If lace could outshine her, they had bigger issues to discuss, but Lottie held her tongue. Aunt Agatha was the arbiter of fashion, not her. If left to her own devices, Lottie would spend most of the day in breeches. Truth be told, while she loved the effect achieved by luxurious gowns, she missed the utilitarianism of her old dresses and work trousers. She’d never dream of sitting in the grass by a stream in the dress she wore now—or climbing a tree or chasing a lamb in a pen or any number of other activities that had once been her day-to-day life. She imagined how Ethan would respond to seeing her in breeches. Grass stains after that encounter would be a certainty, and they would both be happy afterward. She smiled into her teacup and sipped.
“The dress must show to advantage not only in the church but on canvas. Definitely pearls,” Aunt Agatha said.
“Canvas? What are you talking about?” Lottie nibbled a small cake, picking out the dried currants with her teeth to relish first.
“Your wedding portrait, of course. Had you forgotten? I’ve already sent a letter to the artist who painted your parents.”
The wedding portrait. Her mother’s family immortalized their brides and had for generations. It was sweet of Agatha to continue the tradition.
That painting of her mother hung in the library, where her father could see it all day. He conversed with that portrait as if her mother might step off the canvas at any moment and answer him. It was too good of a likeness for her tastes—it had hurt to look at the picture for a year after Mother’s death. The artist had captured her essence, right down to the bottomless love she’d held for the earl, shining from an eternally youthful face.
“Forgive me if I overstepped by commissioning the portrait. It’s what your mother would have done. She would be over the moon for you.” Agatha’s eyes shone until she blinked away the moisture with a sniff. “As her best friend, it is my duty and privilege to handle this affair as she would.”
The shards of grief surprised Lottie as they cut deep. Mother had condemned Ethan with the ferocity of a lioness after the Paper Doll debacle. Maybe she’d have come around these past few months and softened under Ethan’s apologetic charm. Maybe not. Now that she found herself planning a wedding to the man declared an enemy by her parents, her mother’s absence found new ways to hurt.
Silly, but she hadn’t thought of it before now. Lottie would walk down the aisle, and her mother wouldn’t be there. Emotions swelled until her chest felt ready to burst. The burning behind her eyes threatened tears that might never stop if the first one fell. The reality was that Mother would never have the opportunity to succumb to Ethan’s charm or hear his apology or appreciate what a decent man he’d grown to be. The burn of grief made it tempting to run away from the discomfort, run away from the nagging worry over her father’s reply, and definitely run away from the wedding planning. Everyone’s lives would settle back onto their previous courses.
Maybe then Ethan would focus on the brewery and never again fail to be present for the ones who depended on him. Shaking her head, Lottie shoved the thought aside.
Squeezing Agatha’s hand, Lottie grappled for composure. “Thank you for thinking of it. Pearls and chiffon it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dawn crept into her room in increments. First, the sound of birds through the small opening in her window. She’d lifted the sash to allow for fresh air sometime during the wee small hours, hoping the chill would clear her head. The yeasty scent of fresh bread from the kitchens followed the chirp of birdsong as a new day greeted the world. It would probably be a beautiful day. One of the last before winter took hold.
Lottie’s fingers clutched the edge of her blanket, as they had for the past countless hours. Sleep had been elusive. Grief was a funny thing. It lingered in places you didn’t expect, appeared in situations you hadn’t considered. She’d gone from the high of finally coming together with Ethan in bed, then kissing him goodbye when he raced home to fight a fire, to the reality of worrying over him and wondering if they’d be allowed to marry. Choosing a wedding gown while pretending all was well had been a challenge, but then grief ambushed her. Her mother should have been in that shop yesterday, deliberating between beads and pearls. It wasn’t fair.
The corners of her eyes were crusty from the dried tracks the tears had left on their way to her pillow. She’d cried as if feelings were liquid and if she could only pour them out, she’d once again be happy and clean. Instead, she was simply hollow.
How many times yesterday had she heard that her mother would be proud of her? Happy for her? Perhaps her mother would have eventually forgiven Ethan as she had, but when Mother died, she’d hated him. That knowledge settled in her belly like a bowl of cold porridge.
The soft click of the latch of her door signaled the entrance of someone into the bedchamber. A chambermaid squeaked in surprise when Lottie sat up. “Apologies, Betsy. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
Betsy bobbed a curtsy, then set about stoking and building the fire in the grate. “You’re up with the birds, milady. Breakfast hasn’t been laid out downstairs, but I can send Mrs. Darling up with a tray if you wish.”
“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry. Just some tea in the morning room, if you could. I’d appreciate it.” Lottie threw the covers off, then shivered when her toes hit the
