Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

H anna sat on her bed, her body racked with sobs, tears rolling freely down her face. She was to be married this morning—nay, in less than thirty minutes—and she was little more than a heap of abject misery. She had not slept in the two previous nights, and each time a knock sounded at her door, she dashed downstairs, her heart pounding with hope that a letter might have arrived from Ireland, one that would give her some direction.

Perhaps, by some miracle, Alexander or Harry, or even Arabella, had returned in time to put a stop to this madness. But of course, it was all absurd. They might not have even received her letter, which was sent in such desperate haste less than a week ago. It was likely they remained blissfully unaware of the calamity that had befallen her.

In her desperation, Hanna had spent the last few days rifling through scandal sheets for any mention of the man she was to wed, much as she knew Arabella had done before her marriage to Harry.

The papers spoke of how Edwin was accused of murdering his own brother, all for the title and fortune that came with it. Some painted a more sympathetic picture and put the murder down to the late Duke’s illegal actions, which had cost many members of le bon ton so much.

A murderer. I am to marry a murderer. How could Father do this to me?

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Emma entered, her eyes widening as she saw the state her sister was in.

“Oh, Hanna!” she exclaimed. “Your face! It’s a dreadful mess. We must fix that at once. You cannot get married like this.” She hurried to the vanity, gathering an assortment of patch boxes and brushes. “Come, sit over here.”

“I do not want to,” Hanna muttered petulantly, her voice thick with tears. “I do not care to fix my face. In truth, I would rather rub it all over my pillow! I want to tear out this absurd hair, rip off this ridiculous gown, and be rid of all of it!”

She yanked at one of her pearl earrings, tugging so harshly that the back clasp snapped, sending a sudden, searing pain through her earlobe. Blood welled up, trickling down her neck.

“Hanna, have you taken leave of your senses?” Emma shrieked, rushing to her side. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself! Oh, heavens, there’s blood everywhere!” She snatched a handkerchief from the drawer and pressed it to her sister’s ear. “I cannot believe you did that, pulling the earring out without even unfastening it first! Lord, we shall have to send for a physician!”

“Then send for him,” Hanna said, her voice hollow. “Tell him I’ve gone mad and that I am fit for Bedlam! Better Bedlam than to be shackled to the Duke…”

Emma’s eyes widened, and she darted to the door, tugging on the bell-pull to summon one of the maids.

“You must keep the handkerchief pressed against your ear,” she ordered. “And do not speak of Bedlam, for goodness’ sake. You do not know the sort of people they have in there! I heard that Miss Clarissa Morton was sent there after she lost her mind following childbirth. They say she pulled out every hair from her head, strand by strand, and no one stopped her. They treat people horribly there, Hanna. It is a fate far worse than this marriage.”

Hanna sank back onto her bed and hung her head. “I can think of nothing worse than being wed to a man I do not love—a man who stands accused of such a monstrous crime. I know we heve discuss this again, but I can’t stop thinking about it. What if he truly did kill his brother?”

“I am certain he did not,” Emma replied, though there was a tinge of exasperation in her tone.

“Even if he didn’t,” Hanna said, her voice rising, “his reputation is dreadful. Every account paints him as a villain.”

Emma sighed deeply and sat beside her, taking her hand with a gentleness that belied her own frustrations. “You must cease believing every scandalous word you read in those dreadful sheets. The people who write such drivel do so only because they have nothing better to do. Our society is riddled with gossipmongers who love hearing their own voices, and it is people like you, who devour every morsel of their nonsense, that allow such tales to take root.”

“How can you say this to me now?” Hanna snapped, her voice trembling. “When I am quite literally bleeding and in utter despair?”

“Because you need to hear it,” Emma replied firmly. “You are being absurdly dramatic. You know nothing of this man, save for the scraps of idle chatter. Bella was just as distraught when she learned she was to marry Harry, all because of the tales she’d heard about him—about the secrets he supposedly kept.”

“But he did keep secrets!” Hanna countered, feeling a surge of defiance.

“Yes, he kept secrets,” Emma conceded. “But they were not as dire as we feared. He kept them to protect others, to shield his cousin from ruin. He was not a monster.”

“So, are you suggesting that maybe, just maybe, Edwin is a murderer for noble reasons?” Hanna retorted snippily, a spark of the old sisterly rivalry flaring within her.

It reminded her, uncomfortably, of how they’d turned against each other over the years, especially after Alexander left them in their father’s care and they had taken to mimicking his divisive ways.

Emma’s shoulders stiffened, but she took a breath and pressed on. “What I am saying,” she said slowly, “is that we know precious little about him, beyond the fact that he was kind to you. You told me yourself how he helped you in the garden when you felt unwell. He did not know who you were, yet he looked after you.”

Hanna clenched her jaw, unwilling to concede. “And what if that was but a fleeting moment of kindness?”

“Then, if he turns out to be a horror,” Emma said pragmatically, “we shall devise a plan to rescue you. We will flee, even if we must do so under the cover of darkness. For then, and only then, we will have nothing left to lose.”

Hanna blinked rapidly, her resolve faltering. “I suppose?—”

Their conversation was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. It was Viola, their lady’s maid, who had once served Arabella before she became Duchess of Sheffield. Since then, Viola had taken to looking after both Hanna and Emma.

As Viola entered the room, she stopped short, her eyes wide with alarm as she took in the blood trickling down Hanna’s neck. “Good heavens, My Lady! You’re bleeding!”

Emma quickly stepped forward, masking her concern with an air of nonchalance. “Oh, it’s nothing, Viola. Hanna merely snagged her earring on the lace of her dress and yanked it out. You know how delicate that fabric is.” She gave a tight smile, hoping the excuse would be enough to pacify the maid.

Hanna nodded, though she hardly felt the pain in her ear anymore. “It’s really nothing, just a bit of clumsiness.”

Viola’s eyebrows knitted together in concern, but she didn’t question them further. “Let me fetch some cloth and water to clean it, My Lady,” she said and then hurried out of the room.

As soon as she was gone, Emma turned back to her sister. “You mustn’t give the servants anything to gossip about. We’ll stick to this story—it’s simple and believable.” She offered Hanna a weak smile. “We have enough to contend with as it is.”

Hanna nodded again, feeling numb. What did it matter if the servants gossiped? Soon, the whole of London would be whispering about her marriage to the Duke anyway. But she knew her sister was right, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down.

Viola returned quickly, carrying a small basin of water, bandages, and salve. With careful hands, she set to work cleaning the wound, her touch gentle yet efficient.

“It doesn’t look too bad, Lady Hanna. Just a small tear.” She applied the salve, and Hanna winced as it stung. “There now, we’ll wrap it up, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Thank you, Viola,” Hanna murmured, her mind far away.

Viola offered a kind smile, but then her eyes drifted lower and widened in horror. “Oh dear…” She pointed to the crimson stain that had spread across the bodice of Hanna’s ivory gown. “The blood has stained your dress!”

Hanna glanced down, feeling an odd detachment as she stared at the scarlet marks. How fitting, she thought bitterly. A bloodstain on her wedding dress.

“It seems the universe has a cruel sense of irony,” she muttered. “Perhaps I should wear something else.”

“Nonsense,” Emma interjected, her tone brisk. “There’s no time to change gowns now.”

Viola’s eyes brightened as an idea struck her. “What about your crocheted shawl, Lady Hanna? The white one with the gold trim? It’s beautiful, and it would cover the stains perfectly. Besides, it’s quite chilly today, so no one will think twice about it.”

Hanna blinked, remembering the shawl she’d spent hours crocheting in the past year. A small piece of beauty she’d made with her own hands, one of the few things that brought her solace.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, “please fetch the shawl, Viola.”

As Viola disappeared once more, Emma gave Hanna’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You see, it’ll be all right. The shawl will look lovely with your dress.”

Hanna offered her a weak smile, but her heart felt heavy. How could a piece of fabric possibly make her feel whole again, when everything around her was falling apart?

Soon enough, Viola returned with the shawl and draped it carefully over Hanna’s shoulders. The delicate white fabric, interwoven with threads of gold, shimmered in the light. It fell gracefully over her arms, hiding the bloodstains and adding a touch of elegance to her attire.

“There,” Viola said, standing back to admire her handiwork. “You look as beautiful as a duchess ought to.”

Hanna stared at her reflection in the mirror, almost not recognizing herself. The gown fit her perfectly, the shawl softening its severe lines. Her hair had been styled in elegant curls, and though her ear was still sore and bandaged, she appeared every inch the future Duchess.

“If only I felt it,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Emma squeezed her hand tighter. “You are beautiful, Hanna. And you’re stronger than you think. You’ll get through this.”

Hanna nodded, though she wasn’t certain she believed it. The reflection in the mirror might look ready to face the world, but inside, she still felt like a frightened girl about to step into a life she hadn’t chosen.

And as the clock struck the hour, signaling that it was time to descend and meet her fate, she felt the cold weight of reality settle over her heart, heavier than any shawl ever could be.