It had been the worst week of her life by far. Jemima would not have left the house if she didn’t have to. Not that being at home was not its own kind of punishment, where her parents were fretting about things and conversations went deathly quiet the moment she came in the room and she was too restless to concentrate on anything.
But the outside world was probably worse: exchanging a prison cell for being gawked at like she was on show at the circus. Being bulwarked by her mother (matter-of-fact and determined, head held high) on one side and a maid (nonchalant, bored) on the other made her feel no more protected and no less conspicuous. She was sure she could feel eyes on her wherever she went, muttered comments designed to be overheard. She understood why, of course. If she were a bystander she would have been thinking the same things herself.
As they entered Gladrags’, a little of the pressure lifted off her sagging shoulders, and her head inched a fraction upwards from where she had been diligently observing the patch of floor just in front of her feet. She wasn’t ready for this, by any means: because she was going to be married to a man she didn’t even know – they hadn’t so much as spoken since that night – and his cousin, whom she also didn’t know in the slightest, was already talking about her vision of the dress.
Jemima had imagined the day she would get married countless times before, storing up all her hopes for the moment and sure that it would be the most exciting, dreamlike time of all her life. It did not feel that way yet. Now that she was here, she was fiddling nervously with the hem of her glove and counting the minutes. But if this was Mr. Greengrass’ cousin, congratulating her and smiling, then she would have to put on a brave face somehow, so that she didn’t make their first impressions any worse than they already were. “Jemima,” she said with some effort, trying to make the smile stick. “It’s nice to meet you – and thank you for all your help.” She followed the blonde and dutifully took a seat, glancing around the room so as not to look like she was watching Miss Owens too closely. Dresses, Jemima. Surely she could talk about dresses.
But the outside world was probably worse: exchanging a prison cell for being gawked at like she was on show at the circus. Being bulwarked by her mother (matter-of-fact and determined, head held high) on one side and a maid (nonchalant, bored) on the other made her feel no more protected and no less conspicuous. She was sure she could feel eyes on her wherever she went, muttered comments designed to be overheard. She understood why, of course. If she were a bystander she would have been thinking the same things herself.
As they entered Gladrags’, a little of the pressure lifted off her sagging shoulders, and her head inched a fraction upwards from where she had been diligently observing the patch of floor just in front of her feet. She wasn’t ready for this, by any means: because she was going to be married to a man she didn’t even know – they hadn’t so much as spoken since that night – and his cousin, whom she also didn’t know in the slightest, was already talking about her vision of the dress.
Jemima had imagined the day she would get married countless times before, storing up all her hopes for the moment and sure that it would be the most exciting, dreamlike time of all her life. It did not feel that way yet. Now that she was here, she was fiddling nervously with the hem of her glove and counting the minutes. But if this was Mr. Greengrass’ cousin, congratulating her and smiling, then she would have to put on a brave face somehow, so that she didn’t make their first impressions any worse than they already were. “Jemima,” she said with some effort, trying to make the smile stick. “It’s nice to meet you – and thank you for all your help.” She followed the blonde and dutifully took a seat, glancing around the room so as not to look like she was watching Miss Owens too closely. Dresses, Jemima. Surely she could talk about dresses.
