This was not the man she had married.
Phoebe’s fingers rested against the edge of the table, the polished surface cool beneath her touch. Searching his face, she found the bright fury of one pushed beyond his limits, and the realization settled heavily in her chest.
This was the true man she had married—one that kept his fire and light carefully tamped behind the fool’s mask—and before she could gather her wits, Phoebe recognized that she had crossed some unseen boundary, one she hadn’t known existed until she found herself standing squarely on the wrong side of it.
The suddenness of this shift left her unmoored as much as the words now cascading from his previously silent mouth. The words struck with a clean, ringing force, sharp enough that Phoebe felt it deep in her chest before she understood what he had said. For a moment, the room tipped, not enough to send her reeling, but just enough that she had to shift her weight to keep steady.
“…the only reason we married…”The phrase lodged itself in her heart, heavy and unmoving.
“I beg you,” he continued, holding his hands up in a mockery of supplication. “Please do something—anything—that does not add to my troubles.”
And with that, Mr. Godwin stormed out of the house, the door slamming behind him.
Her fingers loosened on the table without her noticing, and a faint chill crept along her arms. Something had shifted in their marriage, quiet but decisive, and the room seemed to recede, its edges softening as her thoughts turned inward.
Phoebe Voss had carried her grievances like a private ledger, each slight carefully tallied, each disappointment weighed and measured until it seemed to outweigh anything Mr. Samuel Godwin could boast. In that reckoning, she had cast herself as the one wronged, the one who had conceded most and gained least. It was she who had lost everything, after all, and was forced to marry someone so wholly beneath her.
Despite having never spoken those words, the feelings lingered beneath every conversation and interaction with her husband. They had filled her eyes with tears on more than one occasion. And still weighed her down, despite her efforts to accept the choice she’d made. Yes, it had been an arrangement, and it had been comforting to claim it as a mutually beneficial one, yet lurking beneath that was the stubborn belief that Miss Phoebe Voss was the more wronged of the two.
Yet Mr. Samuel Godwin had subjected himself to marrying a woman who despised him. His marriage may have been compelled, but his choice of bride had been his own. And his profession and income ensured he’d had his pick of ladies, yet he had chosen the one who had accepted his proposal unwillingly and festered in bitterness and self-importance.
The one who had done her level best to make him regret his choice.
The chill along her arms deepened, settling into her shoulders, her spine. It was not guilt, not yet, but something uncomfortably close. Phoebe had been so intent upon preserving her own sense of injury that she had scarcely paused to consider the weight he carried, or how her behavior in Kingsmere added to it.
Louisa Fisk’s letter rose in Phoebe’s thoughts, burning bright in her memory and regurgitating every wretched moment she’d spent with Mr. Winwood. Whatever his flaws, Samuel Godwin was not careless or selfish. He did not vanish when things grewdifficult. He did not take warmth where it suited him and leave wreckage behind. He bore responsibility even when it weighed him down and gave little in return.
And she met that constancy with resentment.
Her husband lacked charm and wit, but he offered something far rarer: stability. It was not a romantic notion to many, but then, they likely had not lived without it. Phoebe’s heart warmed at the thought that neither she nor their children would ever worry about being left penniless because he lacked self-control. Mr. Godwin would provide for them with the same determination that he approached everything. He would honor their marriage vows to his dying day.
The room remained quiet around her, unchanged, but Phoebe stood there with a new awareness settling into place, sharp and unavoidable. She had been guarding her injuries so fiercely that she had neglected gratitude altogether—and the omission now felt impossible to ignore.
Her gaze dropped, not in submission but reassessment. The ground beneath her felt less certain than it had moments before, as though she were seeing the shape of it clearly for the first time. Whatever Phoebe thought of his caution, his deference, his endless concern for propriety, she had granted herself the freedom to act without measuring the cost to anyone but herself.
Very much like a certain blackguard she’d so carelessly embraced. And the father who had left his family in ruins.
In that narrowing space between pride and perception, Phoebe found herself standing very still, forced at last to reckon with a truth she had not expected to meet. Lowering to the sofa, she considered her behavior of late and all the vows she’d made and broken.
***
Focused on his nightly rituals, Samuel moved about the bedchamber with measured care. Unfastening his coat, untying his cravat, aligning his shoes beside the fireplace all took on an importance they did not deserve, if only because they gave his hands something to do.
Mrs. Godwin moved about with deliberate composure. No glance in his direction. No sign that she was aware of him in the slightest. If there was any tension in her, it was neatly contained, folded away like linen placed out of sight. Each movement was careful, restrained, as though she were determined to prove nothing but her own desires existed in the world, and the sight tightened something low in his chest.
The heat that had driven his words earlier had not abated, settling into something less volatile but no less consuming. The weight of it pressed at his temples, but there was nothing more to say. He’d spoken his piece, and Mrs. Godwin had met it with silence.
Sliding beneath the bedcovers, Samuel blew out his candle and turned onto his side, ignoring his wife as she finished readying herself. The mattress dipped with her weight, and the bedcovers rustled before settling as darkness closed around them, complete and unyielding, leaving him with nothing but the sound of her breathing and the slow, insistent thud of his own pulse.
Samuel lay rigid, eyes open to the black, and he forced his attention away from the warmth at his back to the work to be done: that was a never-ending distraction. The church required repairs of varying importance, but with a difficult winter ahead, only the most dire of needs would be seen to.
Then there was the matter of Mrs. Ellison’s cough, which had lingered for far too long; though she and the apothecary were managing well enough, he needed to see if she required anything else. And the Willards were struggling with yet another finelevied from Langley Court. Not to mention the additional funds the dame school requested.
And with this time of year, there was always an increased number of christenings to arrange. And the Carters’ wedding to schedule; thank the heavens that they had finally agreed to the rite, for after thirty years of living under the same roof, it was long overdue.
Samuel thought of the letters yet unanswered. Appeals for charitable subscriptions and lectures from Mr. Pike, who was certain he knew what Samuel’s parish required, despite being a brand new curate whose sojourn in Kingsmere had been too brief for him to understand the village. However, the blistering retort he wished to pen would remain in his head, for it wouldn’t do to alienate the lad when it was likely Samuel would require his assistance in the future.
There was the sermon still unwritten, its theme half-formed, its words refusing to settle no matter how often he turned them over in his mind; the subject of honesty was still foremost on his mind, but it was always a tricky balance between calling to repentance and inspiring improvement. And then there were the dozen copies that needed to be written and posted for his subscribers.
