Page 117 of The English Duke
Had wedding nerves kept her awake? Was she walking in the garden? She doubted Josephine had gone to the library to select a book. Another point on which she and her sister were different. Josephine didn’t like to read. In fact, she even commented that while Martha was content to read about adventures, she preferred to have them.
The maids would be in here shortly to straighten the room, close the jewelry box, collect the wadded handkerchiefs on top of the bureau, hang up the clothing strewed over the bed, the floor, or on various pieces of furniture. Josephine always left proof she’d been somewhere, as if she was a whirlwind.
Sarah and Amy both would probably be pressed into service to help her in a few hours.
A few hours. Only a few hours until the wedding.
The wedding dress was hanging outside the armoire, no doubt to prevent any wrinkles. Martha glanced at the gown, away, then back again.
The pale yellow garment was elaborate and festooned with lace, a work of art the seamstress and her four helpers had labored over for weeks. The lace was French, of course, as was the nightgown and peignoir for the wedding night, a fact Josephine had expounded on at length. No doubt they were packed in the trunk sitting beside the vanity. Another tangible bit of evidence that the wedding would be held today and the bride would depart Griffin House with the groom.
Martha removed some clothing from one of the chairs and sat, waiting for Josephine to return, deliberately not thinking of the wedding any longer.
A quarter hour later, Josephine slipped through the door, stopping abruptly when she saw Martha sitting there.
“Have you come to check on me, sister?”
Josephine’s hair was mussed, her lips slightly swollen. She looked as if she’d come from a lover’s bed.
“Do you need checking on, Josephine?” she asked.
Josephine only smiled.
“I came to ask why you did it.”
“Did what?” Josephine walked into the bathing chamber separating their two rooms.
Martha stood and followed her. “Stole theGoldfish.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you talking about, Martha.”
Josephine bathed her face and carefully blotted it dry.
“Reese didn’t know where I kept it. You had to have told him or even shown him. Why, though?”
Josephine returned to the bedroom, sat at the vanity, and began to take down her hair, one gold pin at a time.
“It wasn’t just my work, Josephine. It was our father’s, too. Did you think so little of him to simply let someone steal it?”
Josephine half turned on the vanity stool, pointing her brush at Martha.
“Not our father. Yours.”
“What?” Martha frowned at her sister.
“He was your father, but he wasn’t mine.”
She felt as if she was suddenly encased in a bubble. The world outside was normal, the servants already stirring, excitement building about the big day. In hours hundreds of people would be at Griffin House but now, inside the bubble, time was slowing then crawling to a stop.
“Tell me what you mean,” she said, feeling as if even her speech was stretched out, each separate word pulled thin.
“He wasn’t my father,” Josephine said, turning back to survey herself in the mirror. “That’s what I mean.”
Martha stared at her in the silence. Was she going to explain?
Finally, Josephine spoke again. “Maman told me when I was thirteen.”
Martha sat down on the chair she’d occupied minutes earlier, focusing her attention on the well-polished andirons in the fireplace.
