Heat rose in her chest, scratching at the resolve that clung to her promise. She would keep her temper in check. She would be patient. Understanding. Shewould!
“If you had spoken to me, we might have framed it properly. Gained her approval,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Instead, she hears of it secondhand, in public, and now she believes you deliberately defied her.”
“That was a simple misstep. One that we can manage,” said Phoebe. “But you speak as though she holds your fate in her hands. Mrs. Whitcombe is not the Archbishop. She is not even a bishop. She is a wealthy woman who exercised her influence once—and only once—when she gave you this living.”
Mr. Godwin’s gaze sharpened. “You mistake the nature of her power if you believe it ends there.”
“She cannot take your post from you,” Phoebe pressed on, frustration spilling over. “For goodness’ sake, our neighboring parish had a drunkard at the helm, who fathered enoughbaseborn children to fill a school, yet the vestry couldn’t oust him from the position without the church’s approval—which they did not grant. And the house is part of your living. She may complain and posture, but she cannot simply snatch it back because she dislikes my taste in decorations.”
“I am not concerned about our discomfort. She has more power over the parish than simply the ability to choose who is rector,” he said tightly. “I will say it again: it is foolish to antagonize Mrs. Whitcombe.”
Phoebe stared at him, disbelief curdling into something sharper. “I thought you a fool when we met, but the more I come to know you, the more I think it is an act performed for the benefit of people like Mrs. Whitcombe. However, I do not know which is more alarming: that I married a spineless fool or a knowing coward.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “There is more to this than you understand.”
“Ah, yes. Because I am a silly goose,” said Phoebe with narrowed eyes. “I would be better off emulating your great example, bowing and scraping for a bit of her beneficence?” Voice lowering, she straightened. “I will not spend my life slinking about, begging her leave for every little thing I do. I am not a child.”
“And I will not spend my life repairing damage that could have been avoided with a simple conversation,” he fired back.
The words landed harder than either of them seemed to expect, and silence stretched, taut and brittle, before Phoebe let out a sharp breath, anger flaring hot and sudden.
Without another word, she turned and wrenched the vestry door open, fleeing like the child she claimed not to be. Sweeping down the nave, Phoebe strode into the churchyard, heart pounding, fury and humiliation driving her steps as she fled thespace—andhim—before she said something that could not be taken back.
Phoebe had hoped to behave better, but in that moment, retreat felt like the best course. The moment she stepped through the lychgate, the fury leaked away, leaving something colder and far less bracing in its wake, and when Phoebe’s breath slowed at last, her own words echoed in her ears.
Only hours ago, she had stood before the mirror and sworn to do better. To be patient. To be reasonable. To meet this new life with resolve rather than resentment.
Phoebe pressed her lips together, the sharp edge of humiliation cutting deeper than the argument itself. This was not the quiet endurance she’d imagined needing as Mrs. Samuel Godwin, nor the hollow companionship she’d embraced when they’d exchanged vows.
Solitude would be bearable. Security and comfort would be enough. Now, the certainty she had clung to felt thin as paper, and for the first time since she had said yes to him, Phoebe truly wondered if it was.
Chapter 12
Afternoon light slanted through the parlor windows, softening the room and lending a gentle warmth to the pale walls. The chairs sat at the perfect angles to invite conversation without forcing it, their cushions neatly plumped, and a small table stood within easy reach of each seat, ready to hold up the ladies’ teacups and saucers.
A few heirlooms were arranged with deliberate care. A porcelain figurine here, a framed miniature there, a scattering of books that hadn’t the intellectual appeal for resale but looked pretty on display. The value of each was entirely sentimental, thus they'd escaped the creditor’s net, and they looked quite nice next to the Godwins’ bits and bobs.
Phoebe moved about the room with restless purpose, adjusting and readjusting things that were already perfectly acceptable until everything was just so. Even the air smelled faintly of baked cinnamon and polished wood, evoking a mixture of cleanliness and homeliness.
The guests were not expected for some time yet, but she could not bring herself to sit. Every surface demanded her attention. Plates of cakes and savory bites were arranged upon the sideboard in careful order, their symmetry shifted and corrected twice over, and beside it sat the tea caddy, its polishedsurface catching the light whenever she passed. The other tea things were absent, of course, for it would not do to have the water cooling before the appointed time, but she shifted the wooden chest a quarter of an inch to the left, ensuring there would be space enough for them.
This was her domain, and today, Phoebe Godwin would be the hostess in every sense of the word. Yes, she had entertained the visitors who had welcomed her to the neighborhood, but now that she was properly settled, it was time for her to send invitations. Phoebe had written a good many under her mother and governess’s tutelage, but these were entirely her own. For her own gathering. With her own guests. And a menu of her own. In her very own home.
For the first time since arriving in Kingsmere, the parlor would fulfill its purpose and serve as a place of gatherings and goings on, rather than a mere shelter in which she passed her solitary days and nights. And that thought sent a flutter through her, skittering down her spine and settling into her heart with a grin.
A knock on the front door sounded, and Phoebe gave a start. Surely they had not arrived so early. It was well and good to be prompt, but a half hour was excessive. But when Molly answered it, Phoebe heard the familiar voice of the postman as the maid handed over the obligatory payment for their letters. A moment later, Molly appeared in the parlor with a missive in her hand.
Taking it, Phoebe settled onto the sofa. A letter from Mrs. Louisa Fisk was the perfect distraction. They say age grants wisdom and clarity, but for all her five and twenty years, the lady was just as delightfully silly as she’d been in their youth. And Phoebe unfolded the page, eager to read all about Mrs. Witt’s battles with her gardener, Mr. Story’s snores during Mr. Tudor’s sermons, and all those little amusing nothings that risked noone’s reputations and caused no ill when shared. Simply a private chuckle shared between friends.
But Louisa leapt over all the usual salutations and questions and opened with,“You will never believe what I have just heard.”
Eyes darting ahead, Phoebe’s breath caught at the sight of the name attached: Mr. Winwood.
I write with a most unsettled mind, for news has reached me that I wish had never found its way into my keeping. Yet I cannot, in good conscience, withhold it from you. Mr. Winwood has vanished! One day, he was seen at the inn as usual, full of easy charm and unmatched confidence, and the next, he was gone, leaving behind a trail of unpaid bills and unanswered questions.
The innkeeper is beside himself, not only for the loss of the money owed, but for the far graver trouble that has since come to light. It appears his daughter is in a delicate condition, and she is not the only young woman in the village who has reason to curse his name. I will not repeat all that has been whispered, but suffice it to say Mr. Winwood's attentions were more freely bestowed than his intentions ever were.
As to his whereabouts, accounts vary. Some insist he has fled to the Continent to escape his debt collectors, others claim he is on his way to Scotland with a young heiress. Whether he ran toward opportunity or away from consequence, I cannot say. Only that his absence is sudden, his debts many, and his character is now laid bare in a manner that even the most kindhearted of people cannot excuse away.
