Chapter 28
The church bells fell silent, that bright sound dampened by the fine mist that hung in the air.
That teasing haze cut through cloaks and coats, digging its fingers into the very bones of the onlookers and filling the air with the pungent scent of wet wool.
Yet still, the parishioners remained, watching the church door.
After weeks of dry earth and wilting gardens as the rivers ran low and the mill wheels struggled to turn, the damp morning ought to be a blessed thing, but it wasn’t heavy enough to be of any good to anyone.
It was entirely useless and disappointing.
And appropriately melancholy, given the circumstances.
The parishioners stood scattered across the churchyard, cloaks drawn close and hats pulled low against the chill, though their discomfort did little to dampen their spirits.
A restless energy pulsed through the crowd, bright and humming, as though the gray sky itself could not smother their excitement.
Every few moments, someone turned toward the church porch, convinced they’d heard the creak of the great oak door, then the murmur would falter with their breath held in collective anticipation.
Tucked in the entry shelter, Phoebe and Mr. Godwin stood with her arm threaded neatly through his (as expectation demanded) whilst the parish brimmed with curiosity and gossip, and the couple’s stoicism was a jarring counterpoint to the eager hum that filled the churchyard.
Frederick’s stomach twisted as he watched them.
The air felt thick, as though something more than the fog filled his lungs with every breath.
This engagement wasn’t his doing, yet he couldn’t rid himself of the weight that pressed against his ribs as he watched the couple.
Father’s poor choices had set the course, but Phoebe had taken the next step, steady and certain, and now she stood with her future fastened neatly to Mr. Godwin.
The noise of the crowd seemed distant, muffled by the hollow in his chest, as Frederick watched the small, polite turn of Phoebe’s head when Mr. Godwin murmured something to her and the faint tightening of her jaw as her gloved hand rested lightly on the man’s sleeve.
“Phoebe could’ve done so much better than a rector, no matter how esteemed his patron,” murmured Mother, her tone as grim as the gray skies.
“It is her choice,” murmured Frederick, though the lady wasn’t listening.
Lifting her head higher, she fastened on a smile that was a touch strained and murmured, “Where is that wretched clerk?”
As though summoned by her frustration, the church door opened, and Mr. Loftus emerged with the curate on his heels, both men approaching the notice board.
The crowd immediately quieted, pressing closer to see the grand posting despite having heard the banns read aloud during church services, as was required; for all that this parish tradition held no sway in the eyes of the law, it was required in the eyes of Haverford.
With a few quick swings of a hammer, Mr. Loftus tacked the paper with the simple script, which proclaimed to all and sundry that which they had already known: Miss Phoebe Voss was to marry Mr. Samuel Godwin.
But all Frederick saw was the other announcement beside it, which, though blurred by its time in the mists, still bore the clear words that Mr. Frederick Voss was no longer the parish’s churchwarden—a fact they would’ve surmised when Mr. Keats, alone, was left to perform those duties during the service.
The moment the last nail was affixed, the crowd gave a cheer, surging forward as the couple emerged from the porch, arm-in-arm.
As Phoebe passed, her free hand reached out to grab her brother’s, and she drew her eyes to his with a faint smile that was filled with far too much resignation for Frederick’s peace of mind.
But Phoebe’s chin lifted, a spark of life flickering in her gaze once more as she faced the well-wishers.
Frederick walked beside his mother, the damp gravel shifting underfoot as they followed in the wake of his sister and future brother-in-law.
The crowd folded around them with effusive greetings as they passed the couple around the courtyard, each parishioner giving them their congratulations in turn, whilst the family trailed in their wake.
There were plenty of hearty handshakes and claps on the back for Mr. Godwin’s uncle, who accepted each one with the broad smile of a man utterly satisfied with the day’s proceedings.
His aunt, too, was in her element with quick and bright laughter as she declared how delighted the family was to welcome Miss Voss.
Even those who had never exchanged a word with the Godwins before were eager to engage them in conversation, leaning close with eager smiles and cheerful remarks.
While Mother—who was always the first to throw herself into the social fray—remained firmly at Frederick’s side.
She kept her chin high, nodding with cool civility, but it was impossible to ignore the stark difference between the Godwins’ reception and the Vosses’, for all the latter received was a smattering of muted comments about Phoebe’s good sense in making such a fine match.
And each encounter caused Mother’s hold on his arm to tighten.
Frederick focused on making his way through the throng, returning every bow and murmured greeting with as much steadiness as he could manage whilst the laughter and chatter echoed around them.
All their smiles were courteous, their bows respectful, yet beneath that civility lay the whisper of calculation.
“This is what comes from making our private affairs public,” whispered Mother. “None of this would have been necessary if you had simply held your tongue.”
Her words pricked like thorns, but Frederick said nothing.
He kept his gaze fixed on Phoebe’s bonnet bobbing through the crowd as he returned every greeting in kind, performing his role like a marionette.
The lychgate stood just beyond the crowd, mocking him with thoughts of escape.
Beyond it lay the open road, leading away from all of the whispers, glances, and polite pretense.
If he could only reach it, he might breathe again.
But between him and it stretched a sea of familiar faces, each one expecting their due.
Tradition was not something easily cast aside, and Frederick had done enough of that of late; he wouldn’t compound his family’s infamy by leaving before every parishioner was granted their opportunity to greet the “happy” couple and their families.
And then he saw her.
At first, it was only a flicker of color—those familiar blue ribbons affixed to her bonnet—but then the crowd shifted, and there she was, standing a little apart from the rest and half-shadowed beneath the branches of the yew, the sight bringing him back to the last time they had spoken beneath the shade of another tree.
Thea watched him without shame, meeting his gaze without blush or wilting. No feigning a distraction to hide her perusal or glance away. She simply stood there, holding him in her gaze and seeing through the polite mask he’d donned the moment his father’s lies were discovered.
The noise dulled to nothing, the ache in his chest eased, and the world righted itself.
Frederick saw not the slightly damp churchyard nor the sea of watching eyes, but the quiet brilliance of her smile, the tilt of her head when she teased him, the way her laughter drew the world in.
Frederick saw all those small, unremarkable moments that had littered their days, reminding him of all the many reasons he loved her.
And heaven help him, he still did. There was no hope or future in it, but neither was there any help for it. His heart cared not one jot for reason. It refused to accept the world as it was.
Gathering his strength about him, Frederick fixed his gaze upon the gate and the curve of the lane beyond it. Focus on the road ahead.
*
The moment lasted no longer than a heartbeat—so quick that Thea had to question herself whether it had happened—yet the world paused, the sounds and movement around her thinning to nothing.
The air itself felt suspended, the mist in the air hanging motionless, and the distance that had grown between them vanished.
And then the moment shattered. The noise returned in a rush, the crowd pressing close once more; Frederick turned his face away as though nothing had happened, and the space he left behind felt impossibly wide.
Had she imagined it? Thea drew a slow breath and forced her attention back to the gathering.
The mist had settled into that stubborn, clinging sort that was too light to require shelter yet too thick to ignore.
Water beaded on their bonnets and collars, but a bit of damp was nothing compared to the sanctity of tradition; rain or shine, scandal or no, the parish would have its ceremony, and heaven help anyone who stood in the way of it.
Thea couldn’t help the faint curve of her lips as she considered the ridiculousness of it all, but it vanished when she spied Phoebe.
The lady’s expression was perfectly composed, but there was a strain beneath the polish that couldn’t fool Thea’s keen eye; she saw the bleakness in Phoebe’s gaze and the life leech from her with each polite murmur of good fortune.
A knot formed low in Thea’s chest, tight and unyielding. The world may deem the match a triumph, but she hoped and prayed Phoebe wouldn’t regret it.
“I must say,” chimed a voice, cutting through Thea’s thoughts, “I never would have anticipated that Miss Voss’s banns would be posted first.”
Glancing to her right, Thea found Mrs. Hammerstone watching the couple with bright-eyed amusement.
“Everyone has been anticipating a Voss wedding for months, of course, but I daresay no one imagined it would be hers.” The lady gave a low laugh, soft but knowing.
“I always thought Miss Voss was far too particular to settle, yet here she is, marrying a man after a courtship so brief that no one was aware of it.”
Mrs. Hammerstone’s tone carried the lightness of gossip disguised as surprise, and she lowered her voice as a considering frown pulled at her lips.
“But I suppose it is sensible, what with the trouble they face. The poor dear hardly has another option, does she? Thank heavens you discovered the truth before you were trapped in that quagmire.”
For a heartbeat, Thea could scarcely breathe. The words hung in the damp air, as thick and heavy as the mist. She couldn’t tell if Mrs. Hammerstone meant to wound or was simply indulging that dreadful habit of turning another’s private sorrow into afternoon entertainment.
Regardless of her intention (mal or otherwise), Thea’s heart snapped taut.
Heat rose beneath her collar, sharp and sudden, flooding through her until her hands trembled; anger clawed its way upward, bright and ungovernable, burning with the fury of hearing Phoebe and Frederick’s anguish reduced to mere “trouble.” Words pressed against her lips, begging to be let loose, and Thea’s jaw tightened as she fought for restraint.
Frederick’s actions deserved commendation, not condemnation, and Phoebe’s situation ought to inspire sympathy, not speculation. So many of the gentry were only a bad harvest or poor investment away from becoming the Vosses, yet they treated this like a bit of sport, put on for their amusement.
Drawing in a measured breath, the damp air helped to cool her tongue.
There was nothing to be gained in responding—not for Frederick, not for Phoebe, and certainly not for herself.
It would only serve as fodder to feed the gossips, and they had glutted enough.
Still, it took every ounce of composure she possessed to keep her expression smooth, her chin lifted, her lips pressed into a polite, unmoving line as Mrs. Hammerstone prattled on beside her.
Thea turned her attention to the crowd, and when her gaze fell upon Mina, relief loosened some of the tightness in her chest. Though it was short-lived when she spied Mr. Winwood at the lady’s elbow.
For all that his expression exuded sunshine and joy as he babbled at her, Mina’s eyes met Thea’s with a silent plea for rescue.
Thank the heavens.
“I fear my cousin requires me,” said Thea, giving the lady at her side a nod before sweeping into the thick of things.
Mr. Winwood was in full performance, his voice carrying above the cheerful din.
He stood far too close to Mina, his head tipped toward her in what he no doubt believed was a charming manner, one gloved hand gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story that required no contribution from his listener.
Mina’s polite smile was fixed and thin, her gaze darting between him and the surrounding crowd like a cornered creature seeking escape.
Thea slipped in beside her cousin, and with a warmth that did not reach her eyes, she said brightly, “Mr. Winwood, I see you are availing yourself of my cousin’s company. Again.”