Her stockinged feet slid to a halt on the carpet, nearly catapulting her arse-over-teakettle upon sight of the scene inside. Someone new was in the parlor again. No… someone old.
“Papa?” she stuttered in wondrous disbelief.
But of course it was Papa. Ten years might pass, twenty, thirty, but she would recognize him anywhere. The same shock of graying hair, the same ruddy cheeks and animated features, the same too-bright eyes that always seemed lit from within. Right now, those eyes were focused on Grandmother.
She did not appear thrilled at her son’s renewed presence in their home. She looked disgusted with him. Furious. She was on her feet before him, her pale hands curving into claws at her thin sides. Even out of the oversized chair she spent her days in, Grandmother was dwarfed by his presence. But she wasn’t backing down.
“How dare you,” she snarled, regal despite obvious anger. “Why the devil are you here?”
The only times Priscilla had ever heard her grandmother invoke the devil was when she was talking about her son.
Priscilla rushed over to position herself between them like a shield.
“He’s here to visit. To ensure everything is going to plan,” she said soothingly, only for a wonderful, terrible, miraculous idea to crowd out the rest. She spun to face her father, excitement racing through her veins like wildfire. “Or he’s come to fetch me early.”
His lively blue eyes wavered for only a moment before a smile overtook his face. “Daughter?”
Of course she was his daughter. But years had passed since he had seen her last. Her mourning dress was gone, as were her schoolgirl ringlets, and her innocence.
She was older now. Stronger, wiser. More experienced. More resilient. But still Priscilla.
“It’s me,” she said, her pleading voice breaking on the words. Recognize me. Love me.
Every time she’d imagined their reunion, Papa was always thrilled to see her. He would recognize her immediately and hold out his arms. She would rush into them as she always had done, and he would swing her around in joy before whispering, Send for your trunk. You’re coming with me.
Nothing was going to plan.
“You’re lovely,” Papa said, although this could not possibly be true. Her hair was half-curled and her slippers were somewhere upstairs but maybe, to a father, one’s daughter was always beautiful no matter what.
“She’s three-and-twenty,” Grandmother snapped. “A grown woman.”
“A grown woman,” he repeated, and seemed to rethink Priscilla’s words. His eyes crinkled affably. “Of course you’re welcome to come with me. Are you ready for adventure?”
Not precisely the way she’d imagined this conversation unfolding, but the important bits were there all the same. He was here. He’d come back. He wanted to take her with him.
Was she ready for adventure? She’d dreamt of nothing else her entire life.
“Aren’t you going to ask how she’s been all these years?” Grandmother snapped.
“Stop it,” Priscilla hissed.
“We’ll have plenty of time to chat on the journey,” Papa said, still staring at Priscilla as if he couldn’t quite credit the evidence standing before his eyes.
Grandmother glared down her nose at him. “What about her husband and three children?”
Papa’s jaw dropped in shock. “She’s married?”
“Of course I’m not married,” Priscilla spluttered. What sense would that make? Grandmother was trying to cause trouble for some reason. “Haven’t you been receiving my letters?”
The confusion cleared from her father’s face. “Oh, we’re not in Africa anymore. From there, we went to the Seychelles and then settled in India. Next, I’ve my eye on Brazil. Fascinating country.”
She had no doubt, although her head was spinning from everywhere he’d been, and she hadn’t even known. Her letters hadn’t come back. They were probably lying in a pile in some dusty post-house. Or in a fire, keeping the postmaster warm.
“Where’s Grandfather?” she asked.
Grandmother tensed, as if the answer would flay the flesh from her bones.
Priscilla gaped at her, startled. All that shouting… She’d assumed a row about Grandfather was at the heart of it. “You didn’t ask?”
