April 1st, 1857. 3 months after the trial. Emma stood in front of the mirror in her wedding dress, hardly recognizing herself. The gown was ivory silk, simple but elegant, with long sleeves and a modest neckline trimmed in Brussels lace. Her blonde hair was arranged in soft curls woven through with white roses. No diamonds. No ostentation. Just quiet beauty.
Margaret stood behind her, fastening the final button. You look like a dream. I feel like I'm going to be sick. That's normal. Every bride feels that way. Even brides who are marrying dukes they've loved since they were seven. Especially them.
Margaret squeezed her shoulders gently. Emma, you're allowed to be nervous. This is the biggest day of your life. Emma stared at her reflection. In 6 hours, she'd be the Duchess of Winterborne. Would take vows in front of God and society. Would bind her life to Charles's forever. The thought should terrify her. Instead, she felt nothing but certainty.
I'm ready, she said quietly. Are you sure? Because we can still, no. Emma turned, taking her cousin's hands. No running. No doubts. I'm marrying him, Margaret. Today and every day after. Margaret's eyes filled with tears. You're remarkable. Do you know that?
I'm just a woman who got a second chance. I'm not wasting it. The ceremony was small, held at Winterborne Hall's private chapel instead of a London cathedral. After the trial, after the scandal, Charles had wanted something intimate. Something real. Emma was grateful.
The chapel was centuries old. Stone walls worn smooth by time. Spring sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, painting everything in colors of amber and rose. White roses covered every surface. Charles's doing, she'd learned. He'd remembered her love of them.
The guests were few. Thornhill, of course. Lady Winterborne. Margaret. A handful of friends who'd stood by them through the worst of it. Charlotte Pembridge sat near the front, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. No one from London society. No curiosity seekers. No scandal sheets. Just people who loved them.
Emma stood at the back of the chapel, her arm linked with Lord Thornhill's. He'd offered to give her away when he'd learned her father was long dead, her mother remarried and estranged. Nervous, he whispered. Terrified. Good. Means it matters. He smiled kindly. Ready?