Chapter 15
Rain pearls clung to the windowpanes when Graeme arrived at the study after breakfast, the remnants of dawn’s shower fading into pale streaks of sun. He had barely settled behind the desk when the butler entered with his usual martial efficiency and deposited a silver tray before him.
“Post, sir.”
On the tray sat a single letter.
Thick parchment. Wax seal of deep green, a coronet pressed sharply into the center.
Graeme’s pulse thudded.
The Marquess of Pickering.
For a moment, he simply stared, hands unmoving, as a tug of apprehension—nay, hope—tightened in his chest. His reckless letter of inquiry, sent in a moment of panic after receiving the estate solicitor’s reply about Miss Whittington, had returned an answer.
The pricey parchment chafed, a reminder of his initial distrust, of his hasty use of the Collumby seal, of how unnecessary all of it now felt.
He trusted Phoebe implicitly; he needed no validation from a stranger.
And yet…
He broke the wax; curiosity piqued.
The marquess’ handwriting was bold and uncompromising.
My Lord,
I have received your communication dated the 29th instant and make haste to answer it.
To your question: The Marchioness of Pickering does not bear the Christian name of Phoebe Whittington, rather J’non Gaines née Butler.
The Marchioness, who is personally acquainted with the young lady of enquiry, speaks highly of her conduct and with consistent regard, &c.
She is a young woman of admirable character and deserving of respect.
Miss Whittington possesses both grace and integrity. I remain, my Lord, &c.
Pickering
Below this, in a sharper, more impatient scrawl were a few additional lines, unnecessary but unmistakably sincere, beginning with:
P.S. The Marchioness bids me add that she has always found Miss Whittington a young lady of excellent temper and admirable discretion.
And then followed with an additional postscript praise in the marchioness’ neat hand, offering affectionate references, notes of resiliency, kindness, and loyalty. The final line of the letter, still in the marchioness’ hand, read:
A lady who holds her friends in genuine esteem and is held in esteem by them.
Graeme exhaled a long, unsteady breath. Then he read the letter again. And again.
Not because he doubted its contents, but because the words reshaped—no, reaffirmed—the perception he had formed of her on his own.
Phoebe had told the truth. About everything.
Not one inconsistency had there been in her story, not one manipulation.
Even yesterday, especially yesterday, she had trusted him enough to confess what must have cost her dearly, sharing her humiliation, her heartbreak, her fears, and all the while he had quietly harbored remnants of suspicion.
He felt the prick of guilt, subtle but undeniable.
Stronger than guilt was the swell in his chest of something light and terrifyingly hopeful.
She was not ruined.
She was not disgraced.
She was not the desperate schemer he had once foolishly, stupidly imagined.
She was… Phoebe. Entirely herself, candid, sharp-witted, warm-hearted, and breathtakingly brave.
Graeme folded the letter with care, as though it were something fragile.
His thumb brushed the seal absently. A ridiculous urge overtook him: go to her at once, tell her he believed her, apologize for ever doubting her, see the look she would give him when he told her the marquess himself had praised her character.
No, wait. He wished to do these things, but he did not desire for her to think he had snooped behind her back or—hush, Graeme. Only honesty will do. She is too perceptive for sidesteps.
Truth be told, he wished to see her smile, wished to see her.
He rose before he realized he had stirred. The study felt suddenly too small for the feelings crowding him, the morning too long, the house too large of a distance between them.
Letter in hand, heart unmoored, he was determined to find Phoebe, and God help him, he doubted he could keep from touching her hand the moment he did.
The antechamber was as quiet as a chapel when Graeme emerged from the study, the marquess’ letter warm in his hand, his heart warmer still. He hardly remembered the walk from desk to doorway. He only knew he had to find her.
Phoebe told the truth. She trusted me.
He passed the window overlooking the gardens and searched the parterres.
Empty. It was one thing to want to see her and quite another to know where to begin his search.
If not the gardens, where? The old library?
He pivoted to the great doors. Poking his head in, he peered around and listened.
Dim, still, untenanted. He reached the minstrel hall and paused, running a hand through his hair in restless thought.
This early in the morning, she may still be breaking her fast or enjoying a leisurely morning toilette, out of his reach for another hour yet. He tugged at the tips of his hair.
A whim…
He took the stairs two at a time, his destination the portrait gallery.
At the landing, he stopped to listen. A subtle echo of movement.
Footsteps, light and unhurried, trailing down the long wing.
He followed the sound. The door between the minstrel gallery and the portrait gallery stood ajar, morning sun pooling. He stepped inside.
Phoebe stood halfway down the long expanse, her back to him, the faint glow of light gilding the edges of her hair.
She studied a grand ancestral portrait—one of the more forbidding Collumbys, jaw set like carved stone, martial expression as sharp as a sword—tilting her head in a way that made her curls sway.
So arrested, he stood still. She looked utterly at home among the portraits of people she had never met.
He cleared his throat.
She turned.
Something inside his chest rearranged itself as the filtered light caught her expression, caught the delight at the sight of him.
“Mr. Ellison,” she said, then corrected, “Graeme.”
“Phoebe,” was all he could manage.
In long strides, he closed the distance, slowing before her, not too near, not too far. The air between them sparked with some delicate and unnamable tension.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, though hope had nothing to do with it. He wanted to disturb her. Needed to. Was drawn to her as though every painted ancestor on the walls had conspired to usher him forward.
“You could never be a disturbance,” she teased.
He swallowed, then, “I received a letter.”
“Oh?” Her brows rose, curious and wary all at once, as though to say, not again.
Unperturbed by the eyebrows, he held out the letter. Tentatively, she accepted it, her fingers brushing his, leaving behind a warmth that lingered long after contact broke.
Flipping over the missive, she first noticed the broken seal, and then, “It’s addressed to the Earl of Collumby.”
He winced with a helpless shrug. “Yes. I’m afraid I… opened it,” he admitted, defiant, embarrassed.
One corner of her mouth lifted. “A habitual opener of a peer’s private correspondence?”
“Guilty.”
“Bold.” Her tone carried amusement, not censure.
Unfolding with a crackle of the wax, the edges crumpled from his having held it too close, too tight, she read it silently.
The longer she scanned the page, the sharper his breath came, her only reveal a slight parting of lips.
He watched her take in every word: the marquess’ brisk praise, the marchioness’ affectionate postscript, the final message written in a woman’s thoughtful hand: A lady held in genuine esteem by those who know her.
Or whatever had been the wording. He could not recall exactly.
When her eyes sought his, he was startled by their brightness. They glistened, but not with tears, rather relief, recognition, vindication. The letter crinkled when she lowered it.
“Graeme…” she said hoarsely.
His name in her voice unmade him utterly. “You are not ruined, not in the least. Not to anyone who matters.”
Her lashes swept upward, catching the morning light. “You believe this?”
“I believe you.” His voice thickened.
She exhaled, a light, breakable sound, half-laugh, half-breath of astonishment.
Without meaning to and without thinking to stop, he stepped closer.
She stepped towards him.
Letter clutched, her hand dropped to her side, as though weighed with everything she did not know how to say.
“Graeme…” she began anew, her voice trailing once more into silence.
Something unguarded flickered across her face. Hope? Fear? Longing? He could not be sure. He reached for her free hand, tentatively, reverently, giving her long moments to retreat. She did not. And then her fingers entwined with his. His heart tripped.
“Phoebe,” he murmured, leaning until he felt her shaky breath against his cheek. “May I?”
The question, so simple, shivered between them.
Her hand tightened around his.
She nodded. Her lips parted, and in barely more than an exhale: “Yes.”
He leaned closer, careful and gentle, as if the smallest haste might break the spell.
His lips brushed hers, feather-light, hesitant, trembling. She inhaled sharply.
He kissed her again. This time, deeper, still gentle, still cautious. His hand rose to cup the curve of her face, thumb skimming the silk of her cheek. In answer, she leaned into his palm. Her hand, letter forgotten, curled onto his sleeve, anchoring them, deepening the kiss further.
When they parted, neither breathed for a moment.
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, shimmering. “Oh,” she whispered.
He smiled, helpless, shaken, and in awe. “Oh, indeed.”
They stood like that, suspended in the hush of the gallery, beneath the gaze of a hundred painted ancestors, all witnesses, no longer strangers.
At last, Phoebe stepped back, serene, as though floating on a dream. “I should…” she began, then faltered, cheeks pink.
“So should I,” he echoed.
Neither moved.
Then, finally, she dipped her head, a secret smile tugging at her lips, and turned towards the minstrel gallery.
She walked several steps before pausing to glance back.
He watched her, too dazed to move, too captivated to do ought but smile.
She broadened her returning smile, then disappeared around the corner, taking with her the marquess’ letter.
Graeme touched his lips with a sigh.
For the first time since arriving at Lobelia Hall, he felt unmistakably alive and entirely hers.