Chapter 12
Afternoon light slanted through the parlor windows, softening the room and lending a gentle warmth to the pale walls.
The chairs sat at the perfect angles to invite conversation without forcing it, their cushions neatly plumped, and a small table stood within easy reach of each seat, ready to hold up the ladies’ teacups and saucers.
A few heirlooms were arranged with deliberate care.
A porcelain figurine here, a framed miniature there, a scattering of books that hadn’t the intellectual appeal for resale but looked pretty on display.
The value of each was entirely sentimental, thus they'd escaped the creditor’s net, and they looked quite nice next to the Godwins’ bits and bobs.
Phoebe moved about the room with restless purpose, adjusting and readjusting things that were already perfectly acceptable until everything was just so. Even the air smelled faintly of baked cinnamon and polished wood, evoking a mixture of cleanliness and homeliness.
The guests were not expected for some time yet, but she could not bring herself to sit.
Every surface demanded her attention. Plates of cakes and savory bites were arranged upon the sideboard in careful order, their symmetry shifted and corrected twice over, and beside it sat the tea caddy, its polished surface catching the light whenever she passed.
The other tea things were absent, of course, for it would not do to have the water cooling before the appointed time, but she shifted the wooden chest a quarter of an inch to the left, ensuring there would be space enough for them.
This was her domain, and today, Phoebe Godwin would be the hostess in every sense of the word.
Yes, she had entertained the visitors who had welcomed her to the neighborhood, but now that she was properly settled, it was time for her to send invitations.
Phoebe had written a good many under her mother and governess’s tutelage, but these were entirely her own.
For her own gathering. With her own guests.
And a menu of her own. In her very own home.
For the first time since arriving in Kingsmere, the parlor would fulfill its purpose and serve as a place of gatherings and goings on, rather than a mere shelter in which she passed her solitary days and nights.
And that thought sent a flutter through her, skittering down her spine and settling into her heart with a grin.
A knock on the front door sounded, and Phoebe gave a start.
Surely they had not arrived so early. It was well and good to be prompt, but a half hour was excessive.
But when Molly answered it, Phoebe heard the familiar voice of the postman as the maid handed over the obligatory payment for their letters.
A moment later, Molly appeared in the parlor with a missive in her hand.
Taking it, Phoebe settled onto the sofa.
A letter from Mrs. Louisa Fisk was the perfect distraction.
They say age grants wisdom and clarity, but for all her five and twenty years, the lady was just as delightfully silly as she’d been in their youth.
And Phoebe unfolded the page, eager to read all about Mrs. Witt’s battles with her gardener, Mr. Story’s snores during Mr. Tudor’s sermons, and all those little amusing nothings that risked no one’s reputations and caused no ill when shared.
Simply a private chuckle shared between friends.
But Louisa leapt over all the usual salutations and questions and opened with, “You will never believe what I have just heard.”
Eyes darting ahead, Phoebe’s breath caught at the sight of the name attached: Mr. Winwood.
I write with a most unsettled mind, for news has reached me that I wish had never found its way into my keeping.
Yet I cannot, in good conscience, withhold it from you.
Mr. Winwood has vanished! One day, he was seen at the inn as usual, full of easy charm and unmatched confidence, and the next, he was gone, leaving behind a trail of unpaid bills and unanswered questions.
The innkeeper is beside himself, not only for the loss of the money owed, but for the far graver trouble that has since come to light.
It appears his daughter is in a delicate condition, and she is not the only young woman in the village who has reason to curse his name.
I will not repeat all that has been whispered, but suffice it to say Mr. Winwood's attentions were more freely bestowed than his intentions ever were.
As to his whereabouts, accounts vary. Some insist he has fled to the Continent to escape his debt collectors, others claim he is on his way to Scotland with a young heiress.
Whether he ran toward opportunity or away from consequence, I cannot say.
Only that his absence is sudden, his debts many, and his character is now laid bare in a manner that even the most kindhearted of people cannot excuse away.
I know this will trouble you, and I am so very sorry to be the bearer of it.
I will not pretend that I did not notice the marked attention he bestowed upon you or the favorable manner in which you accepted it.
But I have sent a dozen grateful prayers heavenward that you were never caught in his web.
The words blurred before her eyes, the neat lines of Louisa’s handwriting wavering as though the paper itself were shifting.
Phoebe read the letter once, then twice, scarcely breathing, a hollow pressure building beneath her ribs until it felt as though her stays were laced too tightly.
Each detail landed with a dull, sick weight, pressing her deeper into the chair as if the very air had grown heavy.
Memories rose with a cruel swiftness. Those easy smiles. That practiced warmth, which had seemed so effortless, so personal. His attention had felt like a quenching rainfall after a hot summer, and Phoebe had drunk every last droplet.
Her fingers tightened on the page until the paper creased, and Phoebe smoothed it with her thumb, but the wrinkles did not disappear, and neither did the weight lodged beneath her ribs.
Heat followed quickly on its heels, burning its way from the pit of her stomach and settling into her chest, and Phoebe had to set the letter down for fear she might tear it in two.
That last line pulsed upon the paper, mocking her with the knowledge of how close she had come to being yet another casualty of Mr. Winwood’s arrogance.
He had looked at her and seen only what she might provide, teasing and toying with her when it suited him, and the thought made her hands curl, nails pressing into her palms as if she might anchor herself against the roiling anger.
Used. That was the word that rose unbidden, bitter and undeniable.
Not admired. Not cherished. Simply assessed and weighed.
All that warmth he’d offered, all those looks meant to make her feel singular, had been nothing more than a means to secure her dowry in the beginning and her submission in the end.
Miss Ashbrook’s warnings rose unbidden, each sensible word now stripped of its former dullness and revealed as keen and accurate, and that fury redoubled its strength. While Phoebe had played the fool, others had seen his duplicity from the start.
Images crowded in, too vivid and immediate.
The tilt of his smile when he’d pressed close, his hands drifting past her defenses, his mouth capturing hers, insistent and tender.
The feelings he’d stoked had burned through her, urging her deeper and deeper into his embrace.
No one would ever know how close she’d come to accepting his invitation, how tempting it had been to embrace the affection he offered, and how often she thought of Mr. Winwood when her husband’s lips found hers.
Her hands lay folded in her lap as though they belonged to someone else.
Neat, capable, unmarked, they offered no sign of the poor judgment that now felt written on her skin.
Clasping her hands until her knuckles grew white, Phoebe tried to hold her recriminations at bay, but her deeds and desires remained etched upon her heart. Indelible.
Phoebe folded the letter with careful precision, as though that alone might restore order in her world, and set it aside. The shame did not lift, but she stood a little straighter for having named the sentiment, even if only to herself.
Another knock at the door made Phoebe jolt out of her seat, her hands stuffing the letter out of sight.
If only the thoughts were so easily dismissed, but Mr. Winwood lingered in the back of her mind, refusing to leave her be.
With more instinct than thought, Phoebe crossed the room only to turn back again, smoothing an already neat cushion.
Footsteps sounded in the passage, measured and unhurried, and the door opened before she could settle herself. Mrs. Kirk was announced and ushered in, making the room shrink as Phoebe felt all too aware of the air in her lungs.
People might’ve seen her preference for Mr. Winwood, but no one knew the whole of it. And the lady before her knew none of it. Yet Phoebe found herself acutely aware of every word and action, as though her foolishness might suddenly be revealed.
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Kirk with raised brows. “Is something amiss? You look positively faint.”
Taking a stranglehold on her feelings, Phoebe straightened, and with a forceful breath, she loosened her shoulders. “I fear I was lost in thought when you arrived.”
Glancing at the novel resting on the side table, the lady strode over and examined the title. “Ah, The Whispers of Willow Creek. I found myself quite flustered with that. Mr. Beaumont certainly knows how to weave a tale that captures one’s whole attention, doesn’t he?”
Phoebe eagerly latched onto that excuse and nodded. “As eager as I am to have you and the other ladies join me this afternoon, I am nearly as eager to shoo you away and finish it.”
Mrs. Kirk laughed and took the seat Phoebe motioned her toward. “Reading is my second dearest love. Oh, before it slips my mind entirely, Mrs. Coulter asked me to pass along her apologies. Her little one has taken ill.”
“Is it serious?” asked Phoebe, her brows furrowing as she sat before the lady.
But the concern was waved away. “Mothers are always fretful with their first. It is little more than a cough, and though her nursemaid is quite capable of managing on her own, Mrs. Coulter insists on remaining at home.”
“As well she should,” said Phoebe. “I dare say the world would be better if during those early years fewer mothers sent away their children or consigned them to their nursemaids’ care.”
Mrs. Kirk’s brows rose. “I sent each of mine to the country until they were weaned. It is good for their health, you know, and quite important for the mother’s recovery as well.”
Phoebe wasn’t certain how she felt about her own mother’s choice to do the same, but as the strength of Mrs. Kirk’s convictions was clear in her tone, she thought it best to leave the subject be. And she almost wished Mr. Godwin were there to see just how amenable she was being.
“I am certain you will feel differently when you have children of your own,” said Mrs. Kirk, a teasing smile tickling the corner of her lips; it was the self-same expression that at least a dozen people had employed upon her arrival to Kingsmere, as though enjoying the ability to hint at the private matters that were necessary to achieve that goal without being so crass as to speak of it openly.
Heavens, Phoebe hoped the rest of the ladies arrived soon, but when she turned her ear to the door, there was no sign of them.
“I do wonder where the others are,” said Phoebe, rising to her feet and calling for Molly to bring the tea board. “But as they are tardy, I see no reason to wait.”
Mrs. Kirk shifted in her seat as her smile grew strained. “I do not believe they are tardy. I believe the majority are paying calls on Mrs. Whitcombe. It is her day for visitors, after all.”
“Then perhaps they will join us once they are finished. A morning call lasts such a short time, after all,” said Phoebe, though the fact that they all had chosen to do their duty today revealed the truth before Mrs. Kirk spoke it.
“Mrs. Whitcombe is ill-disposed toward you, and few ladies will openly defy her,” said Mrs. Kirk.
Phoebe’s brows rose. “She is commanding people not to meet with me?”
Mrs. Kirk’s nose wrinkled. “Heavens, no, but you know what it is like. When the greatest of us all issues a snub, others follow suit.”
“Yet you do not.” For all the terrible news she had received, that brought a smile to Phoebe’s lips.
“Come now, you are an intelligent young lady,” said Mrs. Kirk, taking the saucer and cup Phoebe offered her.
“Mrs. Whitcombe prizes position and tradition, but she is not overtly cruel or rude. It isn’t as though she will take note of my presence here and unleash some ungodly punishment upon my head.
I simply do not care if I am in her good graces, but far too many place stock in being liked by their betters. ”
Phoebe set her teacup down on the side table with a heavy clink and a huff.
“I knew I would like you when we first met. I cannot comprehend what hold Mrs. Whitcombe has over Kingsmere. She has money, to be certain, but even our baronet in Haverford does not hold such sway over the village. It is baffling.”
Giving a vague wave of the hand as she took a bite of a madeleine, Mrs. Kirk chuckled. “That, my dear, is the power of influence.”
That wasn’t much of an answer, for the Vosses had boasted as much position and prestige as one could find in their small corner of Lincolnshire, yet Phoebe couldn’t think of a single matter in which Mama had exerted so much control over the parish.
Hiding her confusion behind a sip of tea, Phoebe quickly moved to change the subject. “You spoke of reading as your second great love. May I ask what is your first?”
Shifting to the edge of her seat, Mrs. Kirk abandoned her refreshments and clasped her hands in her lap with a grin. “Have you heard of The Royal Humane Society?”