“Father is Grandfather’s traveling companion,” she said. “They brought Koffi from Africa. Their lives are full of nothing but adventure.”
She expected Mr. Middleton to say, It would make a splendid biography.
“That must be hard on their wives,” he said softly instead. “And on you.”
To Priscilla’s horror, the backs of her eyes pricked with heat and she quickly glanced away.
No one had ever acknowledged the impact on Priscilla. She had a home. She had “good blood.” She had a parrot. What did she possibly have to complain about? A child cannot understand real loss, as Grandmother was fond of saying.
Perhaps that was why she heard herself say, “Grandmother never left the house again.”
At first, it was because she wanted to be home to greet her husband, whenever he might return. When that didn’t happen, she focused all her attention on her young son, who grew to be the spitting image of his father in every way.
When Papa left to join his father on adventure, leaving a pregnant young wife at home, Grandmother could not leave the house to visit in sympathy—so she welcomed her daughter-in-law into her home instead.
It was as if, even then, Grandmother knew the men would not return.
Mother hadn’t known it. She thought she was different. Pretty enough. Doting enough. Pregnant enough to cause him to stay, if only for a while.
They didn’t even come home for the funeral.
“Mother died of a broken heart,” Priscilla said at last. It was close enough to the truth. “When I go adventuring, I will take care not to leave anyone who loves me behind.”
That was the dual danger of a husband. Either he would leave her first, off on adventure… or when Priscilla came home from hers, she would find only a carved stone to mark his memory.
Mr. Middleton’s warm brown eyes did not waver from hers.
“After all that,” he said softly, “You still mean to go adventuring?”
She nodded, the movement jerky. Of course she meant to go. Had been dreaming of the day ever since she was a small child. She couldn’t wait to set out. Adventuring must be the very best thing in all the world. What other reason could there be for Papa and Grandfather to leave her behind?
“I made a promise,” she said. “I’m taking Koffi to Baoulé to see his native homeland.”
Koffi flapped his wings. “Goodbye, my love! ¡Adios, mi amor! Merde!”
The misquote didn’t make her smile. It never did. It was how she would feel in the moment if her best friend chose to fly away.
“That… sounds like an incredible adventure,” Mr. Middleton admitted. “Well worth a biography.”
“Not yet,” she said with a crooked smile. “So far, I haven’t been anywhere but London.”
“I didn’t mean you,” he assured her. “Koffi has a heart-rending tale of being wrenched from his homeland, only to be returned by the one person who loves him most. He’s also a gorgeous specimen, and a stunning conversationalist, what with his command of three languages.”
She lifted her chin. “Who do you think taught him those languages?”
“Not a girl,” he said in horror, “obviously. It would hurt their little brains to think of anything other than bonnets and buttons. As I say to all my friends at the Wicked Duke, Oxford would be far better off admitting parrots than to open its doors to the likes of—”
She shoved his chest with a laugh. “Vaya al diablo, hijo de—”
“Oh, your words! How they wound!” He clutched his heart, crushing his cravat in the process. “Je ne suis qu'un pauvre garçon. Ma langue n'est pas aussi sage que mon cœur.”
She narrowed her eyes, then growled in defeat. “Too fast. Say it again?”
He waved a careless hand. “Nothing, nothing. Just some drivel about the fog and… how fog-like the fog can be. Especially in London.”
“I mean it.” She stepped closer. “I can read French almost as well as English, but I’ve never heard anyone but myself pronounce it.”
“And Koffi,” he reminded her. “He can hear you.”
