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“Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor and leave Priscilla to her package?” he said, doing his best to usher everyone away.
Her mother would have none of it. “Is that your cloak?” She reached for the note, trying to snatch it from Priscilla’s hand.
Victor grabbed their mother’s hand, holding her back. “Mother, it’s Priscilla’s. It’s rude to read someone else’s correspondence.”
Her mother frosted him with a glare.
With her fingernail, Priscilla broke the wax seal, which bore no imprint.
My dear Miss Pratt,
I apologize for the delayed return of the cloak you left in my safekeeping.
It is my fervent desire that its warmth gives you comfort on cold nights in Lincolnshire, most especially should you find yourself caught in a snowstorm.
Although the handwriting was unfamiliar, and the missive bore no signature, the message was unmistakable.
Or was it?
The unease she’d experienced on the ride from the church overpowered her again, this time manifesting in a light-headiness. “If you would forgive me, I feel rather tired.”
Her mother made a quick excuse, directing her comment to Mr. Netherborne. “It’s very common for young ladies to be overwhelmed with excitement the day before their wedding.”
Mr. Netherborne appeared neither concerned nor affronted. He simply nodded.
Digby held out his hands. “Shall I relieve you of the cloak, miss?”
She should allow him to store it, but she couldn’t bear to part with it just yet. “I wish to have Nancy brush it for me first.”
Everyone, except for Mr. Netherborne shot her a questioning glance. It was a request Digby could have handled for her. Yet, she didn’t care if she raised suspicion, and she raced upstairs to seclude herself in her bedroom.
Once she’d turned the lock, she pulled the cloak from the box and held it to her face. Hints of sandalwood mixed with the lemon verbena of her own perfume. She brought it to her nose and inhaled deeper.
How had Timothy’s heady scent permeated the fabric to mingle with her own? He must have held it close to him.
She read the note again, puzzled at the seemingly contradictory message.
Mention of Lincolnshire indicated he’d accepted her decision to marry Mr. Netherborne, but other words jumped from the paper as if vying for her attention.
Safekeeping.
Fervent desire.
Comfort on cold nights.
Caught in a snowstorm.
Was a secret message encapsulated in code?
Or was it merely the wishful thinking of her desperate heart?
Someone tapped lightly on her door, and she quickly deposited the cloak in the box, slipping the note within the folds of fabric, then slid it under her bed.
“Priscilla, it’s Mother.”
Ugh!
On leaden limbs, she trudged toward the door.. “What do you want?” she asked through the wooden barrier.
