Chapter 8
“Ah, Mr. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a regal wave of her hand, beckoning to him. “Your wife and I are just getting acquainted. It appears she intends to hire you a proper cook and host gatherings.”
Brows shooting upward, Samuel nearly beamed at the thought. Not that he cared one way or another, but the slight censure in her voice made it clear it mattered to the lady more than he’d realized. Thankfully, she was now able to enjoy a bit of a gloat at having gotten her way.
Motioning toward a seat, Mrs. Whitcombe invited him to sit in his own parlor, and Mrs. Godwin stiffened at that high-handedness, but Samuel gave her a slight lift of his fingers for her to let it go. Overstepping the bounds of a guest was of little consequence, after all.
“I am so happy for you to finally meet,” he quickly interjected, drawing their attention away from that faux pas.
“Yes, Mr. Godwin has told me so much about you, it feels as though we have already met,” said Mrs. Godwin in a dry tone, though his patroness took the statement as her due, giving that a sanctimonious nod.
“A rector cannot function without a wife to see to the many social aspects of his profession, and though I thought it a shame that our Mr. Godwin didn’t choose from one of our girls in Kingsmere, I understand the logic in doing so,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, giving the lady in question an appraising look.
“No doubt it would’ve caused quite the stir when you chose one young lady over another. ”
With a considering hum, she added, “When my niece wrote to me about your bride, I wasn’t certain what to make of your choice.”
“I had the great pleasure of meeting Lady Cecilia in Haverford,” said Samuel with a broad smile. “She is a credit to your family and the jewel of that village.”
Mrs. Godwin busied herself with the tea things, though Samuel saw the twitch of her lips that said she was laughing at him.
So be it. Better him than Mrs. Whitcombe or Lady Cecilia.
Though he couldn’t say whether Mrs. Godwin and the baronet’s wife were on cordial terms, it was safe to say that the first and second most influential families in the area had crossed paths many times.
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, waving his compliment away.
“But she apprised me of the troubles facing Mrs. Godwin’s family, and I was shocked that you aligned yourself with them, what with the appalling manner in which her father behaved.
To drive such a distinguished name into the ground is inexcusable. ”
Shifting the cushion by her side, Mrs. Whitcombe added, “One must be careful in choosing one’s spouse after all.”
“Because one’s parentage determines one’s worth?” asked Mrs. Godwin.
Mrs. Whitcombe’s brows lifted a fraction. “Not entirely, of course, but does it not speak to some inherent flaw in a bloodline when someone blessed with a thriving estate brings it to ruin in such a short time?”
Mrs. Godwin set the teapot down with deliberate care, and she turned a quizzical look at her guest, saying in a light tone, “Oh dear, it appears I am an utter dunce, for I clearly do not understand the scriptures correctly. I thought that when our Lord was asked whether a man’s blindness was the result of his parents’ sins, He replied that a child is not made to bear the weight of their parents’ failings. ”
Turning to her husband, Mrs. Godwin asked with wide-eyed (but entirely feigned) naivete. “Have I misremembered, Mr. Godwin? Or simply misinterpreted it? As the rector’s wife, I would hate to spread false teachings.”
The entire moment was genius. From the concerned furrow of her brow to the sweetness of her tone, everything about the lady gave the appearance of genuine concern whilst putting Mrs. Whitcombe so thoroughly in her place that the lady sat for a full minute without speaking.
Mrs. Godwin’s humor laced into every inch of her, not openly mocking but giving no quarter, either.
And had it been anyone else but Mrs. Whitcombe, Samuel would’ve applauded the performance. Mrs. Godwin’s dry wit was yet another admirable quality, and seeing it in all its glory was a thing of beauty.
Mrs. Whitcombe cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. “The Bible offers many lessons, my dear, but one must take care not to apply them too… generously. A family’s habits do not spring from nowhere.”
Reaching for her teacup, Mrs. Godwin’s smile did not waver.
“Of course not. Yet everyone is an agent unto themselves, free to choose whether they embrace the habits and traditions of their family. I am simply relieved that the Lord does not heap punishments upon the heads of the innocents and does not rely upon us to sort the good from the bad. We should make dreadful work of it.”
“It is my experience that the Lord blesses the righteous and punishes the wicked,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a sniff. “And the sight of such difficulties befalling a great family must be a judgment from God. Unless you do not believe that He rewards those who follow Him.”
“I believe it would be far easier to choose the good if one always received immediate blessings,” said Mrs. Godwin with a beaming smile.
“Just imagine what it would be like if every time we were unkind to one another, we received an immediate punishment. It would take all the fun out of gossiping, and society would be bereft of entertainment.”
Silence followed—thin, brittle, and charged.
Samuel knew he ought to have said something long before this moment, but his wits had deserted him as he watched his wife battle his patroness.
It didn’t help matters that Mrs. Godwin’s jests were so blastedly amusing that Samuel found himself wondering what she would say next and struggling not to smile at the clever responses.
But Mrs. Whitcombe’s lips thinned until they were naught but a hard slash across her face, her eyes sparking with a fire that boded ill, and Samuel’s thoughts finally snapped into place. He had to do something before Mrs. Whitcombe decided to be well and truly offended.
“What a silly goose you are, my dear Mrs. Godwin.” Samuel infused the words with a laugh, as though the whole disagreement was naught but a jest between the ladies.
In truth, he felt silly for speaking them, yet it was just the sort of thing an obsequious ninny would say, and as it drew both their attentions, he didn’t care one jot.
Donning his more ingratiating smile for Mrs. Whitcombe, Samuel added, “You must forgive my wife, madam. She is still finding her footing in parish matters, and the strain of settling into a new household can muddle one’s phrasing.
Her words came out more forcefully than intended.
She has been rather overwhelmed of late. ”
*
Overwhelmed? Phoebe kept her expression pleasant and her hands steady around her teacup as heat crept up her neck. Overwhelmed suggested confusion. Fluster. A woman carried along by feeling rather than thought. Though Phoebe supposed it was a fitting description for a “silly goose.”
Mr. Godwin continued, “Her meaning, I believe, is that hardship is not always a mark against one’s character. A generous sentiment, to be certain.”
Of course he would rush in to frame her words as well-meant but ill-judged. To soften her killing blow. One’s betters must always be seen as better, after all.
Something sharp in her chest twisted, as her husband flattered Mrs. Whitcombe, doing everything but lying on his belly and kissing her dusty shoes. The sight was disgusting, and it took all of Phoebe’s willpower not to sneer at the sight.
But before she could say anything to defend her honor, Mr. Godwin rose to his feet.
“My many thanks for honoring our humble abode with your presence, Mrs. Whitcombe, but I wouldn’t dream of stealing away any more of your time,” he said with a bow so deep that he may just be able to kiss those perfect little feet, which had the supreme blessing of conveying the very great and magnanimous Mrs. Whitcombe about—when she isn’t being carried about on her palanquin, of course.
No doubt, Mr. Godwin wished to replicate himself many times over so that he, alone, might cart her about the streets of Kingsmere like Cleopatra of old.
Phoebe huffed a laugh at her own thoughts and rose with the lady, though Mrs. Whitcombe’s chin lifted as though she may have heard the noise, and Phoebe forced herself to behave.
This whole thing may be ridiculous, but there was a vast difference between humor and mockery, and she preferred to remain firmly in the former. Though it was difficult at times.
“Your thoughtfulness does you credit, Mr. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, turning a benevolent smile upon her rector, though the warmth in that expression fled when she turned back to Phoebe. “This has been very enlightening, Mrs. Godwin.”
Leading the lady to the parlor door, Phoebe bobbed a farewell—and received a curt nod in acknowledgement.
Thankfully, her mother had taught her manners, and Phoebe did not allow the seething heat to show upon her face; to all the world, she appeared a gracious hostess as the maid led her from the room.
Once the door was firmly shut, Phoebe let out a sharp scoff and scowled now that she was free to do so.
“Why were you antagonizing her?” hissed her husband, and she spun around to see him standing just behind her.
“Disagreeing isn’t antagonizing,” said Phoebe, lifting her chin as she glared at him. “And you did enough fawning to overcome any ill feelings I might’ve stoked. She insulted me and my family in my own home, yet you called me a fool!”
Stiffening, Mr. Godwin glanced at the door, which (though closed) did not possess the magic to block all sound, and though Phoebe cared not one jot about Mrs. Whitcombe’s opinion, neither did she wish to incur the lady’s wrath, so she stepped to the window and spied Mrs. Whitcombe traversing the path between their house and hers—well out of hearing.
“I did not call you a fool,” he said.
“Oh, no. I do believe it was a ‘silly goose.’ That is far better,” said Phoebe in a flat tone. “Every wife yearns to hear her husband speak of her like she is an errant child, too empty-headed to know what she is saying.”
Mr. Godwin folded his arms and drew in a steady breath. “You were insulting the preeminent lady in our parish. That is dangerous ground to tread.”
“Do not lecture me about managing societal expectations,” said Phoebe with a scoff.
“I have spent my life navigating those waters, and it is important to stand firm and not give others the upper hand—else you will never earn their respect. What do you think it does to my standing when my own husband treats me as though I am her social inferior? Faith, she wouldn’t even return my curtsy! ”
“Because you are not her social equal, Mrs. Godwin. Not anymore. Please act like it.”
Straightening, Phoebe blinked at the man, though her vision narrowed, blurring the edges of her world as his words settled.
Not anymore. It was as though the ground beneath her feet quietly gave way, leaving her adrift with that revelation echoing in her mind as Mr. Godwin strode away without another word.
No matter what her husband said, Phoebe was no fool.
Her understanding of social structures had pressed her to marry him rather than subject herself to being a poor spinster.
Her only thought had been to escape her family’s inevitable fall from grace, but what did it mean to live somewhere between the lowest of the low and the highest of the high?
Mrs. Phoebe Godwin was the wife of a mere rector. A gentleman, yes. But hardly the pinnacle of society.
Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, and Phoebe drew herself straighter, instinctively bracing against the knowledge that the ground beneath her had shifted at last and neither pride, nor wit, nor will could restore what had been lost.
With her thoughts so fully ensnared, the rest of the day passed in a blur.
Phoebe couldn’t say how she passed the hours.
Couldn’t say what was served for dinner.
She recalled sitting at the table, her husband silently eating beside her.
Recalled his rising and leaving to do whatever it was that he saw fit to do in the evening.
Phoebe even removed herself to the parlor, taking up the book she was reading.
Yet those motions were automatic, the result of habits already formed after only a few short days.
Phoebe mulled over this revelation, and when the two of them climbed into bed that evening, she gave Mr. Godwin her back and stewed some more. At this rate, her mind was well and truly overcooked.
Yet it would not quiet.
Rolling to her back with a sigh, Phoebe whispered into the darkness. “I apologize, Mr. Godwin. I forgot myself, and I spoke hastily.”
The words tasted sour on her tongue, but she knew they needed to be spoken.
Whether it was right or fair was inconsequential.
Mrs. Whitcombe had been a guest of The Parsonage, and Phoebe’s retorts (however true) had not been welcoming, slipping instead into the sort of repartee she would’ve employed in Haverford when she had the social standing for others to dismiss her humor as eccentric.
When one possessed inherent prestige and position, one needn’t guard one’s words.
Wrapped in the darkness, the silence felt like a tangible substance filling every corner of their bedchamber, and Phoebe couldn’t help but wonder if the fellow had fallen asleep.
Good gracious. She would have to repeat herself in the morning.
The idea churned in her stomach, adding to the restless thoughts that were bound to keep her awake long into the night—then a grunt of acknowledgment broke through the silence.
Phoebe turned to him, though with the shades drawn and the candles extinguished, there was no way to tell if he was looking at her or simply making noises in his sleep.
“Tread carefully around Mrs. Whitcombe,” said Mr. Godwin, a note of serious concern lacing his tone. “You do not want her for an enemy.”
Phoebe tried to study the shadowy blur that was her husband, but it was no use. Yet his voice sounded so unlike the man she knew that she was half tempted to light the candle and ensure that it was Mr. Godwin lying beside her.
But he said nothing more. There was no apology for the words he’d spoken. No acknowledgement of wrongdoing.
Turning back onto her side, Phoebe stared into the darkness. So much of late had been beyond her control, but she had chosen this man to marry, had chosen this world to inhabit, and there was no undoing it now. This was her life, and there was nothing more to be done about it.
And Phoebe didn’t know whether that was a comfort or a condemnation.