“Yes,” said Phoebe, settling back into her seat as the tea steeped. “And Mr. Godwin’s sister required their mother during her lying in.”
“It is a fine gift,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, giving the caddy another perusal.
“That it is,” said Phoebe, her hands itching to stroke the box yet again, though she had done enough of that of late. And her thoughts drifted to the letter that had accompanied it.
What to make of the lady who had sent it? Mrs. Mariah Godwin had written as though this marriage were a joy freely chosen, something welcomed and anticipated, not a practical arrangement forced into being by circumstance. She spoke of looking forward to Phoebe’s company, of hopes for the household, of small domestic pleasures shared between women who were now family.
The warmth of it lingered still, but Phoebe did not know what to make of such kindness—especially coming from the mother of Mr. Godwin. Though her son was certainly one for effusive hyperbole when it came to praise, there was an earnestness to his mother’s letter that bore no resemblance to the man Phoebe had married.
But she accepted the gift and the missive, setting both gently aside in her thoughts, uncertain whether to trust what they promised.
“It wouldn’t occur to a gentleman that such a thing is needed,” added Mrs. Whitcombe. “It is a fine heirloom to pass down from mother to daughter.”
The words landed with an unexpected weight.Mother to daughter. Phoebe felt it like a sharp tap against the ribs. No doubt there were heirlooms Mama had intended to entrust to her youngest daughter once the marriage vows had been spoken, but they had been parceled out and sold to pay off the family’s debts, dispersed into other households where their histories were forgotten.
Phoebe drew a slow breath and brushed the thought away before it could settle. There was no purpose in dwelling on what was lost or taking offense over an innocent remark. The caddy sat solid and real beneath her fingers, so she schooled her expression and allowed the moment to pass.
And with that, they fell into a familiar dance. Questions concerning Phoebe’s journey, the weather, and the state of the roads flowed freely, and as they spoke, Phoebe prepared the tea and offered up refreshments to her guest.
“I do hope you will engage a proper cook,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, waving aside the proffered sweets. “The rector is an integral aspect of village life and must host parties and gatherings, but Mr. Godwin cannot do so without proper food, and he has been slow to act.”
Phoebe’s smile held, though her spine stiffened. “Molly is quite capable. She is a good girl and takes pride in her work.”
“She is skilled with plain fare, but that is not enough for proper entertaining,” said Mrs. Whitcombe.
As Phoebe couldn’t help but agree with that assessment, she didn’t argue the point—even if she did not care for the slight against her staff. “Mr. Godwin wasn’t in a position to host, and thus, never felt the need for a cook, but I assure you that I have already made inquiries.”
Taking a sip from her tea, Mrs. Whitcombe nodded. “Just so. You’ll find it makes all the difference.”
Phoebe reached for her own teacup and let the matter rest with a vague nod in acknowledgment.
“And how are you settling in?” asked Mrs. Whitcombe, glancing about the parlor, which already bore the signs of its mistress’s influence.
“I have yet to explore Kingsmere in its entirety, but what I have seen is breathtaking,” said Phoebe, offering up that sugar to sweeten the conversation. Besides, it was true enough. “And I am quite pleased with The Parsonage. I’ve spent every free moment exploring the nooks and crannies and coming up with grand plans for its improvement.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, setting down her teacup. “The house is perfectly suited as it is. There is no need for improvements.”
“I did not mean that as a complaint,” said Phoebe with a placating smile. “I adore the house and have no plans to make wholesale alterations. I was merely thinking of adding shelves here and there, painting a few walls, and installing some seating in the garden. Perhaps erecting a wall along the edge. That is all.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression puckered tighter and tighter with each word, which was positively ridiculous, as it was not a slight against the property. What woman did not wish to alter such things in her new home? And what did it matter to anyone what the rector’s wife did to her own abode?
Grasping onto a change of subject, Phoebe asked, “I understand Mr. Whitcombe is from home at present, though I have not heard when he is to return.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s mouth thinned, the warmth in the room cooling at a rapid pace.
“My husband’s movements are his own concern,” she said at last, her tone clipped, offering no further explanation as she lifted her teacup once more, and the silence that followed satstiffly between them, weighted with something Phoebe could neither name nor dispel. Clearly, that had been a misstep, though she could not see how, but there was no need to dwell upon it.
Turning her attention to the tea service, Phoebe focused on all the little actions required to serve her guest. With a poke of the mote spoon, she unclogged the teapot’s spout, dislodging the loose tea, and poured herself another cup of that perfect blend—and forced herself to refrain from petting the tea caddy like a beloved puppy.
Whatever else this new life demanded of her, there was peace to be found in these rituals and her new role: Mistress of The Parsonage.
***
Shaped by habit more than ambition, Kingsmere was the sort of village whose rhythms had been set long before its current residents were born. It was the sort of place where people were known by their work as much as their names, where news traveled swiftly with varying degrees of accuracy, and where change arrived slowly, if at all.
The village green lay trimmed and orderly, bordered by shops and houses with windows thrown open to invite what little breeze the day might offer. Carts moved along the lane at an unhurried pace, their wheels kicking up faint plumes of dust, while the drivers’ voices carried on the air as they called out greetings when they passed. Roads stretched out from the village center, passing by cottages with laundry strung out to dry and gardens carefully cultivated for both need and pleasure.
Samuel walked the length of the village at an even pace, his thoughts tracking the calls already made and those awaiting him. Mrs. Turner’s roof was leaking again. Mr. Hale’s back was troubling him again. Mrs. Barnaby’s larder was near empty.
