Lily sat at her dressing table and watched her sister’s reflection in the mirror. Sophia wore pale blue. Her dark hair was pinned in a simple arrangement, and her expression held the concentration she brought to tasks she considered important, which included her younger sister’s wedding day.
“There.” Sophia secured the pin and stepped back. “Perfect.”
“I look like myself.”
“That is the point.” Sophia met her eyes in the mirror. “Hugo chose this gown, and he chose well. It is you, Lily. Not a costume. Not a performance. Just you, in silk.”
The gown was beautiful. Ivory, with a high waistline and delicate lace at the sleeves and hem, modest in its cut but luxurious in its fabric. It was closer to what Lily would have chosen for herself than anything Hugo had selected before, and the thoughtfulness of that choice tightened something in her chest.
“I know this was not the outcome you planned,” Sophia said. She sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “I know you imagined something different. Someone different.”
“Sophia.”
“Let me finish.” Her sister’s voice was gentle but firm. “Hugo is a good man. Edward believes it, and Edward does not give his trust lightly. I believe it, too.” A small smile. “But if you ever need anything, at any hour, for any reason, I will be there. You know that.”
Lily rose from the dressing table. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her sister. Sophia held her tight, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke because some things did not require words. They required holding onto one another.
A knock at the door broke the embrace. Lady Brimsey entered first, already crying, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth and her eyes red and luminous.
“Oh, Lily.” She clasped her daughter’s hands. “You are so beautiful. My baby. My beautiful girl.”
“Mama, please do not cry, or I will start, and I just fixed my rouge.”
“I cannot help it. I have been crying since breakfast. Your father ate three eggs and did not notice.”
Lord Brimsey appeared in the doorway behind his wife. He wore his best coat, and his cravat was tied with unusual precision. His eyes were suspiciously bright.
“You look wonderful, my dear,” he said. His voice caught on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Truly wonderful.”
Lily crossed the room and took her father’s hands. Lord Brimsey looked down at her, and the emotion he had been holding at bay broke through his composure. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it with the back of his hand and laughed at himself.
“Forgive me. I promised myself I would not do this.”
“Papa. You are allowed to cry.”
“I am an Earl. We do not cry. We perspire emotionally.”
Lady Brimsey laughed through her own tears. Sophia pressed her hand to her mouth. Lord Brimsey pulled Lily into anembrace that smelled of pipe tobacco, and he held her for a long time, his chin resting on the top of her head.
“Be happy,” he whispered. “That is all I ask.”
The church was small, tucked on a quiet street off Mayfair. Lily stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the stone facade and the arched doorway and the bell tower rising against the morning sky, and the reality of what she was about to do settled over her.
Inside, the pews held a modest gathering. Margaret sat in the front row in dove gray, her opera glasses folded in her lap, her expression carrying controlled emotion.
Hugo stood at the altar.
He wore dark blue. His coat was fitted across his shoulders, his cravat tied in a precise knot, and his fair hair was brushed back from his face.
Edward stood beside him with his hands clasped behind his back. Hugo’s posture was straight, his expression composed, and he looked exactly as he always did: handsome, confident, and in control.
Sophia squeezed Lily’s hand once and walked to the pew beside Margaret. Lady Brimsey followed, dabbing her eyes.
Lord Brimsey offered Lily his arm. She took it.
The organ began to play.
And they walked.
