Chapter 1
Haverford, Lincolnshire
Summer 1801
Flowers were happy things. There was nothing quite so wonderful as seeing them appear from behind a handsome gentleman’s back and offered up for inspection.
Granted, they were an odd symbol of affection, for they died quickly once cut, but then, the object itself held no significance. Fleeting though the blossoms may be, they symbolized steadfastness. Of a moment chosen and marked. Of something that lingered long after the petals withered and browned. It was the very reason so many ladies pressed the offering, preserving that moment in time, as if sealing up the love imbued within it.
And Phoebe Voss’s stomach churned as she stared at the bouquet before her. The stems were cut cleanly, the ribbon fresh and uncreased. The whole arrangement spoke of purpose and confidence; this was no idle posy plucked along a walk, but something chosen with care and intention.
Mr. Winwood’s eyes darted from her to Miss Mina Ashbrook, and Phoebe couldn’t help mimicking the movement, her gazeflitting between him and his intended recipient. The flowers were for that timid mouse of a woman?
For all that others claimed she was a delight, Phoebe didn’t know how one could ever come to that conclusion when Miss Ashbrook hardly spoke a word. But then, she boasted an obvious attraction certain to appeal to any gentleman. An enticement that was on full display in the costly gown adorning her person.
Fists clenching, Phoebe swallowed against the tightness that squeezed her throat. With a lift of her chin, she stared at the bouquet that killed the last of her dreams as readily as a knife to the back, and standing there, with her smile fixed and her spine straight, Phoebe waited as the truth settled into her bones.
Her future was now fixed.
The breeze stilled, the murmur of the garden faded, and Phoebe watched Mr. Winwood step forward with that practiced ease with which he approached every aspect of life, a playful smile pulling at his lips as he bowed low to Miss Ashbrook and offered the bouquet up in supplication. The moment landed with a dull weight, not sharp enough to stagger her, yet heavy enough to crush, and whatever warmth she’d felt at his arrival drained away, making Phoebe’s chest ache.
Which was absurd. She hardly knew the man. Their friendship had begun only a few short weeks ago, and though Phoebe had hoped for more, there was little connecting them but laughter and a heaping portion of hope. Yet watching him bestow his favor upon another made her legs weaken beneath her.
Intention declared, Mr. Winwood took his leave, striding from the garden.
The sun glared down on the ladies without apology, and the air was thick with the cloying scent of the roses that encircled the clearing around them. Though a breeze stirred, it wasn’t strong enough to filter through the surrounding hedges andtrees. Everything felt exposed—too bright, too close—as though Phoebe were trapped beneath a bell jar, on display for everyone to see.
“That is painfully fitting,” whispered Phoebe, stepping back blindly and collapsing into her seat. “My last hope is courting another.”
Resting her hand upon the table, she fiddled with the drawing pencil she’d abandoned when Mr. Winwood had intruded, rolling it beneath her fingers. The paper before her bore the beginnings of a rose. Petals sketched with careful intent, their lines firm yet unfinished. A form stalled mid-thought. She kept her gaze fixed there, tracing the shape without truly seeing it, aware only of the quiet scrape of her pencil against the wood as she pushed it back and forth. Around her, nothing stirred.
The ladies’ brushes lay where they’d been abandoned, their tips drying as the paint pooled on the palettes. A neglected teacup sat beside the remnants of the afternoon’s entertainment. ‘Twas meant to be a day to ease both the mind and the heart, yet trouble had invaded this sanctuary.
Phoebe’s fingers betrayed her with a faint tremor she could not still, no matter how firmly she pressed the pencil to the table; she tightened her grip, as though force might impose order where none could be found, but the effort only drew attention to the weakness she preferred to ignore.
The lines on the page blurred, the rose losing its shape as her breath caught in her chest. Phoebe lowered her head, willing herself to hold fast, to maintain the composure that had never failed her before, but the strength drained from her shoulders, leaving them slumped and heavy, and she blinked hard against the sudden sting in her eyes, furious at her body’s betrayal.
Phoebe had endured sharper disappointments without faltering, yet sitting there with the pencil clenched in her handand the unfinished sketch before her, that careful poise gave way, not with a dramatic collapse, but with a quiet yielding that left her acutely aware of her powerlessness to stop it.
Or what was to come.
“I thought…” whispered Phoebe, though she didn’t know why she allowed the words to slip forth in the first place.
What did it matter what she thought or hoped? Neither altered the reality before her. Just as it did no good for her brother to hope that the family would weather the financial ruin their father had brought down upon them.
Then Thea slipped into the seat beside her, and Phoebe gave a start; with her attention entirely on Mr. Winwood and Miss Ashbrook, she had forgotten that her friend was witness to it all—although it was taking place in Thea’s own garden.
Her friend took hold of Phoebe’s hand, helping to stop the trembling. And though Phoebe could not look at Thea, she could well imagine the way her brow furrowed and her lips thinned as they did whenever someone she loved bore a burden. The expression was a blend of desperation and determination to right that wrong and heal that wound, even when there was nothing to be done.
And there was nothing else to be done.
Father had dragged them into bankruptcy, his death had compounded their troubles, and there was nothing that Phoebe or any of the Vosses could do about it, though a prayer lingered in her heart that her eldest brother would be guided to an answer. Surely if there was anyone who could manage such a thing, Frederick could.
“I did not encourage him,” whispered Miss Ashbrook, and Phoebe’s muscles tightened, though she forced herself to nod. Nothing would make matters worse than ruffling the feathers of Thea’s beloved cousin, no matter how vexing the lady was.
Thea squeezed Phoebe’s hand and rushed to add, “And the way in which he toyed with your affections makes it clear he is not a gentleman worth knowing. There is someone better suited for you out there.”
The words sparked in Phoebe’s chest like flint against steel, and though a voice of reason warned her to keep hold of her tongue, it was crushed beneath the rubble as the wall she’d constructed around her heart gave way; Phoebe’s chest tightened until each breath came sharp and shallow, and her hands braced against the table as though the solid wood were the only thing keeping her from being carried off by the force of emotion that came rushing in as it collapsed.
