If we begin calling the banns this very Sunday, we should receive the certification in time to hold the wedding shortly after your arrival at Blackwell.
In the meantime, let us take advantage of the forced delay to do something with that dowdy young woman. I have taken the liberty of starting an account for her with a dress maker I favor, a Mme. Dupree. Madame has agreed to work around the clock to have ready a small wardrobe, including wedding clothes, before you and your clan depart for Blackwell next week.
Blackwell
Mira’s breath left her in a rush. The wedding. Until that moment, the engagement had seemed like an end unto itself, and the wedding it portended nothing more than a vague notion. She was so caught up in her infatuation with Nicholas, his sly wit and his obvious pain, she had not truly thought about pledging herself to him for life. Now, with sudden clarity, she envisioned herself standing at Nicholas’s side, repeating vows that would bind them together forever. She felt faint.
Could she truly marry him? Could she bear to live beneath the cloud of suspicion that hung over him? Bring children into such an uncertain life? And what if Nicholas truly was a murderer? Marrying him might be her doom.
Carefully, she refolded the missive and tucked it back in the pile of notes. Clutching the box, her gift from Nicholas, tightly in her hand, she made her way to the staircase and sank onto the third stair from the bottom. She raised the package to inspect it from every angle, committing the details of the wrapping to memory. Very gently, she slipped the white ribbon down one side of the package and eased it over a corner so that the whole length, still tied in a neat bow, fell away. She lifted the lid from the box, and found a small blue velvet bag inside. When she upended the bag, a blue lump fell into her hand followed by the slither of a gold chain.
She looked closely at the gift. Not a lump, but an enameled sphere. A pendant, about the size of a grape, yet perfectly round and dotted with tiny sapphires and diamonds. There was a tiny clasp on one side and a delicate hinge on the other. Carefully, she squeezed the clasp, and the pendant opened to reveal an ivory jonquil, limned in gold leaf.
A rush of warmth swept through her body. A smile bloomed on her face. “Magic,” she whispered.
She quickly slipped the chain over her head and tucked the pendant in the neck of her gown so the cool weight of it rested between her breasts.
Nicholas offered her magic, a counter to her own logical bent, and she felt its allure. Yet she was a rational creature at heart. She brushed aside her silly wager with Bella and made one with herself: she would uncover the true murderer or she would flee. Either way, the stakes were her life.
Chapter Five
Cornwall—June 18, 1809
As the miles wore on, Mira became more and more convinced they weren’t going to Upper Bidwell at all. They were descending into hell. Bella grew more and more sick from the motion of the carriage, Kitty grew more and more snappish about the length of the journey, and George grew more and more foxed as the miles past. The carriage had become a miasma of unpleasant smells and spite.
Mira reached up to twine a lock of her hair about one finger. In addition to revitalizing her sorry wardrobe, the dressmaker—Madame Dupree—had insisted on taking her scissors to Mira’s hair. Without the excess weight, the natural curl was released, and now her locks—though still the same shameless color—formed a cloud of loose curls about her head.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon as they drew closer to Upper Bidwell. The last traces of daylight limned the rosy clouds in the western sky with delicate ribbons of gold. With luck, the Fitzhenrys would descend upon Blackwell shortly after dark—only one miserable day late.
God help them all if the Ellerbys wished to entertain tonight. Mira longed for a bath and a bed so badly she thought she might cry. The family had spent the night before at an inn, but there had been no tub in which to bathe and the beds were so lumpy and bug-infested that Mira had settled for setting a ladder-back chair in the corner and sitting there, cheek pressed to the cool plaster wall. She had hardly slept at all, and she was giddy from fatigue.
At long last, the sleepy village of Upper Bidwell emerged from the gloom, an array of tiny cottages and brick shop fronts clustered about the roadway.