The Duchess of Winshire brought the bride a cup of tea. The various ladies of the family, the dresser who attended Sophia, her daughter-in-law, and her own dresser, had been hovering over the poor dear for hours, and she must be parched.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Zahrah said, gratefully.
“Aunt Eleanor to you, my dear,” the duchess insisted. Zahrah was the daughter of James’s personal steward and best friend, Yousef ibn Achmed, who was like a brother to him. Yousef’s wife, Patience, had raised the duke’s younger children after the death of his wife, and was like a sister to him. It seemed to Eleanor that Zahrah was a niece, or as good as.
Ruth, James’s third daughter and the eldest of the two who had accompanied him to England, hurried over with a towel and placed it over Zahrah’s elegant silk undergarments, tucking it into the top of the corset. “In case you drip,” she said.
Eleanor’s dear girls, Matilda, Jessica, and Frances, chorused, “Ladies do not drip.”
Sophia sent Eleanor a twinkling smile, recognising the phrase as one Eleanor had often used when her little charges had come to take teas with her. Sophia had been part of some of those lessons. She had been Eleanor’s goddaughter long before she married James’s eldest son, also called James.
Rosemary, James’s fourth daughter, carried over a plate with a couple of biscuits. “We cannot have you fainting at the church,” she said.
With the bride temporarily disengaged from preparations, everyone took the opportunity to pause for refreshments. The next step was the gown, which was hanging on the dressing screen, ready to go over the bride’s head and be fastened in place.
“The gown is beautiful, and you shall look lovely in it, Zahrah,” Eleanor told the bride, and the bride’s mother beamed, as if the complement was addressed to her.
“Even better,” Patience said, ever the governess, “she is marrying a good man.” Everyone in the room nodded. Simon Marshall was a fine jeweller, a successful businessman, and a gentleman in his demeanour and behaviour. But most of all, he was a good man.
Eleanor clasped her hands together and beamed around the room. The marriage had all the signs of being an excellent one. Eleanor did love a happy ending.
***
This is a short scene that belongs with Zara’s Locket, my contribution to Belles & Beaux, the new Bluestocking Belles collection that is out next month. I say with, not in. It would be a step out of the story if it had been included there. Besides, I only wrote it a minute ago. But such is the way the imagination works. My characters have lives outside of the words that actually reach the page. If you’d like to know more about this story and the other seven delightful tales that make up the new collection, take a look at: https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/belles-beaux/
“When I viewed Turner’s work in London, I didn’t…well, I’m a literalist, I suppose. When one is outlining a plan of assault, precision is helpful. I’ve always been drawn to portraits, or paintings of horses.” He laughed. “Or dogs. Yes, forgive me. I enjoy George Stubbs’s work. And I like restful landscapes.”
About Desperate Daughters: Love against the Odds
I knew, of course, that a Venetian Breakfast was an afternoon entertainment at which food was served. The ladies, in morning dress (anything worn before the change into dinner gowns in the early evening), and gentlemen of Society would have been familiar with the term ‘picnic’.