I know this will trouble you, and I am so very sorry to be the bearer of it. I will not pretend that I did not notice the marked attention he bestowed upon you or the favorable manner inwhich you accepted it. But I have sent a dozen grateful prayers heavenward that you were never caught in his web.
The words blurred before her eyes, the neat lines of Louisa’s handwriting wavering as though the paper itself were shifting. Phoebe read the letter once, then twice, scarcely breathing, a hollow pressure building beneath her ribs until it felt as though her stays were laced too tightly. Each detail landed with a dull, sick weight, pressing her deeper into the chair as if the very air had grown heavy.
Memories rose with a cruel swiftness. Those easy smiles. That practiced warmth, which had seemed so effortless, so personal. His attention had felt like a quenching rainfall after a hot summer, and Phoebe had drunk every last droplet.
Her fingers tightened on the page until the paper creased, and Phoebe smoothed it with her thumb, but the wrinkles did not disappear, and neither did the weight lodged beneath her ribs. Heat followed quickly on its heels, burning its way from the pit of her stomach and settling into her chest, and Phoebe had to set the letter down for fear she might tear it in two.
That last line pulsed upon the paper, mocking her with the knowledge of how close she had come to being yet another casualty of Mr. Winwood’s arrogance. He had looked at her and seen only what she might provide, teasing and toying with her when it suited him, and the thought made her hands curl, nails pressing into her palms as if she might anchor herself against the roiling anger.
Used. That was the word that rose unbidden, bitter and undeniable. Not admired. Not cherished. Simply assessed and weighed. All that warmth he’d offered, all those looks meant to make her feel singular, had been nothing more than a means to secure her dowry in the beginning and her submission in the end.
Miss Ashbrook’s warnings rose unbidden, each sensible word now stripped of its former dullness and revealed as keen and accurate, and that fury redoubled its strength. While Phoebe had played the fool, others had seen his duplicity from the start.
Images crowded in, too vivid and immediate. The tilt of his smile when he’d pressed close, his hands drifting past her defenses, his mouth capturing hers, insistent and tender. The feelings he’d stoked had burned through her, urging her deeper and deeper into his embrace. No one would ever know how close she’d come to accepting his invitation, how tempting it had been to embrace the affection he offered, and how often she thought of Mr. Winwood when her husband’s lips found hers.
Her hands lay folded in her lap as though they belonged to someone else. Neat, capable, unmarked, they offered no sign of the poor judgment that now felt written on her skin. Clasping her hands until her knuckles grew white, Phoebe tried to hold her recriminations at bay, but her deeds and desires remained etched upon her heart. Indelible.
Phoebe folded the letter with careful precision, as though that alone might restore order in her world, and set it aside. The shame did not lift, but she stood a little straighter for having named the sentiment, even if only to herself.
Another knock at the door made Phoebe jolt out of her seat, her hands stuffing the letter out of sight. If only the thoughts were so easily dismissed, but Mr. Winwood lingered in the back of her mind, refusing to leave her be. With more instinct than thought, Phoebe crossed the room only to turn back again, smoothing an already neat cushion.
Footsteps sounded in the passage, measured and unhurried, and the door opened before she could settle herself. Mrs. Kirk was announced and ushered in, making the room shrink as Phoebe felt all too aware of the air in her lungs.
People might’ve seen her preference for Mr. Winwood, but no one knew the whole of it. And the lady before her knew none of it. Yet Phoebe found herself acutely aware of every word and action, as though her foolishness might suddenly be revealed.
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Kirk with raised brows. “Is something amiss? You look positively faint.”
Taking a stranglehold on her feelings, Phoebe straightened, and with a forceful breath, she loosened her shoulders. “I fear I was lost in thought when you arrived.”
Glancing at the novel resting on the side table, the lady strode over and examined the title. “Ah,The Whispers of Willow Creek. I found myself quite flustered with that. Mr. Beaumont certainly knows how to weave a tale that captures one’s whole attention, doesn’t he?”
Phoebe eagerly latched onto that excuse and nodded. “As eager as I am to have you and the other ladies join me this afternoon, I am nearly as eager to shoo you away and finish it.”
Mrs. Kirk laughed and took the seat Phoebe motioned her toward. “Reading is my second dearest love. Oh, before it slips my mind entirely, Mrs. Coulter asked me to pass along her apologies. Her little one has taken ill.”
“Is it serious?” asked Phoebe, her brows furrowing as she sat before the lady.
But the concern was waved away. “Mothers are always fretful with their first. It is little more than a cough, and though her nursemaid is quite capable of managing on her own, Mrs. Coulter insists on remaining at home.”
“As well she should,” said Phoebe. “I dare say the world would be better if during those early years fewer mothers sent away their children or consigned them to their nursemaids’ care.”
Mrs. Kirk’s brows rose. “I sent each of mine to the country until they were weaned. It is good for their health, you know, and quite important for the mother’s recovery as well.”
Phoebe wasn’t certain how she felt about her own mother’s choice to do the same, but as the strength of Mrs. Kirk’s convictions was clear in her tone, she thought it best to leave the subject be. And she almost wished Mr. Godwin were there to see just how amenable she was being.
“I am certain you will feel differently when you have children of your own,” said Mrs. Kirk, a teasing smile tickling the corner of her lips; it was the self-same expression that at least a dozen people had employed upon her arrival to Kingsmere, as though enjoying the ability to hint at the private matters that were necessary to achieve that goal without being so crass as to speak of it openly.
Heavens, Phoebe hoped the rest of the ladies arrived soon, but when she turned her ear to the door, there was no sign of them.
“I do wonder where the others are,” said Phoebe, rising to her feet and calling for Molly to bring the tea board. “But as they are tardy, I see no reason to wait.”
Mrs. Kirk shifted in her seat as her smile grew strained. “I do not believe they are tardy. I believe the majority are paying calls on Mrs. Whitcombe. It is her day for visitors, after all.”
“Then perhaps they will join us once they are finished. A morning call lasts such a short time, after all,” said Phoebe, though the fact that they all had chosen to do their duty today revealed the truth before Mrs. Kirk spoke it.
“Mrs. Whitcombe is ill-disposed toward you, and few ladies will openly defy her,” said Mrs. Kirk.
Phoebe’s brows rose. “She is commanding people not to meet with me?”
