Chapter 15
“You must not desist,” Mrs. Kirk’s voice rang with conviction as she motioned to the woman playing the part of a drowning victim. “Perseverance is often the difference between a life lost and a life restored.”
Phoebe sat with her hands folded in her lap, her features carefully arranged to express an attentiveness she did not feel, and tried not to count the minutes until she would be free to escape.
Pews creaked as ladies shifted in their seats, the sounds echoing throughout the nave, but Mrs. Kirk paid it no mind, her speech continuing, steady and assured.
In truth, the lady’s passion made the lecture bearable, but Phoebe couldn’t help wondering what good this would do.
Supposing there was an accident on The Mere where these skills were required, few could swim out to fetch the poor soul.
In fact, would it not be more effective to teach prevention?
A good many losses could be avoided by teaching that skill.
With unflagging energy, Mrs. Kirk demonstrated again and again how to rub and stimulate the patient’s limbs whilst poor Mrs. Chaffin tried her best to feign insensibility despite the instructor’s vigorous touches, though she was quite unable to keep herself from reacting when a feather was inserted into her mouth to tickle her throat.
Which was how Mrs. Kirk found herself without a volunteer when it came time to demonstrate the proper technique for manually inflating the lungs with a bellows.
But the lady’s enthusiasm lagged not one bit, and the audience nodded at appropriate intervals.
A murmur of approval followed each solemn reminder of lives saved and futures restored, and with a final word of thanks, Mrs. Kirk motioned them toward the refreshments.
“Wasn’t that so informative?” asked Mrs. Rowley, her eyes alight as she considered the pamphlet in her hand.
“Quite,” said Phoebe, summoning a note of excitement in her voice. “Though I do find myself wondering if there aren’t more pressing concerns in the parish.”
“What is more pressing than saving a life?” asked Mrs. Rowley with raised brows.
“From all accounts, the harvest will be poor this year, and I am certain a good many people will require assistance,” said Phoebe, and though the lady nodded, she raised her hand as if greeting someone from across the way and took her leave.
Moving slowly through the various knots of conversation, Phoebe meandered about the nave.
The church no longer felt cavernous now that the lecture had ended.
Conversation softened the space, drawing it inward, filling the aisles and side chapels with low voices and the rustle of skirts.
Phoebe navigated it with deliberate ease, pausing when someone turned toward her, matching expressions as best she could, shaping herself into what the moment required without fully yielding to it.
This was for her husband. And it was the proper thing to do.
Having never had to find her way in a new neighborhood before, Phoebe wasn’t entirely certain how to go about it, but she found herself modeling Mr. Godwin’s behavior. Not the bowing and scraping—never that—but being a bit more ingratiating wouldn’t go amiss.
Phoebe listened more than she spoke, nodding at proper intervals and allowing others to take the lead.
Where praise for Mrs. Kirk’s efforts surfaced, she acknowledged it with quiet approval; the lady’s efforts weren’t meeting more pressing needs in Kingsmere, but they still deserved praise.
Heaven knew Mrs. Kirk did more for her fellow man than most.
The pleasant arrangement of her features grew fixed, the muscles at her jaw tightening as she lingered, but Phoebe kept moving, never settling, never allowing herself to be claimed for too long. Stopping invited scrutiny. Motion, at least, suggested purpose.
“I do hope you will offer our greatest of thanks to your husband,” said Mrs. Kirk once Phoebe felt free to take her leave. “We are so very grateful that he allowed us to host the event here.”
“Being of use to you is his greatest wish,” said Phoebe without even a hint of falsehood. Whatever his faults, Mr. Godwin cared deeply about the people in his parish.
“I do hope you will join us again in the future,” added Mrs. Kirk.
Phoebe’s smile strained at the edges, but she forced herself to say, “Of course.”
It was a little thing, after all. A few hours from time to time to please another was hardly a sacrifice. Boredom was not such a great price to pay when it pleased another so much.
Another lady approached with a look of purpose, her cheeks flushed and her bonnet strings hanging loose as though she had forgotten to tie them.
“I have taken down the names of those who wish to contribute,” she said, addressing Mrs. Kirk. “And made certain to take note of all who attended today. And Mrs. Allen has agreed to distribute the remaining handbills before Sunday. And the candles have been counted.”
Mrs. Kirk’s face brightened at once. “You are an angel! I know I can always depend on you.” Then turning to Phoebe, she added, “I don’t believe you are acquainted, as illness has kept her from attending services of late.
Mrs. Godwin, allow me to introduce Mrs. Jameson.
She is the most stalwart member of the parish—an angel who can always be relied upon to lend a helping hand. ”
Mrs. Jameson inclined her head, though a hint of weariness weakened her smile. “Your praise is too effusive, madam. I only do what is right.”
Then turning to Phoebe, Mrs. Jameson added, “Again, I apologize for not doing my due diligence in paying a welcome call, but illness is never considerate enough to strike us in a timely fashion. It travels from child to child, each in their turn, before eventually coming for their parents. Unfortunately, I haven’t been in a fit state to see anyone. ”
“Think nothing of it,” said Phoebe, her own smile settling carefully into place. “It seems the afternoon owes a great deal to your diligence, Mrs. Jameson.”
The lady acknowledged the remark with a brief nod, already half-distracted by the next task that required her attention, but just as she moved to leave, Mrs. Jameson hesitated, her brows knitting as though some small but important matter had just come to mind.
“Oh, Mrs. Godwin,” she said, the words emerging slightly broken, “I had thought… that is, I expected… that you might pay a call once you were settled, and I know you have been in town for some weeks now.”
“A call?” Phoebe could not imagine why a new addition to the neighborhood would be expected to do so, especially as a bride was granted a good month to settle into her home and marriage before she ventured into society.
Mrs. Jameson’s surprise was immediate and poorly concealed. Glancing at Mrs. Kirk and back again, she added, “You were not informed? Forgive me—I assumed, as you are the rector’s wife…” She drew a breath, collecting herself. “I thought you would want the christening boxes.”
The words were spoken as though their purpose was clear enough, and Phoebe supposed the name meant they had something to do with the infants of the parish, though that was the limit of her understanding.
“The boxes for the less fortunate of the parish,” clarified Mrs. Jameson.
“They contain the linens and clothes the little ones require for their first weeks of life, including a christening dress. I was asked by your husband’s predecessor to maintain them after his wife passed.
” A pause followed, weighted but unintentional.
“I do hope you will take over the responsibility. I fear that, between my own children and all the work I do within the village, I haven’t the time to give them the proper attention they deserve. ”
“As I said, Mrs. Jameson is an angel,” said Mrs. Kirk. “If you require assistance, ask Mrs. Jameson. She eagerly accepts any assignment, no matter how big or small. Whenever the need for volunteers arises, hers is the first name on my list.”
The smile on the angel’s face grew strained, and the expression brought to mind Mrs. Audley, who was Haverford’s own “angel of mercy,” forever rushing about to do good.
Though Phoebe thought it admirable in many ways, she couldn’t help noticing the frenzied manner in which the lady lived her life, thrumming with the need to complete the next task, and always first on the list because she never said “no,” even as her sanity frayed.
Was that what Mr. Godwin wished her to become?
“I see,” said Phoebe at last, the phrase shaped with care.
Mrs. Jameson nodded, already retreating a step.
“I do not mean to press the issue. I can manage the boxes if you wish, but there are quite a few births in the coming weeks, and I thought you might take up the mantle before then. One is currently at the Johnson house, though it needs to be fetched soon, and the other must be delivered to the Tally family. I had meant to bring it today, but the time got away from me.”
“I can fetch it on my way home and deliver it tomorrow, if that suits you,” said Phoebe.
“I live on the high street, the third cottage on the right after the crossroads. You should pass by it directly on the way to The Parsonage. I will be here for some time, but the maid knows where it is,” said Mrs. Jameson, and with that, the lady’s attention drifted back to the details that needed seeing to.
Mrs. Kirk watched her go with a look of approval, while Phoebe remained where she was, the sense of having missed something unspoken settling around her like a garment she had not known she was meant to wear. Mr. Godwin had spoken of the duties of a rector’s wife, but what were they?
Phoebe had considered them more vague in nature, but if Mrs. Jameson were correct, this was a tangible item that was required of her.
Were there more? No doubt Mrs. Jameson would’ve mentioned others if they were left for her to manage, but for all that Mr. Godwin wished her to do something good for the parish, Phoebe wasn’t certain what that was.
Attending the Royal Humane Society lectures? Giving a few coins when pressed? Surely there was more. He had his sermons and rites, but what was left to her?
Giving Mrs. Kirk a final word of farewell, Phoebe drifted from the church.
Meandering along, she followed the path now familiar enough that her feet knew the way.
Shop fronts stood open to the light, their wares arranged with care, and the baker’s door released a burst of heat as someone entered just ahead, the scent of yeast and baking bread swirling through the air.
Life moved on around her, each person fulfilling their well-defined purposes.
How could she be of use? The concept seemed odd, for Phoebe Voss had never needed to prove her worth.
Though she didn’t care for that word. Existence alone imbued a person with value, yet Phoebe couldn’t deny that she had been entirely useless since coming to Kingsmere, and the more she considered what she ought to do, the more she wondered if she had ever been anything more than a self-indulgent ornament.
Kingsmere stretched ahead, ordinary and unassuming in the autumn light.
The street bore no sign of her uncertainty or the questions crowding her thoughts.
Phoebe continued down the lane, a chill in her heart chasing away the lingering heat of summer as the sense of wrongness settled upon her.
Or was it simply discomfort? Uncertainty?
Miss Phoebe Voss had known her place in the world, but Mrs. Phoebe Godwin hadn’t the slightest notion what she was to do or how to rectify it, and it was long past time for her to learn.