Chapter 32
The afternoon pressed in on all sides, gray and unrelenting. The light was thin, already fading though the day was not yet spent, and the air lay heavy with damp like the exhaustion that clung to Phoebe.
It wasn’t the simple weariness of broken sleep (though she had known plenty of that over the past sennight) but something more deeply set, and though her legs and feet begged her to stop, she persisted.
Each step along the lane demanded more than the last, her boots striking the earth with a dull, hollow sound that echoed the ache in her limbs, but stopping would allow the shadows to catch her.
Sorrow crowded her chest until each breath required effort.
Even the worst of nights must eventually surrender to the warming light of dawn, yet Phoebe felt the darkness nipping at her heels, relentless in its pursuit.
For now, she walked on, head bowed against the gray, with no thought of where the lane might lead.
In the early weeks of their marriage, the silence had been a relief. A clean delineation between the two lives that did not wish to intersect more than necessary. Now, it felt like an overeager child, forever pestering its parents for attention. Never allowing them to forget its existence.
Drawing her cloak tighter about her, Phoebe tried not to yearn for the conversations that had slipped from one subject to another with ease and the small observations that had punctuated their dinner.
Or the low murmur of his voice in the dark when the day’s concerns were set aside.
Or the chill that now wrapped around her at night instead of her husband’s arms.
How had she become so dependent on Samuel Godwin? And when had she grown to expect anything from her marriage beyond a roof over her head?
The lane curved and widened, opening onto a cluster of figures moving slowly in the opposite direction. Voices reached her, high and bright, tumbling over one another, before the shapes resolved into the Hollis children with their muddy coats and ruddy cheeks.
“Mrs. Godwin!” cried Bitsy, breaking from the knot before she could be checked, her hair slipping loose of its ribbon as she bounded forward.
“Why, Bitsy,” replied Phoebe, letting warmth steady her voice. “I wondered where you were this afternoon. We missed you at lessons.”
Bitsy puffed with importance. “Today was a lark day. No work or school, and we had a feast. Look what Papa gave me!” She thrust forward a little wooden horse with a dark, glossy coat. “And licorice. And ribbons. And—”
“Oranges,” her brother cut in, waving a sticky hand. “Ma said we ought to have a feast to celebrate Pa’s harvest.”
Another child (whose name slipped Phoebe’s mind) held up a tin whistle and blew a shrill, unmusical note. Laughter broke out, unchecked, until Mr. and Mrs. Hollis appeared behind them.
“Hush now,” said their ma, slipping her arm through her husband’s. “You’ll deafen the poor lady.”
Phoebe smiled and crouched to admire the horse and all the rest of their treasures. Their words spilled freely, tumbling one over another as they described their great feast, but Phoebe’s gaze drifted down to the children’s shoes, the leather split and gaping, their socks poking out.
“I can’t wait to tell the other girls,” added Bitsy. “They will be so jealous of our lark day.”
The parents exchanged a look, and then Mrs. Hollis stepped forward with forced cheer. “All right, that’s enough. Run on now. Stop pesterin’ Mrs. Godwin.”
“But—” Bitsy protested, clutching her horse.
“Go,” Mr. Hollis said, sharper than before, and the children scattered down the lane. “We meant no harm by it, ma’am. Just helping ourselves to a little fun.”
“We thought a day’s pleasure might do them good,” his wife hurried to add, though Mrs. Hollis did not meet her eye.
Though uncertain what to say to that, Phoebe nodded. “I am certain they will remember this day for years to come.”
With a murmured farewell, they hurried after their children, leaving Phoebe alone in the lane.
The whistle shrieked once more before it was snatched away as the children argued over whose toys were the very best of the bunch, and Phoebe watched those bright spots of sunlight disappear into the gray.
But the shoes lingered in her mind.
She did not begrudge the children their laughter; it rang faintly in the air, bright as church bells.
Charity spoke often of bread and coal, of careful allotments and sober improvement, but it left little room for a stolen holiday and a spark of joy.
There was nothing wrong with a lark and a few sweeties.
Yet those shoes.
Phoebe’s hands tightened at her sides. The rent remained unpaid, and with Mr. Hollis taking lark days, she couldn’t see how the balance would be met.
If not for Bitsy’s innocent admission, would they have kept it from their benefactress?
Gone to Samuel, cap in hand, to beg another week’s forbearance and pray she did not find out?
Her husband’s voice rose unbidden, calling to mind every warning he had offered, every chastisement he’d leveled, and a familiar heat stirred low in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.
Samuel had been right. The thought lingered, leaving a sour taste as she drew a slow breath and forced the tension from her jaw.
Months of missteps, and here was yet another. Did it matter if her actions were born of malice or incompetence when the result was the same? How many troubles were of her making? And how long was she going to bumble about?
The cold nipped at her cheeks and worked its way through her shoes, but with it came a steadier thought. The account had come due, the bailiff was knocking at her door, and she could not ignore it any longer.
Phoebe lifted her head and set herself along the lane once more.
The gray pressed in as before, but the shiver that ran down her spine was not due to the chill but the cool sense of purpose.
She knew precisely what needed to be done, for someone savvy in the ways of Kingsmere had begged her to do it.
***
The road rose gently ahead, its packed earth darkening where the damp had gathered, and Samuel’s stride cut along it with uncharacteristic force.
He’d gone over the words twice already, shaping them in his mind, discarding them, beginning again.
Not the particulars—those would come when they must—but tone mattered as much as substance.
So, he shaped his thoughts with care, arranging them as one might lay fragile things in a box, each cushioned against the next.
Beneath that careful ordering lay the other matter.
It sat like a stone behind his breastbone, forever reminding him of the discomfort that was slowly eating away at his marriage.
Samuel felt it in the narrow passages of the house, in the weighty silence that rested between them.
It was not coldness. It was not mere distance. It was an active avoidance.
And Samuel didn’t know how to resolve it. Or if it was undeserved.
Lengthening his stride, Samuel arrived at Langley Court’s front door, and the footman ushered him in, directing him to where Mrs. Whitcombe welcomed her guests, but just as Samuel was about to cross the threshold, he heard a familiar voice.
Phoebe.
For a breathless instant, his thoughts scattered. What business had brought her here? He pictured Phoebe standing too straight, speaking too plainly, and his ribs squeezed tight until his heart felt ready to burst. The day had already taken its pound of flesh; he could not afford another wound.
The footman announced Samuel, and Mrs. Whitcombe motioned him over.
“Ah, Mr. Godwin,” she said, nodding for him to sit. “What odd timing. Your wife just appeared with some urgent business to discuss.”
“What a happy coincidence,” said Samuel, glancing at Phoebe from the corner of his eye; she sat stiffly beside him, her eyes averted.
“Quite,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a speculative tone. “As you were saying, Mrs. Godwin.”
“I…” Phoebe’s cheeks colored the slightest bit, and her hands clenched in her lap. An impulse prodded him to place an arm around her shoulder, but that was neither appropriate nor (he suspected) welcome.
Drawing in a breath, she straightened and met Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes. “I wanted to apologize to you, madam.”