She woke as the scullery maid stirred the fire. She brushed her hair as she waited for her lady’s maid to enter and help her dress. Her gown was ivory, in the style of Queen Victoria’s wedding gown. She didn’t examine it too closely; her mother had chosen both the color and the pattern. It must have had quite a few buttons, as it took the maid an interminably long time to finish with the back. Her hair was done simply at her request. Even if she must marry a stranger and behave as a dutiful daughter, at least she could have her way in this small part; no effort would be made to please him with her coiffure. No braids, no fanciful parts or sweeps or even anything other than the plainest of pins. Her small rebellion didn’t matter, anyway; the veil covered all of her hair and hid it from sight. Her father escorted her to the carriage. The three of them—Cecily, her father, and her mother—rode mostly in silence to the church.
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