YOUR eyes will be all puffy for the ceremony.” Fran sat in front of her boudoir mirror while Mary twisted her hair in elegant ropes and braids, all to be hidden beneath a veil of fine French lace anchored with orange blossoms. “I don’t care. Let my eyes be red and puffy. I should be marrying Randolph.” Her admission brought a fresh downpour of tears. “Why do you say such a thing? Didn’t Mr. Stockwell marry some German girl?” Fran nodded, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief elaborately embroidered with her wedding date. Mary pried a hairpin apart with her teeth before securing another section of hair. “Then you shouldn’t be crying over some married man. Besides, that husband of yours looks handsome enough. He’s not going to want to see that you’ve been crying over someone else’s husband.” “Maman has had me so involved in dress fittings and the like, I have barely seen Bedford. Papa took him to New York to show him around . . . I’m not sure he even recalls what I look like.
