The morning sun tried to push through the heavy velvet curtains of the Alworth drawing room, but the atmosphere inside was cold as ice. There was no warmth here. There was only the heavy, suffocating silence of a family on the brink of collapse.
Lord Alworth sat in his high-backed armchair. He was usually a calm man, a man who cared about his club and his horses. But today, his face was a deep shade of purple. His hands shook as he held the morning newspaper. The paper crinkled loudly in his grip, the sound like dry bones breaking.
Priscilla stood in the center of the room. She was still wearing the same dress she had been thrown out in. It was wrinkled now, and the hem was stained with mud from her run to the carriage. Her hair was a mess, the expensive pins hanging loosely from her blonde curls. She looked small. She looked terrified.
