“Do you think she’ll truly do it?” Mina asked at last.
“Yes,” Thea whispered.
A breeze stirred the papers on the table, lifting the edges so that they fluttered like startled birds. Thea reached out to still them, her fingers brushing against a smear of color—violet, once bright, now dulled to a grayish blue beneath the sun. The paints were drying fast, and the scent of them mingled with the sweetness of the garden air. It all felt strangely fragile: the afternoon light, their friendship, even hope itself.
“She didn’t mean it,” Mina said softly. “About Frederick.”
Thea nodded, though the words still stung.
“She’s frightened. It makes people cruel,” Mina added.
“Yes.” Thea’s voice was small. “It does.”
Around them, the garden murmured with the rustle of leaves, the soft thrum of summer, but that vibrant feel of life and vitality seemed distant now, unreachable. A cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the light on the table, and Thea stared down at her painting, the colors dull and lifeless beneath the sudden shade.
Chapter 28
The church bells fell silent, that bright sound dampened by the fine mist that hung in the air. That teasing haze cut through cloaks and coats, digging its fingers into the very bones of the onlookers and filling the air with the pungent scent of wet wool. Yet still, the parishioners remained, watching the church door.
After weeks of dry earth and wilting gardens as the rivers ran low and the mill wheels struggled to turn, the damp morning ought to be a blessed thing, but it wasn’t heavy enough to be of any good to anyone. It was entirely useless and disappointing. And appropriately melancholy, given the circumstances.
The parishioners stood scattered across the churchyard, cloaks drawn close and hats pulled low against the chill, though their discomfort did little to dampen their spirits. A restless energy pulsed through the crowd, bright and humming, as though the gray sky itself could not smother their excitement. Every few moments, someone turned toward the church porch, convinced they’d heard the creak of the great oak door, then the murmur would falter with their breath held in collective anticipation.
Tucked in the entry shelter, Phoebe and Mr. Godwin stood with her arm threaded neatly through his (as expectationdemanded) whilst the parish brimmed with curiosity and gossip, and the couple’s stoicism was a jarring counterpoint to the eager hum that filled the churchyard.
Frederick’s stomach twisted as he watched them. The air felt thick, as though something more than the fog filled his lungs with every breath. This engagement wasn’t his doing, yet he couldn’t rid himself of the weight that pressed against his ribs as he watched the couple. Father’s poor choices had set the course, but Phoebe had taken the next step, steady and certain, and now she stood with her future fastened neatly to Mr. Godwin.
The noise of the crowd seemed distant, muffled by the hollow in his chest, as Frederick watched the small, polite turn of Phoebe’s head when Mr. Godwin murmured something to her and the faint tightening of her jaw as her gloved hand rested lightly on the man’s sleeve.
“Phoebe could’ve done so much better than a rector, no matter how esteemed his patron,” murmured Mother, her tone as grim as the gray skies.
“It is her choice,” murmured Frederick, though the lady wasn’t listening.
Lifting her head higher, she fastened on a smile that was a touch strained and murmured, “Where is that wretched clerk?”
As though summoned by her frustration, the church door opened, and Mr. Loftus emerged with the curate on his heels, both men approaching the notice board. The crowd immediately quieted, pressing closer to see the grand posting despite having heard the banns read aloud during church services, as was required; for all that this parish tradition held no sway in the eyes of the law, it was required in the eyes of Haverford.
With a few quick swings of a hammer, Mr. Loftus tacked the paper with the simple script, which proclaimed to all and sundry that which they had already known: Miss Phoebe Voss was to marry Mr. Samuel Godwin.
But all Frederick saw was the other announcement beside it, which, though blurred by its time in the mists, still bore the clear words that Mr. Frederick Voss was no longer the parish’s churchwarden—a fact they would’ve surmised when Mr. Keats, alone, was left to perform those duties during the service.
The moment the last nail was affixed, the crowd gave a cheer, surging forward as the couple emerged from the porch, arm-in-arm. As Phoebe passed, her free hand reached out to grab her brother’s, and she drew her eyes to his with a faint smile that was filled with far too much resignation for Frederick’s peace of mind.
But Phoebe’s chin lifted, a spark of life flickering in her gaze once more as she faced the well-wishers.
Frederick walked beside his mother, the damp gravel shifting underfoot as they followed in the wake of his sister and future brother-in-law. The crowd folded around them with effusive greetings as they passed the couple around the courtyard, each parishioner giving them their congratulations in turn, whilst the family trailed in their wake.
There were plenty of hearty handshakes and claps on the back for Mr. Godwin’s uncle, who accepted each one with the broad smile of a man utterly satisfied with the day’s proceedings. His aunt, too, was in her element with quick and bright laughter as she declared how delighted the family was to welcome Miss Voss. Even those who had never exchanged a word with the Godwins before were eager to engage them in conversation, leaning close with eager smiles and cheerful remarks.
While Mother—who was always the first to throw herself into the social fray—remained firmly at Frederick’s side. She kept her chin high, nodding with cool civility, but it was impossible to ignore the stark difference between the Godwins’ reception and the Vosses’, for all the latter received was a smattering of muted comments about Phoebe’s good sense in making such a finematch. And each encounter caused Mother’s hold on his arm to tighten.
Frederick focused on making his way through the throng, returning every bow and murmured greeting with as much steadiness as he could manage whilst the laughter and chatter echoed around them. All their smiles were courteous, their bows respectful, yet beneath that civility lay the whisper of calculation.
“This is what comes from making our private affairs public,” whispered Mother. “None of this would have been necessary if you had simply held your tongue.”
Her words pricked like thorns, but Frederick said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on Phoebe’s bonnet bobbing through the crowd as he returned every greeting in kind, performing his role like a marionette. The lychgate stood just beyond the crowd, mocking him with thoughts of escape. Beyond it lay the open road, leading away from all of the whispers, glances, and polite pretense.
If he could only reach it, he might breathe again. But between him and it stretched a sea of familiar faces, each one expecting their due. Tradition was not something easily cast aside, and Frederick had done enough of that of late; he wouldn’t compound his family’s infamy by leaving before every parishioner was granted their opportunity to greet the “happy” couple and their families.
