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Under it, my hair, black as a raven’s wing, has been styled in a smooth, high Gibson. It suits, very well, I’m told, my face and features, to which I added—discreetly—a bit of rouge on my cheeks and lips.
Owen has my hand as we take our vows. He is the most handsome of men in his high, starched collar and formal morning coat.
His eyes, so deep and green, smile into mine as he slips the ringon my finger. The gold band with its five diamonds he had designed for me by Cartier.
The vow, the kiss—soft, sweet, though we have shared more passionate kisses in private—and we are wed.
I have become Agatha Winward Poole. Mrs. Owen Poole. We are the Pooles of Poole’s Bay.
And I know as we walk from the chapel, as people cheer and throw their rice, we make a fine match.
We hold the same rung on the social strata, and come to each other with respected family names and fortunes. Our looks complement each other’s, so I expect to give him handsome sons and lovely daughters.
We will travel. This I have insisted upon. While we will make our home in the manor above the sea, we will not be chained to it. A pied-à-terre in New York will be essential to taking and holding our place in that society.
We will, of course, make a crossing to Europe for our honeymoon, where we will spend three months at the best hotels in Paris and Rome and London.
I will be the wife he needs as he is the husband I deserve.
People of the village tip their hats, their caps, toss flowers as the carriage rides through.
Owen, a generous man, tosses coins to those who line the roads.
I will also be generous. I lift my hand to acknowledge those who toil on the sea, in the fields, in the shops and cafés. And of course those who work for my husband and his family.
We will make a generous donation to the school in Poole’s Bay to commemorate our wedding.
But today is a day of feasting and celebration. Though I could not include Jane, my husband’s twin, in my wedding party, as she is heavy with her fourth child (and I find her so very dull and ordinary), I embrace her when we arrive at the manor.
We are sisters now, after all.
Of course, the servants are well prepared and serve our guests champagne. Soon, there will be dancing in the ballroom.
We will have music and wine, food presented from the menu I prepared. The manor is filled with flowers I selected and approved.
I am filled with joy as I embrace my dear mother, kiss my dear father.
All is a glorious blur.
I sweep up the grand staircase on the arm of my husband.
There is food beautifully presented in the dining room for those who grow peckish from dancing. I have arranged for two small buffets near the ballroom as well.
And wine, champagne, music.
I dance with my husband, with my father, and with my father by marriage, my brothers. With cousins, with friends.
We are lively on this day, and I drink champagne.
Because my husband asks it of me, and I am dutiful, I sit awhile with dull Jane. She speaks of her children, of course, as if the world revolves around them on this, my day.
Someone brings me a plate—so considerate. I nibble a bit, and find the cook and kitchen staff have outdone themselves.
I know I am radiant as I watch couples waltz, and see Owen, a kind man, take his niece—barely seven—around the floor.
Something sticks in my throat, and I reach for my glass. I am suddenly short of breath, dizzy. Too much champagne, I think, but now my throat is closed. I can draw no air.
My heart, my heart is palpitating. I cannot breathe!
