Chapter 33
It was the sort of golden morning where the air hummed with the promise of warmth and sunshine whilst the dew lay thick upon the grass and trees, and the bright call of the skylark and lowing of the sheep rang across the hills.
A faint breeze cleared the mists from the fields of wheat, and their heavy heads bobbed, flashing hints of green that still clung to the base of the ripening stalk.
The sun crept over the rise, gilding the brick face of Dunsby Hall, yet the light did little to chase the heaviness that clung to the mortar.
The house stood solemn and still amid the bright fields, the quiet enveloping it like a funeral shroud as the tall chimneys reached into the morning sky like gravestones.
The death of a dynasty. The end of a legacy.
Thea stood at the edge of the drive, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of the house.
She had known this place her whole life, had walked its terraces and corridors as freely as her own, and yet in the stillness of this morning, it felt altered.
Not diminished but rather subdued, as though the house felt the weight of memory pressing into every beam and brick, mourning the lost future it was meant to have.
Drawing in a slow breath that was thick with the scent of dew and growing things, Thea made her way down the gravel drive and up the front steps. The great oak doors loomed ahead, and before she could lift her hand to the knocker, a servant greeted her.
“Good morning, William,” she said. “I am here to see Miss Voss.”
The footman bobbed a head in acknowledgement and stepped back to allow her in, which Thea took as a good sign despite the fact that the Vosses had avoided her presence of late.
As she crossed the threshold, the cool air of the entry met her with its all too familiar scent, and she felt for one strange moment as though she were walking into a memory rather than a home.
To one side sat several trunks, neatly stacked and awaiting their mistress’s carriage, and despite knowing what was to come, the sight struck Thea to the core.
Each piece was carefully arranged and perfectly ordered, ready for their grand farewell.
Though the servants likely did the majority of the work, she could well imagine Phoebe standing there, directing the packing with her emotions safely tucked out of sight as she oversaw what needed to be done.
Thea’s throat tightened, her hand resting atop the nearest piece for a quiet moment before embracing the strength Phoebe would wish her to have. The choice had been made, and it was time to get on with it; regrets cast a pall over even the loveliest of days, and this day was anything but.
Taking the familiar route, Thea climbed the stairs, both disappointed and grateful that Frederick was nowhere to be seen: today was not about them.
A quiet rap on the door, and Thea slipped inside to see the bride at her dressing table, her back straight and her face turned to the mirror, though her gaze was fixed on something far beyond it, her fingers absently fiddling with a hairpin.
The morning light pooled across the polished wood surface, scattering across the array of accouterments required to make her look her finest on that most important of days.
Phoebe did not glance up when the door opened, and for a long breath, Thea simply watched her friend, uncertain what to say or do.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” whispered Phoebe, her eyes finally focusing on Thea’s reflection. “I was so beastly to you the last time we spoke.”
“And I was afraid you would turn me away again,” she replied, punctuating it with a sad smile. “I didn’t know if you would wish for me to attend, but I knew I had to try. You are one of my dearest friends.”
“I haven’t been much of one of late.” Phoebe’s lips trembled as she gave a pitiful smile.
“I can say the same of myself.” Thea’s throat tightened.
It felt as though there were a great many things of which she needed to apologize—including her efforts to force her friends together and ignoring their own preferences.
“I have been so focused on my own desires and future that I have neglected you when you needed me most.”
Phoebe’s smile wobbled a little more as she turned in her seat to face Thea directly. “Life has been wretched for us both of late, hasn’t it?”
Crossing the room, Thea reached out a hand, and Phoebe took it, the tears gathering quickly as she was pulled to her feet and into Thea’s arms.
“Thank you for coming,” whispered Phoebe.
“Thank you for allowing me.”
Drawing in a breath, Phoebe straightened and brushed at her cheeks. Then, glancing past Thea, she added, “Where is Mina? I wanted to apologize to her as well.”
“She is at home. This is our time together.” Turning her about, Thea nudged Phoebe into the chair and faced her toward the mirror before setting to work.
“Since when have you become a master at dressing hair?” asked Phoebe, a little life returning to her voice.
“I have been learning to manage my own toilette of late, and I find that I rather enjoy it,” she replied as she gathered the pins from the table, their cool weight resting lightly in her palm.
With silent movements, Thea braided and twisted as the air between them thickened, filled with all the words they could not speak.
Outside, a skylark trilled in the bright morning, its song faint despite the open window, but the joyful noise could not pierce the heaviness that blanketed the room as Phoebe’s eyes grew unfocused, no longer seeing the reflection before her.
“I am going to make you the most beautiful bride Haverford has ever seen,” said Thea, drawing her friend’s attention once more.
Phoebe’s eyes lifted to meet hers in the mirror, and for a heartbeat they glimmered as her lips pulled into a tremulous smile. Then it crumbled away. A sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and she covered her mouth as if to hold it in.
With the ribbon clutched in her fingers, Thea stared at her friend as Phoebe collapsed beneath the tears that spilled forth.
The lady shook her head and tried to speak, but sobs made it impossible.
Her shoulders trembled, the rigid line of her spine bending until she was folded over the table, hands pressed to her face as though she might hide.
The sound was raw and startling in its force, breaking against the stillness of the room like a storm tearing through calm water.
Thea’s chest constricted until she could scarcely draw breath.
Every sound dug into her skin, burrowing through her strength until she felt as weak as a newborn kitten.
Mind racing, she scoured for some idea, some word, some comfort to offer.
Something to set this to rights once more.
Something to alleviate the pain tearing through her friend.
No matter how futile or silly a thought, Thea hoped and prayed to save her friend from this torment.
But there was nothing to be done. No word or act could make right what had been lost. All she could do was stand there with a ribbon hanging limp in her hand and bear witness as Phoebe’s world came undone, her grief echoing against the walls until Thea thought she might drown in the sound.
Dropping the ribbon on the table, Thea wrapped Phoebe in her arms. It was a silly, useless gesture, but it was all she had to offer, and Phoebe’s arms locked around her tightly, clinging to her as if her very life depended upon it.
Despite being half-crouched and awkwardly positioned, Thea held fast, refusing to move as Phoebe’s body shook, the sound of her tears sharp in her ear.
Thea said nothing, offered no hollow comforts. Words would only cheapen the grief, and there were none large enough to bind up these wounds. So she remained quiet and let her arms do that which words could not.
In time, Phoebe’s tears slowed, and only when her hold loosened did Thea withdraw, though she kept a hand wrapped around her friend’s, which she used to guide Phoebe to the bed where they could sit together.
“I apologize—I—” began Phoebe, though her words were broken and jagged.
“Absolutely not. Do not apologize.”
Phoebe huffed, her lip trembling even as she scowled at herself. “I am being silly.” Her breath shuddered, but she continued, “I know—I know—this is the best course. And there is no use in bemoaning what cannot be.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, Phoebe clung to Thea’s hands as she stared at their entwined fingers.
“I know I do not seem like a romantic, but just because I haven’t been in a rush to find love doesn’t mean I didn’t want it.
I always…” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed.
“I always thought that one day I would find it.”
Phoebe grimaced, her head dropping with a sigh.
“Despite accepting Mr. Godwin’s offer, I spent the past weeks praying with all my soul that somehow this day would not come—that a miracle would save me from this—and it is so difficult to accept that my dreams are at an end.
I will spend my life with a husband who is an obsequious bore, who only accepted me to further his professional ambitions. My hopes are dead and gone.”
Thea’s heart twisted, and that desperate instinct surged to the surface once more, pulling with it the trite words that sprang forth when there was nothing else to say. “You do not know what will happen. You hardly know him. Perhaps with time—”
“No,” said Phoebe, punctuating that with a sharp shake of her head. “We are not treading that path, Althea Keats. Hope has been my torment these past months, and it is time to embrace the world as it is. Better to mourn the life that was and accept what I have been given.”
Her voice broke, and another shuddering breath held her captive as she freed the well-used handkerchief tucked into her cuff.
Dabbing at her face, Phoebe fought through her hiccuping breaths, and Thea forced away the voices prodding her to act, choosing instead to join in with her friend as they mourned those lost dreams.