The retort died on Phoebe’s lips. The tight, sharp energy that had carried her through the exchange ebbed so quickly it left her light-headed. Her fingers loosened on the cord of her pencilcase, and the leather slipped through her hand without her noticing.
Silence stretched. The scent of roses choked the air as the summer heat clawed at their skin, and their art supplies waited patiently to be taken up once more, yet the afternoon was broken beyond repair.
“You have made your feelings very clear on the subject, Miss Ashbrook, and I did not ask your opinion to begin with,” said Phoebe, her voice quiet and cold. “However, if you are so very insistent on inserting yourself into my life, then you should know you will have your way. I will marry the priggish parson.”
If there were any humor to be found in that moment, it would be the sight of Thea and Miss Ashbrook, gaping like landed fish as they stared at her. And some dark, bitter part of her soul almost smiled at the sight, but that required more strength than Phoebe possessed at present.
“You are going to marry Mr. Godwin?” asked Thea.
Phoebe gave a short, mirthless laugh. “He proposed last week, and like a fool, I refused him. I thought—” Her throat worked, and she gave a small shake of her head. “I thought I wouldn’t need to settle for a bore who only wishes for a wife to satisfy his employer, but it seems I was mistaken.”
Wrapping the leather cord around the pencil case, she tucked it into her satchel. “Apparently, Mr. Winwood requires security as much as I do, and practicality is guiding his choices as much as they are mine. He needs a wife with a dowry, and I no longer meet that requirement. So yes, I will marry Mr. Godwin. At least he wants me on his arm.”
Phoebe straightened, drawing upon that knowledge to shore up the walls around her. Whatever his faults, Mr. Godwin wanted her as his wife. His proposal may have been insulting and full of the self-aggrandizement that defined the fool, but ithad been clear: he needed to placate his beloved patroness, and any wife would do.
She could no more comprehend the reasoning behind his choice than she could comprehend the mathematicians’ certainty that numbers dictated the movement of the heavens, but Phoebe Voss would not look a gift horse in the mouth. Not again.
“You would marry someone you despise?” asked Miss Ashbrook, and Phoebe shoved the last of her things into her satchel.
“Don’t you dare judge me, Miss Ashbrook,” replied Phoebe in frigid tones. “Your future is secure. Mine is not, and no matter what path I choose, I will be little more than a servant or drudge, but at least I will have some semblance of freedom if I marry. Beyond my wifely duties, I will be my own mistress with a household to command, and a husband cannot turn me out like an employer or sibling.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Phoebe’s posture straightened, and she clasped her hands before her. “Besides, Mr. Godwin knew my feelings and my financial situation and was still willing to accept me. All in all, not the worst of my choices.”
Surely those assurances would help to ease the sharp pains in her heart.
They did not.
“You cannot bind yourself to a man you despise,” whispered Thea. “At least give yourself time. You needn’t rush into a decision. You may stay here if you like, for Papa would not object, and you know Mama adores you. It would give you time to consider what you truly want.”
A brittle laugh escaped her lips, filled with futility and the broken dreams she’d fostered for too long. “And instead of leeching off my sisters, I would leech off you? What would that accomplish beyond letting Mr. Godwin slip from my fingers? Afew weeks of borrowed comfort before I must face the same fate again? I have spent weeks waiting for my brother to fix matters, and I am done allowing others to decide my fate. This may be a wretched decision, but at least it is mine to make.”
For a moment, the ladies only stared at her. Miss Ashbrook looked as if she had swallowed something bitter, but Thea’s expression slackened, lips parted as though she had not expected Phoebe to say the words aloud, and the pity in Thea’s gaze wrapped like a hand around Phoebe’s throat, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.
That silence carried more weight than any protest. It made Phoebe’s legs quiver as the brittle certainty she’d summoned thinned, ready to tear beneath the slightest breeze, and her eyes burned as she blinked back the weakness that threatened to undo her.
How easy it was for them to judge when they had money and position. Let them look at her with dismay. Let them judge. They were not the ones who would be shuffled from one household to another, grateful for every scrap.
Heat filled her cheeks, and Phoebe’s hands tightened until the nails pressed deep into her palms. She drew in a breath through her teeth, slow and controlled, but the pressure did not ease. It only shifted, searching for a place to strike. Her gaze flicked to Thea—dear, earnest Thea, with that soft, stubborn hope still clinging to her like burrs—and something in Phoebe recoiled at it.
Hope was a luxury. It always had been. Phoebe had simply learned that lesson too late.
Thea could afford to believe that all would come out right in the end and imagine that Frederick’s troubles would be quickly resolved, as though Papa’s fortune could be so easily restored. And even if they weren’t, Thea could embrace life as the wealthy spinster, which was a far cry from the impoverished sort.
The unfairness of it rose up and lodged in her throat, and before Phoebe could swallow it down, the words broke free before she could stop them.
Leaning close, Phoebe said in a low voice, “And if you were wise, you would surrender this foolish hope for Frederick. Do not waste years pining. That future is gone. Life never resolves the way we wish it to, and there is peace in accepting that.”
For a long moment, Phoebe stood as if rooted to the flagstones, the words she’d loosed hanging in the air between them, cold and heavy; she felt them settle in her chest, tearing at the ragged edges of her heart rather than mending them. Thea’s silence pressed against her, and Phoebe kept her gaze fixed anywhere but her friend’s face, unwilling to see whatever pain or judgment waited there.
Jerking her chin up, Phoebe reached for her satchel as though the simple act of gathering her things might restore order. The strap slid over her shoulder, the drawing board tucked beneath her arm. Each movement was deliberate, a small scaffolding of control erected around something that threatened to buckle. Then she turned toward the path, because if she stayed one moment longer—if she allowed herself to look, to explain, to apologize—she would lose what little strength she had left.
Phoebe’s footsteps moved quickly across the flagstones as she fled from her friend, though she could not outpace the pain that sparked in her heart as those hard words rang in her thoughts. Her mouth tasted the cruelty on her tongue, sharp and metallic, and she tightened her grip on the drawing board until the edge bit into her palm, willing her hands to remain steady.
Rounding the curve of the hedgerow, Phoebe was grateful for the brief shelter of green and the shield it provided. Edged by the giant bulbous shrubs favored at Rensford Park, the path narrowed, weaving around the side of the Grecian structure, butPhoebe’s eyes remained fixed upon the gravel at her feet, as though that might steady the frantic churn of her thoughts.
What had she said to Thea? Despite knowing the words that had erupted from her tongue, Phoebe couldn’t countenance how she’d spoken to her friend in such a manner. An apology was required, of course, but what could she say—
A hand shot out from the greenery, closing around her arm and drawing her off the path and into the shadows between the shrubs. Phoebe’s breath stuck in her throat, and the drawing board jabbed into her ribs as the strap of her satchel slipped from her shoulder, dropping to the ground as Mr. Winwood pulled her flush to him.
