Secrets At Fitzgerald Mansion

Beatrice

"Smile. Is this not what you always wanted?"

Mother's fingers brushed my chin before I could turn away. A light touch, but firm enough to remind me who was speaking and what was expected of me.

I smiled. It hurt my face.

The hall smelled of flowers and candle wax and too many people pretending nothing had gone wrong. White ribbons hung from the pillars. Half empty glasses stood abandoned on silver trays. Somewhere beyond the doors, guests were laughing too loudly, as if noise alone could cover the scandal.

It should have been a perfect day. If Daphne had been the bride, it might have been.

Mother's hands were tight at her waist, though her face remained calm. She had always been good at that, looking composed when everything beneath the surface was falling apart. Anyone watching her now might have thought she was only emotional at the sight of one daughter married. Only I could tell the difference between sorrow and disappointment.

I lowered my eyes before she could see too much in mine.

Abel Fitzgerald had been meant for Daphne.

Everyone knew it. The Fitzgeralds and the Carmichaels had been close for years, and when talk of marriage first began between the two families, no one had looked in my direction.

Why would they have? Daphne was the lovely one, the gentle one, the daughter people were proud to show the world. Of course it was Daphne they chose.

Beautiful Daphne. Sweet Daphne. Gentle Daphne, with her lowered lashes and careful smile. Daphne, who knew how to look innocent even when she was not.

A sharp thought, that one. It pleased me to think it, which was likely a sin.

I was only the difficult sister with a sharp tongue, a stubborn will, and too little interest in behaving as a lady ought. And yet, long before anyone spoke of an engagement, I had wanted Abel.

Who would not? He was handsome, clever, and kind in that quiet way that makes a girl believe she has discovered goodness where others have only seen charm. When we were younger, he was one of the few men who spoke to me as if my thoughts were worth hearing. I had held on to that for far longer than I should have.

So yes, mother was right. This was what I had always wanted. Or at least, it had been once.

Across the room, Abel stood beside his brother, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, calm as ever. Anyone looking at him would have seen only a handsome bridegroom waiting for his wife. They would not have seen the truth of it.

That he was never meant to be mine.

Now I stood in white silk with my heart beating too hard beneath my ribs, and I no longer knew what to call this feeling. It was not joy. Not quite. Triumph had no place in it either. If anything, it felt too thin and too sharp to be happiness.

Mother began straightening the lace at my sleeve, though it did not need straightening.

"Do try not to look so severe."

"Perhaps if this were my wedding, I should find it easier."

Her hands stilled. For one breath, I thought she might slap me. Instead, she drew herself upright and glanced around to see whether anyone had heard.

"It is your wedding now."

Now.

Yes. Now that Daphne had run two days before the ceremony and left the rest of us to choke on the shame of it. Now that she had vanished with the man she truly wanted and left her white dress, her promises, and her place beside Abel for someone else to pick up. Now that I stood where she should have stood, wearing the same silk, hearing the same music, watched by the same hungry eyes.

I should have hated her. Maybe some part of me did.

Not because she ran. Daphne had always done as she pleased when no one was looking. No, I hated that even in absence she still ruled the room. Every whisper was about her. Every look that fell on me measured what I was against what she should have been.

Still, I stepped into her place easily enough, too easily. That was what they must have seen when they looked at me, not shock, not sacrifice. Opportunity.

Did they wonder if I had prayed for this? If, somewhere in the privacy of my own heart, I had wanted her gone? Let them wonder.

I lifted my head and looked straight at Abel.

He did not smile at me. He only held my gaze, quiet and unreadable, as though he too were trying to decide what sort of woman had become his wife.

I was in her place, wearing the white, bearing the name of bride, and still I felt less chosen than borrowed.

Across the hall, I caught sight of Father speaking in a low voice to one of the Fitzgerald men, his face grave, his posture stiff. He had not looked pleased once all day. If it were Daphne standing here instead of me, he would have been full of pride. Mother would have wept openly. The guests would have called it a lovely match and meant it.

But it was not Daphne. It was me.

For the rest of the evening, I was smiled at, spoken to, examined. I could not have repeated a single word of it afterward. Ladies took my hands and wished me happiness in voices sweet enough to rot the teeth. Gentlemen bowed and offered their congratulations with the careful politeness one reserves for a situation best not discussed too plainly. Every face seemed to carry the same question beneath it, how had the wrong sister come to wear the veil?

I gave them all the same thing, a quiet smile, a lowered gaze, as though I were too shy to bear such attention. It was easier than letting them see what truly sat beneath my skin.

Abel played his part well.He stood when required, spoke when expected, touched my hand lightly when eyes were upon us. To anyone watching, we must have appeared composed enough. A handsome groom. A solemn bride.

Only once did he lean close enough for me to hear him above the noise.

"You look pale."

"So would any woman in my position."

That almost earned a smile from him. Almost.

Before long everyone seemed to forget me where I sat.

Someone called Abel's name from across the hall, and the moment broke as quickly as it had begun. He excused himself with a slight nod and crossed the room, leaving me where I stood beneath Mother's watchful eye and the weight of too many curious stares.

The music went on. People laughed, glasses clinked, chairs scraped softly against the floor. Some guests had returned to eating, others to dancing, and the rest to whispering behind half raised hands. If anyone noticed that the bride had been left alone, they did not think it worth remarking upon.

Fine by me.

The gown was growing heavier by the minute. The silk pulled at my waist, the stays pressed into my ribs, and the veil had begun to feel like a curtain pinned to my skull. I had spent half my life hearing women speak of wedding gowns as though they were spun from happiness. Mine felt like punishment stitched in white.

I rose quietly and slipped away before Mother could stop me. The air in the upper corridor was cooler, blessedly free of perfume and conversation. At once, I drew in a breath deep enough to ease the tightness in my chest. My shoes made little sound against the carpet as I walked, one hand lifting the weight of my skirt, the other pulling at the lace at my throat.

If I had been wiser, I might have gone straight to a room and shut the door.

But wisdom has never been my strongest virtue. I had almost reached the turn in the corridor when I heard a sound from one of the rooms ahead.

Not speech, exactly. Not at first. Something lower. Uneven. A muffled laugh, then a breath caught short, followed by the faint knock of furniture against the wall. I slowed.

Another woman might have kept walking. I went closer.

The door was not fully shut. A line of golden light stretched across the carpet beneath it. I told myself I meant only to see whether someone was unwell, whether help was needed, whether some drunken guest had stumbled into the wrong room. That lie lasted all of two seconds.

I reached the door and looked in.

At first, my mind refused to make sense of what I was seeing. Abel stood with his back half turned to me, one hand braced against the bedpost, the other gripping the front of a man's shirt. Not in anger. Not in struggle. The other man was pressed against the bed, his hair disordered, his coat hanging open. Abel's face was close to his, far too close, and there was nothing uncertain in the way he held him.

Then Abel bent his head and kissed him.

Not gently, not by mistake. With the hunger of a man who had no wish to be denied. The breath fled my lungs. My hand jerked against the door. It swung inward with a sharp, traitorous creak. Both men turned.

"Merciful Heaven..."