AllFreeNovel
Share Us
When Timothy awoke the next morning, the man’s prediction had come true. Fat, wet snowflakes drifted past the window. He’d have to hurry if he were to make it to the next posting inn by nightfall. He could hear Bea scolding him for his decision to travel on horseback rather than by coach, but he was in no mood for sharing his journey with strangers.
As his horse plodded along at an even pace, the snow changed from fat flakes to stinging ice.
Brittle as a heart betrayed by passion, the sleety mix crunched against the horse’s hooves. Pellets bit into Timothy’s cheeks, and he wrapped his scarf around his face, covering his mouth. His fingers began to numb beneath his calf-leather gloves, and he flexed them to drive more blood to his extremities.
Before long, the snow whipped fast and furious, coming at him in a blinding sideways slash.
Unsure how far he’d already traveled, he began searching for shelter, or at least a home where he could obtain information about the nearest inn. A pristine blanket of white covered the road, and he reined in the horse. He pulled out his pocket watch and gazed up at the sky to gauge his direction by the sun.
But all he saw was a white sheet of haze.
He urged his horse forward, hoping he remained on the road and would soon find shelter.
CHAPTER 2—WHEN DESTINIES COLLIDE
The sun had only begun peeking over the horizon when word arrived that Mrs. Wilson’s time to deliver had come. Priscilla dragged herself from her warm bed and washed her face while her lady’s maid, Lucinda, selected her gown.
“Not that one, Lucinda,” she said, pointing at the cream-colored muslin Lucinda held up for inspection. “The skirt has an unsightly stain.” She should have little concern about what the Wilson children thought of her gown, but even exiled to the country, Priscilla still prided herself on her appearance. Certain standards must be maintained.
Oh, it was vain, she admitted, but at least if she dressed the part, she could pretend she was amid London society. Why, once, she addressed a particularly stately ram as “my lord.”
Instead, Lucinda selected a lovely pale blue gown trimmed in delicate lace at the bodice and edges of the sleeves, and Priscilla nodded her approval. Once dressed, she preened before the mirror.
She executed a deep curtsy. “The waltz, my lord? How scandalous! But of course, I must accept.”
Lucinda snorted a laugh behind her. “Planning on giving the Wilson tykes a dancing lesson, miss?”
Priscilla shot her a quelling glance. Nancy, her abigail in London, would never have spoken so disrespectfully. Unfortunately, Nancy had refused to move to the country, preferring the city as much as Priscilla, and had sought employment in another household.
Although competent, Lucinda prided herself in her country roots, never failing to voice her opinion about London’s high society. Priscilla suspected her mother assigned Lucinda to her as further punishment for failing to secure a titled husband.
The woman followed Priscilla down the stairs, on her heels like a loyal bloodhound. However, Lucinda’s loyalty did not lie with Priscilla, but rather her mother. Priscilla couldn’t eat an additional biscuit without it being reported to her mother. Thank goodness Lucinda wasn’t accompanying her to the Wilsons’. A devilish idea rose in her mind. Perhaps, simply to spite Lucinda, Priscillawouldgive the Wilson children dancing lessons. At least her partner would be human.
“Don’t wake mother. Tell her I’ll have Mr. Wilson bring me home when they no longer have need of me.”
After boarding her family’s carriage, she settled against the squabs and dreamed of traveling to an elegant ball rather than playing nursemaid to three country bumpkin children.
* * *
Priscilla gazedout the window of Mrs. Wilson’s cottage. “Where is the midwife?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone. Mr. Wilson had left over an hour ago to fetch her.
Someone pulled at her skirt. Three pairs of blue eyes peered up at her, widening at the subsequent scream coming from the direction of their mother’s bedroom.
“Shush, children. Your mama will be fine.” Who was she trying to convince—the Wilson children or herself?
Two-year-old Molly stuck her thumb in her mouth and whimpered.
Priscilla knew she should comfort the child, but who would comforther? Why had she agreed to this nightmare?
The snow that had started soon after she’d arrived at the Wilsons’ continued to fall, increasing with intensity. She turned back to the window, hope rising in her chest. A lone rider approached, his head huddled down to shield himself from the frigid wind, white flakes covering the brim of his hat.
A gust of wind shot through the cottage as Mr. Wilson entered, shaking snow from his coat and hat.
“Mr. Wilson, where is the midwife?” Priscilla asked, her voice rising in pitch.
He moved to the hearth, holding his hands out to the radiating heat. “Can’t come.”
The tempo of Priscilla’s heart increased. “But the baby—it’s coming.”
