She FaceTimed her mother, then Cleo. She watched the dog romp through the fresh snow.
As normal a weekend, she supposed, as she could ask for. To cap it off, she and Yoda settled down by the library fire, he with a chew bone and Sonya with the book Trey had recommended.
He wasn’t wrong in that plug, as she gobbled half of it down in one sitting.
She walked the dog under a pure white globe of moon that shed pale blue light on the new snow. And felt perfectly content, and absolutely home.
1892
I look like a queen. No princess am I, as I am a woman grown. My lover, my groom, my husband is a man of stature. As I stand in the chapel for all to witness our union, I stand proud, I stand regal in a gown by Worth.
I would accept no less than the best on this day.
I am blessed with an hourglass figure, and it is displayed to perfection in the heavy white satin with its long, lovely train. Its fluidity enhances my waist—a waist so small Owen can span it with his hands.
And he has.
The bodice of lace clings to my breasts and is layered with sheer gossamer to a deceptively modest high neck. I have eschewed the popular leg-o’-mutton sleeves—far from flattering on me—for slimmer and ruched.
My veil—precisely the length of my train—is topped with a diamond tiara I know sparkles in the light streaming through the windows of the chapel.
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 ring on 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.