The most important thing for any bride, even if she is gifted with all the loveliness that good family and impeccable upbringing guarantee, is rest. She must be always resting, or nerves will get the better of her, and then on her wedding day she will look like a girl who has already known too much of the world.
— L. A. M. BRECKINRIDGE, THE LAWS OF BEING IN WELL-MANNERED CIRCLES
THAT NIGHT ELIZABETH DREAMED SHE WAS IN a faraway part of the country with Will, where there were hills between houses and no one had a favorite Paris dressmaker. Then she dreamed that she was done up in white, with an elaborate and ridiculous point de gaze collar, and Penelope was laughing at her sadistically and throwing poisoned rice in her direction. But mostly she stared at the ceiling and wished that she were not so constantly awake. She had barely slept on Monday night, and now it looked like Tuesday night wasn’t going to give her any rest either.
There wasn’t even much to think about, because her options were so few and unattractive. She had been raised to please others please them with her looks, her comportment, and her deeds but now she could do nothing but be selfish. If she pleased her mother, she would be exposed as a wanton who had betrayed her class. And if she pleased Penelope who had revealed herself to be the most duplicitous sort of friend, anyway then she would be cast out from the only home and way of life she had ever known. And if she pleased herself…well, it was too late for that.
When she had finally had enough of staring at the ceiling, she pushed herself up and went to her closet. She took out her white kimono and tied it around her small body. The whole day had been spent at the dressmaker’s. There was the wedding gown to be made, and the dress for the reception afterward, and so many little things for her trousseau. She had stood up straight and erect all day and listened to herself talked about as though she wasn’t in the room.
The worst of it was, she had been alone. She had often imagined herself as a bride when she was young, and in all kinds of settings. As a bride in a simple wedding, with gerbera daisies in her hands; as a bride in a lavish event that got written up in the papers, where she would wear a long train decorated with tiny silk roses that flowed behind her all down the church steps. But she had always imagined that the part about the dress would be fun. In reality, she had spent the whole day playing mannequin for a small fleet of seamstresses petrified of her disapproval. She was left feeling nothing but sore and isolated, and was driven home by Mr. Faber instead of Will, who once upon a time would have been waiting for her with the carriage when she finished such an errand. Of course Penelope hadn’t been there. But Diana there was no reason for Diana not to have come and help her determine whether she looked beautiful or ridiculous but she had shrugged off the task as well, preferring instead to remain in her room, reading and moping about who knew what.
Elizabeth walked across her bedroom, growing almost angry as she thought about Diana’s absence. After all, Elizabeth was sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of her family. She was renouncing her own wishes, so that the Holland women would not fall. And Diana could not even be bothered to take her nose out of her book for one day.
Elizabeth threw open her door and marched down the hall. She raised her fist to knock on Diana’s door, but then admonished herself. It wasn’t Diana’s fault that her older sister had fallen in love with the wrong person, and continued to love him even when she knew it would only lead to trouble. It wasn’t her fault that their family was so badly off financially. Elizabeth rested her hand against the door and took a breath. Then she knocked in a gentle, sisterly way.
“Di?” she called. She looked down the hall to where their mother slept, and hoped that she wouldn’t come to see what the matter was. Since yesterday morning, Elizabeth had felt a great distance open up between her mother and herself. She had nothing left to say to the old woman. “Di?” Elizabeth called again. When she didn’t answer a second time, Elizabeth pushed into the room.
It took her a few moments to realize that the room was empty. Of Diana, anyway. There were dresses thrown across the bed and floor, and shoes turned at all varieties of angles. Lillie Langtry gave her a hazy look and crossed her paws.
Elizabeth began distractedly looking through the closet and behind the chairs. She checked the high windows onto the balcony they were jammed closed but unlocked. She was about to go downstairs to see if Diana had gone there to search for a book or a glass of milk, when she noticed a hatbox protruding from under the bed. The gold lid was askew, and Elizabeth saw from across the room a dark brown bowler. It was just like any bowler, but it brought her back instantly to a day two weeks ago when her world began to disintegrate.
She remained transfixed by the hat as she walked across the room. Lillie Langtry gave a little meow, and trotted along beside Elizabeth before walking in a quick circle around the box and flopping down next to it. When Elizabeth picked up the hat the first thing she noticed was the gold embroidery on the pale blue ribbon that ran around the inside of the brim: HWS.
She sat down heavily on the chenille bedspread, looking into the hatbox as she did. There were two scraps of paper lying there, against the charcoal velvet. She had to force herself to pick them up and read each of the notes that Henry had written to her sister. They were signed simply HS, but she had no doubt to whom the initials referred. She couldn’t be sure when he had sent Diana the missive telling her to keep his hat, or the one that indicated he couldn’t stop thinking about her. But his intentions were clear, and Diana’s absence from her room at that hour spoke well enough for hers.
A cold shock was settling into the muscles of Elizabeth’s face. She lay back and brought her knees to her chest, and twirled the bowler on her finger distractedly. Lillie Langtry stood, stretched, walked around Elizabeth, and then settled on the pillow beside her head. Elizabeth put down the hat and sighed. She might have laughed if she had been the kind of girl to find humor in perversity, but this horrible evidence of her sister’s corruption was not in the least funny to her.
Elizabeth’s mind was seized by a cool fury, as she realized something else: that her predicament with Penelope was at least half Henry’s fault. Whatever his involvement with Penelope, it had surely inspired some of her vengeful actions. Now he was no doubt out somewhere in the city seducing naïve little Diana. And after all of that, on a day not so far in the future, he still expected Elizabeth to be his wife.
She got up from the bed as though she had some purpose, but there was nothing to do but gather the clothes strewn about Diana’s room. The angry, desperate feeling grew inside her with every passing moment as she put away all the many dresses that her younger sister had considered wearing to her misbegotten tryst.