Angelica watched her mother, happily engrossed with her work, and a frightening suspicion overtook her. “Mother, what do you plan to do when I’m gone?”
“Whatever do you mean, dearest?” Margaret asked. “You are not going far. I will still visit you often. After all, you will still need my help planning balls and musicales and other such things. And there will be the grandchildren to think of, of course. Why, it shall be as if you never left!”
“I see,” Angelica said with dawning horror. However would she get any writing done with her mother constantly pestering her? Not to mention the tirade that would come when she failed to get pregnant.
Margaret raised a brow. “I see the prospect doesn’t exactly delight you,” she said dryly. Her voice softened. “I know we’ve never seen eye to eye, but you must believe that I love you. After all, you are my only child and I’m afraid my heart would be broken if we became estranged after your marriage. I hope you can find it in your heart to permit me to remain a part of your life and perhaps lend my help and advice when you so require. I promise to try not to push you so much.”
Angelica blinked at her mother’s impassioned—and unexpected—speech. She was beginning to recognize that not all of their disagreements were entirely Margaret’s fault. When her mother said “white,” it was practically a reflex for her to say “black.” A childish impulse, she realized uncomfortably, and now was high time she grew out of it. After all, she was to be a duchess soon. She knew that they would never agree with each other on much, but the least she could do was make an effort to compromise.
“Of course, Mother,” Angelica whispered. “I would very much like for you to visit me. And,” she added, looking down at her lap. “I am sorry I couldn’t have been a more normal daughter to you.”
Margaret smiled and opened her arms. Angelica rushed into her embrace, heart light at the reconciliation. They would still bicker, she was certain, but at least they had become closer.
“Now,” her mother said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “I must get back to work, else there will be no guests at your wedding.” Retrieving the quill, she glanced up at her daughter. “I nearly forgot to ask. Is there anyone in particular you would like to invite?”
“I do not have any friends,” Angelica said with downcast eyes. She never had anything in common with girls her age. She preferred cats to horses and books to fashion. Because of the estrangement between her mother and the Earl of Pendlebur, her family spent most summers in town rather than in the country with the rest of the peerage, contributing further to her isolation.
Her mother sighed. “Well, perhaps we can invite the daughters of some of my acquaintances.”
Angelica frowned at the thought of having a group of insipid girls she hardly knew attending such an important event in her life. A thought came to her, bringing a smile. “I think it would be a wonderful idea to invite a few of Father’s nieces. I haven’t seen my Winthrop cousins since I was a child.” She tried to keep a note of accusation out of her voice. Her mother had limited her contact with her husband’s side of the family, thinking she was above them.
“But darling, they are nobodies.” Margaret didn’t bother to hide the scorn in her voice.
“They are family,” Angelica insisted. “And besides, maybe they could meet eligible gentlemen at the reception. And this is my wedding.”
“Very well.” Her mother set aside her spectacles. “Perhaps that will convey the message that it will not pay to offend the Duchess of Burnrath. But at least invite a lady of Quality to attend. I hear the duke invited the Duke of Wentworth. His wife would be a very wise choice.”
“That is brilliant, Mother,” Angelica said, and meant it. She had not forgotten the kindness the Wentworths displayed toward her family during that fateful night at the Cavendish ball.
***
Saint George’s Church was packed with nearly every member of the haut ton, all come to witness the historical marriage of the Duke of Burnrath to Miss Angelica Winthrop, granddaughter of the Earl of Pendlebur. The event seemed to bring more talk than the recent death of Napoleon Bonaparte. George’s Street was packed with carriages, their lanterns glowing in the night like stars and the fog curled up around the horses’ legs, making the creatures appear as if they were perched on clouds. Angelica peered out at the whimsical scene one last time before turning back to the mirror.
The ivory silk bridal gown was overlaid with gold spangled lace, transforming her into a picture of elegance as well as making her look ethereal and innocent. A fit bride for a duke, she thought with a wry smile, resisting the urge to lift her nose in the air in mocking imitation of her mother. Margaret knelt below her, toying with the arrangement of her skirts.