The words hung there, lightly spoken and lightly meant, yet they struck something sharp. Mr. Godwin said nothing. He merely looked ahead, his expression shuttered once more, and the absence of rebuke was somehow worse.
Heat crept up Phoebe’s neck, reminding her once more of her vow. Though wrapped in wit, her statement had been careless and far crueler than intended—something that had been happening more of late than she cared to admit. It was the sort of observation Mr. Winwood would’ve enjoyed, and Phoebe wondered if spending so much time in his company had encouraged her to speak far too frankly.
What did it matter if another’s feelings were bruised as long as it earned a laugh?
But that was not witty. It was cutting.
Phoebe drew in a steadying breath and squared her shoulders, willing herself back into the resolve she had so recently claimed. Things could be worse. Far worse. She had chosen this path, and she would walk it properly, even when it required holding her tongue.
“I apologize, Mr. Godwin,” she whispered. “Now, we mustn’t be late.”
***
Cold stones and dark shadows greeted those who entered St. Jude, the church holding itself apart from the heat of the day like a held breath that smelled faintly of damp and aged wood. Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows, falling in pale bands across the nave and the rows of oaken pews. Above the worshipers, the timbered roof arched overhead, heavy beams rising and crossing like ribs, lending the space both shelter and weight.
Despite all the sandstone, which echoed even the faintest of sounds, a hush fell over the building as Mr. Samuel Godwin stood upon his pulpit.
It had been nearly five months since her path had first crossed with her husband’s. Three since her brother had first announced their financial woes, followed quickly on its heels by the revelation that they were well and truly ruined. Two months since Mr. Godwin had proposed. And almost one since the wedding.
Four and twenty years of living, and yet it felt as though everything of importance had occurred during the previous fivemonths. The strangeness of it all lingered in Phoebe’s heart and mind, increasing in strength with each passing week.
And that feeling of being forever upended worsened as she watched her husband speak to the parish. The only time Mr. Godwin employed language with such grace was when he was prostrating himself before his betters, and for all that she had expected his sermons to be equally ingratiating, Mr. Godwin taught as though this were more than a mere profession. It was a calling, and he preached of virtues and parables, expounding on each with far more clarity than Phoebe would’ve anticipated.
Her vow rose to her thoughts, prodding at her conscience, but she refused to accept guilt over a simple (and silent) observation. Haverford had seen many a curate pass through their parish, and far too many treated their Sunday sermons with all the care and attention one gives an unwanted chore, yet Mr. Godwin’s earnestness shone in every word.
And thank the heavens, it was the perfect length, being long enough to delve into the subject without dragging it out interminably.
Once the final blessings and prayers were given, Mr. Godwin strode down the nave, taking his place at the door to bid farewell to each of his flock as they slowly filed from the building. Of course, no one rose until Mrs. Whitcombe took her leave in all her glory, but once that was complete, the rest followed after, spilling out into the morning light.
Glancing about, Phoebe considered the people she had met and those with whom she wished to further an acquaintance; they would all come to know one another quite well in time, so she supposed it mattered little, but having settled into her home, Phoebe yearned to find someone who could fill the void Thea’s letters simply could not.
Granted, that would require her approaching someone in conversation, which was never a pleasing prospect, butsometimes there was no helping matters. Turning her gaze this way and that, Phoebe searched for an answer—when the choice was made for her.
A lady swept forward, throwing her arms around Phoebe before she knew what the stranger was doing. “Do forgive me for being so forward, Mrs. Godwin, but I must greet you properly.”
Chapter 11
“Dearest,” chuckled a gentleman standing at the lady’s back. “Allow her to breathe.”
Straightening, she pulled away with a wince. “I know, I know. But I have been desperate to meet the lady who ensnared our Mr. Godwin.”
Phoebe had enough sense not to scoff at that, though it was a near thing. She supposed there was snaring, but it was more like a hare trussed up in a hunter’s trap, though she wasn’t certain which of them was the hunter or the hare.
And the sentiment was made doubly difficult when the lady hurried to add, “He is such a dear.”
Straightening, Phoebe considered the pair before her. The lady was about her age, and the gentleman was approximately Mr. Godwin’s, though as she considered that, she wasn’t certain how old either gentleman was. Clearly, older than her as Mr. Godwin had a parish of his own, but she would be surprised if he was thirty.
But that was neither here nor there. The true question was what sort of people believed Mr. Godwin was a “dear?”
“I do apologize, madam. I am Mrs. Elizabeth Coulter, and this is my husband, Mr. Guy Coulter,” she said, motioning to the gentleman, who came up beside his wife. Taking hisarm, she beamed. “Not only is he serving as your husband’s churchwarden, but we are the best of friends, so I am so very sorry we weren’t in town to welcome you properly, but I intend to remedy that as soon as possible.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Phoebe, finding herself smiling despite the morning’s strains. “Settling into my home has taken so much of my attention that I’ve hardly had time to meet my neighbors. I am only just finding my footing.”
“Then we shall stumble together,” declared Mrs. Coulter with cheerful certainty. “I refuse to believe any wife of Mr. Godwin’s will feel at sea for long. He’s too sensible to choose a fool for a bride, so I am certain we shall be the best of friends.”
“Yes, she is silly enough for the both of you,” teased Mr. Coulter, which earned him a mock scowl from his wife.
“You knew what I was when you married me, so who is more foolish? Me or you?” she retorted, squeezing his arm. “I understand you are from Lincolnshire. I haven’t seen much of it, but I have an aunt who lives in the west, and it is gorgeous country.”
