Chapter 5
Nothing made a man feel more appealing than seeing his bride-to-be standing at the altar, her eyes dimmed and cheeks mottled from hours of weeping.
Though the tears had been scrubbed away, there was no hiding the evidence they’d left behind, etched into every line of Miss Voss’s face.
Every man yearned to feel as though forcing his lady fair to exchange vows upon pain of death.
Oh, happy day.
Holding back the sigh that threatened to escape his lips, Samuel Godwin tried to focus on the words slipping from the curate’s lips, but having performed quite a few weddings, he knew the ceremony well enough that his mind wandered far afield.
This was her choice. The lady had been emphatic on that point. And try as he might, Samuel couldn’t begrudge Miss Voss’s honesty. He hadn’t hidden the fact that a metaphorical saber was held to his back; if not for his patroness’s insistence, he wouldn’t have come to Haverford in the first place.
As if a rector couldn’t do the job on his own. Samuel knew his parish’s needs and did his best to meet them. What good would a wife do? He wasn’t barred from visiting the womenfolk on his own, and heaven knew Miss Voss couldn’t perform any of his clerical duties.
The only saving grace was the steel within Miss Voss’s gaze. Her skin looked bruised beneath, but whatever tears she’d spilt the hours leading up to this moment had faded into determination. Her dark eyes dared him and everyone else in attendance to pity her and her choice.
And if Samuel was forced to make this choice, he was glad that it would be a blessing to the lady.
Poverty and loneliness. Though everything he had seen of Miss Voss testified that she was quite capable of managing any trouble that crossed her path, the bleakness with which she had confessed those fears struck him to the core.
At least it would save her from the former, and perhaps in time, even the latter. That was a comfort.
For pity’s sake! The curate was doing his level best to draw out every aspect of the ceremony, and Samuel yearned to prod the fellow along.
Granted, Mr. Tudor did not add a word to the rites, but the undue weight he gave each syllable made it feel as though he were.
There was a balance between conveying the importance of the sacrament and brevity; solemnity was paramount, of course, but it mattered not one jot if the audience’s attention waned, leaving the windbag of a clergyman without a single listening ear.
Perhaps the gentleman was allowing the couple to rethink their choice, but it was a fool’s hope.
Samuel had been from his flock for far too long, and both bride and groom were too desperate to abandon their course now.
What was done was done. His fate had been sealed the moment Mrs. Whitcombe had leveled her dictate.
Finally, Mr. Tudor gave the closing prayer and blessing, and Miss Voss turned to face him.
For a long moment, they stood there, simply looking into one another’s eyes, and Samuel wished he knew what was passing through the lady’s thoughts.
But perhaps there was nothing but a great gaping void where thoughts ought to be—just like Samuel’s head felt at present.
The curate herded them to the vestry to see the ceremony properly concluded.
The signing of the registry and marriage license passed in a blur of ink and paper, names set down with finality, and the scratch of the quill sounded far louder to Samuel’s ears than it ought to have been.
When at last they emerged once more, the air felt thinner, the business of the day sweeping them along whether they were ready or not.
Aunt Lenore and Uncle Bertram looked ready to cheer, despite the reverent setting, and Samuel didn’t know why they believed the match to be a feather in their cap when local society was already distancing itself from the Vosses.
But then, many of their ilk considered it a grand success to secure a marriage with someone who, in other circumstances, wouldn’t deign to acknowledge them in public, and Samuel wasn’t conceited enough to think Miss Voss would’ve accepted him if not for desperation.
Just as he wouldn’t have proposed otherwise.
But Miss Voss wasn’t Miss Voss anymore. She was Mrs. Godwin. Samuel’s wife for the rest of their days.
Those in attendance gathered close, passing the bride and groom about with their well-wishes that varied from earnest to doubtful, though Samuel refused to dwell on the latter.
His attention drifted to the edge of the gathering, where Miss Voss (or Mrs. Godwin, rather) stood with Miss Thea Keats, near enough to be seen but not overheard by the other guests.
Mrs. Godwin clasped Miss Keats’s hands, their heads bent together as only a few scant words passed between the two before their arms drew around one another with a fierceness that belied the calm expressions they hid behind.
The embrace lasted only a moment, but there was a quiet urgency to it, as though clinging to more than one another.
Then they released, and the moment dissolved.
Miss Keats stepped away, and before Samuel knew what he was about, the newly married couple were deposited in the waiting carriage, which Uncle Bertram had hired to convey them a portion of the trip.
The cost of taking a private coach the entire journey was more than he was willing to spend, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the Vosses thinking the Godwins couldn’t afford it altogether.
Tucked into their conveyance and with the meager well-wishes, husband and wife trundled off to their new home in Kingsmere. Or his old home, rather. It simply had a mistress now.
Seated beside him, Mrs. Godwin stared out the window, watching as the village passed by. Samuel wanted to reassure her that they would return soon, but with her family scattering and her home sold off, there was little reason for her to return.
“Miss Keats may come for a visit when you are settled, of course,” he said.
“How magnanimous,” whispered Mrs. Godwin, the words so quiet that Samuel wasn’t certain he had heard them, but he couldn’t mistake the stifled huff that followed.
The lady was not as good at schooling her feelings as she believed herself to be; the last few years in Mrs. Whitcombe’s parish had taught Samuel quite a bit in that regard, and he easily hid the smile that yearned to emerge.
Did he boast some secret desire to be counted amongst the martyrs? To enter a marriage with a lady who openly despised him must be a form of self-flagellation, yet it was impossible not to find her amusing when her dander was so thoroughly ruffled.
“I am pleased she attended,” he added.
“And why wouldn’t she?”
Samuel watched the lady closely. “Despite you two being thick as thieves, she was conspicuously absent of late. Clearly, some sort of fracture had formed, and I am pleased to see it was mended before we left—”
“How long until we arrive at Kingsmere?” she asked, without looking at him.
Drawing in a breath, Samuel explained the various plans for their journey home, including the changes to be made and the time it would take.
“Then we will be spending the night in Nethercombe?” she asked.
“I secured us a room in the coaching inn there,” he replied.
Mrs. Godwin gave a sharp nod of consideration, and though the answer didn’t seem as though it were such a grand declaration, Samuel watched as the lady steeled herself.
That straightening of her shoulders. The stiffening of her spine.
The lift of her chin. Though Samuel couldn’t claim to know his wife well, he had seen her don that particular strength many times—but then, it was understandable considering all that had been heaped upon her shoulders of late.
He just didn’t know why it should matter so much at this moment. The deed was done—
Straightening in his seat, Samuel embraced every last bit of his training and self-restraint to keep from reacting when he realized that not all had been done.
When planning the voyage, he hadn’t thought twice about sharing a room as they would be husband and wife, but Mrs. Godwin hardly knew him, and Samuel was certain that her feelings towards him weren’t of the warm and welcoming variety.
Clearing his throat, he tried to think how to proceed. “I didn’t mean to assume that we would share a room. This whole affair has been rushed, and I am quite happy to secure another when we arrive.”
Mrs. Godwin shifted in her seat, turning her gaze away from the window and fixing those dark eyes fully on him.
Of course, she said nothing. No, she allowed him to squirm in his seat as he considered what to say and how to address the looming marriage bed that lay before them.
In truth, Samuel hadn’t really considered that aspect of marriage; Mrs. Whitcombe had simply sent him to find a wife, and his thoughts hadn’t strayed beyond the search.
“We needn’t hurry matters along…” Samuel cleared his throat again and tried to dispel the heat inching up his neck.
For all that he was comfortable speaking about a great many difficult and tender subjects with his parish, he wasn’t prepared to do so with his stranger of a wife.
“We know where we stand, and I hadn’t intended for us… to… I hadn’t considered…”
Mrs. Godwin’s brow arched upward, and a hint of humor sparked in those deep, brown eyes, though it was quickly snuffed when she spoke.
“I assume you are referring to the marriage bed and all that entails, Mr. Godwin. Come now, sir. We needn’t faff about.
This marriage may have begun on the wrong foot, but I have no intention of continuing in that vein. Honesty is the only way forward.”
Again, that strength gathered close, and Samuel hid another smile as his wife continued.
“I propose that we vow to always be forthright with one another. Even if it is unpleasant or sparks an argument, it is better than allowing matters to fester. Frankness is the only way our marriage will survive.”
“I suppose I ought to be surprised, but I should expect nothing less of the lady who proposed to me.” Samuel had meant it as a jest, but like so many others, instead of a smile or a witty retort, Mrs. Godwin’s lips pursed as though silently counting before she could trust herself to speak.
“You proposed, sir. I simply amended my answer.”
“As you say.”
Mrs. Godwin nodded and sighed. “We must start this marriage as we mean to continue, and that means being frank about our expectations. I want children, and whether or not you do, I am certain the Whitcombes will wish our family to be a good example and fill the pew. That cannot happen if we do not share a bed.”
Egads. Samuel reached for the window, cracking it open, though even that breeze could not cool the heat that enveloped the carriage.
Especially as her blunt words stoked a flickering flame within his heart.
It was hard not to admire the forthright manner in which the lady spoke; for all that she had been dealt a rum hand, Mrs. Godwin was moving ahead with dogged determination.
Yes, if Samuel Godwin had to marry, a lady like Miss Phoebe Voss was certainly the best choice.
“Even ignoring the fact that our marriage is not valid until that final bridge is crossed,” she said, hardly stumbling over the euphemism, “what good does it do to delay the inevitable? What would it serve? This is an arrangement, pure and simple. Do you agree?”
For all that she had asked him a question, Samuel found himself unable to answer. Having a mother and three sisters, he thought himself quite familiar with the fairer sex and the oddities that accompanied them, but not a single one of them would have ever spoken with such frankness.
And Samuel could not hide the smile that came to his lips.
“Do not laugh at me, sir.” The lady’s tone was ice, and her gaze was steel. “I did not want this marriage, but I will not be ruled by my circumstances. I will make the best of this.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he said.
Nodding as though that was a response to both his faux pas and her question (and Samuel supposed it was), Mrs. Godwin reached into the small portmanteau resting on the seat opposite and retrieved a novel.
The road was far too bumpy for eyes to focus on the words, but the lady settled behind it, her gaze fixing on the page.
Once more, a prayer entered his heart and drifted off into the ether, begging the Almighty and all the angels in Heaven that this had been a wise decision.
For better or worse, it had been made, so there was no undoing it now, but with all the troubles hanging over him at home, Samuel hoped his choice hadn’t added to them.
What had he gotten himself into?
The answer was plain enough. Still, he didn’t regret Mrs. Godwin’s spine of iron. It was the quality that had first drawn his notice, and his wife would need it in Kingsmere.