Chapter 5 #2
“Friends,” Lord Birchwood echoed. “Yes, our two families will be on the friendliest of terms going forward.”
“Speaking of dear friends,” Phoebe’s mother began, “did you hear about the scandal between Miss Hartford and Lord Callum?”
“No…” Lord Birchwood’s eyes grew wide and avaricious as he leaned closer and whispered, “What happened?”
Lady Tripleton pinched her lips together as if she had not been the one to bring up the topic and meant to nurture the secret. Then, her eyes gleaned and she relaxed her mouth enough to whisper, “They were caught in a room together…all alone…without a chaperone.”
“Really?” Lord Birchwood murmured.
Phoebe knew she ought to listen and learn what people were saying about the couple, but she could not bring herself to focus on their predicament.
I once spent an evening alone in a room with a gentleman and we did nothing but read and talk and…
Phoebe’s thoughts drifted back to Pyramus who had hidden his identity from her behind the latticed wall.
Pyramus.
Since that night, Phoebe read everything about Pyramus and Thisbe and often recalled that unforgettable voice, soft and enveloping like silk around her neck.
When she thought of how bold she had been in that room with her Pyramus, Phoebe summoned the courage to speak about what had been on her mind a moment before.
“I am well-attired, Lord Birchwood,” Phoebe said tersely, daring to step outside of the parameters her parents set for her.
“I am terribly sorry to disappoint, but is it not an offense to my father’s riches when you insult my appearance?
I may not be dapper or fashionable, but you, my betrothed, should not seek to belittle me. ”
As soon as the remonstrance left her lips, she regretted it. Her thoughts had drifted to the stranger, and she had forgotten herself and became too bold. Her mother’s hand wrapped around her arm again, her fingernails digging into her skin in warning.
“Forgive me,” Phoebe continued hurriedly, “I do not know what came over me just now.”
“You do,” Lord Birchwood sneered. “For I was merely jesting. Can you not take a little teasing, Lady Phoebe? One would think a lady with such a young, small mind would like such a thing.”
Phoebe bit her tongue so hard she feared she would draw blood but only nodded. She ducked her head as if in shame, but it was truly to hide how hard she clenched her jaw to keep her words behind her teeth.
“I am certain I can take some teasing,” she answered. “Forgive me.”
“You shall grow better accustomed to such gentle barbs during our marriage, I suppose. One’s wife can be trained.” Lord Birchwood sighed, as if she had exasperated him already.
She wanted to demand outright why he had even agreed to the marriage if he could barely look at her. If he could not speak to her without lacing his words with condescension and insult, there must be some other reason that he sought to make her his bride.
“Mine would never submit to such a thing,” Phoebe’s father jested, grinning at her mother, who only rolled her eyes and huffed.
“That is because I was born to be a proper, well-behaved lady,” she sniffed. Her eyes lowered to Phoebe. “We cannot all hope to be so fortunate, but I have tried my best with Lady Phoebe.”
You did not. The moment you realized I was of little value to you or the estate; you sent me away.
For a moment, her chest ached terribly, thinking of the two years she had spent in Nantwich, England, with her despicable maternal aunt.
Her fingers still cramped at times when she thought too hard about the hours of labor she had been forced to do all while being treated even worse than a member of the staff.
“I can see that,” Lord Birchwood mused. “But I shall have her more controlled in no time, do not worry.”
“We have no worries when it comes to you, Birchwood,” Phoebe’s father assured him. “You are a fine match for my daughter, and I am looking forward to the connection of our families.”
Phoebe kept that polite smile fixed onto her face, but her cheeks hurt with the strain.
After making the effort and noticing how Lord Birchwood scarcely looked at her, she let it fall slightly for some relief.
Her hand crept up to her neck, trying to seek the comfort of her pendant, but her throat was bare.
If anybody looked close enough, they would see the faint scratch marks of her mother’s nails from where she had torn off her necklace earlier that night.
It looks horrendous with this gown, Phoebe. Do not make me more humiliated by wearing something so ugly with a gown your father paid handsomely to provide.
Her mother knew how important the necklace was, and although she said little about it day-to-day, she had been adamant tonight that Phoebe would not wear it. Without the pendant being a solid weight against her collarbones, Phoebe felt naked, bare, and unmoored.
As her father and Lord Birchwood spoke about an upcoming gentleman’s club that was being opened by a former baker, which they thought was most hilarious and worth mocking, Phoebe shrunk beneath her mother’s grip and stare.
“I… I might get myself a refreshment,” Phoebe said quietly after a spell, already trying to pry herself away from those claws that anchored her painfully to the spot.
“You will not leave my side unless it is to dance with your betrothed,” her mother hissed.
Even as she said that Phoebe’s saving grace wove her way through the crowd, dodging and side-stepping guests. Genevieve arrived with a blissful smile on her face that she directed squarely at Phoebe.
Genevieve finally made it through the sea of dancers and drinkers, then reached for Phoebe’s hand.
“Genevieve,” her mother greeted flatly. “What are you doing? My daughter will stay by my side. I have made that clear tonight as well as over the course of several past balls.”
“But my cousin must take a turn around the room,” Genevieve countered as she fluttered her lashes prettily. “And I must say, Aunt Myrtle, you are stunning tonight! Is that a new bracelet?”
The question was clever, for Phoebe’s mother lifted a hand to admire it herself and show it off in the hopes of receiving a further compliment. But the action released Phoebe, and she quickly ducked out of her mother’s grasp.
“It is indeed. Thank you for noticing,” her mother preened, but then frowned at the space between her and Phoebe. “Where do you think you are going?”
Lady Tripleton reached for her, but Genevieve subtly stepped in front of Phoebe, protecting her. “Like I said, I just wish to take Phoebe for a turn around the room. We might even get a glass of wine or a piece of cake. This is a ball. She ought to enjoy herself, don’t you think?”
“I would like Phoebe to remain where I can see her, Niece.”
Genevieve’s eyes glinted with cunningness.
“I understand, but if she is to be a marchioness, she ought to explore more of these events to know how they work. That way, she will be better prepared to host her own, lavish events that will get the entire ton talking someday. If she does not take this opportunity when it presents itself, you are only putting Phoebe at a loss to impress both her future husband and the ton. I am certain you do not want that.”
Phoebe fought back a laugh, for her cousin had a way with words that always flummoxed Lady Tripleton. It was indeed splendid to see her mother so awestruck, and Phoebe admired her cousin’s bold spontaneity.
She wished that she could speak in such a way to her mama, but she dared not be so quick or clever. If Phoebe had attempted to dodge her mother in such a manner, there would be consequences to pay.
However, since Genevieve was exempt from facing such hardships, it was almost comical to watch the Countess deal with her discomfort.
Her mother’s face twisted in annoyance and then smoothed into consideration as she nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. Heavens, well, do not go far, Phoebe, and be ready to return as soon as I call you to rejoin our party.”
“I will,” she said, ducking her head in polite agreement.
Without wasting another second, Genevieve whisked her away, and as the crowd closed around Phoebe, she felt invisible once more.
Once they made it out of the other side of the heavy gathering, towards a quieter corner where a stand of champagne flutes waited to be plucked, Phoebe grabbed two of them immediately and handed one to Genevieve with a deep exhale.
“Thank you for getting me away from them,” she sighed. “Lord Birchwood is truly insufferable and the worst snob. He barely looks at me, which, in truth, is a blessing, but all he cares about is training me up to be his perfect little wife.”
“I am sorry, did you say training?”
“His words exactly,” Phoebe muttered, drinking half of the flute’s contents to settle her chaos of thoughts.
“I hate it. I—I picture this future with him, the future my parents are forcing me into, and I just… I cannot fathom it. It is impossible. There will be no spots of light at all for me to even grasp onto, for I do not think he will even let me out of the estate once we are wed. How will I get to see you?”
“I shall sneak you out,” Genevieve giggled. “Just like I did the other night. I am cunning, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Phoebe laughed softly.
Her cousin took her free hand, her expression turned serious as she addressed her. “Whatever happens, you will have me to get you through it, all right? You will never be alone, even if you are on your own. No matter what, we will find a way.”
“Can we find a way to free me from this engagement?” she asked hopefully, laughing nervously.
“If we can, we shall, but I cannot make promises.”
Phoebe embraced her briefly, smiling into the fabric of her friend’s butter-yellow gown. “I am not asking for promises, only for my friend to remain at my side.”