“Now, if there was ever a subject with which a person is guaranteed to expound at length, it is the beauty of their home,” said Phoebe with a smile.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mrs. Coulter, “but I shall never claim that of my home. I was raised in the heart of Manchester, and though I adore it in many ways, I do not think anyone would claim the city to be particularly lovely.”
The conversation unfolded with an easy warmth that took Phoebe by surprise. There was no careful weighing of words, no sense of being measured or assessed, only a lively exchange that flowed from one subject to the next as naturally as breath. Mrs. Coulter sparkled with good humor and affectionate teasing, while her husband’s dry observations kept pace with her energy, grounding that joy without ever dimming it.
Phoebe found herself laughing more than she had in weeks, the tension she carried loosening bit by bit as their conversation drew her out, and as one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, she refused to question how her husband had gained such lively friends.
“Mrs. Godwin,” called Mrs. Whitcombe, her tone all frost and ice, and Phoebe turned to see the lady swanning through the crowd, cutting a sharp line across the churchyard. “I just heard the most troubling rumor. I knew it could not be true as I made my feelings on the matter explicit.”
Drawing in a breath and holding fast not only to her patience but to her newfound resolve, Phoebe bobbed a greeting as the lady came to a stop before her.
“If you tell me the rumor, I can confirm whether or not it is true.” And she applauded herself for saying it in an even tone.
“You are making improvements to The Parsonage,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a level of horror reserved for the most dire of news, such as the deposing of a king or the fall of an empire.
“You were clear on your feelings about the gardens and any significant alterations—” began Phoebe.
“I said the house requires no changes of any sort.” The lady straightened as though she were an angry frog, all puffed up and ready to leap upon her opponent.
Glancing about, Phoebe couldn’t help but notice all the witnesses surrounding them, and heat flushed her cheeks as the weight of those watching eyes settled upon her all at once. Conversations nearby faltered, heads turning with barely disguised curiosity, and Phoebe had the mortifying sense of being put on display like a wayward child who had forgotten her place. The churchyard, which moments before had felt companionable and open, seemed to shrink around them, every stone and shrub suddenly too close for comfort.
Phoebe forced her shoulders back, even as embarrassment prickled beneath her skin. This was not a private remonstrance offered in kindness or concern; it was a correction delivered for an audience, meant to remind her—plainly and publicly—where the balance of power lay. The promise she’d made to herself pulsed within her, warring with the sharper, more defiant instinct to go to battle, and Phoebe schooled her expression while her pulse thudded loud enough she was certain others could hear it.
“I have made no alterations to the building, madam, nor have I touched the public rooms,” said Phoebe. “And I fail to understand why decorating our private quarters is of any significance.”
Or how anyone knew what she had done. Phoebe certainly hadn’t spoken of it, and she had specifically chosen those rooms because only the Godwin family would see it—and Mr. Godwin hadn’t even noticed. The only ones who knew of the work were the servants and the laborer she had hired, and she doubted they had the ear of Mrs. Whitcombe.
Prickles ran down her spine as she considered the congregation, many of whom watched with careful eyes. Had one of them seen the fellow arrive and jumped to the natural conclusions? Then rushed off to tattle to Mrs. Whitcombe? The idea was ludicrous. What should it matter to anyone what Phoebe Godwin did with her own home?
Haverford had its share of whispering, to be sure, but certain matters were allowed the dignity of discretion, and though news inevitably travelled, it was not thrust into the light the moment it occurred. In Kingsmere, a workman arrived, and the news was carried with all speed to the mistress of their village.
The realization settled like a stone in her stomach as Phoebe surveyed the faces around them and all the easy expressions that concealed sharp ears and quick tongues. Was every stepwitnessed and reported? Every decision tallied? The notion left her oddly exposed, as though the walls of her new life were made of glass rather than stone.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Phoebe forced herself to stand firm.
“I will speak plainly, Mrs. Godwin, so you shan’t misunderstand my meaning,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, that mighty chin of hers lifting. “I do not authorize any alterations tomybuilding. My beneficence has granted you and your husband that home, but it is not yours, and if you wish to so much as change the colors of the walls, you must havemypermission. Do not forget yourself, my girl. I will not be made a fool again.”
With an indignant sniff, Mrs. Whitcombe’s gaze travelled the length of her, and then she turned on her heels, striding away like the self-appointed queen she was.
Phoebe couldn’t help but gape. “That is ridiculous!”
Mrs. Coulter hushed her, waving away the crowd with a bright smile before lowering her voice. “It may be, but she is correct. It is her house.”
“But it is given for the rector’s use,” said Phoebe. “It is part of his living. I understand the need for approval if I intend to do anything permanent, but I only replaced a broken mantelpiece and had the rooms repainted—”
“It ishers, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mr. Coulter with an apologetic wince. “And even if it weren’t, she holds the power in this parish. You defy her at your peril.”
“What have you done?” Mr. Godwin’s voice was low and held more than a hint of brittle brightness to it as he stepped up next to her, his smile concealing the sharpness of his tone. “I thought you hadn’t made any alterations.”
“I did not,” said Phoebe. “It was a few minor repairs.”
Mr. Godwin straightened and glanced about the churchyard, smiling beneficently at the others, waving to them as though allwas as it should be. And offering his arm up to his wife, he led her back into the church. The nave was cool and dim by comparison to the churchyard, the thick stone walls swallowing sound as he closed the door behind them.
But the gentleman did not stop there. Leading her through to the far side of the church, Mr. Godwin ushered her into the vestry and closed them off in the much smaller room that held the parish records. Phoebe pulled her arm free, and her husband turned to face her, his expression carefully arranged, though there was a fire in his gaze.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What changes did you make to the house?”
Phoebe stared at him. “You did not notice?” When he said nothing, her disbelief sharpened into irritation. “Of course I did. Minor things that needed mending. The paint was flecking. The mantelpiece was chipped.”
