Chapter 33
The words struck with such force that Samuel forgot where he was, his gaze snapping to her before he could school his reaction.
Phoebe sat rigidly, her spine straight and chin lifted in her usual manner, though it held only determination, not challenge.
And her attention remained fixed upon Mrs. Whitcombe, as if Samuel were not there at all.
“I fear I began our acquaintance on poor footing,” she said, her voice steady though Samuel knew it cost her dearly. “I beg your pardon for any discomfort and offence I caused, and I hope you will be so gracious as to forgive me, though I do not deserve it.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Indeed?”
“Yes, madam.” Phoebe drew a breath, deeper this time. “The past months have been… difficult. As you so succinctly said in our first meeting, I have been haunted by my father’s mistakes and poor decisions. They forced me into a marriage not of my choosing.”
Though Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes darted to Samuel, the words were far gentler than those they’d shared behind closed doors, so it did not matter to him.
“As you are such a kindhearted lady,” continued Phoebe, “I am certain you can sympathize with the pain of one whose life is forced down paths that are not of their choosing.”
And that drew Mrs. Whitcombe’s attention back to the speaker; though Phoebe was wise enough not to speak of Mr. Whitcombe, those careful words hit their mark and drew to mind the self-same circumstances that had drawn that lady into an unwanted marriage of her own.
Phoebe’s eyes flicked briefly toward Mrs. Whitcombe’s hands, which rested motionless in her lap, before lifting again.
“It is a strange thing, to be forced into a role for which one is ill-prepared,” added Phoebe. “I never anticipated a life as a rector’s wife, and I am sorry to say that I have fallen short of expectations. But I do wish to be useful to you, my husband, and the parish.”
Something shifted in Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression—subtle but unmistakable. It was speculative and almost tender.
“I never spent any time around the wives of clergymen, so I did not know what I was meant to be.” Letting out a sigh, Phoebe shook her head.
“And rather than asking for your guidance, I blundered ahead, forging my own path. I did not understand the intricacies of parish life, and I erred in assuming that goodwill alone would make up for my ignorance.”
Samuel could not look away. He saw the cost of each sentence, the restraint required to keep her composure intact.
Phoebe did not go so far as to prostrate herself before Mrs. Whitcombe, but she draped herself in servility, feeding into every vanity the lady possessed.
Heart pressing hard against his ribs, Samuel struggled to breathe, struck by the quiet magnitude of her sacrifice.
Mrs. Whitcombe regarded her for a long moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was warmer than before. But only just.
“You are very frank, Mrs. Godwin.”
Phoebe inclined her head. “To a fault, I fear. I shocked my husband on our wedding day by bluntly demanding frankness in our marriage. No doubt, he was dismayed to discover the demure lady he’d courted was actually domineering. But I am trying to improve, madam.”
Mrs. Whitcombe sat very still, her expression unreadable as her gaze fixed upon his wife with a scrutiny that did not invite interruption.
Beside him, Phoebe’s shoulders tighten as her careful composure strained at the edges, her clasped hands tightening.
He sensed her subtle intake of breath as the urge to fill the silence grew, and without turning his head, Samuel raised his fingers from his knee; the motion was small, almost nothing at all. Not a command but a caution.
Patience.
Phoebe released the breath, slow and measured. Her hands remained clasped, but she said nothing, and warmth flickered in his heart: she had trusted him.
Keeping his gaze forward, Samuel’s pulse steadied as they waited. The silence remained taut, drawn tight as a wire, but it no longer felt beyond bearing. Beside him, Phoebe shifted almost imperceptibly, as though she had found firmer ground and meant to hold it.
“As we are giving apologies,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, turning her gaze to Samuel. “It seems my estate owes you one, Mr. Godwin.”
“That could never be true,” said Samuel.
Nodding, Phoebe rushed to add, “After all that Langley Court has done for us, we will be forever in your debt.”
A faint smile drew up the corner of Mrs. Whitcombe’s lips as she accepted that with a nod. “That well may be, but I was ashamed to hear of Mr. Norcroft’s behavior at your dinner party. I fear I may have been mistaken in him.”
Samuel kept his expression carefully neutral, though discomfort came swift and unbidden, tightening across his shoulders.
Whatever their disagreements, Mr. Norcroft had been doing what the position required by guarding the estate’s interests whilst bearing the unpopularity that came with it.
The strength of that feeling surprised him, but he refused to question that kinship.
“Please do not think poorly of him,” replied Samuel. “This has been a difficult season for us all, and even the wisest of men is foolish when they’ve had too much to drink. That behavior was out of the ordinary for Mr. Norcroft, and I would not judge him harshly for a moment of weakness.”
“Though, of course, the choice is yours to make, Mrs. Whitcombe,” added Phoebe with a gracious smile. “And I have no doubt you will make the proper one.”
That tickle of a smile grew by degrees, and though there was a knowing glint in Mrs. Whitcombe’s eye, the flummery pleased her.
“Regardless, Mr. Godwin, I was pleased to hear that you defended your wife so staunchly,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a sharp nod, though her lips pursed faintly. “More husbands would do well to follow your example and honor their women.”
“Only the greatest of fools would do otherwise, for a wife is the greatest blessing in a man’s life,” said Samuel, and though the words were for the lady’s benefit, he felt them all the same.
And he yearned to take hold of Phoebe’s hand.
“I could not allow another to speak poorly of someone whom I prize so highly.”
“Good. I think you could do with a touch more of Mrs. Godwin’s boldness—at times,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, and all thoughts of Phoebe and Mr. Norcroft fled.
Samuel had braced himself for correction, for a polite rebuke at best, but not praise and encouragement.
The notion pushed awkwardly against his instincts, and without thinking, he turned his head to meet Phoebe’s gaze and found himself staring at an artfully raised brow.
Heat crept up his collar as he forced his composure to settle back into place.
“I shall keep that in mind for the future, madam,” said Samuel with a bow of the head.
“I hear your wife is a skilled card player,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, her tone filled with curiosity as she considered the lady beside Samuel, and if Phoebe felt any irritation at being discussed as though she weren’t present, he sensed not a speck of it. “I shall have to see how my skills match hers.”
Uncertain as to whether or not that would be good or bad, Samuel simply nodded.
“You are too gracious, madam,” said Phoebe, and her own nod was the very picture of graciousness. “The honor would be mine.”
Samuel felt the moment settle as the conversation reached a natural pause. This was it. The moment he needed to speak his peace. And the weight he had been carrying pressed forward, insistent, as he drew breath to speak.
“My reason for calling today—” he began, but Phoebe shifted.
It was the slightest gesture, no more than the lift of her hand between them, palm angled subtly toward him.
Not abrupt. Not urgent. Simply a silent caution.
And he stopped at once, turning his attention to Phoebe, noting the composure she wore so carefully.
Her gaze did not flicker. There was no apology in it, no uncertainty. Only self-assurance.
Something loosened in his chest as he obeyed the prompting, folding his hands together as Phoebe delved into a world of polite conversation. None of it was remarkable, for it was the usual nothings that filled every parlor and party, but this was different.
Samuel couldn’t say precisely what it was or how she managed it, but there was a subtlety to her words and questions that always deferred to Mrs. Whitcombe.
It mirrored so much of his own efforts, but with a polish of one born to a society in which words were weapons; Samuel’s approach was a cannon blast compared to the precise slice of Phoebe’s verbal saber.
Somehow, she guided the conversation without haste or force, the turn so gentle it was nearly invisible. The polite nothings thinned, rearranged themselves, and took on a weight that Samuel felt before he could name it.
And as though she held invisible reins, Phoebe turned them down a different path with Mrs. Whitcombe none the wiser.
It was a thing of beauty.