Silence followed—thin, brittle, and charged. Samuel knew he ought to have said something long before this moment, but his wits had deserted him as he watched his wife battle his patroness. It didn’t help matters that Mrs. Godwin’s jests were so blastedly amusing that Samuel found himself wondering what she would say next and struggling not to smile at the clever responses.
But Mrs. Whitcombe’s lips thinned until they were naught but a hard slash across her face, her eyes sparking with a fire that boded ill, and Samuel’s thoughts finally snapped into place. He had to do something before Mrs. Whitcombe decided to be well and truly offended.
“What a silly goose you are, my dear Mrs. Godwin.” Samuel infused the words with a laugh, as though the whole disagreement was naught but a jest between the ladies. In truth, he felt silly for speaking them, yet it was just the sort of thing an obsequious ninny would say, and as it drew both their attentions, he didn’t care one jot.
Donning his more ingratiating smile for Mrs. Whitcombe, Samuel added, “You must forgive my wife, madam. She is still finding her footing in parish matters, and the strain of settling into a new household can muddle one’s phrasing. Her words came out more forcefully than intended. She has been rather overwhelmed of late.”
*
Overwhelmed? Phoebe kept her expression pleasant and her hands steady around her teacup as heat crept up her neck. Overwhelmed suggested confusion. Fluster. A woman carried along by feeling rather than thought. Though Phoebe supposed it was a fitting description for a “silly goose.”
Mr. Godwin continued, “Her meaning, I believe, is that hardship is not always a mark against one’s character. A generous sentiment, to be certain.”
Of course he would rush in to frame her words as well-meant but ill-judged. To soften her killing blow. One’s betters must always be seen as better, after all.
Something sharp in her chest twisted, as her husband flattered Mrs. Whitcombe, doing everything but lying on his belly and kissing her dusty shoes. The sight was disgusting, and it took all of Phoebe’s willpower not to sneer at the sight.
But before she could say anything to defend her honor, Mr. Godwin rose to his feet.
“My many thanks for honoring our humble abode with your presence, Mrs. Whitcombe, but I wouldn’t dream of stealing away any more of your time,” he said with a bow so deep that he may just be able to kiss those perfect little feet, which had the supreme blessing of conveying the very great and magnanimous Mrs. Whitcombe about—when she isn’t being carried about on her palanquin, of course.
No doubt, Mr. Godwin wished to replicate himself many times over so that he, alone, might cart her about the streets of Kingsmere like Cleopatra of old.
Phoebe huffed a laugh at her own thoughts and rose with the lady, though Mrs. Whitcombe’s chin lifted as though she may have heard the noise, and Phoebe forced herself to behave. This whole thing may be ridiculous, but there was a vast differencebetween humor and mockery, and she preferred to remain firmly in the former. Though it was difficult at times.
“Your thoughtfulness does you credit, Mr. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, turning a benevolent smile upon her rector, though the warmth in that expression fled when she turned back to Phoebe. “This has been very enlightening, Mrs. Godwin.”
Leading the lady to the parlor door, Phoebe bobbed a farewell—and received a curt nod in acknowledgement. Thankfully, her mother had taught her manners, and Phoebe did not allow the seething heat to show upon her face; to all the world, she appeared a gracious hostess as the maid led her from the room.
Once the door was firmly shut, Phoebe let out a sharp scoff and scowled now that she was free to do so.
“Why were you antagonizing her?” hissed her husband, and she spun around to see him standing just behind her.
“Disagreeing isn’t antagonizing,” said Phoebe, lifting her chin as she glared at him. “And you did enough fawning to overcome any ill feelings I might’ve stoked. She insulted me and my family in my own home, yet you called me a fool!”
Stiffening, Mr. Godwin glanced at the door, which (though closed) did not possess the magic to block all sound, and though Phoebe cared not one jot about Mrs. Whitcombe’s opinion, neither did she wish to incur the lady’s wrath, so she stepped to the window and spied Mrs. Whitcombe traversing the path between their house and hers—well out of hearing.
“I did not call you a fool,” he said.
“Oh, no. I do believe it was a ‘silly goose.’ That is far better,” said Phoebe in a flat tone. “Every wife yearns to hear her husband speak of her like she is an errant child, too empty-headed to know what she is saying.”
Mr. Godwin folded his arms and drew in a steady breath. “You were insulting the preeminent lady in our parish. That is dangerous ground to tread.”
“Do not lecture me about managing societal expectations,” said Phoebe with a scoff. “I have spent my life navigating those waters, and it is important to stand firm and not give others the upper hand—else you will never earn their respect. What do you think it does to my standing when my own husband treats me as though I am her social inferior? Faith, she wouldn’t even return my curtsy!”
“Because you arenother social equal, Mrs. Godwin. Not anymore. Please act like it.”
Straightening, Phoebe blinked at the man, though her vision narrowed, blurring the edges of her world as his words settled.Not anymore. It was as though the ground beneath her feet quietly gave way, leaving her adrift with that revelation echoing in her mind as Mr. Godwin strode away without another word.
No matter what her husband said, Phoebe was no fool. Her understanding of social structures had pressed her to marry him rather than subject herself to being a poor spinster. Her only thought had been to escape her family’s inevitable fall from grace, but what did it mean to live somewhere between the lowest of the low and the highest of the high?
Mrs. Phoebe Godwin was the wife of a mere rector. A gentleman, yes. But hardly the pinnacle of society.
Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, and Phoebe drew herself straighter, instinctively bracing against the knowledge that the ground beneath her had shifted at last and neither pride, nor wit, nor will could restore what had been lost.
With her thoughts so fully ensnared, the rest of the day passed in a blur. Phoebe couldn’t say how she passed the hours. Couldn’t say what was served for dinner. She recalled sitting at the table, her husband silently eating beside her. Recalled hisrising and leaving to do whatever it was that he saw fit to do in the evening. Phoebe even removed herself to the parlor, taking up the book she was reading. Yet those motions were automatic, the result of habits already formed after only a few short days.
Phoebe mulled over this revelation, and when the two of them climbed into bed that evening, she gave Mr. Godwin her back and stewed some more. At this rate, her mind was well and truly overcooked.
