Seventeen years, ten months, two weeks, three days...
Each moment is agony.
Every second of every day, George Beaumont is reminded of his young wife's untimely death. With every glimpse of that painting up on that mantle, with every glimpse of his...
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Winter of 1870
For a moment, Anne thinks she can see the girl in the red dress bring her wedding gown to life. In the time it took for one to blink, she sees brown hair cascading down in soft curls, and a pair of iridescent eyes stare at her before, once again, the gown is nothing but dusty old silk.
"I remember the day I made this. It was a winter in January, seventeen years ago. It's very old-fashioned, but it's still here. I was told to alter it and have the waist let out, but word came that it wouldn't have the chance to be used any longer. It felt wrong to try and sell it to another bride."
Anne and Raymond share a look of equal surprise before Anne breaks the silence.
"Do you think Papa would want to have it back?"
It is a stupid question, but, nonetheless, one with no answer.
Raymond gives her a look filled with conflicting emotions, his mind obviously rattled. He then turns to the shopkeeper and says, "No. Keep it here."
Anne's eyebrows shoot up.
"Why?" Besides the fact that it would dig up old memories, it was still Raymond's mother's wedding dress.
"Miss Julia, keep it here until Anne can wear it."
"If you insist, milord. But... would you at least like to fit it? It seems a few sizes too big for her. And it needs alterations. It's twenty years out of date."
"No. No alterations. Anne, can you fit it?"
Lowering her gaze, she nods shakily. Something felt off about it all. "I'll try." In truth, she does not want to wear a dead woman's wedding dress. It makes her feel as if she were a thief.
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George drinks.
It is not whiskey, or wine. The bottle in his hands is filled with laudanum, its sickeningly sweet taste slithering its way down his throat. It is not enjoyable. Honestly, it is disgusting, but what can he do? Its effects had long been lost on him, but it still dulls the pain. Both from his grief and the new wounds that mar his chest.
