Chapter 28
It was several moments before Mrs. Miles calmed again, her breath shuddering as she pulled her hand free to wipe at her cheeks.
“Thank you for the gown,” she whispered, her words jagged and broken.
Phoebe couldn’t say what instinct had driven her to bring it in the first place. Such a frivolous thing for such an important moment, but she offered the only explanation she had to give.
“No matter the circumstances, a christening is a special event, and it deserves to be marked.”
Mrs. Miles turned reddened eyes to her, gratitude shimmering in them. “It does, doesn’t it?” Wiping at her cheeks again, the woman drew in a deep and shuddering breath. “I will make sure to return it—”
“I made it with Mary in mind, and it belongs to no one else,” said Phoebe, the rightness of those words settling into her bones. Yes, she had intended it to be for the village as a whole, but it did not alter the fact that Mary Miles had been on her mind so often during its creation.
Turning a tremulous smile on the child, Phoebe added, “And Mary still has need of it. This beautiful little girl deserves a beautiful gown.”
Mrs. Miles’ lips quivered again, her gaze falling to her daughter, and she whispered, “Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and measured, and Phoebe lifted her head as Samuel and Mr. Miles reappeared, and though the latter paused at the threshold, his expression softened as his gaze settled on his wife and child.
Samuel caught Phoebe’s eye and beckoned, and she squeezed Mrs. Miles’ hand one final time before relinquishing her place; there was no more for her to do but leave the husband and wife to their grief. The stairs creaked beneath their steps as she and Samuel descended, leaving without another word.
They stood on the front step as a thin band of pale light traced the far edge of the horizon, softening the black with the first rays of morning.
Phoebe drew in a quiet breath, holding the stillness of that fragile hour as the world slowly began again.
Samuel remained beside her, unmoving as they breathed in the air that was laced with a hint of the fast-approaching winter.
Slipping her arms around his waist, she anchored herself to him, and he drew his arms around her shoulders until she was well and truly buried in his embrace. Phoebe felt the hitch of Samuel’s breath, and her own tears came freely then as the pale light grew on the horizon.
“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice low. “For being there. For helping.”
Phoebe tightened her hold, her cheek pressed against his coat. “Thank you for letting me.”
They stood that way for a long moment as the chill seeped through wool and linen. Then, without ceremony, they turned toward home with fingers laced together, the contact sure and steady as they walked back through Kingsmere, side by side.
***
The dame school occupied the large public chamber of the nearby inn, now cleared of its tables whilst its patrons were out in the fields.
A narrow hearth sat cold along one wall, its ash swept clean, while tall windows admitted thin beams of light, which pooled across the creaky floorboards.
In the morning sunshine, the room took on a different character altogether.
Now stripped of its evening frivolities, the rough wooden chairs stood in orderly rows, the slates laid out alongside dog-eared primers and copybooks, whose covers bore the marks of many small hands.
Exhaustion settled over Phoebe like a physical thing. Not the sharp ache of overused muscles, but a deeper strain that sapped her strength from the inside, making even simple motions difficult. Her limbs obeyed her, but only just. And her every thought felt mired in the mud.
It was not simply the loss of sleep. Phoebe could have borne that. It was the culmination of all that had passed that night—the waiting, the helplessness, the mournful finality of it—which clung to her, dulling the world around her until it felt as though she were wrapped in cotton.
And matters only grew worse with the chaos swirling about her.
Mrs. Broad ran a tight ship and expected her pupils to behave in an orderly fashion, yet it felt as though each child was a tempest, bounding about with far too much noise and bluster than anyone ought to possess.
Voices rose and fell in uneven waves as some practiced their recitations whilst others worked on their sums, punctuated by the scratching of slate pencils.
Mrs. Broad presided from a sturdy chair near the front, her presence calm and immovable, guiding the room with a practiced economy of motion.
Phoebe took her place among the children, bending when needed and straightening with care (which taxed her more than it ought for a lady of four and twenty).
She corrected letters, steadied hands, and offered encouragement where she could.
Each small task anchored her to the moment, though the weight of the night lingered still, pressing softly but insistently, as she struggled to be useful when her nerves were already strained.
“Mrs. Godwin,” came a quiet voice, and Phoebe turned to see Martha, who angled her slate for inspection. “Is this correct?”
Despite being both literate and capable of managing a good many sums, Phoebe stared at the scratches and couldn’t say whether they were Sanskrit or advanced calculus. As neither subject was taught by Mrs. Broad, Phoebe forced her foggy mind to focus until the question and answer came to light.
“Excellent,” she replied, and the girl beamed as she returned to her work.
Phoebe exhaled slowly once Martha’s attention was elsewhere.
The fog pressed back in at once, thick and unyielding, and she braced herself against the edge of the table for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
The slowness of her own thoughts was mortifying, yet it was better to be here than sitting about her quiet home with nothing to occupy her sluggish thoughts.
Mrs. Broad rose and moved between the rows, her steps measured, her voice lowered as she corrected and encouraged in turn. When she reached Phoebe’s side, she glanced at the young lady.
“You ought to go home,” she murmured, quiet enough that only Phoebe could hear. “You look liable to collapse at any moment.”
“Mr. Godwin and I had a difficult night, that is all,” she said.
“May I be of any assistance?” asked Mrs. Broad with a furrowed brow, but Phoebe shook her head.
“A family in the parish lost a child last night, and he was called in to perform the baptism,” she said, the words sitting heavily in her heart.
“That is dreadful business,” she said, a sigh on her lips as she slipped her arm through Phoebe’s. “Though I am certain you were able to give them some comfort.”
Phoebe nodded, though she didn’t think it was enough.
“May I give you a word of advice?” asked Mrs. Broad.
Straightening, Phoebe slanted a look at the lady. “I rely heavily on your guidance, madam, and I would be furious to learn you were withholding advice until I asked for it.”
A smile crossed her face, though it dimmed as Mrs. Broad added, “Keep a close eye on them three months from now. In my experience, everyone rushes in to comfort and support the bereaved when the pain is fresh, but some of the darkest days come when the others return to their lives, leaving the bereaved to carry on alone.”
Nodding, Phoebe vowed to make note of it in her diary. No doubt the anniversary of this day would be an agony as well that most would not recall, and she would be certain to do her best to lift Mrs. Miles’ spirits then.
“Mrs. Broad?” called a little voice from the other end of the room. “Will you tell us a story?”
Another chimed in, “One about a girl who marries a prince.”
Mrs. Broad gave Phoebe’s arm a gentle squeeze before she withdrew, her expression softening as she turned toward the girls.
“Stories are for when your fingers are at work,” she said as her gaze swept the room. “But I suppose we might begin our sewing a bit early today—”
There was a flurry of movement as small hands scrambled to obey, setting aside their schoolwork for new tools. Soon, linen was smoothed and needles held at the ready, and only once the rustle of fabric settled did Mrs. Broad begin, her voice calm and measured as she told the story of Griselda.
The girls listened with rapt attention as the impoverished heroine was taken from the forest to marry the mighty marquis and live in luxury well beyond the audience’s wildest imaginations. A happy life. A perfect one.
Until the marquis decided to test Griselda’s loyalty.
One by one, he stripped away all that he had given, each trial determined to show the depth of her devotion.
Her wealth. Her title. Her marriage. Even her children.
Then abandoned in the forest once more, she was left with nothing and no one.
Yet still she remained true to her love.
A few brows furrowed. One girl’s stitches faltered, the needle lingering too long before she forced it onward again. And Phoebe, too, grew more and more anxious to see how the story would end. After so much suffering, there must be an equal reward. Surely there was.
And just as all seemed lost, the marquis revealed the test for what it was, restoring everything to Griselda once more.
“And they lived happily ever after,” concluded Mrs. Broad.
“Didn’t the marquis get his comeuppance?” asked little Sarah, her sewing forgotten in her lap. “After everything he did to Griselda?”
Katie scoffed. “My ma would ring a peal over his head just like she does when Pa stumbles home drunk.”
Mrs. Broad paused, her expression growing forcefully blank as one does when faced with a precocious observation. “I do not know that Griselda’s mother taught her to do that, and unfortunately, that does not always solve the problem.”
With a knowing nod and grave tone, Katie added, “Pa still slips away to the pub every night.”
Drawing in a steadying breath, Mrs. Broad considered that. “I suppose it is a cautionary tale and a warning to be careful who you give your heart to, girls.”
“I don’t know how that Griselda could ever love him,” murmured Martha, her eyes on her work.
Pausing, Mrs. Broad added with a pensive tone, “I do think it is meant to be a hopeful story. We all find ourselves at the mercy of others’ actions and choices, and I believe the women who first told this story and all those who continue to share it do so because of that ‘happily ever after.’ It is the hope of countless generations that look to the future, praying that one day our hardships will pass and usher in a great reward. ”
Though many of the girls dismissed the story with puzzled frowns, Phoebe felt those words slip into her heart, burrowing deep as she considered that tragic tale and her own marriage.
Not that Samuel or her situation bore any resemblance to that of Griselda and the marquis, but what if she were doing what so many had done before?
Learning to lower expectations whilst making the best of the situation?
Disgust had faded to respect, and now, her heart stirred at the thought of Samuel.
At his touch. His steadiness. His humor.
Each day brought a sense that her life was no longer merely tolerable but pleasing.
Could this tenderness be convenience dressed in finer clothes?
She had always believed herself clear-eyed, resistant to comforting falsehoods, yet she knew how persuasive hope could be.
Happily ever after. What did that truly mean? And was it possible?
Each kindness, each shared laugh, each quiet moment of understanding rose to her thoughts, forcing the doubt back into the dark depths from which it had sprung. Yet Phoebe’s worries would not yield entirely, arming itself with all the many arguments that had punctuated their time together.
Was she mistaking comfort for connection? Gratitude for love? How many times had she clung to Mama’s complaints and Mr. Winwood’s poor behavior and praised Samuel for rescuing her from that unhappiness? Was that Griselda simply clinging to the promise of a happily ever after?
Faith, as she considered the timeline of this shift, it seemed all the more impossible that her feelings had altered from barely concealed contempt to a budding affection.
For goodness’ sake, it hadn’t even been a month since they’d formed anything resembling a friendship, and now, she was flirting with the idea of love?
Phoebe bent over one of the students, pretending to inspect the girl’s stitches, and the class carried on with their work, forgetting about Griselda and the marquis, though they lingered in Phoebe’s thoughts, unwilling to leave her be.