Chapter 4
A stone wall stood as a barrier between the lane and Beckett Place, but despite being finer than most homes in Haverford, the building seemed plain and poky compared to the grand edifices of Dunsby Hall and Rensford Park.
However, the masonry was clean and well-kept, and sunlight glimmered along the many windows that decorated the front and sides, and a handsome garden surrounded it with neatly trimmed paths and shrubs, though the heat had dulled the greenery.
In short, it was a perfectly adequate home.
But for all that the golden stone gleamed in the sunlight, a shadow hung over the building. Or perhaps it was simply over Phoebe’s mind.
Brushing at her skirts and straightening her bonnet (though neither required it), she gathered her strength and forged ahead, not allowing herself to reconsider her course. In a trice, she was ushered into the parlor, and Mrs. Godwin motioned for the young lady to sit.
“We are delighted to see you,” said the hostess, with a gracious smile that reminded Phoebe far too much of the lady’s nephew.
With practiced ease, Mrs. Godwin leapt into the usual conversation, remarking upon the warmth of the day, the stubbornness of her needle, and the difficulty of keeping one’s hands busy when the weather was more suited for lying about.
Phoebe nodded where expected and murmured agreement when there was a pause long enough to invite it, but all the while, she was acutely aware of how little she belonged in this parlor.
Gaze drifting to the doorway, Phoebe cursed her luck: at this time of day, one would expect her nephew to be about, yet there was no sign of the gentleman. It was fitting that fate would not allow her plans to unfold as intended.
Perched on the edge of her chair, Phoebe smoothed her gloves again and again as the minutes stretched.
Each word seemed to circle the matter at hand without touching it, and irritation pricked beneath her composure.
Phoebe had braced herself for this meeting, rehearsed it in her mind until her resolve felt sharp and ready, and now she was stymied by small talk and social propriety.
Her fingers tightened in her lap, then loosened, and she drew a measured breath, forcing herself to be patient.
At last, she lifted her eyes and spoke with what she hoped was an air of casual inquiry. “Is your nephew not at home?”
A pause followed—brief but telling—but Mrs. Godwin nodded toward the door and the stairs just beyond. “He is speaking with my husband in the library at present. Some spiritual matter, no doubt.”
“How fitting, for I had hoped to speak with him about a spiritual matter as well,” said Phoebe with brittle cheer. “He posed a question I was ill-equipped to answer when last we spoke, and I would greatly love to continue that discussion.”
There. That was an entirely unremarkable explanation. Mr. Godwin may not be her rector, but a man of the cloth was a man of the cloth. To pay a call on him was no different than speaking to any tradesman or man of business.
Mrs. Godwin straightened, her eyes gleaming with far too much speculation for Phoebe’s comfort, but the lady set aside her sewing and rose to her feet. “Ah, yes. That does sound very important. I shall fetch him at once.”
Clinging to the knowledge that the lady’s opinion mattered not one jot, Phoebe tried to remain still as she waited, but receiving yet another speculative glance was too much to bear.
Standing, she tucked her hands before her as she considered the room—and ignored the hasty footsteps that climbed the stairs just outside the doorway.
Though much smaller than Dunsby Hall’s parlor, it was a good size with well-appointed furnishings and decorations.
Yet something niggled at her as she examined the details before her.
There was something familiar about it, though Phoebe did not think she had ever set foot in Beckett Place before. Familiar yet foreign.
And then she realized why: ‘twas a copy of Lady Grenville’s morning room. Certainly, this was cozier, and the decorations weren’t as fine as those which the baronet and his wife could afford, but once noticed, Phoebe couldn’t ignore the eerie similarities.
Would her marriage be like this poor replica? A cheap mimicry of something grander?
Or was Miss Phoebe Voss simply another acquisition for the Godwin family?
No matter how well appointed, a rector couldn’t hope for an alliance to a family whose estate had existed centuries before the Godwins had pulled themselves free of the working class.
And now, they were snatching up a discounted bride to set on their mantelpiece as they groveled at the feet of the upper class.
The ridiculousness of it all made Phoebe want to huff and sweep out of the room. Posturing was a waste of time, for in her experience, the higher the climb, the less appealing the company—
“Miss Voss.”
The voice startled her, ripping Phoebe’s attention away from the vase of roses atop the mantelpiece. Turning to face her future, she met Mr. Godwin’s eyes. If he wished his name to be bound to her lineage, then so be it: everything the Vosses owned was going for cheap at present.
Faith, her tongue felt like a leaden weight, stiff and immovable, and the gentleman simply stared at her, those dark eyes watching her with more interest than was good for her nerves.
Mr. Godwin was of middling height and build, the sort of man one’s eye slid past without effort, his presence registering only because propriety demanded it.
His brown hair was neatly arranged with a care that suggested diligence rather than vanity, and his features were serviceable to the point of tedium.
Only his nose (being a shade too prominent) gave his face any distinction.
Everything about him appeared carefully managed: coat brushed, cravat tied with precision, coiffure perfectly coiffed.
It was so determinedly unremarkable that there was nothing striking or appealing about the fellow.
All in all, he was just the sort of gentleman one ignored as he was indistinguishable from any other.
“How good of you to call on us this fine afternoon,” he said, giving her a bow that was far deeper than warranted, and Phoebe couldn’t help wondering if his nose scraped the ground. “You do us a great honor.”
Sniveling was a word that Phoebe had only ever thought belonged in novels. The adjective evoked such comical behavior, the groveling so pronounced that she couldn’t imagine anyone employing such tactics, yet Mr. Godwin did his best to personify it.
“I will give you two a moment,” said Mrs. Godwin with far too much glee. “I wouldn’t wish to intrude on such a delicate conversation.”
Phoebe’s cheeks heated. She couldn’t stop them. They were agents unto themselves, determined to make their feelings known no matter how hard she tried to keep them in check. For his part, Mr. Godwin gave no sign of emotion.
The parlor door shut, and Phoebe allowed the words to burst forth.
“Do you still wish to marry me, sir?”
Mr. Godwin’s brows shot upward, but he schooled them with far more efficiency than Phoebe was able to manage. “You made your feelings quite clear before, Miss Voss, so I am at a loss as to why you would ask such a question.”
Squaring her shoulders, Phoebe tried not to think about that previous conversation. In truth, she could not recall everything she had said, but there was no forgetting the emphatic nature of her rejection.
“I understand your confusion, Mr. Godwin,” she said, keeping a tight hold on her nerves, though they longed to fidget with her skirts. “But as you eagerly alluded to my reduced circumstances and outlined how much our marriage would benefit me—”
“I do not believe I said those precise words,” said Mr. Godwin with a frown.
“Perhaps not, but it does no good to beat about the bush.” Phoebe refused to blush.
Why must she bear the discomfort of something that was not her doing?
It was her father’s reckless spending and speculation that had landed them in this difficulty to begin with, and her brother’s actions since Papa’s passing that had brought those failings to light.
Though she could hardly blame Frederick for that. Perpetuating Papa’s lies and concealing those losses made Phoebe’s stomach sour. Accepting the Vosses’ reduced circumstances was the only sensible way forward.
She just wished she’d been granted more time to prepare for it.
Forcing her thoughts from that avenue, Phoebe forged ahead.
“You must marry to placate your patron and patroness, who insist their rector cannot be a perpetual bachelor, and you are the only gentleman of my acquaintance who cares not one jot that my family is now bankrupt, and I haven’t a farthing for my dowry.
Marriage would be mutually beneficial to us both. ”
With each word, the tightness in Phoebe’s chest loosened. This was not the marriage she desired, but this wasn’t charity.
“Ah,” said Mr. Godwin, a brow rising at that. “So, you spent the past fortnight scouring all of Haverford for a better offer, and having found none, you are here to reconsider.”
A self-satisfied smirk tugged at his lips, and Phoebe yearned to snatch it off and crush it beneath her heel. But it was not only impossible but inadvisable.
“I have spent the time in reflection,” she corrected.
Mr. Godwin’s brows furrowed with confusion. “But you said nothing could entice you to accept me.”
“I do not believe I said those precise words, sir.” Drawing in a breath through her nose, Phoebe said carefully, “Regardless, I spoke too hastily. You require a wife, and I require a husband, and as they say, ‘beggars cannot be choosers.’”
Opening his mouth to respond, Phoebe held up a staying hand, for it was clear to see that the fellow was too half-witted to comprehend the simplicity of this conversation.
“Please, Mr. Godwin,” she said, the words strangling her.
“I may not have wished to marry for convenience’s sake, but I have acclimated to the idea.
This is an arrangement. We each need something the other can give.
Nothing more. You will spend your day with your work amongst the parish, and I will spend my days overseeing the household.
Our lives will intersect at times, but beyond sharing a home, we will continue on much as we did before.
We needn’t force this to be anything more than an arrangement. ”
Phoebe paused to allow him to answer, but when silence followed that, she found more words tumbling forth. “I didn’t want to live such a solitary life, but I have come to realize that I can manage loneliness or poverty, not both.”
The options stretched before her with bleak clarity.
“I do not want to be passed about my family like an unwanted heirloom they feel obligated to maintain, nor do I want to end my days as a parish charity case like governesses do in their later years,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Both of those courses offer nothing but solitude and poverty for the rest of my days. At least with you, I wouldn’t endure the latter. ”
Mr. Godwin opened his mouth, but Phoebe sensed it was another unnecessary observation, and she lifted a hand to silence him.
“Please, sir. I will not stand here, defending my change of heart,” she said.
“You’ve known from the first that I do not love you, just as you do not love me.
I will not prostrate myself and beg for your forgiveness for having expressed my distaste for this arrangement, nor will I pretend we are choosing this path of our own volition.
I will not begin this venture with a lie. ”
The gentleman considered her for a long moment. “But—”
Phoebe held up another staying hand; there was no need to revisit their previous conversation as it had no bearing on the present. “It is a simple question, Mr. Godwin, and it requires only a simple answer. Does your proposal of marriage still stand?”
“Yes, Miss Voss.”
Chains wrapped around her, binding her to this moment—to this man—and yet those muscles that had been strung as tight as piano wires loosened, allowing her to breathe fully. The sentiment was surprising, and yet, Phoebe clung to it.
Yes, she was accepting solitude within her marriage, but as Mrs. Phoebe Godwin, she would have standing in the village, friends, and children—good things that would be denied an impoverished spinster or governess.
This was a moment of celebration.
Yet the silence stretched, thick and weighty, and Phoebe found herself counting the steady beat of her heart, which measured the passing of time like a clock. Mr. Godwin shifted at last, clearing his throat with an air of earnest deliberation, as though preparing to give a sermon.
“I feel as though I ought to say something more, but I was not expecting matters to resolve themselves so efficiently,” he said with all the liveliness of a corpse.
No doubt, the gentleman was waiting for his patroness to dictate how he ought to feel.
“I believe it is customary to mark such an understanding with a token, though I confess I do not know what would be appropriate.”
“I see no need,” she replied, curt but composed, unwilling to dwell on what he meant by “token.” No doubt it was a book of sermons or something equally banal—and entirely unequal to the token Mr. Winwood had just given her.
With that, Phoebe inclined her head and moved toward the door with sharp efficiency.
“Please speak to my brother concerning any legal arrangements that must be made, and my mother will contact your aunt to settle the details of the wedding,” she said, finding the lady in question standing on the other side of the door with an expression full of the eagerness that ought to be on the bride and groom’s faces.
Stepping around Mrs. Godwin, Phoebe strode from the house, and the weight of the moment followed her, chains and relief alike, but she did not pause to examine it. Matters were settled now, and whatever came next would be managed in due course.