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A man—tall, dark blond hair, sharp jawed, Poole-green eyes—took her hand, kissed her knuckles.
She handed her champagne glass to a servant, then glided onto the dance floor with him.
They made a striking couple as they turned, twirled. He, smile content, looked at her face. But she, Sonya noted, shifted her gaze to take in the room.
To see who watched, to see who admired.
Rather than the radiant smile of a new bride, hers seemed smug, haughty.
When the dance ended, he kissed her hand again.
“Shall I take you down to supper, Mrs. Poole?”
“Not yet, not quite yet, Mr. Poole. We’ll have a ball when the holidays come, shall we? Perhaps a masquerade ball at the turn of the year. How fine it all looks.”
“It pales before the beauty of my bride. Will you sit, just a moment or two, with my sister? It would mean much to her, and to me.”
“Of course. Did I not vow to obey my husband?”
“And I to cherish my wife.” He escorted her to the red-and-gold love seat where a woman, very pregnant, sat. She wore a gown of pale pink, with her hair, deep blond like her brother’s, worn high and smooth.
“Shall I sit with you a moment, Jane?”
“Oh, please do, Agatha. What a happy day.”
“I’ll fetch you champagne, Agatha. Shall I bring you some, Jane?”
“Thank you, no, Owen. I’m very content. The baby likes the music. He’s dancing.” Her face glowed as she said it. “George went to look in on the children. It was kind of you, Agatha, to open the nursery for them.”
“It wouldn’t do to have bored children underfoot. They have their nursemaid to tend them.”
“Of course, of course. But I wanted to just take a peek, and George wished to spare me the steps.”
The music changed to a country dance as Sonya watched Hester Dobbs slip into the room. In her black dress, her hair loose and free, she walked to where a servant arranged some little cakes on a plate.
She added another to it, frosted in dark red with a gold crown topping it.
Turning, she smiled at Sonya as the servant walked to Agatha and offered her the plate.
“You can’t stop what was, what is.”
Maybe not, but she could try.
Even as Sonya rushed across the room—why did it feel like she swam through syrup?—Agatha lifted the red cake to her lips.
Sonya struggled her way through the dancers. She felt the heat from their bodies, caught the scent of perfume. One of the women stumbled a bit as Sonya pushed by her.
But Agatha was already on her feet, a hand to her throat as she fought for air.
Beside her, Jane levered herself up, called for water.
Water wouldn’t help, Sonya thought. Agatha slid to the floor, eyes wild. Her body shook; the heels of her wedding shoes drummed on the floor.
Owen ran to her, dropped down to pull her into his arms.
No, she couldn’t stop it, Sonya thought as she watched the life begin to drain out of the bride’s eyes.
Women screamed; one fainted.
