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“Glorious,” said her Great-Aunt Geraldine, who then promptly surprised them all by
reaching for a hankie to dab away tears. It was not odd that she would show emotion, for Geraldine
Bainbridge was a fiercely passionate woman - an enthusiastic patron of a variety of causes and given
to exaggeration, gossip, and verbosity by nature. But it was surprising beyond measure that she
would be moved to tears by the sight of a girl in a wedding gown. Geraldine had not only managed to
reach the age of sixty-seven without ever having been, in her words, “netted and mounted,” but had
been known to write vehemently feminist letters to the editor of the London Star, the most famous of
which had compared marriage to slavery.
“Darling Auntie,” said Leanna, dipping to give Geraldine a hug. “None of this would
even be happening if weren’t for you. If I’d never come to London, I never would have met John, and
who knows what would have become of me then?”
Seeing as how you are both wildly beautiful and wildly rich, Emma thought drily, what
most likely would have become of you is that you would have married someone else. Probably not
someone with the elevated social consciousness of Saint John Harrowman, but no doubt another
man who was equally handsome, charming, and aristocratic. For you are, without question, the
single luckiest human being I have ever known.
But of course she did not say these words out loud. Despite the oceanic gap between
their status in the world, Emma was genuinely fond of Leanna and supposed, against all odds, that
they might even be called each other’s best friend. Best female friend, at least. They were both
women who had found themselves surrounded by men – Leanna through the fluke of having been born
with three brothers and Emma through her unlikely position as the linguistics expert on the Scotland
Yard forensics team. Under the circumstances, they were gratified to have befriended each other at
all, and Leanna now turned towards Emma, her pale eyebrows lifted in question.
“You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen,” Emma promptly confirmed. “And
John will no doubt be the most handsome groom and the wedding tomorrow shall be so unrelentingly
perfect that we shall all be struck deaf, dumb, and blind simply by having witnessed the experience.”
“Good,” said Leanna decisively, turning to consider her reflection in the mirror. “For
that was precisely the effect I wished to achieve. In fact, if a single guest leaves the church tomorrow
in full possession of his senses, I shall count myself a failed bride.”
“Do you want to put on the veil?” Emma asked. “For it sets the gown off to perfection.”
Just then there was a rap at the door and one of the maids entered, bearing what
appeared to be a letter on a silver tray. The tray was large and obviously heavy and she advanced
toward them with a slow and measured step. Enough ceremony to still the chatter of the room. Emma
wondered if such rigmarole was typical at Rosemoral or if the staff was putting on special airs in
honor of the wedding.
“Just came for you, Miss,” said the girl.
“Thank you, Tillie,” Leanna said. She took the letter in both hands and considered it
with a quizzical frown. “To the Bride of Rosemoral,” she read. “Heavens, that’s rather prosaic, is it
not?”
“And look at that envelope,” Emma said, peering over her shoulder at the crinkled,
honey-colored paper and the explosion of different colored stamps haphazardly crammed into the
right hand corner. “It appears to have come through the wars.”
“Little wonder, it’s from India,” Leanna said slowly, squinting at the spidery handwriting
on the front of the envelope. “Mother, do we know anyone who is stationed in India?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Gwynette said. “Geraldine, are there any old family friends