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The days followingPriscilla’s magical night with Timothy passed with both blinding speed and interminable slowness, the contradiction of which was not lost on Priscilla.
For the former, it seemed she could barely blink an eye, and her wedding day to Mr. Netherborne loomed one day closer.
And the dreary, priggish curate’s arrival in London was precisely the reason for the latter.
Each morning for the past two days, he appeared at her father’s townhouse promptly at nine o’clock, much earlier than was customary or proper.
Her mother dismissed the blunder, citing Mr. Netherborne’s ignorance of city manners.
Priscilla’s father hid behind his newspaper or excused himself to go to his club.
Would that she had such luxury.
Instead, she sat hours upon hours listening to Mr. Netherborne wax poetic about the benefits of physical mortification, which brought to mind her trick of pressing her nails into her palms to keep her awake.
Unfortunately, she performed the ritual so often little half-moons appeared to have permanently indented her skin.
The day before the wedding, Mr. Netherborne arrived even earlier to accompany them to Sunday service. As he sat beside her in the pew, nodding encouragingly at each word the vicar uttered, Priscilla’s mind drifted, imagining her wedding.
Seasonal flowers would drape the front pews, the fresh fragrance filling the nave.
Dressed in the beautiful pink gown decorated with tiny, embroidered rosebuds the modiste had artfully crafted, Priscilla would enter on her father’s arm. He would give her hand a little pat of encouragement and reassurance.
Then she would gaze up toward the transepts to see her groom waiting for her. Timothy would look so handsome in a perfectly cut superfine black tailcoat, a crisply starched white linen shirt, and an emerald-green waistcoat. There would be no dull browns or grays for him on their joyous day. The intricately knotted cravat would summon memories of her shaking fingers as she untied the cloth securing the shirt at his throat.
He would send her a tiny, secretive smile, conveying the promise of what lay ahead when they were alone later that night, sending a thrill of anticipation through her.
She sighed audibly at the image.
“Shush,” Mr. Netherborne admonished, poking her in the ribs with his bony elbow.
The beautiful bubble burst, drenching everything in a slimy miasma of disappointment.
When the vicar greeted them after the service and enquired as to their anticipation for the next day’s ceremony, she gave him a wooden smile, much like the dolls she had as a child—their painted lips cracked with the strain of overuse.
Wedged between her mother and Victor on the carriage ride home, she turned her gaze away from Mr. Netherborne, who occupied the rear-facing seat next to her father. Queasy unease roiled in her stomach at his stoic, censorious expression, and although she’d eaten a meager breakfast of toast, she feared she would cast up her accounts on Mr. Netherborne’s boots.
Victor leaned toward her, touching her hand, and whispered, “What is it? You look positively green.”
She shook her head, fearful if she opened her mouth to respond more than words would spill forth.
Mercifully, they arrived home without incident. Priscilla planned to make her excuses to her family and Mr. Netherborne and retire to her room, but before she had an opportunity, Digby stopped her.
“Miss, a package has arrived for you.”
“Oh, I wonder what it could be,” her mother said, all aflutter.
Brown paper covered the large, rectangular box with no name or address written on the wrapping.
Mr. Netherborne leaned in, eyes fixed on the package. “If you have ordered another new gown, you must curtail such frivolities after our nuptials. Frugality is imperative. Your frequent change in attire concerns me.”
“I didn’t order a new gown.” Priscilla hoped the dolt heard her muttered response. She turned toward the butler. “Are you certain this is for me? There is no name.”
“Yes, miss. A hackney driver delivered it. Said his instructions were to give it to you alone.”
After unwrapping and opening the box, Priscilla gasped at the sight of her blue cloak folded neatly inside. A piece of paper lay on top.
Her eyes darted to Victor’s.
