Chapter 66
The day after Slade’s departure, Phoebe visited the Edwardes.
She’d told herself she was being sociable, and they were so warm and comforting to be around, she desperately needed some of that since Slade had left.
But there’d been another reason. Ever since accidentally catching Sylvia’s perfect oval doll-face, flawless skin, and stunning brown eyes years ago, Phoebe had wished she was prettier.
And now, after disappointing Slade, as was evident by his manner when he’d left for Sutten, Coldfield, Phoebe wondered if Slade also wished he’d had a different sort of wife.
Someone who was not only prettier but more traditional, more controllable and appropriate.
Phoebe turned at the sound of footsteps. Margaret walked towards the chair she occupied near the fireplace inside Margaret and Raghnall’s cozy manse with an amiable expression, carrying tea service.
“I’m so happy you can join me for afternoon tea, my dear. I am only sorry Raghnall is not here. It’s his day for making house calls.”
Phoebe smiled. “I am sorry to show up unannounced, but with Slade being in Sutton Coldfield I was feeling a bit out of sorts.”
Margaret placed the tray on a piecrust-shaped tea table next to the oak desk where Phoebe sat.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am not only for your company but also for your donation to the orphanage. It will be used for much needed supplies for the children,” Margaret said.
Phoebe hadn’t told anyone she’d donated her entire first month’s stipend from the MacLeans. She’d wanted to do something good, inspired by the Edwardes and all the good they were doing at the church.
She took a slice of fruitcake off the white porcelain plate offered by Margaret. An idea started to take shape. “I am happy to help. You mentioned earlier you were in the process of collecting donated quilts from the villagers for the orphanage. Have you many remaining to collect?”
Margaret shook her head as she poured tea. The pleasant malty scent of the steaming dark brew filled the air.
“No, I have all the quilts, in fact, just the last one is left to be collected,” Margaret said.
Phoebe dipped her head in assent to sugar and cream as she took a bite of the cake. Margaret then offered her the filled white porcelain teacup.
“Let me help, I can pick it up for you, I have the use of a horse drawn cart and three of the MacLeans escorts with me,” Phoebe said.
Margaret served herself tea and then took a seat in the gently worn chair nearest to the tea table. “Mistress Ames who lives down by the port is our last remaining donor.”
“Mistress Ames? Is she related to Master Ames, who owns the jolly boat?”
Margaret sipped her tea, then nodded. “Yes, indeed. She is his wife.”
“It will be nice to meet Master Ames’s wife. He’s quite a sailor,” Phoebe said.
“It runs in his family, they’ve been sailors going back five generations,” Margaret said, conversationally.
Phoebe’s heart rate picked up as she swallowed, getting ready to put words to a question that had brought her to Margaret’s doorstep. “Did you meet Slade’s betrothed, Sylvia, before she passed?”
Margaret stilled, her teacup pausing halfway to her lips. “Yes, dear. I knew Sylvia. Her mother and I are well acquainted. Sylvia was such a sweet innocent girl, but she took the burdens of the world to heart.”
“How so?” Phoebe said, trying to understand.
Margaret placed her teacup down on the table, seeming to consider the question.
“Well, when she was a little girl, she took care of a pair of chaffinches after their mother abandoned its nest. But they were too young, and despite her attempts at feeding them, the poor things perished. She was inconsolable for months and months. She stopped eating. Mistress Willoughby came to see Raghnall asking for help. He went to speak with Sylvia a few times, before he was able to pull her out of her melancholy,” Margaret said.
A twinge of pity sat in Phoebe’s stomach even as something pinched inside her chest. “Was she prone to melancholy?”
“Very much so. She felt too deeply. Mistress Willoughby often tells me her daughter was just too good for the harshness in this world.”
“I imagine Slade loved her very much.” It took a second for Phoebe to realize she’d spoken those words out loud.
“He did. But it was an innocent sort of love, not like the way he loves you, my dear, if the look in his eyes when they fall on you is any indication,” Margaret said.
After the conclusion of tea, as Phoebe finished donning her cloak by the door, Margaret came to stand by her side.
“Have you met Mistress Willoughby before, my dear?”
Phoebe pulled on her gloves, shaking her head. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“She is neighbor to the Ameses. You may very well run into her when you are there.”
The back of her throat tightened. “Oh. Do you think a visit from me will be unwelcomed?”
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I thought I’d warn you.
After Sylvia died, Victoria … Mistress Willoughby, was bitter and unhappy.
She even abandoned her post as governess for one of the Sutherland girls and came to the village to be alone.
For a long time she blamed Slade for Sylvia’s death.
But recently she seemed to have found some measure of peace. ”
Something prickled at the back of Phoebe’s neck. “Why would she blame Slade for Sylvia’s death?”
A look of uncertainty crossed Margaret’s face. “Perhaps Slade should be the one to tell you this … I don’t know the particulars, but Sylvia took her own life.”
“Dear, God.” Phoebe raised her hand to her mouth. Something heavy and cold expanded at her core.
Her heart ached for Slade. Ached for what he must have had to endure. What he must still be enduring. Phoebe leaned back against the doorframe, the air seeming to leave her lungs. She’d never guessed this. She began to understand the reason for her husband’s dark moods.
“But why would Sylvia’s mother blame Slade? Weren’t Slade and Sylvia happy, in love, about to get married?”
Weariness flickered in Margaret’s eyes. “They were in love. I don’t know how or why Sylvia took her life. I suspect only Slade or Victoria know the answer.”
Countless queries swirled inside Phoebe’s head. Why would Sylvia take her own life? Why would Victoria Willoughby blame Slade? The more she learned about Sylvia the more questions she had.
She grabbed her saddle bag from the peg by the door where she’d hung it earlier, then eyed Margaret with a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll return with the donated quilt.”
Half an hour later Phoebe arrived at the port where she and Slade had spotted Master Ames over three months ago.
She dismounted from the horse cart with care letting the MacLean’s escorts know she was paying a visit to a friend.
The briny, cold wind was stronger this close to the water.
It whipped the hem of her skirts and coat about her ankles.
A bushy-bearded lanky seaman directed her to a grayish-brown stone cottage with a dark thatched roof a short distance away on a row of dwellings visible from the port.
When Phoebe arrived at the Ames’s cottage, she raised her gloved hand to knock on the weather-beaten wooden door.
But the clip-clopping of a rider made her still her hand.
She turned. A female rider, atop a dark bay gelding, stopped in front of the cottage to the left of the Ames’s.
The woman was garbed in a black mourning bonnet covering half of her face, and a black coat, which billowed as she dismounted.
The woman’s profile was statuesque, her ash blonde hair in a thick knot half hidden beneath the bonnet.
She must have sensed someone studying her for she turned and looked right at Phoebe, and somehow the truth hit Phoebe head on.
The arresting woman with the striking patrician features staring back at her was Sylvia’s mother.
She was just as stunning as her daughter, despite being older.
How was Phoebe to measure up against such a martyred beauty as Sylvia?
Phoebe cleared the tightness in her throat, turned from the Ames’s door and walked over to the woman who was intermittently eying her curiously while tethering her own mount to a towering old oak tree.
“Mistress Willoughby?” Phoebe asked, nearing the woman.
“Yes?”
“I am—”
“You’re Slade’s wife?” Mistress Willoughby interrupted her, her voice clear, crisp, and cultured.
Phoebe nodded. How had the other woman guessed who she was?
Perhaps interpreting her questioning look, Mistress Willoughby answered. “You are as my neighbor Master Ames described. He mentioned he’d taken Slade and his wife to Beinn na Faoghla.”
Up close Phoebe noticed the fine lines on Mistress Willoughby’s soft features and the gray hairs at her temples, however none of these things detracted from the woman’s elegant beauty. She had the most piercing brown eyes Phoebe had ever seen.
Remembering Sylvia, Phoebe drew closer to Mistress Willoughby. “Please know you have my deepest sympathies for the loss of your daughter. Losing her still haunts Slade. He must have loved her a great deal.”
Perhaps he still does.
The other woman’s eyes turned empty as her gaze shifted away from Phoebe, but not before Phoebe took note of her trembling chin.
When her gaze landed on Phoebe’s again, her features had evened out. “A woman in your position must have a certain strength of character to say those words to me. Thank you. Why don’t you come inside for tea?”
Phoebe wanted to, but she didn’t think she had the strength of character Mistress Willoughby seemed to think she had. “Nothing would please me more, but I am on an errand for Margaret Edwards. Perhaps another time?”
Disappointment and perhaps something like a sliver of relief etched its way into the woman’s features.
“Of course.” She paused then continued. “Slade and Sylvia were in love. My Sylvia was an innocent but ardent girl. I raised her as a good Christian. But she took things to heart too keenly, she loved too deeply and agonized too much over everything. She worried about their future, my future, and her cruel and absentee father.”
“Her absentee father …?” Phoebe started to say.
“My Sylvia was the illegitimate daughter of General Bolingbroke.”
Shock momentarily froze Phoebe’s entire frame; she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
Mistress Willoughby continued. “I met the general when I work for the Sutherlands, years ago. He was rather forceful in his attentions towards me. He made promises of marriage, which I was too inexperienced to see were all empty.”
“Does Slade know?” Phoebe asked, finally finding her voice even amidst the lightheadedness and discomfort churning in her belly.
“Of course he does. I’ve tried to assuage Slade’s guilt over Sylvia’s death. Guilt I myself put into his head because of my grief. But I know Sylvia wouldn’t blame him, and neither should I. She would be happy he has a wife that loves him. Please, make him understand.”
“I shall try,” Phoebe said.
She felt only half present as she said her goodbyes to Mistress Willoughby.