Thea’s stomach twisted. Though Phoebe spoke in a light tone, her words were sharp and had all the sweetness of a lemon. And rightly so when the truth was a bitter pill.
Searching her thoughts for something that might soften the moment, Thea set down her paintbrush. But what could she say? An apology was too close to pity, and silence was too apathetic. She longed to reach across the table, to offer some reassurance that none of them thought less of her, but Thea’s heart ached with the futility of it all. It was impossible to fix something so delicate once cracked; every word, no matter how kind, only splintered it further.
Mina cleared her throat, her eyes on her painting, though she sent a furtive glance toward Phoebe. “I am so very sorry, Miss Voss. I wish things were different, but you are strong, and I have no doubt that your family will find your footing once more—”
“And all will be right in the world? Our status will be restored. Our coffers filled. Our home returned to us?” Phoebe’s pencil stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes cool and sharp as a blade. “You make it sound as though it is naught but a dropped glove or misplaced book.”
Mina’s cheeks flushed. “No, I did not mean that—”
“Ought we to sit about, waiting for good fortune to turn in our favor?” Phoebe asked flatly, the words soft but heavy with restrained anger.
Thea’s heart sank. “Phoebe, you are twisting her words.”
But the lady turned back to her work, the stiff lines of her shoulders making it clear that no apology, however well-intentioned, would be welcomed. Mina looked down at her brush, her cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson, and Thea sat between them as her fragile hopes for the afternoon shattered.
There was no fixing this. Not with any amount of charm or gentle mediation. The only thing she could do was sit quietly and pray that the time would pass quickly.
“I did not mean to offend, Miss Voss,” whispered Mina, her eyes fixed upon her painting. “I was speaking of my own experience. We lost my mother and my infant sister in one fell swoop, and though it altered my family forever, the pain faded in time. Life will not always be a misery.”
Phoebe shifted in her seat, the pencil trembling faintly in her hand. Puffing out her cheeks, she let out a sharp huff and scowled inward.
“I apologize, Miss Ashbrook.” The words tumbled out with that breath, and Phoebe rested her fists on the table, forcing her hands to relax, but a quiet nod was all the answer Mina gave, and Phoebe’s shoulders fell.
“I feel as though I am fraying at the seams,” she added in a whisper. “I do not know what we will do.”
Thea’s hand yearned to reach for her friend’s, but she stopped herself. Phoebe’s prickles had been far more pronounced of late, and even a kindly meant bit of sympathy might go awry. So Thea sat there instead, throat tight, her heart aching with the helpless certainty that Phoebe was right: between pride and survival, there was little space left to breathe.
Silence settled thickly over the table, broken only by the faint creak from her chair as Phoebe reached for her pencil again. Mina bent over her paper with determined focus, her movements brisker than before, though Thea suspected she wasno longer painting but rather avoiding everyone’s eyes. The faint buzz of bees amongst the roses sounded louder in that stillness.
Thea tried to swallow the ache rising in her throat. She needed to say something, anything to ease the strain, but no words came. All her usual tools—kindness, humor, sympathy—felt useless. She couldn’t ease Phoebe’s troubles any more than she could force these two ladies together.
The sunlight glowed too warmly, as if mocking the turmoil inside her. Her fingers tightened around the brush until the wood bit into her skin, and Thea set it down before she snapped it in two. Nothing made sense anymore, and she could not fathom how to set the world to rights again.
Being resolute was one thing; knowing how to resolve the issue was another altogether. And no amount of stubbornness could stop the heavy futility that settled into one’s heart when the only path forward was waiting. There was nothing to be done. No action to take. Like so many virtues, patience was far easier to embrace in the abstract.
The faint crunch of footsteps on the gravel path broke through the heavy silence, and all three ladies lifted their heads at once, like startled birds. Thea’s pulse gave a faint, grateful leap: any interruption would be a mercy.
Then a familiar voice carried through the open air as Mr. Winwood called from beyond the roses, “Miss Keats, there you are.”
The strain melted from Phoebe’s posture, and her eyes gleamed as her mouth curved into a smile so bright it banished every shadow, and Thea hardly had time to process the shift before the lady rose to her feet. The gentleman appeared from around the hydrangea bush, sunlight glinting off the brass buttons of his coat, with an equally bright smile upon his face and a small bouquet in his hand.
“What a pleasant surprise. How glad we are to see you today,” said Phoebe as she stepped forward to greet him.
Mr. Winwood stopped short, surprise flickering across his face so quickly that Thea would’ve missed it had she not been watching. But she saw it plainly: the quick lift of his brows, the faint tightening about his mouth. He recovered at once, of course, with a polite bow and a smile, yet the moment’s hesitation left Thea wondering what, precisely, had brought him there—and whether Phoebe’s joy was misplaced.
“Miss Voss, I assure you the pleasure is all mine,” he said with a bow of the head.
Phoebe motioned toward the table. “We are enjoying the fine weather. The farmers may bemoan the dry summer, but it is an artist’s paradise. Please, join us.”
If the gentleman thought it odd that Phoebe quickly moved into the role of hostess when it clearly belonged to Thea, he gave no notice, and Thea did not begrudge her friend the oversight.
“I do not wish to intrude,” he said with such disappointment weighing down his tone that one might think it was the greatest of disappointments. “I did not intend to interrupt your painting.”
“Nonsense,” said Phoebe, stepping forward to usher him to the table. “We can have a chair brought round, and there are plenty of refreshments. And we would certainly welcome the company as we work, wouldn’t we?”
“Of course,” said Thea, giving the fellow a decisive nod before moving to call a servant—though she paused when she spied Mina’s expression. The discomfort was evident in the tightness of her lips and shoulders, though the lady said not a word of disapproval, and though Thea did not wish to make her cousin unhappy, she couldn’t allow Phoebe’s opportunity to slip by.
“Those are beautiful,” said Phoebe, reaching for the posy.
