Now she would get to wear nicer gowns instead of ones that had been altered every year since she was fourteen. Although anxious to move ahead with her life, Priscilla especially wanted to get away from her father who was ruining the lives of every one of his children. She’d accepted a position as a ladies companion to the Dowager Duchess of Englewood. The jarring coach she’d been in for several hours now was gnawing on her already tattered nerves. Priscilla pulled her thoughts out of the past and to the present. If only she could have been lucky like her older sister, Lyndsey, who’d married the perfect wealthy man. She had become a spinster at the age of twenty-four. She experienced firsthand what it was like to have not one, but two men reject her outright and leave her heartbroken and desolate. William Congreve’s poem, The Mourning Bride, had been on Priscilla Benson’s mind for two years now. Northampton, England Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
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