Page 20 of More than Words Can Say

She and Rosie had shared a room until their father died three months ago. It would be a simple matter to resume that prior arrangement. Yet when Abigail looked to her sister for confirmation, she found reluctance instead of the automatic agreement she’d been expecting.

“If you don’t want to give up your privacy,” Abigail said, “I’m sure I could figure out something else.”

“Of course you’re welcome to bunk with me again,” Rosie assured her with a bright smile.

Abigail’s big sister instincts flared. That smile had been a tad too bright. “Are you sure? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” She clasped her sister’s hand. “I’ve been so preoccupied lately—first with the city council, then with this crazy wedding—but I’m still your sister. Still here if you need me.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Rosalind said with a wave of her hand. “I haven’t been sleeping particularly well, is all. I know how important it is for you to get a good night’s rest, getting up before dawn like you do. I don’t want to disturb you.”

Abigail probed Rosie’s gaze. There was something more lingering beneath the surface, something her sister didn’t feel comfortable sharing. Because she didn’t want to add to Abigail’s current load? Or did her desire for secrecy stem from deeper motives?

As much as Abigail wanted to press for answers, two hours before her wedding wasn’t the time. She’d have to revisit this later, after things had settled a bit. And in order for things to settle in a timely fashion, she really needed to ensure her new husband had his own quarters.

“You won’t disturb me,” Abigail said, the tightness in her chest finally starting to loosen with the conception of a new plan. “I’ll be asleep before you come to bed. You could toss and turn, and I probably wouldn’t even notice.” She’d been sharing a bed with Rosalind nearly her entire life, after all. Knew the sound of her breathing, the way she tended to pull the covers when she rolled, even the little rocking motions she made when she had trouble falling asleep. None of that had the power to disturb her while she slept.

But Zach? Everything about him had the power to disturb her.

“I have a bath drawn for you in the washroom,” Rosalind said, gently changing the subject. “Go freshen up, and I’ll get your dress laid out for you.”

Abigail complied, grateful to leave the room—and the bed—behind. Whether she was ready or not didn’t really matter at this point. She had an appointment with a preacher in less than two hours, and she wouldn’t allow a few qualms about sleeping arrangements to throw off her schedule. Two hours left barely enough time to bathe, dress, fashion her hair, and walk to the Sinclair home with the cake she’d made this morning. She might not be marrying for love, but no daughter of Edward Kemp could wed without a cake.

Quit thinking and get moving, Abby.

Preparation plus performance equaled prosperity. Her father had drilled that sentiment into her head since the first day he allowed her into his kitchen, and she’d taken it to heart. Staying busy kept her focused, kept her on track in accomplishing her goals. It was during the quiet moments when doubts and insecurities crept in to poison her thoughts. Productivity provided an antidote, so she dosed herself heavily, attacking her bath with a vigor that ensured no hint of uncleanliness lingered anywhere on her person. She brushed her still-dry hair with relentless precision, counting out one hundred strokes both to occupy her mind and add shine to her tresses. Then she marched back into her room, purposely stared down her enemy clothed in a quilted counterpane, and headed for the wardrobe to retrieve her best Sunday dress.

Only her pale green walking costume with the puffed sleeves and ribbons at the hem was not hanging on the hook of the wardrobe door where she’d left it that morning to air. In its place was a confection of silk and satin in the palest pink. Silver embroidery decorated the skirt in a pattern Abigail instantly recognized.

“Do you like it?” Rosalind asked from the doorway.

Her eyes misting faster than she could blink the moisture away, Abigail turned to face her sister. “You remade Mama’s wedding gown? When?”

“In the evenings after you went to bed. I’ve been working on it every night since you came up with this crazy scheme.” Rosalind winked and strolled into the room. “It’s a good thing you go to bed so early. I never would have finished otherwise.”

“It’s beautiful!” Abigail exclaimed as she turned back to the dress and stroked the soft fabric. “But you shouldn’t have. Mama’s dress was to be yours.”

For a bride who was marrying for love. She didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air between the sisters. Their mother might have been weak-spirited, but not even Abigail could deny that she’d loved her husband. She had literally sacrificed her life for him, and amid all the grief of dead babies and physical exhaustion, she never said an unkind word about the man she married. She was true to him to the end.

It wasn’t right for Abigail to wear Mama’s dress. Not when her own marriage was based on business. Besides, her mother had been slender like Rosalind. There was no way her big-boned plumpness would ever fit into it. Unless it had been drastically altered.

“Don’t be silly,” Rosalind said as she swept past Abigail and gently took the dress down from where it hung on the open wardrobe door. “Every bride deserves a beautiful dress.” Her sister’s gaze bored into Abigail’s. “You only marry once, Abby, and there should be no regrets. You might be getting married in a parlor instead of a church and with a handful of witnesses instead of the packed pews you deserve, but you will have flowers and a dress and a handsome groom. Everything you need to create memories that will warm your heart twenty years from now when you look back on this day.”

The sweetness of the picture Rosalind painted so overwhelmed Abigail that she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine her wedding as anything other than a practical arrangement. But now—she sniffed and rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand—now she just might have a new picture to paint.

“Let’s try it on,” Rosalind said, undoing the closures at the back and bunching up the skirt to fit over Abigail’s head. “I made it to your measurements, but since I didn’t fit it to you, there might be a few places to adjust.”

The gown, of course, was perfect. No one turned a needle like Rosalind. Abigail backed up to see more of herself in the mirror above the bureau. Her sister had cleverly opened up the bodice, removing all of the material through the chest and arms that never would have contained Abigail’s bounty. She’d replaced it with soft ruched silk that looked like a cloud at sunrise. Short, puffed sleeves. A scooped neckline. Plenty of gathers to cover her bosom in a way that flattered instead of making her look like a cow in need of milking.

Since their mother had been a few inches taller than her oldest daughter, Rosalind had managed to let out the waist and lift it to fit just beneath Abigail’s breasts, allowing the skirt to fall in graceful lines and hide the roundness of her belly and hips. The hem didn’t quite reach the floor, but that would actually be a blessing, since she’d be walking to the Sinclairs’.

Rosalind stepped back and examined the dress from top to bottom with a critical eye. “It’s a little short and could use a tuck beneath the arms. Maybe a—”

“Stop.” Abigail laughed in delight. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never worn a dress so fine.”

Rosalind grinned. “You do look beautiful, sis.”

“Thanks to your genius with a needle.”

“No,” Rosalind argued, “it’s all you. I just provided the frame.”