The dummy twisted on the noose in the sunshine and turned toward Chloe, who cringed. “Ugh. That’s horrifying. Why?”
“She stole a loaf of bread.”
Chloe didn’t mean why did they hang her, but why stage a mock hanging at al . “But—wait. That little girl was hanged for stealing bread?”
Mrs. Crescent nodded.
“That seems a little medieval to me.”
“It’s very Regency. Typical Regency.”
“She’s just a schoolgirl.”
“Girls don’t go to school, you know that.”
Chloe did know. Girls weren’t educated. They couldn’t go to Oxford or Cambridge. And ladies couldn’t choose to work. They had to marry. Chloe looked down at her white reticule. A mock hanging on her mock wedding day. How appropriate. The shadow of the girl as she twisted toward Chloe stayed with her long after they’d passed it. And even though the execution wasn’t real, it rattled Chloe to the core.
Regency life was grim for women, very grim, and this, too, had been one of Austen’s messages, just not the one Chloe had wanted to acknowledge.
The carriage came to a jarring halt in front of an old limestone church that looked to have come straight out of a fairy tale. Bay-leaf garlands draped the stone gateway to the churchyard. A round rose window adorned the front of the church. A fuzzy figure stood in the doorway, holding open the door for guests. If she would’ve just worn the glasses Henry made for her, she could’ve seen it al clearly.
“Anyhoo, it’s a beautiful morning for a wedding,” Mrs. Crescent said for the video cam as she looked out of the carriage window at the blue sky frosted with white clouds.
Chloe slumped back in her seat. “Morning. Who gets married in the morning, anyway?”
Mrs. Crescent frowned. “We do, dear, here in the Regent’s England. Have I taught you nothing?”
A footman opened the carriage door to hand her out.
“I won’t marry him.” She turned to Mrs. Crescent, who, short of breath, stepped out of the carriage with the footman’s help. She had left the baby with the nursemaid and her husband and children, al at Bridesbridge Place, so she could be Chloe’s matron of honor. Chloe had one and only one bridesmaid: the breast-feeding Mrs. Crescent. The bride herself? A divorced single mom with a child nobody knew about and a tryst everybody knew al about. It was warped.
Together, bride and matron of honor walked under the bay-leaf garland and into the churchyard. Tombstones, old crumbling tombstones, littered the green grass around the little church. Chloe couldn’t do this, no matter how fake the ceremony.
“Who dreams of getting married in a white bonnet trimmed with white lace, anyway? I want a tiara, a veil—an engagement ring, for God’s sake.”
She stuck out her left hand. No ring. Regency couples rarely marked their engagement with a ring, and certainly, this debacle al owed no time for a ring.
A camera swung toward her as her white shoes navigated the cobblestone path to the church door. An older man in knee breeches and a black coat with tails cut a familiar figure at the door. He took off his black top hat, bowed to Chloe, and opened the church door.
Chloe practical y tripped over a loose cobblestone. She gripped her nosegay of pink rosebuds tightly. It was her dad.
She stopped. “Dad?!”
“I believe that would be ‘Father,’” he corrected with a smile. “You look beautiful, Princess.” He held out his arms. He came forward, the church door closed behind him, and they hugged as if she were five years old al over again.
“Oh my gosh! How’s Abigail? Does she miss me? Is she here?!”
Chloe pul ed away. He smel ed of too much Ralph Lauren aftershave.
“Of course she misses you. But no, she’s not here. She’s at Ned’s. She’s happy to be with her cousins. She’s fine. We came for you. Our little princess.”
Chloe sighed. Happy as she was to see him, she wanted to see Abigail more than anyone back home.
He held her hands. “Someone has to give you away. Right?”
Her mother appeared at the door in an appropriate mother-of-the-bride beige silk gown, a color Chloe knew her mom would never wil ingly wear, topped off with a poke bonnet. The churchyard, tombstones and al , spun around her. She was getting married. Al over again. Her parents were mother and father of the bride. Al over again. A dummy girl was swinging from a noose. She shuddered.
Her mother gave her a Chanel-lipstick kiss. How they stil managed to afford their little luxuries on their reduced income was beyond Chloe. How did they afford to fly over here? “Darling. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. And wow. You’ve lost weight! But real y, we’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”
“You are?” Chloe linked arms with her dad for support. Did they realize why she was getting married?
Her mother crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid you do need a shower.”
Funny, but Henry had instal ed a primitive shower at Bridesbridge just yesterday and she’d used it today. But it was hardly a shower, more like a cold sprinkle of water from a bucket for a total of one minute.
Chloe’s mom waved her hand in front of her face. “Have you been drinking, Chloe?”
