March 1778
Mary gazed in the mirror a moment before she threaded a dark ribbon through her graying hair. What happened to the young woman who attended her brother’s first wedding? The one whose brow wasn’t creased from worry, and didn’t have lines by her mouth?
George knocked on the bedroom door. “Hurry up, Mary. We’re all waiting for you.”
“Oh dear.” She grabbed her reticule off the bed and hurried out the door.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.