Chapter 6
Kingsmere, Northamptonshire
One Week Later
Designed with plain lines and sensible proportions, The Parsonage lacked the sweep and presence of the larger houses that edged the village, yet there was something quietly pleasing in that restraint.
It was modest, in the best sense of the word.
Phoebe’s new home bore little resemblance to the old one (The Parsonage didn’t even have a proper name in its own right, bearing only a perfunctory title that described its purpose), but after so many weeks of uncertainty and upheaval, she was grateful for it.
This was her home. While Haverford would always be the place of her childhood, Dunsby Hall had been her father’s and then her brother’s, with Mama’s influence clear in every decoration, menu, and maid.
Beyond the personal touches in her own bedchamber, Phoebe had left no mark on that building.
But The Parsonage was entirely hers to command.
No doubt Mr. Godwin had some opinions (the gentleman was a never-ending font of judgments), but in her experience, the menfolk cared little for wall coverings, linens, and furnishings.
They simply wanted good meals at their appointed hours and a comfortable place to rest. And Phoebe could see to those needs nicely whilst leaving her mark upon everything else.
Standing in the sitting room, she glanced out the window and took in the sight.
Though Langley Court was well out of sight, Mrs. Whitcombe’s extensive gardens reached the lane, bestowing their beauty upon anyone who glanced out The Parsonage’s front windows.
And, of course, the house’s own kitchen and ornamental gardens wrapped around the sides and back, giving every window far better views than such modest buildings usually boasted.
All in all, The Parsonage was magnificently situated.
Walking through the rooms, Phoebe considered what needed to be done, making note of each idea; it was impossible to complete all the changes at once, but she could plan.
Her painting of Dunsby Hall might look nice on the far wall.
Perhaps it was foolish to hold onto that reminder, but it was her past as much as The Parsonage was her future.
Regardless, it would need to be properly framed before it was fit to be seen.
The door opened, and the maid-of-all-work popped in with a bob, her breath coming fast as if she had sprinted up the stairs. “Mrs. Whitcombe to see you, madam.”
“Very good, Molly.” Phoebe made another mark on her list, scribbling down the last of her ideas before they faded away.
But the maid remained in the doorway, wringing her hands.
“You’d best come straight away,” added Molly in a strangled voice as though forcing out the words and expecting a reprimand for her boldness. Whatever awaited Phoebe in the parlor must be serious, indeed, for the girl to work herself into such a dither.
“I do not intend to make her wait,” said Phoebe, adding one final note before setting the notebook and pencil on the mantelpiece to await her return, and the girl heaved a sigh as her mistress strode from the room.
No doubt Mrs. Whitcombe was quite a fearsome beast. Every village boasted one, and Phoebe had done battle with Haverford’s many a time. They simply required a firm hand.
“Please prepare some tea,” said Phoebe, and Molly bobbed and scurried off to the kitchens, leaving her mistress to enter the parlor alone. Upon the sofa sat an imposing lady, her spine rigid and her eyes calculating as she took in the rector’s new wife.
Beyond a few wrinkles at the most obvious places, Mrs. Whitcombe held herself with the air of one who had reached an age where regrets were ridiculous things that were best ignored, and if Phoebe were to hazard a guess, she would say the lady’s children were grown.
Perhaps even a few of her grandchildren.
However, the locks that peeked from beneath her bonnet were the sort of blonde that hid the encroaching grays, and they boasted a luster not often found on a head more than fifty years of age.
Stepping through the doorway, Phoebe bobbed at the lady, and though Mrs. Whitcombe acknowledged that with a slight nod of her head, there was a distinct pause between the two actions, leaving Phoebe a little bewildered.
Had she offended the lady already? It wasn’t as though she had kept Mrs. Whitcombe waiting for an inexcusable amount of time, especially as this was not an appointed time for formal visits.
“Welcome, Mrs. Whitcombe. I am pleased to say you are my first caller,” said Phoebe, taking the seat nearest the lady.
“I would’ve come earlier, but I didn’t wish to inundate you with visitors during your first days in Kingsmere,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, her hands tucked primly in her lap.
“And I thank you for your consideration,” replied Phoebe.
“Though I have never settled in a new village, I’ve seen others come to Haverford, and it must be extremely taxing to explore your new home whilst managing the introductory visits.
No doubt they are happy for the warm reception, but I suspect they would also like to get their bearings first.”
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, giving that a sharp nod of approval.
The clink of china announced Molly’s arrival just before she appeared.
Moving to an obliging table, the maid set out the refreshments whilst Phoebe fetched the tea caddy from its place on the parlor shelf.
With a twist of the key, the lid opened easily to reveal the two compartments inside, and Phoebe couldn’t help the shiver of delight that ran through her as she examined the black and green tea piled thick inside, ready for her to mix the proper blend for her guest.
“That is a lovely piece,” said Mrs. Whitcombe.
“It was a gift from Mr. Godwin’s mother,” said Phoebe, turning it for the lady’s inspection.
The caddy was fashioned of polished mahogany, its surface so perfectly polished that the grain seemed to ripple.
Time had mellowed the wood to a deep, lustrous brown as warm as drinking chocolate, and a narrow band of inlay traced the lid with squares of ivory and ebony set so neatly together that the joints were nearly imperceptible.
It was a piece that reflected not only its age but the care with which it had been kept.
A piece of her new family, handed into her keeping, and just the sight made Phoebe’s insides flutter.
The tea caddy was more than a handsome object.
It was a charge, and the quiet authority of it settled into her hands as tangibly as its weight.
Whatever uncertainties lay ahead, this ritual act of hospitality marked her place within The Parsonage’s walls. Phoebe Godwin was no longer a guest or dependent. She was the mistress of this house and the matriarch of this branch of the family.
“It was waiting for me when Mr. Godwin and I arrived home,” said Phoebe as she moved about her duties to her guest. “His mother couldn’t make the journey to Haverford for the wedding—”
“That is far too great a distance to go with so little warning,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with an approving tone.
“Yes,” said Phoebe, settling back into her seat as the tea steeped. “And Mr. Godwin’s sister required their mother during her lying in.”
“It is a fine gift,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, giving the caddy another perusal.
“That it is,” said Phoebe, her hands itching to stroke the box yet again, though she had done enough of that of late. And her thoughts drifted to the letter that had accompanied it.
What to make of the lady who had sent it?
Mrs. Mariah Godwin had written as though this marriage were a joy freely chosen, something welcomed and anticipated, not a practical arrangement forced into being by circumstance.
She spoke of looking forward to Phoebe’s company, of hopes for the household, of small domestic pleasures shared between women who were now family.
The warmth of it lingered still, but Phoebe did not know what to make of such kindness—especially coming from the mother of Mr. Godwin.
Though her son was certainly one for effusive hyperbole when it came to praise, there was an earnestness to his mother’s letter that bore no resemblance to the man Phoebe had married.
But she accepted the gift and the missive, setting both gently aside in her thoughts, uncertain whether to trust what they promised.
“It wouldn’t occur to a gentleman that such a thing is needed,” added Mrs. Whitcombe. “It is a fine heirloom to pass down from mother to daughter.”
The words landed with an unexpected weight.
Mother to daughter. Phoebe felt it like a sharp tap against the ribs.
No doubt there were heirlooms Mama had intended to entrust to her youngest daughter once the marriage vows had been spoken, but they had been parceled out and sold to pay off the family’s debts, dispersed into other households where their histories were forgotten.
Phoebe drew a slow breath and brushed the thought away before it could settle. There was no purpose in dwelling on what was lost or taking offense over an innocent remark. The caddy sat solid and real beneath her fingers, so she schooled her expression and allowed the moment to pass.
And with that, they fell into a familiar dance. Questions concerning Phoebe’s journey, the weather, and the state of the roads flowed freely, and as they spoke, Phoebe prepared the tea and offered up refreshments to her guest.
“I do hope you will engage a proper cook,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, waving aside the proffered sweets. “The rector is an integral aspect of village life and must host parties and gatherings, but Mr. Godwin cannot do so without proper food, and he has been slow to act.”
Phoebe’s smile held, though her spine stiffened. “Molly is quite capable. She is a good girl and takes pride in her work.”
“She is skilled with plain fare, but that is not enough for proper entertaining,” said Mrs. Whitcombe.