Chapter 27 #2
Wrapping the leather cord around the pencil case, she tucked it into her satchel. “Apparently, Mr. Winwood requires security as much as I do, and practicality is guiding his choices as much as they are mine. He needs a wife with a dowry, and I no longer meet that requirement.”
Color flooded Mina’s cheeks, and Thea glanced between them and the abandoned nosegay of flowers Mr. Winwood had brought for the lady.
“So yes, I will marry Mr. Godwin. At least he wants me on his arm.” Phoebe straightened, her expression hardening as though it were the only way to keep from breaking again as she tucked the last of her things into the satchel.
“You would marry someone you despise?” Mina’s brows pulled low, her eyes boring into the other’s.
“Don’t you dare judge me, Miss Ashbrook,” replied Phoebe in frigid tones.
“Your future is secure. Mine is not, and no matter what path I choose, I will be little more than a servant or drudge, but at least I will have some semblance of freedom if I marry. Beyond my wifely duties, I will be my own mistress with a household to command, and a husband cannot turn me out like an employer or sibling.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Phoebe’s posture straightened, and she clasped her hands before her. “Besides, Mr. Godwin knew my feelings and my financial situation and was still willing to accept me. All in all, not the worst of my choices.”
Yet there was a grimness to her tone that had Thea stepping closer, and despite her better judgment, she couldn’t help adding her pleas to Mina’s.
“You cannot bind yourself to a man you despise,” she said softly, stepping nearer.
Phoebe’s jaw tightened, but Thea pressed on, her voice trembling, “At least give yourself time. You needn’t rush into a decision.
You may stay here if you like, for Papa would not object, and you know Mama adores you.
It would give you space to think—to decide what you truly want. ”
That was met by a brittle laugh, though no amusement touched Phoebe’s eyes.
“And instead of leeching off my sisters, I would leech off you? What would that accomplish beyond letting Mr. Godwin slip from my fingers? A few weeks of borrowed comfort before I must face the same fate again? I have spent weeks waiting for my brother to fix matters, and I am done allowing others to decide my fate. This may be a wretched decision, but at least it is mine to make.”
Her words struck Thea like a blow. She wanted to argue, to insist there must be another path, but the defeated set of Phoebe’s shoulders stopped her. Beneath the defiance, she saw exhaustion—bone-deep and unrelenting—and it terrified her to see how broken her indomitable friend was.
Then, leaning close, Phoebe added in a low voice, “And if you were wise, you would surrender this foolish hope for Frederick. Do not waste years pining. That future is gone. Life never resolves the way we wish it to, and there is peace in accepting that.”
For a long moment, Thea could not move. Phoebe’s words hung between them, cold and heavy, sinking deep into the space where hope had already begun to fray.
Then, with a stiff lift of her chin, Phoebe slung the satchel onto her shoulder, tucked her drawing board under her arm, and turned toward the path.
The sharp sound of her steps cut through the hush of the garden, scattering the fallen petals along the stones, and Thea simply watched as Phoebe walked away, her figure straight and unyielding, even as the trembling in her hands betrayed her.
At the edge of the terrace, Phoebe paused only long enough to steady her breath before continuing on, vanishing behind the curve of the hedgerow without a backward glance.
Thea remained rooted in place, her pulse thrumming painfully in her throat.
Those parting words echoed through her until the very sun above seemed to dim.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself to breathe, but all she could feel was the chill Phoebe had left behind—an awful, creeping dread that her friend’s hopelessness might not be wrong.
For a long while, neither spoke. Mina sat very still, her hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the place where Phoebe had been as the distant lowing of sheep from the meadow and the hum of bees threading through the lavender filled the silence.
“Do you think she’ll truly do it?” Mina asked at last.
“Yes,” Thea whispered.
A breeze stirred the papers on the table, lifting the edges so that they fluttered like startled birds.
Thea reached out to still them, her fingers brushing against a smear of color—violet, once bright, now dulled to a grayish blue beneath the sun.
The paints were drying fast, and the scent of them mingled with the sweetness of the garden air.
It all felt strangely fragile: the afternoon light, their friendship, even hope itself.
“She didn’t mean it,” Mina said softly. “About Frederick.”
Thea nodded, though the words still stung.
“She’s frightened. It makes people cruel,” Mina added.
“Yes.” Thea’s voice was small. “It does.”
Around them, the garden murmured with the rustle of leaves, the soft thrum of summer, but that vibrant feel of life and vitality seemed distant now, unreachable.
A cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the light on the table, and Thea stared down at her painting, the colors dull and lifeless beneath the sudden shade.