Henrietta was stunned.

Insult to injury? Did I hear him correctly?

She watched as the Duke escorted his crazed son from the chapel, unsure of what exactly had just happened. Her arrival in the duchy had seemed promising, and she had begun to allow herself to hope that all might be well after all, even with Molly in tow. Her mother’s praises of Nightingale rang true as the manor was undeniably impressive. The Duke and Duchess had greeted her upon arrival with kindness, and their well wishes left Henrietta with a lingering sense of optimism. The Marquess certainly cut a fine figure, dashingly handsome as he waited for her at the small altar with the Reverend. His eyes were dark and troubled though, and she wondered if perhaps all was not well with him. Even so, he was perfectly composed and when his strong jaw softened with a smile, she felt it was especially for her, perhaps to put her at ease. If that had been his intention, he had succeeded. So, what had just happened exactly?

All was going well until the Marquess had lifted my veil.

She turned helplessly toward her parents, still sitting in the first row, but their faces expressed as much confusion as hers. The din of astonished guests began to rise within the small chapel as the hushed but heated conversation between the Duke and his son continued just outside in the vestibule. As Henrietta felt her knees grow weak, the Reverend was at her side to offer his support, and he gently led the bride to the safety of the pew.

The sight of me quite clearly repulsed him.

Her mother took her hand and squeezed it firmly in support.

“This is a complete disaster,” Henrietta gasped, her face hot and blotchy. She pressed her palm over her lips and closed her eyes, hoping to keep the dam from releasing a flood of tears.

The General, finally shaking off his shock, rose and directed his ire at the Reverend.

“What is the meaning of this? I demand to know what is going on!”

“Dear sir, please be calm,” Reverend Smithers entreated.

Clearly not calm, the General turned to face the Duchess. “This is absolutely unacceptable! Have you an explanation, Your Grace?”

Henrietta could bear it all no longer. The dam burst, her nose ran, her breath stuttered as she tried to take a deep breath; she wanted to upchuck her breakfast. And she was consumed with the desire to run— to run away from everyone and everything. Her overbearing father and his secret spies, her placating mother, and this man, this Marquess, who thought her so ugly he could not look at her without completely losing all composure.

It was all so surreal. Her eyes spotted a door behind the altar. She hoped it was a door to the outside, a door to freedom. Jumping up, she took the risk and darted toward it. The calls of her mother and the Reverend to wait were distant and muffled as she distanced herself from the altar.

Throwing the door open, Henrietta hitched up her skirt and ran. She ran away from the chapel with everything in her. Across the sprawling lawns, she found her full stride, gulping as the cold air burned her lungs. She ran like the wind, no longer kept as her father’s prisoner, denied her dreams, married off against her will, only to be mortified by this Marquess.

No more. For this moment at least.

The sobs came uncontrollably as she collapsed where the great lawns ended, and the woods began. Nightingale was behind her now, but was still imposing even from such a goodly distance. It would not, of course, go away, and neither would her father, or his expectation that she just be content to be a good wife. Nor would that Marquess go away.

Her husband.

She shivered at that word, angrily wiping her runny nose with the back of her gloved hand. What kind of man was he anyway? All that carrying on like a child! Leaving her to stand there withering in confusion and shame while he prattled on about resemblances and conspiracies.

Husband. Humph.

She sighed. No, unfortunately for her, none of this would go away. But neither would her dreams. And she would not give them up despite the discouragement that pressed in from all sides, threatening to swallow her whole. She would get through this disastrous day, and somehow — she shivered again — she would get through this fiasco, and life would go on. She would renew her quest to attend medical school with fresh determination. She would just simply have to find a way.

She sat up and looked back toward the house. There was a small crowd of people running toward her— her father’s henchmen, Ronscales and Davids, leading the way. Behind them, other Nightingale household staff, Molly and even her mother, tried to keep up. The lack of decorum for a normally demure Tabitha was unusual, but given the scandalous nature of the morning’s events, Henrietta could only sigh. Again.

What a ridiculous sight.

She watched her mother eventually give up the chase, dramatically clutching at her chest. An ever-dutiful Molly turned to help her back to the manor house.

Though she had hardly cried all her bitter tears, she began to laugh. How good it felt! It began in her belly and soon she was holding her sides as a morbid amusement consumed her. Undignified as it might be, laughter was indeed good medicine, and Henrietta felt its restorative properties take firm hold.

Of one thing she was now certain, she was not going to make those men fetch her and drag her back to the house like either a prisoner of war or a spoiled child. She did still have a modicum of pride. She was going back to Nightingale to eat her wedding feast as would any dejected bride of convenience, and if that Marquess decided to make himself scarce and give the gossipmongers even more to wag their tongues about, so be it. He would have only himself to blame for more scandal. She would hold her head high and she would eat cake.

Knowing she must be quite a sight to behold, she stood and began to brush the leaves and such from her now grass-stained gown. The hem had been torn when she had collapsed in the grass to catch her breath. She touched her head gingerly to survey the damage to her hair. So carefully attended to by Molly that morning, it was now an unruly mess, the perfect braids far worse for wear. The lacy veil was long gone. She hardly cared.

Insult to injury indeed. If that man couldn’t bear to look at me before, what will he possibly think now?

She began to laugh again. She raised her palm to stop Ronscales and Davids, and she walked alone in surrender. Things were about to get interesting indeed.