Chapter 15
Three years later, Nathaniel’s daughter Clara asked to wear Rosamund’s wedding gown.
I froze.
She was twenty-seven.
Engaged.
Rosamund had adored her.
“Why?”
Clara smiled.
“Because it’s beautiful.”
Simple.
Not legacy.
Not ritual.
Beautiful.
I told her about the lipstick.
The staged photographs.
The faint wine stain.
Everything.
She still wanted it.
Nathaniel looked at me.
“Your call?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Rosamund’s gown had belonged to Rosamund.
Now Nathaniel was her closest blood relative.
Clara was the one wearing it.
Not my authority.
We agreed together.
Celandine arranged conservation and fitting.
She had moved into estate archives by then.
Apparently the maid who opened the wrong room became the person we trusted with old fabric.
Life has humor.
On Clara’s wedding morning, I saw the gown again.
Different woman.
Different face.
No imitation.
No attempt to resurrect Rosamund.
Clara added a narrow blue ribbon at the waist.
Rosamund would have hated it.
Perfect.
I laughed.
Clara asked:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Was Aunt Rosamund prettier?”
Dangerous question.
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good answer.”
Truthfully, comparison no longer interested me.
That surprised me.
The dress moved.
History moved.
May you like
No one replaced anyone.
That was the lesson Isabetta and I had both needed years earlier.
