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Bridget stood at her bedchamber window in her shift, stays and petticoats and stared out glumly at the lashing rain. Rain on one’s wedding day was supposedly good luck, but did that include a deluge of such torrential proportions? She could scarcely see past the sheet of water streaming down the glass.

With a sigh, she turned away from the window and glanced about the room. Oakleigh’s household staff, led by Ellen, had continued to work hard in Bridget’s absence, and the manor had at last been furnished to a very pleasing level of comfort. A freestanding mirror with a mahogany frame stood in the corner, its brass fittings allowing it to tilt with ease, while a pair of sheepskin rugs covered the floor on either side of the bed, which now boasted an abundance of pillows and an ivory-coloured counterpane with a quilted floral design.

On top of the counterpane lay the crowning piece of her wedding ensemble: a beautiful taffeta gown in a warm shade of copper. Although white had apparently become quite a fashionable colour since Queen Victoria wore it a decade ago, Bridget simply could not resist the copper fabric – and besides, the purity of white did not seem fitting for a second marriage. Cormac had poorly hidden his amusement at the volume of luggage she had brought from England, but she hoped he would reconsider his stance once he set eyes upon what the extra trunk had contained.

Approaching the bed, she brushed her left hand over the lustrous material. Her fingers were bare – Cormac had taken the gold ring from her the previous night and wouldn’t return it until they stood together before the altar in St Canice’s Church. Her heart fluttered with nerves and excitement.

She took another look around the bedchamber and her gaze landed upon the wooden carving resting on the mahogany mantelpiece: the figurine of their family that Cormac had carved so many years ago in Boston. It had travelled with them from America to England, and now to Ireland, for she couldn’t have left it behind on this important journey – it was a testament to the life they had built on their own terms, a life they could finally make lasting and secure. She hugged herself as a thrill of anticipation ran through her.

A knock came at the door and Polly entered, carrying an ornate wooden box in her arms.

‘Here it is, my lady,’ she declared.

She had been somewhat downcast since leaving Bewley Hall, and Bridget had felt guilty for obliging her to part from her mother and uncle yet again, but now she came forwards with a beaming smile as she placed the box on Bridget’s dressing table and lifted its heavy lid. The circular mirror on the lid’s underside reflected the array of necklaces and brooches within, all of which had once belonged to Lady Bewley. As Bridget took in the dazzling display, Polly opened several of the box’s drawers to further reveal numerous bracelets, rings and pairs of earrings, as well as a separate compartment containing the precious pearl necklace Emily had used for her still life painting (which now took pride of place in the drawing room downstairs).

‘What do you favour on this special day?’ Polly asked.

Bridget felt a lump form in her throat. Her emotions were already simmering quite close to the surface, and this gesture only added to the momentous occasion, demonstrating that Polly truly deemed her to be worthy of Lady Bewley’s treasured jewellery.

‘What would you suggest?’ she managed to choke out.

Polly cast her gaze over the various pieces. ‘This,’ she said, reaching into the box and extracting a gold locket. ‘It will complement the colour of your gown.’

She held out the locket and Bridget accepted it gingerly. The weight of it felt solid in her palm as she admired its oval casing engraved with undulating rococo patterns, the swirls and flourishes redolent of the previous century. Its hinge gave a faint creak as she undid the clasp, revealing an empty space within.

‘Her ladyship used to keep a miniature of his lordship in it,’ Polly said softly. ‘Before she passed, she asked that it be taken out and placed into her hand so that she would not be alone under the soil.’ Polly’s voice shook and she blinked hard.

Bridget couldn’t recall if she had ever noticed the locket on Lady Bewley, but perhaps the lady had kept it hidden beneath high-necked dresses, a quiet token of devotion unseen by the world.

‘It would be my honour to wear it,’ Bridget murmured. As she refastened the clasp, she resolved to ask Emily to paint a miniature of Cormac so that he would always be close to her heart.

Polly smiled and began to push in the drawers of the jewellery box, while Bridget moved to lower the lid. Their hands fumbled across each other and the lid slipped between their grips, slamming shut with a heavy thud. A muted crack followed. They exchanged wide-eyed glances before Polly cautiously raised the lid again. A fracture had appeared in the round mirror, running right through the centre of it. Bridget gulped.

‘Are you superstitious at all, Polly?’ she asked weakly.

Polly paused for just a little too long before saying robustly, ‘Of course not.’ Flinching, she closed the lid with extreme care, even though the damage was already done.

The bedchamber door opened, and this time Emily and Ellen entered. Emily, dressed in a charming gown of cream muslin, carried two posies of white myrtle, while Ellen had brightened her plain housekeeper’s garb with a sprig of lavender pinned to her bodice. She still wore a black ribbon around her upper arm and, given that it was now more than three years since Liam had died, Bridget wondered whether she meant to wear it for the rest of her life.

‘John is ready with the carriage,’ Ellen announced. ‘He said he will bring it as close to the door as possible,’ she added with a wary look at the rain still pelting the window.

‘Time for you to finish dressing, Mama,’ Emily said, her eyes already sparkling with tears. How strange it was for a daughter to be present at her own mother’s wedding.

Bridget sat on the edge of the bed to don her stockings and shoes – low-heeled, satin slippers in a soft shade of bronze – and then stood to allow Polly to slip the taffeta gown over her head. Once Polly had fastened the tiny hooks at the back and arranged the bell-shaped skirt neatly over all her petticoats, she guided Bridget over to the mirror and tilted it to give her the best angle.

‘Oh, Mama,’ Emily breathed.

Bridget was surprised to perceive a woman in her reflection who looked younger than forty-one. The gown’s off-the-shoulder neckline exposed the elegant slope of her collarbones, and the pleating at its waist somehow concealed the fact that she had birthed four children in the past. Her chestnut curls were drawn back into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and the clever styling had all but banished her grey hairs. Polly must have cast some sort of spell, or perhaps it was only joy that made Bridget’s cheeks glow like a fresh-faced debutante.

‘Now for the final touches,’ Polly declared.

She tied the gold locket around Bridget’s neck and it settled in the hollow at the base of her throat with a satisfying weight. Next, Polly helped her slide on a pair of ivory, elbow-length gloves, the silken fabric cool and smooth against her skin. Lastly, she draped a lace mantilla over Bridget’s hair.

‘Beautiful,’ Ellen whispered. ‘If Maggie McGovern could only see you now.’

How telling it was that she had thought of Maggie and not Bridget’s mother in that moment.

After a collective, pensive silence, Polly said brightly, ‘Let’s get you to the carriage, my lady!’

They were just about to head out the door when Bridget exclaimed, ‘My perfume!’

She hurried back across the room to her dressing table and reached for the thick glass bottle, but in her haste she managed to knock it over instead. It rolled off the edge of the table and fell to the floor, dislodging the stopper and spilling its contents onto the floorboards. The scent of lilac saturated the air at once, overpowering in such a concentrated volume.

‘Oh no,’ she moaned.

Her gaze connected with Polly’s. Was this a consequence of the broken mirror? No, she refused to believe that; it had just been an accident.

‘What a shame,’ she said unhappily, picking up the empty bottle and setting it back on the table’s surface. ‘I’ll have to do without.’

Polly scurried over to her and fished out a few handkerchiefs from one of the dressing table’s drawers. ‘I’d better clean it up right away, or it’ll discolour the boards. You’re lucky it didn’t splash your skirt, my lady. Please step back now.’

After Polly had mopped up the wasteful puddle of perfume, they rejoined the others at the door, Bridget steadfastly ignoring the small seed of anxiety that had taken root in her stomach. Accepting one of the posies from Emily, she inhaled the sweet fragrance of myrtle and willed herself to be calm.

Down in the manor’s entrance hall, they found John Corbett hovering with a black umbrella he’d procured from Mr Enright, who, according to John, had gallantly recognised that the bride’s need was greater and resolved to face the elements in only his hat and coat. Opening the umbrella on the threshold, John held it above Bridget’s head as she scuttled from the front door to the carriage waiting with two harnessed horses, and then he provided the same service to Emily, Ellen and Polly. Once all four women were safe and dry within the carriage, he stowed the umbrella under one of the cushioned benches, shut the carriage door and tugged his cap low over his forehead as he hurried around to the driver’s seat. Moments later, they set off down the gravelled avenue with the rain still pouring outside.

Bridget thought she would feel better once they were on the move, but her nerves only clamoured louder as they rattled along, following the winding lanes towards Ballydarry. All sorts of troubling scenarios raced through her mind. What if the church had been flooded by the rainfall? What if Cormac had had an accident on his way to the village? He’d been planning to ride there with Rory, Patrick and the two boys, but what were the chances that his horse had thrown a shoe or lost its footing on the muddy road? Or what if someone stood up during the ceremony and declared that they had an objection to the continuation of the wedding?

This last one worried her most of all. As the water ran in rivulets down the carriage window, she stared out at the sodden hedgerows passing by in a shaky blur and imagined those words ‘I object!’ echoing through the church. Who might be the speaker?

Garrett, of course. With a quiver of dread, she saw it play out in her mind’s eye: he would stride up the aisle to the altar and announce that the divorce had been a hoax and the official parchment a forgery and that she was still his lawful wife, forbidden to marry anyone else. Her crystal-clear future with Cormac would shatter into pieces. Tormented by these qualms, she yearned even more desperately to get to the church and bind herself to Cormac as soon as possible, sealing their union before anyone could stop them.

She felt so convinced that something bad was going to happen that it didn’t even surprise her when the carriage suddenly lurched, jolting the four of them as it came to an abrupt stop. Polly gasped and Ellen grabbed the edge of her seat with white knuckles.

‘What was that?’ Emily exclaimed.

Bridget peered out the window, her heart thumping. ‘John will explain—I can see him coming back to us now.’

The former stable master opened the door and stuck his head inside, giving them a rueful grimace from beneath his drenched cap. ‘We’re mired in mud and still a mile out from the village. I’ll just need a few minutes to get the horses to pull us free.’

Bridget bit the tip of her tongue, certain that this delay would yield another ruinous consequence of some kind. John ducked back out and she shifted restlessly on the bench, wringing her gloved hands. Then she reached down and seized the umbrella.

‘You should all stay with John,’ she urged the others. ‘But I simply cannot wait.’

With their protests resounding in her ears, she darted out of the carriage, her feet landing in a patch of squelching mud. She sighed with regret as she opened the umbrella – there would be no saving her lovely bronze-coloured slippers. However, she gathered up as much of her gown as she could in one hand, while in the other she balanced both the umbrella and her posy. She hurried to the front of the carriage, where she found John urging the horses forwards, their muscles straining as they heaved against the weight of the carriage. He goggled at her as she hastened past him.

‘My lady!’ he blurted. ‘Where are you—’

‘I’ll see you at the church!’ she called and strove onwards, her shoes struggling to find good purchase on the muddy ground. The rain hammered on the canopy of the umbrella and the delicate blooms of her posy were being crushed against its shaft, but she wouldn’t go back to the carriage. She needed to keep moving. She needed to get to Cormac.