Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Four

Unlit lamp in hand, Victoria climbed the stairs that led to the third floor. There were some things she needed to fetch from the attic for the wedding tomorrow. Thank goodness for Catherine so gamely taking the helm. Victoria, though mother of the bride, was more than happy to serve as a mere lieutenant in this venture.

Victoria went past Lydia's room, which was in a room that had been intended to be maids' quarters. A relatively small space, under the eaves, and far away from everyone else—that's where Lydia had always liked to be. The door was slightly open, and Victoria couldn't help peeking inside. Austere, neat as a pin, books everywhere. While she was in the attic she should look for Lydia's old school trunk. She'd need it for her trip. Victoria continued down the hall, a little melancholy now. She'd just got all of her children back, and now she was losing two again. One for good.

Before heading up the narrow attic stairs, Victoria lit her lamp and made certain that she had the key to the attic door. It had been a very long while since Victoria had been up in the attic. She very nearly liked it. It reminded her of her girlhood, where the attic was the one place she could be perfectly alone and unsupervised.

With a creak the attic door opened, and she stepped into the gloom. It was already stuffy up here. She held up the lamp, letting her eyes adjust to the lack of light. Though really, for an attic, it was quite airy. The huge window from the faux tower helped a lot in that regard. The trunk she wanted was just below that window.

Lamp aloft, Victoria made her way across the attic, kicking up little bits of dust as she went. Cobwebs fluttered as she moved. She was distracted for a moment when she passed the wooden cradle that all of the children had slept in. She gave it a push to make it rock gently, just for old times' sake. Had it really been fifteen years since there had been a baby in the house?

And now one of her babies was getting married. Now she understood how Hildegarde had felt, as she'd helped Victoria try on her wedding dress so many years ago. She fully appreciated the emotion behind the twittering and odd little smiles. Victoria wasn't much of a twitterer, but she felt it deeply all the same.

When she reached the trunk she knelt, setting the lamp on the windowsill and hoping it would stay balanced. With a creak and a groan, the heavy trunk lid swung back and settled against the wall with a dull thud.

This had been Victoria's hope chest. By the time she'd married there'd not been much in it, as just about her entire trousseau had gone to pawn. But now it held the evidence of at least one dream achieved. On the very top sat a small velvet box, which Victoria picked up.

"Something old," Victoria began to recite to herself, just as Hildegarde had for her so many years before. She opened the box and looked at the gold crown she'd worn on her wedding day. Both of her wedding days. Maudeline had worn it, too, according to Hildegarde. It was an Everglot heirloom. The wedding rings Anne and Ned were to wear would also count—they'd belonged to Ned's late parents. Victoria thought that was lovely.

Victoria's veil was still connected to the crown. Carefully she held it up, noticing a small tear down one side. Another thing to mend before the wedding. It wouldn't be too hard to fix. She set the crown and veil gently back into their box and set it aside.

The next layer held Victor's suits. Victoria reached in and picked up the suit coat he'd worn the day they'd met. It had seen a lot, that coat, and was deservedly a keepsake in the wedding trunk. Gently she ran her fingers across the carefully mended places on the cuff and shoulder. Mended by spiders. If nothing else, Victoria had to admire both the novelty and the fine stitching.

If only I had a friendly spider about for that veil, she thought with a smile, carefully re-folding the coat.

Below that coat was Victor's wedding suit, the one he'd worn when he'd married her. It was very dark gray, nearly black, and somewhere there was the gray silk ascot and waistcoat he'd worn with it. Victor had looked very handsome in it. Pity it was so out of fashion, and that it wouldn't fit Ned. Though the military had very kindly supplied Ned with a uniform already, so he would wear that. Melancholy again, Victoria set aside Victor's wedding suit.

"Something new," Victoria went on, making sure the suit didn't land in anything dusty on the floor. She set the spider-mended coat on top of it. What was new? Well, by the time Victoria mended the veil, that would be good as new. Surely that counted.

"Something borrowed," Victoria murmured, coming to the bottom of the trunk. Reaching in and moving aside garment wrapping that had yellowed with age, she pulled out the bodice to her wedding gown.

Standing, Victoria held it up to the meager light and eyed it critically. It had stayed miraculously white, for not being in its own box. She'd forgotten how heavy it was. Had she really worn dresses like that all the time? She turned the bodice around, looking for holes or stains. There didn't seem to be any. She held it up against herself, and ran a hand down the buttons, making sure they were all there. Goodness, her waist had been tiny, once upon a time, thanks mostly to her corset.

Her wedding dress would fit Anne like a glove.

When she pulled the heavy skirt out of the trunk and gave it an experimental shake, something fell off. Something small and blue, she'd seen it distinctly, even with her poor eyes and the bad light. She carefully set aside her wedding gown, next to Victor's old suit, and searched the floor until she found the tiny thing that had been attached to the dress.

It was a blue flower. From Emily's bouquet. A few flowers must have come loose at some point, or perhaps been stuck to her wedding dress. Gently, Victoria cupped the flower in her hand, standing by the window so that she could look at it more clearly. It was a rosebud, the dusty blue petals just barely clinging together.

For years Victoria had kept that bouquet, wrapped first in paper and then in silk, in a drawer in her wardrobe. Finally, just a few springs ago, Victoria had gone to clean out the drawer. When she'd moved the bouquet, the whole thing had finally fallen apart.

And to dust you shall return, Victoria had found herself rather morbidly thinking when several of the desiccated flowers had done just that under her hand. She'd managed to salvage a few of the rosebuds, as well as several tufts of baby's breath. Those she now kept in a small china box on her vanity table.

Even as unrecognizable blue dust, Victoria had been unable to bear the thought of throwing any part of the bouquet away. Difficult as her relationship with the corpse bride's memory had been over the years, to varying degrees at various points in her life, she'd never once blamed her, nor hated her. How could she fault her for wanting love, a future? For wanting some echo of life un-lived back? No, Victoria had never hated nor blamed her. Nor ever once thought about parting with the flowers, the tangible proof of Emily's story and existence.

Victoria hadn't wanted a new wedding band, either. For twenty-six years she'd worn the ring that had been on a dead woman's finger. It was hers, after all. And more than that, it was a reminder to make her life worthwhile, and to never, ever, take love for granted.

"Something blue," she murmured to herself, cradling the rosebud gently in her palm.