“Thank you.” Calmly, Lucy unpinned the veil that sat so smoothly over her dark hair. Valenciennes lace, masses of it. With only one day left before the wedding, it seemed sensible to practice pinning the veil, the mirror in the washroom much larger than the sliver of mirror in Lucy’s attic room. “It belonged to my fiancé’s stepmother.”
Prunella Pratt Schuyler, with much sniffing and disapproval, had eventually lent her countenance—and veil—to the mésalliance between her stepson and his secretary. Not, Lucy was sure, out of any goodness of her heart, but because she had several large bills that needed settling. After a moment of hesitation, Philip had admitted that Prunella’s goodwill had been bought with a large check.
“You don’t mind wearing her veil, do you?” he’d asked. “She’s a viper, but it’s good lace.”
That, Lucy reminded herself firmly, was part of what she respected about Philip. For all his veneer of flippant charm, when it came down to it, he was as honest as they came. He didn’t lie to her.
“I s’pose I’ll read about the wedding in the society pages, then?” said Dottie stridently.
Lucy folded the yards of lace neatly over her arm. “I suppose you will,” she said equably, and stood, politely expectant, until the other woman reluctantly moved out of her way.
There were, Lucy thought wryly, benefits to being a Schuyler, or almost a Schuyler. Dottie might sneer, but she already treated Lucy differently; they all did.
Lucy’s attic room felt empty, her belongings already in boxes, only her wedding dress left to hang in state behind the curtain on the wall, her nightdress lying across the foot of the bed. One more night in Stornaway House, and then she would be gone forever. There would be no more Lucy Young, only Mrs. Philip Schuyler.
Lucy shut the door of her room firmly behind her, shutting out the inquisitive stares of the other residents. She was their Cinderella story, and they were half-envious, half-excited. If Lucy could catch a Schuyler, then surely there was hope for them?
Lucy’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. Did Cinderella wake up the next morning to find that the slipper pinched? She was trying hard to fit into Philip’s world, to be a credit to him, but it wasn’t always easy. She knew people talked and whispered, that everyone knew that she had been his secretary, that she had stolen him away from Didi, my dear, yes, right under her nose, just like that! They spied and whispered, and Lucy had to work twice as hard to maintain her serene smile, to pretend that she didn’t care.
Panic gripped her. Could she really go through with this? If she loved Philip—
That was the rub, wasn’t it? She did love him, just not in the right way. She loved Philip enough to know she didn’t love him enough.
But she was too selfish and cowardly to let him go. Without him—
There was a knock on the door. Dottie again, her small eyes avidly scanning the room, feasting on the pile of boxes, hatboxes, dress boxes, the rich tissue paper and glossy boxes so incongruous in the attic room with its peeling paint and grimy windows. Lucy’s new wardrobe, for her new life as Mrs. Philip Schuyler.
“This came for you.” Dottie thrust the envelope into Lucy’s hands. Her eyes rested on a pile of boxes. “Are those from—”
“Thank you.” Lucy shut the door in her face, not caring how rude it must seem.
Lucy bolted the door behind her, the paper burning like a brand in her hands. The blurred postmark read CHARLESTON, S.C. The envelope tore as she opened it, her hands too quick, too eager. The letter was thick, pages of it, written in a large, loose hand. A sprawling, easygoing writing, just like his walk, his voice, his movements.
Dearest Lucy, the letter began. Lucy could practically feel John there, in the room with her, standing behind her, his voice warm in her ear.
I know I have no right to write you, but when I saw the announcement of your engagement I knew that I couldn’t remain silent any longer . . .
She ought to tear it up, but she hadn’t the strength for it; she gulped down the words, greedy for them, dizzy with them.
. . . not too late. We can still be together. . . . Love like this doesn’t come along more than once in a lifetime.
I love you, Lucy. Always.
Do you want to make the same mistake our parents made and live the rest of your life living a lie, knowing that love was there, in our grasp, and we threw it away?
Nights at the opera with Philip, smiling, pretending. Endless dinner parties. Always a little on her guard, even with her own fiancé. Trying, so hard, to pretend to be in love.
Nights with John, curled up together, easy together, never having to try, speaking with touch as well as words, that effortless sense of homecoming, of never having to pretend, of being just what she was, because what she was would always be enough for him.