Chapter 34
“I owe you a great apology, madam, for I was clearly a dunce,” said Phoebe, pressing a hand to her middle.
“I was concerned for Mr. Colby and acted without thought, placing both you and the vestry council in a most difficult position. I see now that my haste was ill-judged, and I beg your pardon for the imposition.”
Mrs. Whitcombe inclined her head. “Your concern does you credit, Mrs. Godwin, but these matters are seldom so simple.”
“I understand that better now,” said Phoebe, though Samuel felt her breath catch. The urge to reach for her became overwhelming. He yearned to offer some small comfort. Some contact. Such a narrow space between them. But this may be the proper time, but not the proper place.
“We received word that Mr. Colby fell ill just two days into his journey,” she continued, “and despite that parish’s best efforts, he passed away yesterday.”
Mouth opening slightly, Mrs. Whitcombe’s brows drew together with genuine concern. “I am very sorry to hear that. Very sorry, indeed.”
“As are we,” said Phoebe, managing an even voice. “May I please beg your indulgence? We would like to bury him here—with private funds, of course. The parish where he passed will deliver him as soon as we send word.”
“My dear, you do not need my permission,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, shaking her head. “As it does not require ongoing involvement from Mr. Godwin or the vestry council, and no parish funds are to be used, then there is no reason you cannot. Though it is a tad unusual.”
Phoebe nodded. “My thanks, madam. I wanted to be certain.”
“It is a matter for the rector and the sexton to decide,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a dismissive wave. “I do not intrude upon their work.”
“Of course not,” said Phoebe, managing to sound earnest, though Samuel nearly scoffed. “However, after making so many mistakes, I thought it best to seek your guidance first. You are the pattern card of behavior in Kingsmere, after all.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression softened at once, satisfaction smoothing the severity from her features.
The compliment landed precisely where Phoebe had intended it to, and Samuel could almost see the tension ease from the room, as though some invisible latch had been quietly lifted, opening a window to let in a fresh breeze.
“You are very kind to say so,” Mrs. Whitcombe replied, a note of warmth entering her voice. “And you are wise to be cautious. Prudence is never misplaced.”
Inclining her head, Phoebe accepted the compliment.
“This has been an enlightening visit, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, glancing between the pair. “Quite enlightening, indeed.”
“Thank you for welcoming us so graciously,” said Phoebe.
Obeying the clear dismissal, Samuel rose to his feet and extended his hand, the motion coming unbidden before he considered whether or not it was welcome.
Phoebe accepted it without hesitation, and her tight grip made Samuel hope that it hadn’t been to please their hostess.
Small though it may be, he clung to the possibility that perhaps all was not lost.
In short order, the footman led them out the way they had come, and the doors shut behind them with a solemn thud.
Gravel shifted beneath their steps as they descended, the path curving away from the house and its ordered facade into the open sweep of parkland beyond.
The air held that faint, earthen chill of autumn, touched with the scent of fallen leaves and damp grass.
Phoebe’s hand remained in his, the contact unremarked yet not forgotten. Her grip had eased, settling into something less insistent, but no less deliberate, and Samuel reveled in the feel of her and the comfortable quiet that had returned.
Yet he knew better than to expect his wife to remain silent for long.
“I do not know how we are meant to pay for it all,” she whispered. “The conveyance. The coffin. All of it.”
Samuel did not answer at once. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, on the familiar rise and fall of the hills that sat between them and home. He felt the truth of her words settle, felt the accounting begin in his mind—and then felt it give way to something steadier.
“We will find a way,” he said.
“We?”
Phoebe stopped abruptly, their joined hands pulling him to a stop, and when he turned to face her, he found her watching him with wide eyes, her chin trembling. Her breath faltered, then broke altogether, her quiet control snapping like a piano wire.
Bending forward as though the weight she had been carrying could no longer be borne upright, she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep the sound contained, but it did not work. The breath that left her broke apart, then another, sharper this time, her shoulders shuddering as her restraint gave way.
Samuel froze.
Phoebe shook her head faintly, though she did not meet his gaze.
Tears streaked unchecked down her cheeks, her careful dignity lost to the moment.
It struck him like a physical blow, and Samuel searched for some comfort to offer, but found nothing.
Reassurance felt presumptuous. Consolation felt inadequate.
Even an apology felt wrong, but he supposed it was as good as anything.
“I apologize—”
Shaking her head with jerky movements, Phoebe forced her feet ahead, though her lungs still shuddered.
“I do not… I do not… No…” Pausing, she drew in breath and pushed out, “I do not need hollow reassurances, Samuel.” Her lungs heaved as tears coursed down her cheek. “My blundering caused this mess.”
There was that word again. She had used it with Mrs. Whitcombe, and Samuel wondered why she clung to it so tightly, though some niggling memory warned that it may have come from his lips during that fateful argument.
Phoebe tried to march past him again, but Samuel reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her close until he could wrap his arms around her. Though she remained stiff for a long moment, her shuddering breaths muted by his shoulder, Phoebe soon reached for him, clinging fast.
They stood there on the grassy knolls of Langley Court, her face pressed into the roughness of his coat as Phoebe’s sobs came unevenly, each one shuddering through her frame as though her body wasn’t certain how to vent what she had held inside for so long.
And he suspected it was more than merely this moment.
All rigidity gone, her weight leaned fully into him now, and Samuel felt the tremor of her breath against his neck and the damp warmth where her tears soaked through the cloth.
There was nothing orderly about it. No dignity to be preserved.
Only her grief, given voice at last, and it made something in his chest crack open.
Bowing his head, Samuel’s own breath hitched as his sorrow broke free.
Tightening his arms around her as much as he dared, he held as fast to her as she did to him, and they remained like that, bound together in the gray chill, her sorrow loud and his silent.
The sharpness of the past days faded as they braced against this new heartache.
Samuel found he had no appetite to nurse grudges or lay blame or to preserve the brittle satisfaction of grievance. Neither of them stood blameless.
For now, there was only this shared grief, and the quiet relief of not carrying it alone.
Phoebe’s tears quieted, and she took in a shuddering breath. “I didn’t listen to you. About the Hollises.”
Not loosening his hold on her, Samuel thought he ought to be surprised, but he was more surprised that he wasn’t.
“I sold my tea,” she whispered. “And they used it to buy sweets and toys instead of shoes or pay the rent.”
“I’ll replace it.”
Phoebe gave a weak chuckle. “I do not need tea. It is a luxury I can easily do without.”
That admission settled somewhere low and steady in Samuel’s chest, warming places that had been sore and chilled for days.
Without reservation or a trace of self-pity, she had sacrificed something that had mattered so dearly.
Not the cost of the tea or the status of having an entire caddy of the stuff, but something about the ceremony meant a good deal to his wife.
Samuel tightened his hold by a fraction, not in comfort this time, but in acknowledgment. Of what she had chosen. Of what she had relinquished without complaint. The quiet practicality of it undid him more thoroughly than any grand declaration might have done.
His mind returned, unbidden, to the sight of her seated in Mrs. Whitcombe’s drawing room—spine straight, chin lifted, pride set carefully aside.
The way she had laid herself bare, not out of weakness, but out of resolve.
How she had fed every vanity, bowed to every hierarchy, all for the sake of a lonely old man who could no longer speak for himself.
There had been nothing small in it. Nothing timid. It had been magnificent. And here she stood now, tear-streaked and spent, dismissing her own loss with a soft, wry breath. Samuel swallowed, throat tight. She had erred, but he could summon no resentment in the face of the sacrifices laid bare.
Straightening, she put some distance between them, and Samuel yearned to pull her back.
“I do not begrudge them a little indulgence, and I am glad the children were given such a delightful day,” she began, and Samuel held his tongue, though it was clear that a few sweets and trifles amounted to only a fraction of what she had given, and their rent remained in arrears.
“But it pains me to know that, once again, I ignored your advice and chose poorly.”
Phoebe faced him fully, her shoulders sinking as the color drained from her face.
“After much consideration, I see now what I ought to have known from the first. For all that this marriage is meant to be a blessing to us both, I think it safe to say that you have suffered for it more than I. Mrs. Whitcombe is ill-disposed toward me, and you have been made to bear the brunt of it.”
Samuel frowned, for he wouldn’t say that was true—especially after their audience with her just moments ago—but he waited to hear what Phoebe was driving toward, though nothing could’ve prepared him for the words that followed.
“I think it is best if we part ways.”