Chapter 21
Clutching the basket before him, Mr. Godwin stared at her for a long moment, his brows raised.
“From our first meeting, I’ve known only the halfwit sycophant, but you boast no grand aspirations for power or income, and you treat all the gentry with the same excessive deference, even if they cannot further a cleric’s ambitions.
” Phoebe considered the gentleman before her.
“But today I met a creature I do not recognize. One who is engaging and kind and someone I would be glad to call a friend.”
Pausing a moment, Phoebe forced herself to ask, “Or was the avuncular man at the Harveys’ the act? I do not believe so, but I cannot reconcile the two divergent versions of you.”
Silence settled between them, gathering weight with each heartbeat, yet Mr. Godwin did not answer. He stood motionless, the basket hanging from his arm, his expression giving nothing away as his gaze remained fixed upon her, intent and impenetrable.
And the silence stretched.
Phoebe felt it in the back of her throat, in the way her breath refused to find an easy rhythm. His stillness allowed too much room for interpretation, and her worries rushed to fill it. She became acutely aware of herself—of how abruptly she had stopped and of the sharpness of her words.
“I didn’t hide who I was. You simply refused to see past the halfwit,” he finally said.
Phoebe scoffed. “Do not blame me for my impressions when you did your best in Haverford to play the part. You laid the ground so thoroughly that I could not see the trees for the forest.”
Drawing in a breath, Mr. Godwin nodded, his shoulders dropping.
“With Lady Cecilia in the village, I had to be on my best behavior, lest word get back to Kingsmere.” One short, but significant pause, and then he added, “And it can be difficult to recall myself when I am around the gentry. Here, I must always be on my guard.”
“But why?”
Mr. Godwin leveled a disbelieving look at her. “You have met Mrs. Whitcombe. Can you truly stand there and tell me it isn’t necessary?”
“She may have granted you the living, but she cannot take it once it is given.”
“True, and she cannot even show her disapproval by curtailing my income, for it is out of her control,” he conceded.
“But she can withdraw the vast sums she donates to local charities. We are heading into a hard winter for the parish, and I will not risk a single farthing when it might mean the difference between life and death.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to interject, but Mr. Godwin continued.
“No, Mrs. Whitcombe is not so petty that she would punish the poor, but she hasn’t the slightest notion how much it costs to keep a family clothed and fed nor the lengths people must go to earn it,” he clarified.
“At present, I have her favor, so she is generous, and the others follow suit. But if that changes, how generous do you think they will be the next time I ask for a donation?”
Turning down the path, Phoebe urged her feet forward as she considered the choices before him.
Even in Haverford, it would be easy for word to reach Mrs. Whitcombe through her niece or Mr. Godwin’s uncle, as the gentleman had help to secure him the position in Kingsmere.
And Phoebe knew all too well how the gentry here were so eager to tattle to their beloved Mrs. Whitcombe.
All in all, it was a difficult position in which to find oneself. Was it any wonder that Mr. Godwin resorted to playacting?
“How do you do it?” she asked in a quiet voice. “How do you debase yourself day after day?”
“What do their opinions matter? The flattery and flummery have filled the church’s coffers, and my pride is not worth more than another’s well-being. I would gladly crawl on my belly if it did any good.”
Mr. Godwin spoke as though the matter were inconsequential.
He had weighed the cost and paid it willingly, again and again, without expectation of credit, and that quiet strength caught her unprepared.
Phoebe had thought herself resilient and self-possessed, yet here was a man who set aside his pride as easily as one might shrug off a coat.
And not out of weakness, but out of choice.
“But your peers think you a lackwit,” said Phoebe, her cheeks heating as she recalled the various comments she’d overheard amongst the ladies of Kingsmere. “They respect your office but laugh at you.”
Stopping in place, Mr. Godwin faced her.
“And I say again, what does that matter? I know who I am. My Maker knows who I am. My friends know who I am. Those who refuse to look past my surface do not, so why should it bother me if they misunderstand me? And for that matter, why does any of this bother you? I didn’t think you cared about society’s opinion. ”
Gaze dropping, Phoebe’s eyes traced the packed earth at their feet.
In that small pause, her own conduct came into sharper relief.
For all that she met the world with a lift of her chin, her pride commandeered far too many of her thoughts and actions.
After all, she claimed not to care one bit about her husband’s opinion, yet hearing the disappointment in his tone pricked at her heart and caused her cheeks to burn.
And as much as her pride begged to be left in peace, Phoebe knew she needed to take action, and when she lifted her head once more, her resolve gathered where defensiveness had once been.
“I owe you an apology,” she said, the words measured, but earnest. “I have judged you wrongly again and again, and I am sorry for it.”
Mr. Godwin huffed and continued down the path. “It isn’t as though you haven’t had good reason to do so, madam. To say nothing of the hardships you’ve suffered, which colored your view of the world—and me.”
“That is no excuse,” she said, shaking her head. “Or rather, it is an excuse I have clung to for far too long.”
“And truth be told, I wasn’t certain I could trust you to be as open as I am now,” he added.
Phoebe considered that, and her eyes widened. “Goodness. I cannot imagine what it would’ve been like had you married someone eager to play Mrs. Whitcombe’s games.”
“Instead, I married a lady eager to turn over the board and stomp all over the pieces.” The gentleman spoke so evenly.
So matter-of-fact. There was something in it that felt like a jest, but with so many of their arguments originating from that subject and her current state of shock, Phoebe wasn’t ready to address the fact that her husband may, in fact, be a tease.
And so, Phoebe allowed the silence to linger, walking alongside Mr. Godwin as she considered what to do with the idea that she may not detest everything about the man she had married.
*
The path stretched ahead in a gentle curve as they passed through the heart of the village, and the final basket swung from his hand, though Samuel hardly noticed the weight. His attention was on the woman at his side.
Mrs. Godwin walked with her gaze fixed forward, her pace steady, her thoughts drawn inward.
She did not speak, nor did she seem inclined to fill the silence as she had earlier.
Whatever he had said had not glanced off her; it had settled.
He could see it in the way her brow furrowed, as though turning his words over, examining them from all sides.
And something cautious stirred within him.
Samuel hadn’t expected an apology. Not so plainly offered, nor so cleanly given.
Nor had he expected the look in her eyes afterward—searching and thoughtful, as though seeing him anew and trying to decide what to make of him.
The notion unsettled him more than her earlier accusations ever had. Did she truly wish to know him?
Did he want her to? Their parallel lives were inching closer, and what would happen if they aligned entirely?
Mrs. Broad’s cottage came into view, snug against the lane, its windows catching the slanting light, and the sight anchored him again in the present. There was still work to be done. Whatever shifts had occurred between them would have to wait until the demands of the day were concluded.
Samuel slowed as they reached the gate, adjusting his grip on the basket.
He glanced at Mrs. Godwin once more, but whatever questions she struggled with vanished as she drew upon her own public facade.
It may be less dramatic than his own, but it settled into place as they approached the door and Mr. Colby ushered them in.
With a bright smile, Mrs. Godwin greeted the old man with a kiss on the cheek.
Slipping into the parlor, she settled him in his seat once more and adjusted the cushion at his back before setting to work.
She fetched a kettle that had been warming by the fire and served him up some refreshments before tucking a blanket across his lap.
Each action flowed naturally into the next, as though she’d done these things a hundred times before, and Mr. Colby accepted the attention, responding with dry remarks and fond looks that spoke of affection rather than obligation.
Samuel watched from the doorway until she ushered him to a seat of his own. There was no stiffness here, no careful calculation. Mrs. Godwin listened when Mr. Colby spoke, laughed when he teased, and chided him gently when he protested her fussing.
Finally, Mrs. Godwin found her own seat, and the pair fell into a conversation that had the feel of one that never ended.
Each time they crossed paths, another subject was added and followed as each tangent led them down other paths before circling back to the beginning and continuing in a different vein.
It had been a few short weeks since Samuel had spoken to her about embracing the parish, and here was the evidence of it. More than the baskets, it was clear Mrs. Godwin had made an effort to come to know the residents of Kingsmere.
And Samuel felt no need to interrupt. He didn’t even add to the conversation as he knew nothing about gardening, and it was clear they held it in high esteem.
The gardeners from Langley Court managed the majority of The Parsonage’s grounds, but perhaps Mrs. Godwin preferred to take over some of its maintenance. That was something to consider.
Pausing in their conversation, Mrs. Godwin glanced at Samuel and gestured toward a book on the table beside Mr. Colby. “Would you mind if we read a chapter aloud? We began the story last week, and I am eager to learn of Desdemona’s fate.”
“I dare say it’s full of tears and heartache,” replied Mr. Colby with a wheezing laugh. “I don’t know why I tolerate this Gothic drivel.”
Mrs. Godwin snatched up the book and gave him a gimlet eye. “You enjoy it as much as I, for all that you complain when others are about.”
That she felt the need to ask permission unnerved him, but Samuel gave a sharp nod, and the pair settled quickly into the story as her voice found a steady rhythm.
He watched with quiet interest as the tale unfolded (with a great deal of tears and heartache for poor Desdemona), but he found himself more entranced with the reader than the characters.
Such a small service, so easily overlooked, and yet the comfort it offered was immediate and powerful. An unremarkable kindness that warmed the room more than the hearth ever could.
Here was the lady Samuel had spied in Haverford, who had moved through company with ease, who had spoken readily and laughed without calculation before the cares of the world and Mr. Winwood’s influence had soured her. And something inside him loosened at the sight.
Was this what a marriage could be? So often of late, Samuel had simply prayed that his would not be a disaster.
But perhaps a marriage need not be solely an endurance.
The recognition settled slowly, without fanfare, though Samuel did not name that hope.
He merely allowed it to remain, tentative but present, as the chapter came to a close.