Chapter 10
Morning light poured through the bedchamber window, warming everything it touched. Despite the casement being wide open, only the faintest breath of air swept in, carrying the scent of dust and the murmur of Kingsmere as it stirred to life.
A small dressing table stood in the light, covered with the accoutrements Phoebe required to make herself presentable.
Despite having little experience with dressing a lady’s hair, Molly was taking to her new responsibilities with ease, doing as well as any maid Phoebe had used at Dunsby Hall, enjoying the shift in her duties now that the newly hired cook had removed “of-all-work” from the maid’s title.
Once she received a nod of approval, Molly bobbed and departed to ready herself for church, but Phoebe remained in place as her mother’s words ran through her thoughts again and again.
Any hopes that her letter would hold glad tidings had been dashed from the first sentence, and the words clung to her like damp wool.
In truth, Mama’s complaints appeared small at first glance, but threaded through it all was something stronger and sharper.
It mourned the loss of freedom. Of being her own mistress.
Of presiding over a household. Even if Mama hadn’t taken much pleasure in overseeing the day-to-day of the household, it was a far cry from having no say at all.
Now, her days were ordered by Lucille, and no matter how kind her eldest sister may be, there was no compensating for that forfeiture.
Staring at her reflection as though checking Molly’s handiwork, Phoebe imagined that life so clearly: she had thought of nothing else before accepting Mr. Godwin’s proposal. As a widow and her mother, Mama held at least some prestige within Lucille’s household. Phoebe would’ve held none.
However kindly offered, dependence was still dependence, and though some may argue that a wife was dependent on her husband, there was a symbiosis to their relationship that belied that idea; both man and wife bolstered the household in different manners, giving to one another.
And that partnership granted a degree of freedom and power.
To choose her own meals and social calendar, at the very least.
In the mirror’s glass, Mr. Godwin adjusted his collar with practiced ease, and an unexpected pang echoed in her heart.
She had reduced him to a caricature, who was useful, irritating, and easily dismissed, yet here he stood, having protected her from the very fate that filled her mother’s pen with bitterness.
Whatever his faults, Mr. Godwin hadn’t gloated over her need nor cast her aside after she had rejected him so thoroughly during his first proposal.
And the gentleman asked little in return. To be kind and patient with his patroness? Was that so very demanding when everyone ought to treat their fellow man with dignity and care?
A silent promise formed as Phoebe rose from the table and smoothed her skirts: she would meet this life with more generosity than she had granted him thus far.
Refraining from open disdain was not the same as treating her husband with kindness—and she couldn’t even say that she had done a good job at the former.
Fastening her earring, Phoebe watched as her husband buttoned his Sabbath waistcoat, and she wondered if she ought to say something.
Surely the resolve warming her heart deserved to be acknowledged, yet coldness had swept into their home the moment he stepped through their front door.
Phoebe couldn’t name the source, though she didn’t think it was tied to her.
Of course, it was impossible to say for the gentleman boasted no emotion beyond a dogged devotion to his beloved Mrs. Whitcombe.
Phoebe dropped her hands and sent a silent chastisement inward. Hadn’t she just committed to being more compassionate? The vow was hardly a minute old before she bludgeoned it with harsh judgments. That was badly done!
Even if it was warranted.
Frowning at herself, Phoebe brushed that unkindness aside and committed—again—to keep a tighter rein on her emotions.
Snatching her bonnet from atop the wardrobe, she set it on her head as they finished their preparations.
Mr. Godwin crossed to where his boots awaited him, and she reached for her gloves and smoothed them once before slipping them on.
At some point, he paused to hold out her shawl, and she took it, draping it over her shoulders as though they had done this a hundred times before.
The silence was not uncomfortable—merely settled, shaped by shared space and repetition over the past three weeks.
Phoebe caught their reflection in the looking glass as she adjusted her bonnet: husband and wife, side by side, moving in quiet accord. Whatever else lay between them, they had found a way to exist together within these walls, their routine quickly settling into place without fanfare or effort.
Of course, it helped that neither felt the need to speak.
“Please do not contradict Mrs. Whitcombe today,” said Mr. Godwin.
Holding fast to her self-directed promise, Phoebe did not mention that the lady in question was far more eager to contradict or that he’d known his wife was a woman of strong opinions before he’d proposed to her, and instead she considered how to answer that criticism wrapped in a request. She certainly did not wish to raise Mrs. Whitcombe’s ire.
Surely that was a decent foundation upon which to build.
“At the very least, please avoid speaking of Mr. Whitcombe again,” said Mr. Godwin.
“I mentioned him only once—”
“And it left an impression, Mrs. Godwin. His prolonged absences are a tender subject, and she does not care to be reminded that he would prefer being anywhere but in her company.”
Phoebe forced herself to breathe, her fingers clinging tightly to her new resolve. That solitary mention had been naught but a pleasantry, and had Mr. Godwin bothered to mention how tender the topic was, she wouldn’t have broached it.
“I will endeavor to do better,” she said, settling her shawl into place and standing at the ready. Mr. Godwin lifted his arm to her; their corridors were far too small for them to walk arm-in-arm, but she accepted the token for what it was.
Yet it left her once more at a loss.
Her husband was an odd man. Throughout their acquaintance (short though it may be), Mr. Godwin had proven himself an empty-headed fool; it was a miracle that his back was strong and hale with all the bowing and scraping he did.
His expression was always vacantly eager, his words were always honeyed.
Yet more and more, he seemed almost sensible. Intelligent, even.
“As I said before, one must tread carefully with Mrs. Whitcombe,” continued Mr. Godwin, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves might carry tales.
“Take, for example, the improvements you wish to make to the house. It would be wiser to frame it as a benefit to the parish rather than a personal preference. Do what you can to make her feel consulted and valued, rather than challenged. She is quite amenable when approached with care.”
Phoebe glanced at him sidelong and did not mention the alterations she’d already made in their bedchamber. How had he not noticed?
“I must flatter her before I paint a few walls?” she asked.
Mr. Godwin studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“I am speaking from experience,” he said with far more gravity than she had thought him capable of. “You will win her over with flattery, not firmness.”
A soft huff escaped her before she could stop it. “One can hardly blame Mr. Whitcombe for seeking distance when one must go to such lengths to earn her approval over something so simple.”
The words hung there, lightly spoken and lightly meant, yet they struck something sharp. Mr. Godwin said nothing. He merely looked ahead, his expression shuttered once more, and the absence of rebuke was somehow worse.
Heat crept up Phoebe’s neck, reminding her once more of her vow.
Though wrapped in wit, her statement had been careless and far crueler than intended—something that had been happening more of late than she cared to admit.
It was the sort of observation Mr. Winwood would’ve enjoyed, and Phoebe wondered if spending so much time in his company had encouraged her to speak far too frankly.
What did it matter if another’s feelings were bruised as long as it earned a laugh?
But that was not witty. It was cutting.
Phoebe drew in a steadying breath and squared her shoulders, willing herself back into the resolve she had so recently claimed. Things could be worse. Far worse. She had chosen this path, and she would walk it properly, even when it required holding her tongue.
“I apologize, Mr. Godwin,” she whispered. “Now, we mustn’t be late.”
***
Cold stones and dark shadows greeted those who entered St. Jude, the church holding itself apart from the heat of the day like a held breath that smelled faintly of damp and aged wood.
Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows, falling in pale bands across the nave and the rows of oaken pews.
Above the worshipers, the timbered roof arched overhead, heavy beams rising and crossing like ribs, lending the space both shelter and weight.
Despite all the sandstone, which echoed even the faintest of sounds, a hush fell over the building as Mr. Samuel Godwin stood upon his pulpit.
It had been nearly five months since her path had first crossed with her husband’s.
Three since her brother had first announced their financial woes, followed quickly on its heels by the revelation that they were well and truly ruined.
Two months since Mr. Godwin had proposed. And almost one since the wedding.
Four and twenty years of living, and yet it felt as though everything of importance had occurred during the previous five months. The strangeness of it all lingered in Phoebe’s heart and mind, increasing in strength with each passing week.
And that feeling of being forever upended worsened as she watched her husband speak to the parish.
The only time Mr. Godwin employed language with such grace was when he was prostrating himself before his betters, and for all that she had expected his sermons to be equally ingratiating, Mr. Godwin taught as though this were more than a mere profession.
It was a calling, and he preached of virtues and parables, expounding on each with far more clarity than Phoebe would’ve anticipated.
Her vow rose to her thoughts, prodding at her conscience, but she refused to accept guilt over a simple (and silent) observation.
Haverford had seen many a curate pass through their parish, and far too many treated their Sunday sermons with all the care and attention one gives an unwanted chore, yet Mr. Godwin’s earnestness shone in every word.
And thank the heavens, it was the perfect length, being long enough to delve into the subject without dragging it out interminably.
Once the final blessings and prayers were given, Mr. Godwin strode down the nave, taking his place at the door to bid farewell to each of his flock as they slowly filed from the building.
Of course, no one rose until Mrs. Whitcombe took her leave in all her glory, but once that was complete, the rest followed after, spilling out into the morning light.
Glancing about, Phoebe considered the people she had met and those with whom she wished to further an acquaintance; they would all come to know one another quite well in time, so she supposed it mattered little, but having settled into her home, Phoebe yearned to find someone who could fill the void Thea’s letters simply could not.
Granted, that would require her approaching someone in conversation, which was never a pleasing prospect, but sometimes there was no helping matters. Turning her gaze this way and that, Phoebe searched for an answer—when the choice was made for her.
A lady swept forward, throwing her arms around Phoebe before she knew what the stranger was doing. “Do forgive me for being so forward, Mrs. Godwin, but I must greet you properly.”