It's much too early. If it were any other night, she would have rung for something to help her sleep - a warm drink or a book. She searches for something to pass the time, finally walking over to the bay windows on one side of the room. Leaning against the window frame, she hugs her arms to her chest and looks out at the formal gardens. Her father had personally overseen their design and creation. She fondly remembered the weeks and months he had spent choosing every element - an endless assortment of fountains, pools, statues, arbours...

Robert's sole comment had been a terse "I'm not sure the different styles work together." Only her mother had looked vaguely pleased.

"That man is an open book darling," she commented to Cora later. "Not exactly a bad trait for a husband."

Yes, Robert's expressions were already easy to read. She always noticed the slight frown and tensing of his jaw after each perceived "faux pas". She only hoped his mood would lighten when he returned to England.

She looks down at the new ring adorning her finger and back at the gardens, brilliantly lit tonight to celebrate her wedding. She tries to imprint the scene on her mind. Given Robert's antipathy to anything vaguely "American," she doubts she'll be back for a long time.

She had wanted the change in the status and the excitement of a new life. Most of all, she wanted to put an end to her mother's persistent interference and nagging.

She had wanted this. And Robert had been her choice. Why then was it so hard to let go?

She turns her back to the window, swallowing the lump in her throat.

The room is another product of her mother's trip to Versailles - less a bedroom, more a palatial chamber. Bright yellow walls and drapes clash horribly with the dark woods and Louis XV furnishings. She had pleaded not to be given this room, telling her Robert would hate it, that it would just confirm his already dire estimations of American tastes...

Her mother had been right in the end - the room didn't matter. (He won't be looking at the room, darling.) He had barely noticed his surroundings tonight.

She walks slowly back to the empty bed, remembering what they had been doing barely an hour before. It wasn't as painful as she had been led to believe. Certainly uncomfortable and awkward, but not unpleasant. If she had been more relaxed, she may have even enjoyed the gentle kisses, the feeling of his silk shirt against her hand and their bodies pressed close together.

As soon as it was over, he had moved off the bed and reached for his dressing gown. A brief kiss, a hasty good night...and he was gone. No doubt he was asleep in his dressing room by now. His aristocratic duties, she reflected bitterly, clearly did not extend to staying with her, or even talking to her.

She climbed back into the bed. She missed his presence in the bed, which was far too big for one person. She yearned for the warm, comforting feeling of his arms wrapped round her, pulling her to his chest. She curled up, pulled the blankets round her and let the tears fall.

She cried herself to sleep.


A/N: Sorry - didn't mean it to be quite this angsty. It does get better (eventually)!