Samuel glanced at her, and when her eyes flicked to him, she gave him a weak smile.
“We hardly know one another,” added Mrs. Godwin. “That is bound to lead to many misunderstandings and bruised feelings as we sort out how to live together. All we can do is apologize and try again.”
They walked on in silence, their steps falling into an uneven rhythm that refused to settle. The space between them was not wide, yet it felt carefully maintained, as though either might startle if the gulf were crossed too suddenly. Samuel kept his gaze fixed ahead, aware of that distance without quite knowing how to bridge it.
The urge to say something pressed at him, then stalled. Here he was, measuring his words as though she were a parishioner and not the woman with whom he would share the rest of his days. The awareness sat like a lump in his throat.
“All we can do is apologize and try again.”Those words hung in his thoughts, their truth filling him like the air in hislungs. Was there anything that couldn’t be mended with a dash of self-reflection, remorse, and determination?
In truth, it was easy to admire someone who spoke plainly of her flaws when most would have defended themselves and clung to their stinging pride. Instead, Mrs. Godwin looked at the matter squarely, accepting fault and offering forgiveness.
Samuel’s gaze drifted to her profile and the determined manner in which she faced the world, neither shrinking nor breaking. Simply striding forward, ready to meet each challenge.
Mrs. Godwin’s pace adjusted slightly to match his, the smallest of accommodations. Samuel noticed it and felt a corresponding shift within himself, an impulse to respond in kind, but with his arms full, he couldn’t offer an arm or a hand of assistance.
Or even words. Far too many fell short of his meaning when directed at her. Samuel Godwin may be capable of speaking when upon his pulpit or visiting his parishioners, but catch him alone with his wife, and he became a dunce of the highest order.
Clearing his throat, Samuel said, “Mother asked after you in her last letter.”
Shoulders falling, Mrs. Godwin nodded. “I know I have been a terrible correspondent, but I will endeavor to do better.”
“I didn’t mean that as a criticism,” he said, giving that a sharp shake of his head. “It was my poor attempt to start a conversation. We agreed to be honest with one another, but we rarely speak at all.”
Mrs. Godwin glanced at him. “And I simply meant to acknowledge my guilty conscience. She has been so generous and kind, but I fear letter writing is not a strength of mine, as I never have anything to say in return. The details of my life are hardly interesting, and I cannot fathom why anyone would wish to read them.”
He slowed a fraction and hazarded a look at her. The lane had opened around them, the greenery now sitting back a distance so the sunlight could spill unfiltered across them, which allowed him to more clearly see the fatigue etched into her features. And the sight troubled him.
“That surprises me,” he said. “You always seem occupied of late.”
Mrs. Godwin huffed a laugh. “Busy is not the same as interesting. No one would ever read a novel that simply followed a lady about as she paid calls on neighbors, oversaw menus and the household, and brought the occasional charity basket.”
“That is true of a stranger,” he said, shifting said baskets. “But those closest to you wish to know those details, however unimportant. And my mother wishes to be close.”
“I know that in theory, but in my heart it is difficult to believe anyone should care,” she said, her smile turning sad. “I even struggle to write my brother and my dearest friend, especially when they have so many troubles. With Frederick living in squalor, hardly able to feed himself, the petty details of my social calendar hardly matter.”
Mrs. Godwin’s cheeks heated again, and she drew in a deep breath as she glanced out at Kingsmere. “Can you tell me how many babies are born in the parish every month? At present, there aren’t enough christening boxes to go around, and that needs to change—even if some lie idle most of the year. It will take so little for me to ensure each babe is welcomed properly into the world.”
Samuel adjusted the basket in his grasp and said nothing, giving himself a small but necessary pause. For all that she was determined to shift subjects, he couldn’t turn his thoughts from that revelation. How did a lady who met the world with a raised chin and a challenge in her gaze bear such an insecurity? To hear her speak of herself as unremarkable and unworthy of notice satuncomfortably beside the evidence of her recent labors and her determination to do more.
And though he wished to learn more, there were subjects one did not approach without invitation, and this was clearly one of them, so he allowed her to shift the conversation. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder how such a quiet doubt had taken root and how long she had nurtured it.
The expression brought to mind the Feast Day in Haverford. The bright summer. The boisterous crowd. The food and drink. The whole village had descended upon the churchyard, yet Samuel’s attention had been pulled to Miss Phoebe Voss again and again. Her easy laughter. The subtle wit with which she approached the world. The quiet kindnesses she bestowed without thought or calculation.
And yet there had been a moment, brief enough to be overlooked, when that ease had faltered. A breath taken shallow and quick. Something uneasy, swiftly concealed, but once seen, impossible to mistake. He had thought of it often since, and just now, that expression had stirred again, calling forth his desire to ease those doubts and erase the harsh standard by which she measured herself.
But the moment passed too quickly.
Samuel fixed his gaze ahead as they walked on, and he forced his thoughts to the question at hand. “If we were to average it out over the year, there is a birth every two to three weeks.”
“I was told that it is more frequent during the harvest time,” she murmured.
Considering that, he nodded. “I suppose so, though I do not know why that should be.”
Cheeks aglow, Mrs. Godwin strangled a giggle, and though Samuel sent her a quizzical glance, she only made another of those remarkable sounds.
“Ought I to fetch Mrs. Kirk?” he asked. “I have not heard of someone drowning on dry land before, but I am certain she would be pleased to practice her skills on you.”
Pausing in the road, his wife stared at him as though unable to believe Mr. Samuel Godwin was capable of jesting. Was it his tone that made it impossible for her to discern his wit? If so, there was no point in bringing it to her attention as she could not see what was clearly before her face.
