Four Weddings and a Sixpence Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Something Old by Julia Quinn Prologue

  Something New by Stefanie Sloane Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Something Borrowed by Elizabeth Boyle Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Something Blue by Laura Lee Guhrke Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  . . . and a Sixpence in Her Shoe by Julia Quinn Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Also by the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Something Old

  Julia Quinn

  Prologue

  Kidmore End

  nr. Reading

  April 1818

  Madame Rochambeaux’s Gentle School for Girls was, as the name might suggest, not rigorous. Pupils received two hours of lessons per day, followed by dance, music, or drawing, depending on the day of the week. The girls did not receive instruction in the classical languages, as their brothers routinely did at Eton and Harrow, but they were required to know the names of the major Greek and Latin writers so that, as Madame Rochambeaux frequently pointed out, they should not look silly at a dinner party if the topic arose.

  That was the crux of the curriculum, really. Things that will make you not look silly at a dinner party. Miss Beatrice Heywood, who had been boarding at Madame Rochambeaux’s since the age of eight, had once suggested it as the school’s motto.

  This was not met with glad reception.

  Bea had never much minded the lack of Latin and Greek, but she really wished that Madame Rochambeaux would see fit to hire a tutor for the sciences, stargazing in particular. When she was home, or rather her aunts’ home—she didn’t have one herself—she loved to lie on her back in the garden at night and stare at the skies. All of her pin money had gone toward the purchase of a book of astronomy, and she was trying to teach herself, but she was certain she’d have a much easier time of it with someone who actually knew what they were doing.

  Not to mention a telescope.

  Miss Cordelia Padley had been at Madame Rochambeaux’s almost as long as Bea, having arrived at the age of nine. She was not an orphan, although with her father halfway across the world in India, she might well have been. Unlike Bea, Cordelia was a great heiress and arrived at school in possession of twelve day dresses and four pairs of shoes, which was precisely four times as many dresses as Bea, and twice the shoes. Luckily for them both (since they were to share a room for a full nine years) Cordelia’s heart was as kind as her wallet was fat.

  Two years later another bed was fitted into the dormer room, and much to the surprise of everyone, the Lady Elinor Daventry moved in. Madame Rochambeaux’s was a respectable school, reasonably well regarded, but it had never boasted an actual lady among its ranks before. Lady Elinor was the only daughter of an earl, and no one—not even Ellie—understood why she’d been sent to Madame Rochambeaux’s school when all of her Daventry cousins had been educated in Berkshire, at the exclusive Badminton School for Proper Ladies. Prior to her days at Madame Rochambeaux’s, Ellie had had the services of a governess—an elegant and enigmatic French émigré, with blood rumored to be as blue as that of the Daventrys. (No one knew for sure, and Mademoiselle de la Clair did nothing to diffuse the air of mystery that wafted about her like a fine perfume.)

  If the fair mademoiselle was not precisely up to snuff as a teacher of English history and literature, she more than made up for it with her delicious Parisian accent, and by the time she was six, Ellie spoke like a native. Which was why it surprised no one that, when she learned that Madame Rochambeaux had been born in Limoges, she eagerly greeted her new headmistress with a lilting torrent of French.

  Madame Rochambeaux replied in the same language, but only just.

  Perplexed, Ellie tried again. Perhaps the older woman was hard of hearing; she did look rather ancient. At least forty.

  But Madame Rochambeaux just grunted out her answer—a rather badly pronounced je ne sais quoi—and then announced she was needed elsewhere.

  Limoges was never mentioned again.

  “What on earth have we been learning?” Cordelia wondered, back in their room after Ellie’s first day of lessons.

  “I don’t know,” Bea muttered, “but I don’t think it’s been French.”

  “Combien de temps avez-vous étudié le français?” Ellie asked.

  “I know what that means,” Bea announced, pleased and relieved that she understood a question as simple as How long have you studied French? Unfortunately her reply—“Depuis que je suis un éléphant” was not quite the answer she’d been going for.

  Eventually the group of friends managed to piece together the secrets of Madame Rochambeaux’s past. Sadly, there was nothing scandalous to be found, just a letter from her sister advising that she take on a French name to sound more genteel.

  Miss Anne Brabourne, who had arrived two years after Ellie, was the one to discover the truth.

  “I don’t see why she changed her name,” Anne said as they sat on their beds after supper. “Who wants to sound French these days?”

  “Everyone,” Cordelia said, laughing. “The war’s been over for ages.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she bit her lip and gave Ellie a quick glance, as did the others, while Ellie pretended a sudden great interest in the buckle on her shoe. None of the girls fully understood the rumors that swirled around Ellie’s family, just that they involved her father and some things he may have done during the war.

  “Sorry, Ellie,” Cordelia said after a moment.

  Her friend looked up and managed a smile. “It’s all right, Cordelia. I can’t expect the world to stop talking about the war just because of malicious and untrue gossip.”

  “Still,” Bea said, wisely veering the topic away from Ellie’s father, “the fact remains that Madame Rochambeaux is, in actual fact, Miss Puddleford of East Grinstead, Sussex.”

  They all paused to absorb this. Or rather, reabsorb. They’d found the letter two days earlier. It was a testament to the monotony of boarding school life that they were still talking about it.

  “That fact may remain,” Anne put in, “but what are we going to do with that fact?”

  “I like Madame Rochambeaux,” Cordelia said.

  “So do I,” Ellie said. “Her French is dreadful, but other than that, she’s been quite lovely.”

  Anne shrugged. “I suppose if my name were Puddleford, I should want to be a Rochambeaux, too.”

  They all looked at Bea, who nodded. “She’s been very kind to me over the years,” she said.

  “How odd that we’ve expended so much energy in search of the truth, and now we’re just going to leave it be,” Ellie said.

  “The pursuit of knowledge, and all that,” Anne quipped. She flopped back on her bed. “Ow.”

  “What?”

  “Something poked me.”

&
nbsp; Bea leaned over. “It’s probably the sharp end of a feather.”

  Anne grumbled under her breath as she used her bottom to refluff the mattress.

  “You look ridiculous,” Ellie said.

  “It feels like a bloody quill. I’m trying to get it back into the mattress.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Bea said. “Let me help you.”

  Together they removed the sheets from the mattress and felt along until they found the offending feather.

  “Can you grasp it?” Anne asked. “I just trimmed my nails, and I can’t pinch anything.”

  “I can try.” Bea frowned in concentration. The shaft was just barely poking through the mattress fabric. “I think it might be easier to push it back in.”

  “So that it might rise up again and stab her in the night,” Ellie chortled.

  Anne shot her a mildly disgruntled look, turning back when Bea murmured, “That’s odd.”

  “What?”

  “There’s something in your mattress. I think it’s a”—she palpated the object through the fabric—“a coin.”

  “A coin?” That was enough to get all the girls off their beds.

  “In Anne’s mattress?” Cordelia said. “How odd.”

  “Heaven only knows how old this mattress is,” Anne said. “It could be a Spanish doubloon.”

  Ellie arched her neck for a better look, not that there was anything to see. “That could keep you in tea for the rest of your life.”

  “How are we going to get it out?” Cordelia asked.

  Anne frowned. “I think we’ll have to cut it.”

  Cordelia looked at her in shock. “Cut the mattress?”

  “There’s no other way. It shouldn’t be difficult to sew it back up when we’re done.”

  Indeed it wouldn’t. All four girls were handy with a needle. That, at least, had been on Madame Rochambeaux’s curriculum.

  And so an expeditionary party was dispatched to the kitchen for a knife, and ten minutes later, Anne was holding in her hand not a Spanish doubloon but a rather ordinary sixpence. “It will keep me in tea for a week, at least,” she said.

  “More than that, I should think,” Bea said, taking the coin from her. “It looks very old.” She brought it near her lantern and squinted her eyes. “That’s Queen Anne on it. This is more than a hundred years old.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean my mattress is more than a hundred years old,” Anne said with a queasy frown.

  “Oh, here’s the date,” Bea continued. “Seventeen-eleven. Do you suppose it’s worth more than a sixpence? Perhaps to someone who collects coins?”

  “I doubt it,” Cordelia said, coming over to look at it. “But Anne can save it for her wedding.”

  Anne looked up. “What?”

  “Surely you know the rhyme. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue—”

  “—and a sixpence in her shoe,” Ellie and Bea chimed in, joining Cordelia in the recitation.

  “You wear the sixpence in your shoe during the ceremony,” Ellie said. “It’s supposed to bless the marriage with wealth.”

  “My mother did it,” Cordelia murmured.

  The group paused to take stock of that. Cordelia’s parents had not been wealthy at the time of their marriage; it had been an unexpected inheritance three years later that had provided the family with their riches.

  “I wonder what would happen if you put the sixpence in your shoe before you got married,” Cordelia said.

  “You’d get a blister,” Bea said smartly.

  Cordelia rolled her eyes in return. “Maybe it would help you find your husband.”

  “A lucky engagement sixpence?” Ellie asked with a smile.

  “If that’s the case,” Anne announced, scooping the coin back from Bea, “then I’m holding on to it. You all know I need to marry before I turn twenty-five.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Cordelia said. “You’ve ages. You’re barely fourteen.”

  “It’s highly unlikely you would still be unmarried by the time you turn twenty-five,” Ellie said reasonably. “If your uncle had decreed eighteen, or even twenty-one, that would be a different story.”

  “Yes, but he must approve the match. And he’s so dreadfully dull. I cannot even imagine what sort of man he’ll force upon me.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t force you . . .” Bea murmured.

  “I won’t be tied up and trussed at the altar, if that’s what you mean,” Anne said. “But it will feel like it.”

  “One of us should take it first,” Cordelia protested. “We’re older.”

  It was true; Anne was the baby of the bunch, nearly a year younger than Ellie and two years behind her other roommates. As such she’d had to learn to speak up for herself, and she did not pause before looking Cordelia straight in the eye and saying, “Finders keepers, I’m afraid. I need it more.”

  “All right,” Cordelia capitulated, because she knew it was true. “But if it works, you must promise to give it to one of us after you’re married.”

  “We’ll use it in turns,” Ellie added.

  “You’re all mad,” Bea said.

  “You’ll think differently when we’re all married and you’re still living with your aunts,” Ellie warned.

  “Fine. If you all marry before me, I will put that silly coin in my shoe and leave it there until I find my true love.”

  “Deal?” Cordelia asked with a grin.

  Ellie placed her hand atop Cordelia’s. “Deal.”

  Anne shrugged and joined in. “Deal.”

  They all looked at Bea.

  “Oh, very well,” she said. “I suppose I must, since I’m the one who suggested it.” She put her hand atop Anne’s, and then for good measure, slid her other hand below Cordelia’s.

  “Deal.”

  Something New

  Stefanie Sloane

  Chapter 1

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Almost ten years later . . .

  Miss Anne Brabourne’s dedicated quest to find the ideal husband was proving difficult. Standing at the edge of the Marchioness of Lipscombe’s ballroom, she took a small sip of ratafia and watched the dancers before her, the ladies’ gowns brilliant swirls of color in contrast to the men’s somber evening attire as the couples executed a waltz. Nearly five years after her debut, Anne wondered if “difficult” was indeed the right word. She feared “impossible” would soon apply to her situation.

  She deposited her cup on the tray of a passing footman and moved toward the far end of the room where her chaperone, Lady Marguerite Stanley, held court. Smiling at acquaintances as she passed, Anne directed her steps toward her chaperone, slowing as she drew near. Marguerite was engaged in lively conversation with a handful of her dearest friends. Reassured the older woman was well occupied, Anne swept her gaze over the crowd.

  Along the far wall, pocket doors were pushed wide to extend the space and invite guests to circulate. With swift movements, Anne exited the ballroom for the much less crowded hallway beyond the doors and moved purposefully toward the residence’s more private rooms.

  The sounds of laughter, conversation, and strains of music grew less intrusive, fading to a murmur as she moved deeper into the house.

  A door stood partially ajar, the warm light within beckoning her, and she paused to peer inside. Searching for occupants, Anne eyed the library and found the chairs arrayed before the imposing desk at one end empty. Directly across from her, a fire burned in the hearth beneath a graceful Adams mantel. Braces of candles glowed atop tables to her left and right but she saw no one. Satisfied she was alone, Anne stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  Blessed silence engulfed her. She exhaled with relief, the tension in her neck easing as she relaxed.

  “Woof.”

  Startled, Anne’s gaze searched the room for the source of the sound. A large dog was stretched out on the wide hearth rug, nearly blending into the rich, dark hues of his makeshift bed. Ears up, e
yes alert, he watched her with tail-wagging interest but no alarm.

  “Hello there,” Anne said in welcome to the large mastiff. “You surprised me.”

  The big dog’s tail moved faster, thumping against the thick rug in welcome.

  Anne laughed softly and crossed the room. Ignoring the leather armchair, she sank down on its matching footstool.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, too,” she said softly.

  She unbuttoned and stripped off one long glove before holding out her hand.

  The mastiff sniffed her fingers, his breath warm against her palm. When he gave her a brief, approving sweep of his tongue, she chuckled again, charmed by his welcome.

  “Are you all alone?”

  He butted his head against her hand and she obliged his silent request. Smoothing her fingers over his head, she scratched him gently behind his ears.

  “I will see to your ears as long as you promise to not scold me for taking a respite from my mission. Agreed?”

  The dog woofed again, tilting his head to the side in a questioning manner.

  “Ah yes, I forgot. You are not familiar with said mission.” She bent closer and rubbed his silky hair. “In short, I must find a husband. And not just any husband,” Anne added, smiling as the dog sighed with pleasure. “He must leave me be to do as I please—an impossible attribute in a man, if the last five years have taught me anything. Oh, and I must find him before I turn twenty-one—which is in less than six weeks.”

  Anne absentmindedly folded her hands in her lap and the dog huffed, nosing at her entwined fingers. “You might wonder why I bother at all,” she continued, the oddness of discussing her private affairs with a mastiff beginning to wane. “Well, I’ve no choice. My well-meaning but misguided uncle insists I marry by my twenty-first birthday or I shall be packed off to the country, never to be heard from again.”

  The dog shifted and dropped his large head in her lap, eyeing her judgingly.

  “You’re right, I am being overly dramatic,” Anne admitted. “Thank you. I needed reminding.”