Felicity's wedding day dawned bright and clear. She happened to notice this because she was wide awake long before the sun had even peeked over the horizon. Sitting up against the headboard of her bed, she drew her knees up to her chest and clutched them tightly. In the feeble morning light she could see the golden dress hanging on a peg across the room and looking like just one more elegant accessory to this golden room.
Shivering slightly, she pulled the quilt up over her shoulders, even though she knew her chills were not caused by the temperature. She shivered because she was afraid, more mortally afraid than she had ever been in her entire life. In a few hours scores of total strangers would descend on the ranch to witness her marriage to a man she hardly knew. Tonight she would no longer sleep in this golden room, alone. Tonight she would sleep with Mr. Logan in his bedroom next door. And tonight he would do that awful thing to her again.
But it wasn't awful if you were married, she reminded herself sternly. And, she admitted reluctantly, it wasn't even awful if you weren't. Every night since it had happened she had awakened from tormented dreams, her body damp and aching, longing for something she could not even name. She did not dare to let him know her longing, though. Instead, whenever he came close, whenever he tried to take her in his arms, she resisted. She could not allow him one single kiss because even one kiss was more temptation than she could bear. If she gave him her mouth, she would give him everything, and that would be wrong. She simply could not allow it, not again, not until they were married.
Tonight they would be married. Felicity shivered again. Maybe now the quarrels would end, the quarrels that frightened her almost as much as thoughts of the wedding. Mr. Logan's angry voice insisting, "We'll be married in a few days! What will it hurt?" and then, "We'll be married tomorrow, for God's sake!" and her insisting right back, "But we aren't married yet!" Then the fear would come, the fear that he would call the whole thing off. Sometimes he was so angry that she wondered why he didn't, why he didn't just send her away and be done with her.
She supposed he would be embarrassed to call off the wedding after everyone already knew about it. That was the only explanation that made any sense to her. The idea that he might want her, specifically, as his wife was too preposterous even to consider. As exciting as making love with him had been for her, she knew he could easily find a much more exciting woman to take her place. Hadn't Mrs. Delano already indicated her willingness? There surely must be many others whom Felicity had not met. She found the thought extremely depressing.
But in spite of everything, he was still going to marry her today. She had to keep reminding herself of that. As Joshua Logan's wife, she need fear nothing ever again. She would never be alone or poor or hungry or lost. And he would protect her. She would never again have to look over her shoulder to see if someone was following her. She would have a home, and she would have Mr. Logan to take care of her. That was more than she had ever hoped for. She should have been grateful.
But if only she could have his love, too. She understood only too well that the ache she felt for his physical body was just a symptom of her craving for his affection. Unless he cared for her, unless he loved her the way a man loves a woman, she would always be alone and poor and hungry and lost, no matter what luxuries surrounded her.
"Please, God," she whispered into the morning stillness.
Blanche Delano was as good as her word. She arrived soon after the breakfast tray that Candace had delivered to Felicity's room.
"Good Lord, girl, you're as white as a sheet!" Blanche exclaimed the instant she entered Felicity's room. "Lucky thing I brought along some rouge. We'll have you fixed up in no time."
"Rouge!" Felicity said, shocked to her core. "I couldn't paint my face!"
"Of course you could. Everyone does it," Blanche informed her blandly. "Is this your dress?" She paused a moment to examine the garment. Blanche herself was clothed in a stately gown of deepest burgundy crepon, a heavy, crinkled crepe fabric, and a matching velvet hat that tied primly beneath her chin.
"Did you make this all yourself?" Blanche asked, obviously impressed as she spread the intricate folds of the skirt.
"Candace helped," Felicity said. Candace had to help. Making such a dress in so brief a time was simply too big a job for one person.
"I can't wait to see how it looks on you," Blanche said. "But first we'll concentrate on fixing up that face of yours so folks won't think you're scared to death of poor ol' Joshua."
Felicity winced, but Blanche did not seem to notice. Between Blanche and Candace, they got her bathed and combed and curled and dressed by the time the first wagon-loads of guests began to arrive. Once again Felicity knew frustration as she tried to view herself in the small mirror over the washstand.
"You look like a picture in Godey's Lady's Book," Blanche decreed.
Felicity had never seen Godey's Lady's Book, but she knew she looked like a picture. She could hardly believe the lovely young woman staring back at her from the mirror was Felicity Storm. Blanche had insisted on trimming the hair around her face and crimping it with a curling iron until it formed a burnished halo around her head. The face she was accustomed to seeing looked different, too. Her eyes seemed to be larger and a deeper shade of blue, and her cheeks were unnaturally rosy, although Blanche's rouge could be blamed for that.
The dress itself was nothing short of magnificent. Encased in its crisp folds, Felicity felt like a princess. The bodice hugged her tiny waist and fit tightly over the small breasts that Blanche's skillful lacing of her corset had lifted to prominence. The yards and yards of skirt flared out and down, draped into a tidy bustle in the back. Felicity's collar and cuffs were trimmed in golden brown velvet, as soft as bunny fur, and velvet flounces edged her voluminous skirt.
Felicity touched one of the velvet-covered buttons that ran down the front of her bodice, recalling how she had covered them by lamplight, her head pounding from eyestrain as she and Candace raced the clock to have the dress ready in time. Now the effort seemed worthwhile. Felicity Storm might not deserve to marry a man like Mr. Logan, but at least today she would look as if she did.
Felicity spun happily to face Blanche, who beamed her approval. "Well now, do you need any last-minute wedding-night instructions, or has Joshua already taught you everything you need to know?" Blanche inquired with her usual frankness.
Felicity gaped at the older woman in horror and guilt, the scarlet in her face no longer the result of cosmetic enhancement. Felicity realized instantly that she had revealed her shame, that she should have pretended innocence instead, but it was too late for such subterfuge. Blanche knew the truth.
"I see," Blanche murmured to herself. "There now, don't look so worried. You won't get any lectures out of me. Here, sit down. I reckon there's still a few things you need to know." Blanche directed her to sit on the edge of the bed, helping her spread her skirts so they would not wrinkle. "And don't look so guilty. I doubt Joshua wasted much time talking you into it, or even getting your consent, for that matter."
"He didn't force me," Felicity said, answering some perverse need to defend her betrothed. "I didn't fight or scream." Felicity watched her hands twisting in her lap so she would not have to see Blanche's reaction to such an infamous confession.
"Of course not," Blanche said softly, gently patting Felicity's shoulder. "You probably wanted it, too."
This brought Felicity's face up, her startled blue eyes meeting Blanche's green ones. Instead of the condemnation she had expected, she saw only kindness.
"Listen, honey, you'll have to do worse than that to shock me. Maybe I should tell you about myself before you start feeling too guilty. I was born in a whorehouse." She did not seem to hear Felicity's gasp of horror. "I grew up there, and when I was fifteen, ray mother turned me out to whore, too. I'd been working in a dance house for a couple months, one of those places where they have cribs in the back. Do you know what a crib is?"