Chapter 37
“Good game, Mrs. Godwin!” cried Mrs. Whitcombe as they rose from the card table. “You almost had me then.”
“You have a talent for cards, madam,” said Phoebe. “I do hope we may play again so that I may hone my meager skills, for I fear Mr. Godwin has no head for cards.”
The gentleman in question nodded beside her. “None at all. I am an utter dunce.”
“Yes, but we shall keep him nonetheless, shan’t we, Mrs. Whitcombe?” asked Phoebe, turning a conspiratorial grin to their hostess, who fairly preened.
“That we shall, my dear.”
Samuel offered her his arm, and Phoebe took it without hesitation as the players dispersed to find refreshments.
Langley Court hummed around them. The drawing room was alive with motion and sound: the chairs scraping softly against polished floors, the low flutter of cards being shuffled and dealt, the rise and fall of conversation.
Along the edge stood a table laden with dishes both delicate and indulgent, the scent of sweets and lemonade mingling in the warm air.
Silks brushed past one another, jewels caught the light, and laughter rang out at intervals, bright and assured. Kingsmere’s finest had gathered in force, filling every corner with color and confidence, each guest playing their part in the evening’s vibrant display.
“That was well done,” whispered Samuel as they wandered the room.
Phoebe stifled a chuckle and lifted her open fan to hide them from view. “In truth, it was an extremely thrilling game, but only because it took all my skill to ensure she won without making it clear I was doing so.”
“You minx,” he murmured whilst leaning so close that Phoebe couldn’t help stealing a kiss.
Samuel’s eyes drifted down her cheek, brushing a path along the curve before settling on her lips. “Do not begin something you cannot finish, Mrs. Godwin.”
A flutter flitted through her as her pulse did a rather good impression of a butterfly, and the world around them dimmed at the edges, the noise blurring into something distant and indistinct. She did not answer him. She didn’t trust herself to.
A throat cleared—loud and pointed—Phoebe snapped her fan shut, straightening with a blush.
“Mrs. Lane,” she said, her voice a touch higher than intended. Forcing herself to swallow (and to keep a stoic expression whilst Samuel’s eyes blazed with laughter), Phoebe smiled. “I do apologize. We were discussing an urgent matter.”
“Quite urgent,” echoed Samuel.
The lady glanced between the pair before her gaze settled on Phoebe. “I was hoping you might know of a girl who is looking for employment. Someone experienced with children, preferably.”
The question landed like a gift placed neatly in her hands, and Phoebe felt the earlier heat give way to a bright burst of energy that sizzled through her.
Employment. The school. The very thing she had been turning over in her thoughts for the past month, hoping—quietly—that an opportunity might present itself.
“I may know of a girl,” she said, and this time the warmth in her voice required no effort at all.
“There are several who would be well-suited, depending on what you require. Some with experience in nurseries, others who have assisted at the dame school. I am certain we can find you the perfect candidate.”
Mrs. Lane’s expression eased at once, relief softening her features as she elaborated on her needs, and Phoebe listened with full attention, already sorting names and temperaments in her mind.
The conversation took shape easily, one consideration leading naturally to the next, and the room around them receded as the practicalities unfolded.
Samuel remained at her side, silent though constant, and Phoebe felt his attention and approval without needing to look.
The laughter and music of Langley Court swelled and shifted around them, but Phoebe scarcely noticed.
She was already thinking ahead, already imagining doors opening for the youth of Kingsmere.
New possibilities.
As the evening carried on, the rest faded gently from her awareness, leaving only the satisfaction of being useful—and the quiet certainty that she was exactly where she ought to be.
***
The room had begun to thin, its earlier clamor settling into smaller pockets of conversation as guests took their leave.
Samuel stood just behind Phoebe, lifting her cloak and settling it over her shoulders while her attention remained fixed upon Mr. and Mrs. Moore.
She spoke with an easy animation now, the fatigue of the day nowhere to be seen, though with winter now well and truly settled upon Kingsmere, they were both busy with the rising needs of their parish.
Samuel fastened the clasp at her throat, careful not to interrupt, and listened as she spoke of the parish school. Though the past month had seen quite a bit of progress on that front, there was still much to be done, though Phoebe described it as though it were already a fixture of the village.
The Moores leaned in despite themselves, drawn by the quiet confidence radiating from her as she spoke.
“It is remarkable,” Mrs. Moore said slowly.
“I am excessively pleased with how well the village has embraced the opportunity,” said Phoebe. “We are fortunate to belong to a parish that understands the importance of aiding our fellow man. Now, the only thing we lack is the funding to ensure they have proper tools and books.”
Samuel settled in beside her. “It is amazing what Mrs. Godwin can do with even the most meager of contributions, and the children are so grateful for everything they receive.”
“Yes, they are quite mindful of just how the generosity of parishioners, like yourselves, blesses their lives,” said Phoebe with a nod.
“And you all are so eager to be of assistance,” added Samuel.
“Quite right.” Phoebe set a hand on her heart and gave a sweet smile. “I have had so many offers tonight. It seems as though everyone wishes to donate to the cause.”
Samuel’s hand settled at Phoebe’s back, giving a reassuring touch for that bit of brilliance.
For all that people claimed it was merely the goodness of one’s heart that inspired generosity, the actions of one’s peers did more.
The wisest of vagrants always put a few of their own coins in the begging cup before they shook it beneath a person’s nose.
The Moores exchanged a look, brief but telling.
“Well,” Mrs. Moore said at last, “we should like to be of assistance as well. Do pay a call tomorrow, and we can discuss the particulars.”
Though she made a good show of keeping her triumph tucked out of sight, Phoebe fairly vibrated beneath his hand, and by the time coats were fetched and farewells exchanged, the matter had been settled more firmly than either Moore might later recall deciding.
“You are such a dear, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mrs. Moore as they exchanged curtsies. “You have inspired such an outpouring of charity in Kingsmere.”
“Oh, that is not my doing, madam. I assure you. This village was already so very generous,” she said, waving the compliment away. “I have never met a kinder group of people.”
But Samuel couldn’t bring himself to allow that denial to slip by uncontested, no matter that he knew the intent was to flatter, not self-deprecate.
“You are being too modest, my dear,” he said, glancing at the Moores. “She is forever working on some project or another. Just this week, she began fashioning infant clothes, and I am certain you can expect an invitation to some charitable gathering on behalf of the christening boxes.”
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mrs. Moore with a nod.
As they turned toward the door together, Samuel glanced at Phoebe and found her eyes bright, already considering the next task to be completed. He offered her his arm, and she accepted without looking, their steps falling into easy accord.
Night closed around them as the door shut behind, the sounds of Langley Court dulling to a distant hum. The cold had sharpened, the air carrying the clean bite of frost, and their breath rose faintly between them as they meandered down the gravel drive.
How many times had he left such a gathering, worn to the bone and desperate for bed?
And though Samuel felt both of those creeping in, he felt no need to rush along.
The exhaustion he had carried earlier in the day had fallen away, slipping free without his noticing.
But then, Phoebe had that effect on him.
Samuel felt no need to speak, no impulse to invite conversation or discuss tomorrow’s work. The parish would wait—
“I am not organizing another christening box or charity drive,” said Phoebe.
The sound startled him, and Samuel struggled to pull his thoughts into focus. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I simply assumed that was why you were sewing the clothes.”
There was a long pause before Phoebe added, “No, I do not intend to give those away.”
“Oh,” replied Samuel, for he didn’t know what else to say. Though he still couldn’t claim to comprehend the workings of his wife’s mind, he trusted she had a good reason for her actions.
They wandered on for a few paces, and he felt Phoebe waiting for a response, though he didn’t know why or what it should be.
“I am not making those clothes simply to give them away,” she repeated.
“As you wish,” he replied.
“No, Samuel,” she said, pulling him to a stop and facing him. Then, with heavy emphasis, Phoebe repeated herself again, “I am making clothes for an infant, but I am not giving them away.”
The lane fell quiet around them, the cold air pressing in as though the world itself paused to watch as Samuel’s wits gathered.
It was like stepping into a hole in the dark, that sudden jolt of shock and disorientation as one struggled to keep their feet whilst not entirely understanding what had just occurred.
Staring at his wife, the world blurred around them as his mind scrambled to keep pace with the implication.
His chest tightened. The sensation was not fear, nor exactly joy, but something far more unmooring—a sense of standing on ground that had shifted without warning—and Phoebe waited beside him, silent, her attention fixed upon him with deliberate patience.
“A child?” he whispered.
“I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain,” she said in a small voice.
“We are going to have a child?”
Phoebe bit her lip, her brows twisting together as though uncertain of his reaction, and Samuel swept her into his arms, holding her so close that he was afraid he might hurt her, though he couldn’t force his muscles to relax.
Samuel captured her lips, the movement driven by something too sudden and too full to be contained.
The kiss was fierce with wonder and joy, startling him as the ferocity wove through him, burying deep in his heart.
The cold vanished. The lane, the night, the weight of the day all fell away with Phoebe and their child in his arms, alive and warm and real.
They lingered there, the kiss softening but not breaking, the moment stretching without urgency, and when they finally drew apart, their arms remained tightly wound around the other, the celebration contained not in words, but in the closeness they refused to relinquish.
“Does that mean you are happy about the news, my love?” she whispered.
Samuel’s thumb brushed her cheek. “A wife turned my life on its head, making it far better and grander than anything I had ever imagined. I suppose a child is bound to do so as well.”
“We are going to be parents.” The words echoed in the night around them, and Phoebe's eyes grew misty, drawing forth a surge of happiness that Samuel hadn’t known was possible for a man to feel.
“‘We,’” he echoed. “Yes, we are, my love.”
Why had he bristled at Mrs. Whitcombe’s edict? Chaffed at the demand that he subject himself to this wonderful state? What had once seemed an imposition had become a blessing that ushered him into a life far fuller than he could’ve fashioned for himself. All because of this beloved lady.
Holding her there, Samuel let the night close around them and thought—without regret, without reservation—that every wrong turn, every begrudging choice, every imposed path had led him here. With Phoebe in his arms, the future was no longer something to be endured, but embraced.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I should hope so, my love.”