Chapter 16
In quick order, Phoebe passed by the Jamesons’ home and fetched the small wooden chest, and thankfully, it was just the one (as she wasn’t certain she could manage two of the unwieldy boxes).
Her pace quickened without her quite deciding upon it, and the weight of the chest tugged at her arms, awkward and unbalanced, yet she welcomed the strain.
Little though this might be, it was something to do and held far more meaning than learning a skill she would never use.
Each step fell more firmly than the last, her shoes striking the path with a purpose that had been absent only moments before, and turning the corner, Phoebe took the last few steps to The Parsonage with renewed speed as her thoughts raced ahead, already sorting, planning, and imagining how order might be coaxed from neglect.
Passing into the parlor, she set the chest upon the sofa and lifted the lid; the scent of infant and soap permeated the interior, and inside sat the well-used remnants of countless beginnings.
Nappies, their linen softened to near translucence, lay stacked with careful precision, and beneath them sat a few gowns and even a blanket, though they were as plain as plain could be.
At the bottom rested the christening gown.
It was finer than the rest, and it was easy to see the love and attention that had been given to that small piece.
No doubt, it had begun its life amongst one of the grand families of Kingsmere before being cast off in favor of new fashions; bits of ragged lace clung to the cuffs and hem, and though feather-soft, the exquisite muslin was yellowed with age.
Phoebe’s hands moved slowly as she lifted each piece, noting the tears and stains that required further attention.
The garments told their own quiet history of Kingsmere, of all the children welcomed and named during those first uncertain weeks.
The weight of its contents settled into her heart.
It was no little thing to ensure each birth was celebrated, and a shiver of anticipation ran along her skin as she considered the work to be done.
The pieces showed far too much neglect for her peace of mind, but with the Tallys expecting the box in the morning, there was little she could do about the stains (and they were likely too set to be lifted), but Phoebe hurried to find her sewing box.
The parlor was quiet, and the light shifted as her thread slid through cloth in a steady rhythm, the small stitches anchoring her thoughts.
And when at last she rose from her seat, it was only to take a modest dinner, though Phoebe couldn’t say if Mr. Godwin spoke to her as her mind remained fixed upon her work, refusing to allow her thoughts to wander afield.
And when the evening’s candles were snuffed, the sewing followed her to bed as she settled herself against the headboard; if Mr. Godwin found it curious that she stitched there, he offered no remark, but then, he rarely offered words of any sort.
Only when fatigue pressed the issue did she set it aside and embrace a dreamworld full of thread and needles.
The next morning, Phoebe stood before the worn chest (something else that needed seeing to) and surveyed her handiwork.
The contents were not renewed, not transformed, but neither were they shameful.
She inspected each garment with care, smoothing, refolding, and arranging them with the christening gown placed gently atop, granting it the place of honor.
There was far more to do, but for now, this would suffice, and a smile graced her face as Phoebe shut the lid and lifted the chest.
Morning had sharpened the air, the sunlight clear and pale, and the weight of the box pressed solidly against her arms as she made her way through the village.
Phoebe kept her pace measured despite the excitement pressing against her ribs: this was simply a delivery to be made and a duty to be discharged, not some grand display meant to draw attention.
This was not a moment for her to crow over her accomplishment.
The Tally cottage came into view at last, smaller than she had imagined and bearing the marks of long use, its walls dulled by years of weather and disrepair.
The thatch sagged unevenly along the roofline, darker in places where rain had found its way through and lingered, and one shutter hung crooked on its hinge, banging softly with each breeze.
Children darted around the kitchen garden as their mother bellowed orders and pinned the washing to the line, her swollen belly testifying that the box would be required quite soon.
“Good morning,” called Phoebe from the lane, and Mrs. Talley turned about pressing a hand on the small of her back.
“I ‘ave no need for prayers nor a penny to spare, so you’d best be on your way,” said Mrs. Talley with a laugh as she shooed Phoebe back the way she came.
“I am Mrs. Godwin, here with the christening box,” said Phoebe, lifting the chest—only to see Mrs. Talley’s bright expression fade.
“I asked Mrs. Jameson for t’other box. There’s nothing in that one worth havin’.”
Phoebe refused to blush and nodded toward it. “Unfortunately, this is all I have.”
Setting her hands on her hips, Mrs. Talley sighed and nodded toward the cottage door. “Bring it on in, then. ‘Tis better than letting my babe go about with his nethers hangin’ about for all to see.”
Though unable to hide her blush at that statement, Phoebe tried to cover the discomfort with a chuckle. Strangled though it may be. “It seems the boxes are in high demand at present.”
“Harvest time is also the birthin’ season,” said Mrs. Talley with a rasping laugh. “Too much time on our hands in the winter with not much else to do when the nights turn cold.” Giving her a wink, the woman added, “You know all about that, being newly married and all.”
Yes, Phoebe was certain she was going to expire on the spot.
Forcing herself not to respond to that innuendo, she cleared her throat. “Yes, well, the other box isn’t available. It is already with the Johnsons.”
“But I asked for that one, and Mrs. Jameson promised me—”
“Jenny Talley, that is a lie, and you know it,” said an older lady, pausing on her journey down the lane.
Her face looked familiar, and Phoebe was certain she had met the lady at Sunday services, though there had been so many new names to learn that she couldn’t guess what it was.
“Mrs. Jameson would never say anything of the sort, and you are just trying to get your way. Now, desist with this complaining, and accept what Mrs. Godwin has to offer.”
Drawing close, the lady took the box from Phoebe’s hands, called to one of the older children running mad through the garden, and handed it to him.
“Now, Alf, you will be attending school tomorrow,” said the lady with a gimlet eye, and when the boy nodded, a smile replaced the firm expression. “Good lad.”
“Oh, you can’t help meddlin’,” said Mrs. Talley, though a chuckle threaded through her words. “I was only teasin’.”
“And you would have admitted as much to Mrs. Godwin had she felt compelled to fetch the other box?” asked the other with a spark of knowing in her gaze as though Mrs. Talley was another child to scold.
Mrs. Talley settled her hands on her stomach with an innocent grin, though she neither protested nor acknowledged the question.
Motioning for her son to open the box, the woman immediately pulled out the christening gown, and Phoebe held back a wince as hands that were a shade too dirty examined the offerings.
“The other’s much nicer,” said Mrs. Talley with a sigh, casting a reproachful look at the ladies, and Phoebe struggled to know what to do as the effort of all her work was found wanting; she had never thought sewing could cause muscle strain, but the hours of holding the little articles up had left an ache in her arms, and they twinged all the more for having carted the chest across the village.
“I do apologize,” said Phoebe. “I didn’t know, and I had such a short amount of time to prepare it—”
But the stranger, who had yet to introduce herself, cleared her throat and gave Mrs. Talley a pointed look as Phoebe’s shoulders fell (and not simply because her back and arms were tired).
Shoving them back into the chest, the woman straightened and smiled. “Oh, I am grateful, Mrs. Godwin. Thank ye kindly.”
“I am glad to be of service. Do send word if you require anything else,” replied Phoebe, though her expression strained as her heart sank.
And with that, she strode away. The task had seemed simple, yet clearly, she had done something wrong. If only she had spoken to Mrs. Jameson before yesterday, then she could’ve done more to improve upon the box—
“Mrs. Godwin,” called the older lady, and Phoebe turned to find her walking slowly towards her. “Do not make me come all the way to you, my dear.”
Jolting out of her thoughts, Phoebe hurried forward and offered an arm, which was accepted and used to steer Phoebe toward another house.
“Come now, Mrs. Godwin. You are coming for a visit.”
Even if Phoebe ignored the steel woven into those words, there was no battling the lady’s firm hold or determined gaze.
“Only if you will remind me of your name,” said Phoebe with a chagrined wince. “If I am to sit in your parlor, I must admit that it has slipped my mind.”
“Mrs. Broad, my dear,” said the lady, leading her into a good-sized cottage. “And do not fret one bit about it. My husband was a vicar, and I well remember the struggle to recall all the new names when we settled into our first parish. I fear I was forever offending.”
Motioning her toward the sofa in the front room, Mrs. Broad ordered her maid-of-all-work to bring refreshments before settling in beside her guest, though Phoebe’s thoughts latched tight to the word “vicar.”
After so much confusion and floundering, here sat a woman who had occupied Phoebe’s role, and the coincidence felt pointed, like a firm nudge onto the proper path.
Relief flooded her chest, rising quickly until it pressed against her ribs and made her eyes prickle. Here was an answer to her prayers.
Yet her stomach sank as she considered the path forward: to ask for guidance would be to admit ignorance and confess how poorly she understood the role she now occupied.
Her cheeks flushed, and Phoebe felt like scowling at herself for feeling so out of sorts: she was not a girl fresh from the schoolroom.
Yet the thought of laying her flaws bare left her feeling faint.
Still, the need pressed harder than her pride.
Mrs. Broad understood the confusion and unspoken expectations; she possessed knowledge Phoebe could not afford to overlook.
The notion of fumbling onward alone, guessing at duties already well defined by custom, suddenly felt far more mortifying than the act of asking.
Phoebe drew a careful breath and settled her hands in her lap. If salvation lay within reach, she would have to grasp it. A moment’s discomfort was better than being willfully blind and ignorant. It was time to be brave.