Yet it would not quiet.
Rolling to her back with a sigh, Phoebe whispered into the darkness. “I apologize, Mr. Godwin. I forgot myself, and I spoke hastily.”
The words tasted sour on her tongue, but she knew they needed to be spoken. Whether it was right or fair was inconsequential. Mrs. Whitcombe had been a guest of The Parsonage, and Phoebe’s retorts (however true) had not been welcoming, slipping instead into the sort of repartee she would’ve employed in Haverford when she had the social standing for others to dismiss her humor as eccentric. When one possessed inherent prestige and position, one needn’t guard one’s words.
Wrapped in the darkness, the silence felt like a tangible substance filling every corner of their bedchamber, and Phoebe couldn’t help but wonder if the fellow had fallen asleep.
Good gracious. She would have to repeat herself in the morning. The idea churned in her stomach, adding to the restless thoughts that were bound to keep her awake long into the night—then a grunt of acknowledgment broke through the silence. Phoebe turned to him, though with the shades drawn and the candles extinguished, there was no way to tell if he was looking at her or simply making noises in his sleep.
“Tread carefully around Mrs. Whitcombe,” said Mr. Godwin, a note of serious concern lacing his tone. “You do not want her for an enemy.”
Phoebe tried to study the shadowy blur that was her husband, but it was no use. Yet his voice sounded so unlike the man she knew that she was half tempted to light the candle and ensure that it was Mr. Godwin lying beside her.
But he said nothing more. There was no apology for the words he’d spoken. No acknowledgement of wrongdoing.
Turning back onto her side, Phoebe stared into the darkness. So much of late had been beyond her control, but she had chosen this man to marry, had chosen this world to inhabit, and there was no undoing it now. This was her life, and there was nothing more to be done about it.
And Phoebe didn’t know whether that was a comfort or a condemnation.
Chapter 9
Heat settled over Kingsmere with a stubborn persistence, refusing to yield to cloud or raindrop; day after day, the sun climbed into a pale, unblinking sky, leaching the color from the hedgerows and gardens. The fields beyond the village, once lush with promise, grew dull and brittle at the edges as dust lingered in the air, clinging to boots and cart wheels.
From a distance, the village still wore its familiar face with its tidy cottages and shops, but there was a tension beneath the calm that strengthened with each rainless day. Kingsmere would endure. It always did, and that knowledge granted a modicum of peace. Yet as the season pressed on with quiet insistence, the threat of a lean winter hung over the village.
Samuel shifted in the saddle, his eyes tracing the horizon as his mount held true to her name; Creeping Jenny’s hooves plodded slowly along the path, but his thoughts careened about with all that would need to be done during the coming months. Poor harvests meant starving villagers, and the vestry council needed to prepare.
His mare knew the path home better than he did, so Samuel gave her her head as he considered just how different his life was from that which he had imagined when stepping onto the clerical path. Of course, there had never been a questionas to what profession Father would choose for him; while his eldest son was destined to follow in his sire’s footsteps, Uncle Bertram’s connections within the church had made it the logical choice for the secondborn.
Thankfully, it suited Samuel as much as it suited the limits of his family’s finances and influence.
Then again, when he’d begun this journey, his young mind had imagined hours of study and reflection, sermons and rites. One would assume that the foremost duty of a cleric would be seeing to the spiritual needs of his flock, and yet, their worldly well-being occupied far more of his time. Whether bolstering low spirits or aiding them in times of financial trouble, more of his attention was fixed on this earthly plane, rather than the spiritual.
With so much of their work happening behind closed doors, it was little wonder that most viewed clergymen as mere religious scholars who only bestirred themselves on Sunday (if that). And it didn’t help matters that a great many of his brethren were in the profession solely for the income, rather than inclination or skill; far too many were content to hire a curate to manage the bulk of the work, leaving the lofty rector or vicar free to do as he pleased.
Gazing up at the clear expanse before him, Samuel listened to the grasses rattling in the breeze and couldn’t help but wonder how much more peaceful his life would be if he followed their example. No more politicking and social maneuvering. No more bearing others’ trials and tribulations. No more obligations. Simply a book and a comfortable chair whilst a curate managed the rest.
Heaven knew there were a good many young men desperate for a curacy (however meager the income), and Samuel could afford to hire one. And a rector couldn’t be removed from his position, no matter how much he neglected his duties.
But that was a ridiculous and entirely worthless thought. If Samuel could so easily abandon his responsibilities, he wouldn’t have married a near stranger.
Creeping Jenny moved along slowly enough to nibble on bits of grass as they passed, and Samuel was happy to let her do as she pleased. As his visit to the Willards had concluded quicker than anticipated, he had time enough to meander before he needed to return home and ready himself for the Sunday services.
A flicker of movement ahead drew his attention from the fields to the line of trees beyond. Samuel narrowed his eyes against the light, and his heart gave a small, weary drop as a familiar figure rode by in the distance, his seat too comfortable and posture too straight to belong to a farmer out on his rounds. Especially on Whitcombe land.
Mr. Norcroft. Of course it would be.
Instinct prodded him to turn Jenny away and take the longer lane to preserve what little peace the morning had granted him, and though that thought lingered for a heartbeat, the dry fields warned him that winter was coming, regardless of whether he ignored the trouble at his doorstep. This friction between them would only make matters worse, and if he must make allies of difficult men, then it was best to have at it. Delaying would not help matters.
Samuel drew in a slow breath and set his shoulders, angling his horse to intersect the steward’s. Raising a hand to the fellow, he waved him down.
“Mr. Norcroft, good morning to you.”
The steward accepted it with a bow of his head that was reminiscent of his employer. “I am surprised to see the rector out and about on a Sunday morning. I would think your time is better spent preparing for the services.”
A scoff echoed in his thoughts, and Samuel refrained from replying that an extra hour or two would do little to save a rector who wasn’t fully prepared by Saturday evening.
Of course, there were plenty in his profession who simply read purchased sermons rather than write their own—a fact that Samuel both loathed and loved as their laziness infuriated him whilst the sermons he sold to them fetched a pretty penny. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty at enabling their sloth, but it wasn’t as though those gentlemen would suddenly change their ways and apply themselves, and at least their parishes would receive some spiritual enlightenment with Samuel’s assistance.
