Pyramus.
Since that night, Phoebe read everything about Pyramus and Thisbe and often recalled that unforgettable voice, soft and enveloping like silk around her neck.
When she thought of how bold she had been in that room with her Pyramus, Phoebe summoned the courage to speak about what had been on her mind a moment before.
“I am well-attired, Lord Birchwood,” Phoebe said tersely, daring to step outside of the parameters her parents set for her. “I amterribly sorry to disappoint, but is it not an offense to my father’s riches when you insult my appearance? I may not be dapper or fashionable, but you, my betrothed, should not seek to belittle me.”
As soon as the remonstrance left her lips, she regretted it. Her thoughts had drifted to the stranger, and she had forgotten herself and became too bold. Her mother’s hand wrapped around her arm again, her fingernails digging into her skin in warning.
“Forgive me,” Phoebe continued hurriedly, “I do not know what came over me just now.”
“You do,” Lord Birchwood sneered. “For I was merely jesting. Can you not take a little teasing, Lady Phoebe? One would think a lady with such a young, small mind would like such a thing.”
Phoebe bit her tongue so hard she feared she would draw blood but only nodded. She ducked her head as if in shame, but it was truly to hide how hard she clenched her jaw to keep her words behind her teeth.
“I am certain I can take some teasing,” she answered. “Forgive me.”
“You shall grow better accustomed to such gentle barbs during our marriage, I suppose. One’s wife can be trained.” Lord Birchwood sighed, as if she had exasperated him already.
She wanted to demand outright why he had even agreed to the marriage if he could barely look at her. If he could not speak to her without lacing his words with condescension and insult, there must be some other reason that he sought to make her his bride.
“Mine would never submit to such a thing,” Phoebe’s father jested, grinning at her mother, who only rolled her eyes and huffed.
“That is because I was born to be a proper, well-behaved lady,” she sniffed. Her eyes lowered to Phoebe. “We cannot all hope to be so fortunate, but I have tried my best with Lady Phoebe.”
You did not. The moment you realized I was of little value to you or the estate; you sent me away.
For a moment, her chest ached terribly, thinking of the two years she had spent in Nantwich, England, with her despicable maternal aunt.
Her fingers still cramped at times when she thought too hard about the hours of labor she had been forced to do all while being treated even worse than a member of the staff.
“I can see that,” Lord Birchwood mused. “But I shall have her more controlled in no time, do not worry.”
“We have no worries when it comes to you, Birchwood,” Phoebe’s father assured him. “You are a fine match for mydaughter, and I am looking forward to the connection of our families.”
Phoebe kept that polite smile fixed onto her face, but her cheeks hurt with the strain. After making the effort and noticing how Lord Birchwood scarcely looked at her, she let it fall slightly for some relief. Her hand crept up to her neck, trying to seek the comfort of her pendant, but her throat was bare.
If anybody looked close enough, they would see the faint scratch marks of her mother’s nails from where she had torn off her necklace earlier that night.
It looks horrendous with this gown, Phoebe. Do not make me more humiliated by wearing something so ugly with a gown your father paid handsomely to provide.
Her mother knew how important the necklace was, and although she said little about it day-to-day, she had been adamant tonight that Phoebe would not wear it. Without the pendant being a solid weight against her collarbones, Phoebe felt naked, bare, and unmoored.
As her father and Lord Birchwood spoke about an upcoming gentleman’s club that was being opened by a former baker, which they thought was most hilarious and worth mocking, Phoebe shrunk beneath her mother’s grip and stare.
“I… I might get myself a refreshment,” Phoebe said quietly after a spell, already trying to pry herself away from those claws that anchored her painfully to the spot.
“You will not leave my side unless it is to dance with your betrothed,” her mother hissed.
Even as she said that Phoebe’s saving grace wove her way through the crowd, dodging and side-stepping guests. Genevieve arrived with a blissful smile on her face that she directed squarely at Phoebe.
Genevieve finally made it through the sea of dancers and drinkers, then reached for Phoebe’s hand.
“Genevieve,” her mother greeted flatly. “What are you doing? My daughter will stay by my side. I have made that clear tonight as well as over the course of several past balls.”
“But my cousin must take a turn around the room,” Genevieve countered as she fluttered her lashes prettily. “And I must say, Aunt Myrtle, you are stunning tonight! Is that a new bracelet?”
The question was clever, for Phoebe’s mother lifted a hand to admire it herself and show it off in the hopes of receiving a further compliment. But the action released Phoebe, and she quickly ducked out of her mother’s grasp.
