“Mama, you are beautiful,” said Mary, staring up at me. It was not yet nine o’clock but I was dressed, with Barbara’s help, and satisfied with what I had achieved. It was over twenty years since I had last been a bride and I hoped that what I lacked in youth, I made up for in charm and competence.

Henry came toward me, his hands behind his back. The little conjuror brought forth a small bouquet of red anemones.

“We saved our pennies,” he said, blushing. I thanked him and his sisters, their gift a blessing on the marriage.

“John, go to the church. As soon as you see Arthur, run home and escort me there.”

He left and Barbara offered me a cup of ale, but I was too full of nerves to eat or drink, and could only walk about the parlor, laughing at the children’s chitchat and their wonder at my glamour. Before marrying George, I had felt mainly dread. Arthur was everything George was not, and nothing that George was. At last, our union was to be blessed by God.

The minutes passed and John did not come.

“Where is John, Mama?” asked Mary. She was now nine years old and astute.

“Is Sir Arthur poorly?” asked Katherine.

“Why doesn’t he send a note?” asked Henry, remembering Arthur’s previous messages. I was more alert to the passing of time than ever before; each person who walked beneath the window, every word spoken, every breath, brought with it a growing dread, so that when the quarter bell rang I thought I would go mad with waiting and sent Barbara after John. At the half-hour, they returned together. They looked confused and upset. By the noonday peal, old Maggie called the children to dinner as if to a wake. As the bells struck one, Barbara helped me out of the dress for which I had paid more than I could afford and returned it to the pawn merchant. I did not cry. I felt nothing. I was numb, as if drugged, so heavy a weight pressing on my heart that it could not move me. John went to seek Arthur, but he was not at home.

It was a little after the four o’clock bell when Arthur arrived. He looked not at me but all about, as if in a stranger’s house. Even so, the sight of his handsome face revived me sufficient to stand as he walked into the room, but from under its boulder of care and sadness my heart began to beat so fast I was distracted, as if this were death itself advancing. Parts of my body that were usually dry, such as my cheeks, forearms and the backs of my knees, gave up a sweat; I could feel it pricking up through my skin, and I was so cold my chest trembled.