrained elegance, rich without overwhelming the young bride it adorned. It was made of white silk patent net over an underslip of ivory mousse une de soie, with a very high waist and a low square-cut neckline that revealed the soft swell of her breasts. The bodice and hem were heavily embroidered with ivory silk and seed pearls, and the pattern was repeated more lightly on the short puffed sleeves. “ C’est un petit reve d’une robe ,” Madame Annette—nee Annie Brodie of Ipswich—declared, and Ginevra agreed: it was a dream of a dress—for a nightmare.
    Emma’s skillful fingers had shaped Ginevra’s dark gold curls into a heavy coiled chignon at her nape, and her bare throat seemed very pale and defenseless, its vulnerability emphasized by the ivory miniature of her mother that she wore on a white velvet ribbon, her only ornament except for the Chadwick ring. Silently Ginevra watched in the cheval glass as Emma stood behind her and pinned an ankle-length veil of Brussels lace onto her hair with a fragrant coronet of orange blossoms and white roses. When she drew the veil down over her eyes, her vision became obscured by the tiny flowers powdering the lace. It’s like looking through snowflakes. Ginevra shivered. A snowstorm in June. No wonder I feel so cold.
    Emma handed Ginevra her long white gloves and her prayerbook, and Ginevra noticed that tucked inside the front leaf of the book was a spring of rosemary. She regarded it quizzically. Emma said, “Cook sent that up for you, Miss Ginevra. It’s for luck. She said we mustn’t neglect the old ways.”
    Ginevra smiled then, her first real smile in days. “That was kind of Cook. I’ll have to go down and thank her.”
    Emma shook her head. ‘There isn’t time now. But we’ll all be there at the church. She’ll see it then.”
    “Of course.” Ginevra turned away. At the door she halted suddenly and stammered, “Emma, I ... I don’t think I can...”
    Even through the veil the other woman could see that Ginevra’s honey-colored eyes were shimmering. Swiftly she gathered the girl to her bosom. “Hush, Ginnie, hush,” she crooned as she searched her mind frantically for words that would still, the trembling of the slim body in her arms. “Everything will be well, you’ll see. Think ... think how proud your dear mother would be, to see her daughter looking so beautiful and about to be married to a fine lord.”
    For a moment Emma wondered if she had said the wrong thing, but then Ginevra pulled away from her and said stiltedly, “Of course, you’re quite right This is what she longed for.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with a defiant, almost regal air—an effect she promptly spoiled by sniffing inelegantly. Her eyes widened and she squealed in distress, “Oh, Emma, quickly, where is my handkerchief? My nose is ... is going to...” Clumsy seconds ensued while Emma tried to breach the barrier of the long veil to pass Ginevra a scrap of embroidered linen. By the time disaster was narrowly averted, both women were giggling mirthfully, and Emma offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Ginevra’s lachrymose mood had passed. With an encouraging smile she ushered the girl out of the room to meet her waiting father.
    The village church was small and undistinguished, but its squat exterior