Yes, I was about to become the wife of one of the wealthiest young men in Virginia, and I would live in and be mistress of a home big enough to be called a castle, but would I be happy? I couldn’t even brag to my best friend. As far as she would be concerned, I had disappeared off the face of the earth. Was I about to?

I walked slowly to the stairway. Somewhere deep inside the manor house, someone was making noise that sounded like the movement of furniture. Every sound echoed in this home, I thought. I heard the clanking of pots and pans off to my right, and through an opened window, I caught the sound of men talking as they worked on the stage. Everything that was happening here now was happening because of me. And yet I didn’t feel proud or smug about it. I felt a little frightened, and I didn’t really know why.

In fact, as I headed up the stairway, I could sense the trembling inside me. Was that simply because I was pregnant? When I turned to head toward my “quaint” bedroom, I listened for my parents talking but heard nothing. They were both probably asleep. I did need a good rest and then, hopefully, a warm bath. Dora would see to it, I was sure.

I turned into my bedroom. She was standing there by the closet, stroking a dress that hung in the doorway as if she was stroking soft, beautiful hair. At her feet was a bustle. She turned quickly when I entered and smiled. She started to curtsy, too.

“Stop that,” I said. “I’m not some princess.”

She instantly lost her smile.

“What is that . . . thing?”

“It’s the dress Mr. Foxworth wanted me to prepare for you tonight.”

I approached it slowly, and she stepped away.

“There’s enough material here for four dresses,” I said. I nodded at the bustle. “I’ve never worn one of those. They’re not in style now.”

She looked at it and then at me with a blank expression.

“I think I’d suffocate in this,” I added, lifting the material. “It weighs a ton.”

The dress had an overskirt draped to an apron front and a full flounced underskirt with full petticoats. There were multiple layers of ruffles and flounces.

“I’ll wear something else, one of my own things. Take it out of here, and that thing, too,” I said. “Actually, they smell like clothes stored for ages in some dank closet.”

“Mr. Foxworth was keen on your wearing it,” she said. It sounded like a warning.

“Dora, is it?” Of course, I knew her name, but I wanted to impress her with my clarity and demand.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let me say it in stark, clear English. Take it out. I’m not wearing it.”