take it in. All the years of regret and guilt and grief—could they simply melt away? Leave her with a clear conscience at last?
“There’s no doubt,” Annis said, squeezing her hand between both of hers. “There is absolutely no doubt at all, Aunt Harriet.”
Harriet believed her. Not just because she wanted to, which she did, but because the magic was so strong in this girl, the Bishop magic.
She supposed it would take a long time for her to absorb this moment, but she would do it. She would come to understand, to accept, and ultimately to be free. Annis was leaving her, but she had given her a priceless gift.
She leaned forward and kissed Annis’s smooth, rosy cheek.
“I suppose now I have to address you as my lady,” Harriet said.
Annis wrinkled her nose at her and laughed. “If you do, I’ll never speak to you again!”
She looked achingly lovely in her wedding dress of cream brocade and ivory silk. Her pearls were around her neck, the moonstone gleaming in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks glowed above the swaths of creamy fabric. Her new lady’s maid had done something wonderful with her hair, pinning it up into a flattering, subtle shape. When Harriet complimented it, Annis had groaned. “It took an hour, Aunt Harriet! A whole hour! I could barely sit still. I won’t be doing that very often.”
Between them Myra and Mrs. King had created a wonderland out of the rarely used Allington House ballroom. It was just what Frances had dreamed of, banks of lilies and white hothouse roses, a long table set with china and silver and crystal for the wedding breakfast, chairs draped in snow-white linen, her stepdaughter acquiring a title. Frances, of course, was not here, nor had Harriet been able to persuade Velma to leave Frances’s side long enough to attend.
None of the Four Hundred were here, either. They had not been invited.
Several of Annis’s school friends had come with their parents. George, looking by turns proud and restless, had invited a few of his business associates, and they and their wives were clearly enjoying the luxury of an expensive wedding breakfast. Mrs. King, with Lady Eleanor interfering at every stage, had produced a magnificent cake, all in white, like Queen Victoria’s wedding cake. She brought Annis to see it and wept into her handkerchief while Annis praised the confection and assured her she would return to New York in just a few months.
The ceremony itself was modest and brief, but the festivities after were surprisingly enjoyable. Even the dowager marchioness unbent, accepting the less formal American customs.
And now it was done. James and Annis were the Marquess and Marchioness of Rosefield. The photographers from the Times and the Tribune had come and gone. Mrs. King’s lovely cake had been dismantled and devoured. The guests were gathering at one end of the ballroom in readiness to bid the newlyweds farewell as they started off on their wedding journey.
Annis went up to her bedroom, with Myra in tow, to change her dress. Harriet lingered near the arch of vines and flowers where the couple had spoken their vows, thinking she might steal one or two blossoms and press them to give to Annis as a memento. She was just reaching for a sprig of jasmine when she saw that the tiny pochette bag that had been part of Annis’s wedding ensemble had fallen behind the arch, its ribbons tangled in the vines.
Harriet crouched to untangle it and picked it up. It was made of creamy silk, with seed pearls sewn in a floral design on the outside. She smoothed it with her fingers, admiring the artistry of the needlework, then paused.
There was something in the little bag, something more than the obligatory handkerchief. It was hard, and round, and it felt familiar to her searching fingers.
She glanced around to be certain no one was paying attention before she slipped behind the arch. Half-hidden, she pulled the ribbons to open the pochette. She reached inside and pulled the thing out between two fingers.
It was the wooden bead that had formed the head of James’s manikin. The curl of fair hair was still glued to it, and the eyes and mouth, though the ink had faded, were just as Frances had made them. The magic still clung to this artifact, like moss clings to a stone.
Harriet gazed down at the bead in her palm. Why had Annis kept it? What should she