Priscilla sputtered a bit, then set down her cup and clasped her hands like a novice in church. “My life is over,” she whispered.
Georgie might have been far more concerned if this statement hadn’t been the opening line of almost every visit she’d had.
“How is that?” she asked equably, having long since learned that an air of calm saved much time and drama.
Priscilla let loose a pathetic little sob. Georgie waited patiently. Priscilla wasn’t one for show. Her pale little face was pinched and sad. Georgie knew that whatever it was, she would help the girl.
“Timothy,” Priscilla whispered, head down.
Now Georgie worried. “YourTimothy? The Squire’s son? What about him?”
Not dead, Georgie prayed. She’d met Timothy. He was everything Priscilla needed. Calm, certain, loving. And right next door.
Priscilla shook her head, still focused on her twining hands. “He is…lostto me.”
Georgie took a slow breath to keep from saying what she instinctively wanted to.Had he no compass? Could he not read the stars? I thought he was smarter than that.
“Lost how, Prissy?”
Finally, the girl looked up to expose huge, tear-swollen blue eyes. “My father,” she gulped. “He won’t...he has forbidden...”
Georgie sighed. Oh, dear. Not something as simple as a lost bracelet or ill-timedbillet doux,then. A real problem.
“He won’t allow you to marry Timothy.”
This time Priscilla shook her head so hard that two pins flew out of her tightly curled hair. “Oh, Georgie, what shall I do? My father has arranged a marriage for me to the Marquess of Coleford. I cannotmarry him. He’s so old! And he’spoor.” Now came a real sob. “And he...he lives in…Wales!!”
Oh, dear. Poor Priscilla. After being raised in London and Oxford, she must think Wales was comparable to the moon. Georgie could have told her that Wales was perfectly lovely. Wild and beautiful with a wonderful store of fairies, gnomes, and pixies to liven any fireside. But considering the woeful look on Priscilla’s face, Georgie suspected that pixies would never balance out a loss of home and society.
Georgie suspected that, given the challenge, Priscilla would do perfectly well anywhere she went. But she’d never been made to. Every minute she was not incarcerated in Last Chance Academy, she’d lived no more than two rooms away from her mother and younger sisters. Which meant that not only would she be miserable in a marriage that involved travel to Wales, her husband would be even more miserable.
Timothy, on the other hand, lived down the lane. A perfect distance for a committed homebody.
“I don’t suppose you have a lost bracelet you’d rather I find,” Georgie tried.
Priscilla hiccupped in surprise. “Pardon?”
Georgie waved her off. “Nothing. Merely thinking out loud. You have spoken to your father? He knows how worthy Timothy is?”
Priscilla also had a nice line of scowls when she wanted to. “Do you really think that my father would ever consider a squire’s son as worthy as amarquess?”
Georgie sighed. “Yes. Quite.” She thought a moment. “The Marquess of Whom again? I don't recognize the name.”
“Well,” Priscilla said, finally pulling out a handkerchief to mop her eyes. “Heisfrom Wales.”
“Yes, I see.”
“And he just returned from the army to take up his duties here. The inheritance was evidently a surprise.” Shockingly, she grinned. “Not a pleasant one either, from what I heard. He had evidently been perfectly happy on his horse, tromping about all over Spain. Now he must deal with leaky roofs, sick tenants, and mangel-wurzels. Whatever those are.”
Georgie actually knew. She sincerely doubted Priscilla cared.
“And all without sufficient funds,” Georgie said with a nod.
“Living on River Tick.”
Georgie chuckled. “Priscilla. What would Lady Chase say?”
For the first time, Priscilla chuckled right back. “That language is not up to the standards of Lady Chase’s Academy for Civilized Ladies,” she pronounced in an uncanny replica of the headmistress’s nasal voice.
