That kind of social blending was still rare, but it would have been utterly unheard of just six years ago, before St. Jannoula’s War. A lot had changed since then.
A trumpeter rushed in from outdoors and blared a lively fanfare, the new one, composed by Seraphina in honor of the Queen. The mob of wedding guests parted seamlessly down the middle and oriented themselves to face the door. Queen Glisselda, in a farthingale gown of evening-blue silk sprinkled with constellations of pearls, entered upon the arm of Prince Consort Lucian Kiggs. Tess’s half sister, Seraphina, in an outdated maroon houppelande, walked several paces behind them, trying to be unobtrusive.
One good thing about Seraphina’s houppelande was that it made her belly ambiguous. Was she or wasn’t she? It might just be the hang of the robe.
Tess longed to tell someone, anyone, that Seraphina, so-called Saint, was no better than she should be. Would it have been a treasonous embarrassment of the Queen, though, to imply that her husband was unfaithful? For the baby must surely be Prince Lucian’s. Of course, for all Tess knew, he’d had Queen Glisselda’s blessing. Seraphina was so tight-lipped about the royal cousins that Tess could only speculate.
But then, they could do whatever they wanted. People might mutter, but no one would try to stop them. It must be nice.
Beside Seraphina walked a plump woman wearing a fabulously plumed hat and a red-and-green gown, its skirt cut so daringly short that her boots showed. This was Countess Margarethe of Mardou, the famous explorer; Tess had heard her speak once at St. Bert’s. The countess had her Porphyrian mother’s dark complexion but was clearly Ninysh in her flamboyant dress and carriage. Goreddis, down to the Queen herself, were finally adopting the farthingale, and here the Ninysh had already moved on to calf-length skirts, raised square collars, and shiny, authoritative boots. There was no keeping up with them.
Seraphina’s ploy to remain unobtrusive by entering behind the Queen and beside the most fashionable woman in the room wasn’t working out for her. She was mobbed by wedding guests, ostensibly wanting to say hello but really wanting to shake her hand so they could later tell their friends and relations, “I know she claims not to be a Saint, but I swear I felt the grace of Heaven in her palm.”
Seraphina, reserved by nature, tolerated it as best she could, but Prince Lucian was, even now, working his way back through the crowd to extricate her.
Tess clucked her tongue, refusing to feel sorry for Seraphina. She didn’t have it so tough; she’d always been the special one. The smart one. Jeanne was prettiest and sweetest. That hadn’t left much scope for Tess beyond “the one most likely to get spanked.”
A momentary glimpse of a face in the crowd—blue eyes, cocky grin—caught Tess’s attention, and her heart nearly stopped. Had William of Affle been invited to this wedding?
The face was gone. She forced herself to resume breathing, and with breath came reason. It was impossible; the Duke and Duchess of Ducana wouldn’t associate with a poor student like him. Where would they have run into each other? And Will was surely off on some expedition or other, anyway. The opportunity of a lifetime must have come up—that’s what she’d told herself for the last two years. It was the only excuse she could almost accept.
Will had left her, for who knew where or what, and she’d banished him from her heart and mind. He was not welcome back. If he were to show up out of the blue, Tess wasn’t sure how she’d react. It would be like seeing a ghost.
She suspected she’d cry, actually. That only made her angry.
A light touch on her shoulder made her jump. It was merely Mama, who had a talent for sneaking up on people. “I was up at your room,” she said, her ice-blue eyes accusatory, as if Tess had put her to a lot of trouble.
“I don’t see why,” said Tess, turning back toward the sea of guests. “I brought Ned and Paul down, like you asked me to. If you’d been here, you would have seen—”
“I found something very concerning behind your window curtain,” said her mother.
“Ah,” said Tess dully. Jeanne must have reported on Tess’s breath from last night. Us against the world, my fat behind. “Again, why did you bother? You might have asked me.”
“And gotten a lie in return?”
Tess shrugged. “I guess you’ll never know.”
Her mother took her arm, which Tess’s farthingale made awkward. Indeed, as soon as her mother bumped her perimeter, Tess felt a great pinch at her waist. She wondered whether she’d put the thing on properly. Her mother wore a more sensible unhooped gown of blue velvet. Papa had pawned the last of his library to buy it, assuring them that it was a worthy investment. Jeanne was nearly married; this dip in the family fortunes would soon be over.
Tess accompanied her mother down the stairs, taking scrupulous care not to wobble; her hawk-eyed mother would be scrutinizing her for unsteadiness, trying to gauge the degree to which Tess was drunk, making contingency plans, no doubt. Tess carried herself steadily, refusing to give the old woman any satisfaction.
Old. Feh. Mama was thirty-five. She’d been seventeen—same as Jeanne—when she’d married Papa. Years of disappointment, however, had put fine lines around her mouth and a dark sorrow in her gaze. Her hair was not yet gray, but you’d never have guessed. She kept it under a wimple like a widow or penitent.
Tess refused to pity her mother, either. This made her a hard-hearted, ungrateful daughter, she knew. She’d been told often enough.
A five-note trumpet flare gave everyone to know that it was time to come to chapel. Tess and her mother lingered behind the crowd; the families of the betrothed were to enter last. Tess gazed dully at her counterparts-in-law, Lord Heinrigh and Lord Jacomo, the mild-mannered, ginger-haired middle brother and the tall, fat, storm-cloud youngest.
At least Lord Jacomo had stopped glaring at her; he was pacing and reciting under his breath, practicing for the service.
The thinning crowd revealed a smiling Seraphina, who approached Papa and took his arm. “How are you feeling these days?” Papa asked his eldest.
“Like a pile of bricks,” she said in the low, quiet voice that always sounded like she was concealing a laugh somewhere. “You should see my feet. They’re puffed up like morning rolls.”
Papa chuckled, and Tess’s stomach twisted sourly. Nobody had considerately asked after her health when she’d been pregnant. Nobody would have been charmed if she’d complained of puffy feet. Seraphina was every bit as unmarried, but nobody seemed to mind. She was the exception to everything; rules bent deferentially to make room for her.
Mama, full of her own kind of envy, tightened her grip on Tess’s arm.
The families entered at last, walking in procession toward the gilt boxes at the front of the chapel. Lord Richard, decked out handsomely in a wine-colored doublet and slashed trunk hose, waited under the rotunda with Father Michael, the abbot of nearby St. Munn’s. While the families took their seats, Lord Jacomo stepped up beside the abbot and led the opening prayer. At last Jeanne came in, resplendent in gold and green. Mama, Papa, and Seraphina stood up to be her witnesses, though only Papa was to speak: Yes, this maiden has come to be married of her own free will, and not because we dragged her kicking and screaming.
Those weren’t the exact words, but Tess felt the sentiment behind them. Jeanne was a lamb brought to the knife, a bird to the cage. By her sacrifice would her family be redeemed.