And as much as her pride begged to be left in peace, Phoebe knew she needed to take action, and when she lifted her head once more, her resolve gathered where defensiveness had once been.
“I owe you an apology,” she said, the words measured, but earnest. “I have judged you wrongly again and again, and I am sorry for it.”
Mr. Godwin huffed and continued down the path. “It isn’t as though you haven’t had good reason to do so, madam. To say nothing of the hardships you’ve suffered, which colored your view of the world—and me.”
“That is no excuse,” she said, shaking her head. “Or rather, it is an excuse I have clung to for far too long.”
“And truth be told, I wasn’t certain I could trust you to be as open as I am now,” he added.
Phoebe considered that, and her eyes widened. “Goodness. I cannot imagine what it would’ve been like had you married someone eager to play Mrs. Whitcombe’s games.”
“Instead, I married a lady eager to turn over the board and stomp all over the pieces.” The gentleman spoke so evenly. So matter-of-fact. There was something in it that felt like a jest, but with so many of their arguments originating from that subject and her current state of shock, Phoebe wasn’t ready to address the fact that her husband may, in fact, be a tease.
And so, Phoebe allowed the silence to linger, walking alongside Mr. Godwin as she considered what to do with the idea that she may not detest everything about the man she had married.
*
The path stretched ahead in a gentle curve as they passed through the heart of the village, and the final basket swung from his hand, though Samuel hardly noticed the weight. His attention was on the woman at his side.
Mrs. Godwin walked with her gaze fixed forward, her pace steady, her thoughts drawn inward. She did not speak, nor did she seem inclined to fill the silence as she had earlier. Whatever he had said had not glanced off her; it had settled. He could see it in the way her brow furrowed, as though turning his words over, examining them from all sides.
And something cautious stirred within him.
Samuel hadn’t expected an apology. Not so plainly offered, nor so cleanly given. Nor had he expected the look in her eyes afterward—searching and thoughtful, as though seeing him anew and trying to decide what to make of him. The notion unsettled him more than her earlier accusations ever had. Did she truly wish to know him?
Did he want her to? Their parallel lives were inching closer, and what would happen if they aligned entirely?
Mrs. Broad’s cottage came into view, snug against the lane, its windows catching the slanting light, and the sight anchored him again in the present. There was still work to be done. Whatever shifts had occurred between them would have to wait until the demands of the day were concluded.
Samuel slowed as they reached the gate, adjusting his grip on the basket. He glanced at Mrs. Godwin once more, but whateverquestions she struggled with vanished as she drew upon her own public façade. It may be less dramatic than his own, but it settled into place as they approached the door and Mr. Colby ushered them in.
With a bright smile, Mrs. Godwin greeted the old man with a kiss on the cheek. Slipping into the parlor, she settled him in his seat once more and adjusted the cushion at his back before setting to work. She fetched a kettle that had been warming by the fire and served him up some refreshments before tucking a blanket across his lap. Each action flowed naturally into the next, as though she’d done these things a hundred times before, and Mr. Colby accepted the attention, responding with dry remarks and fond looks that spoke of affection rather than obligation.
Samuel watched from the doorway until she ushered him to a seat of his own. There was no stiffness here, no careful calculation. Mrs. Godwin listened when Mr. Colby spoke, laughed when he teased, and chided him gently when he protested her fussing.
Finally, Mrs. Godwin found her own seat, and the pair fell into a conversation that had the feel of one that never ended. Each time they crossed paths, another subject was added and followed as each tangent led them down other paths before circling back to the beginning and continuing in a different vein.
It had been a few short weeks since Samuel had spoken to her about embracing the parish, and here was the evidence of it. More than the baskets, it was clear Mrs. Godwin had made an effort to come to know the residents of Kingsmere.
And Samuel felt no need to interrupt. He didn’t even add to the conversation as he knew nothing about gardening, and it was clear they held it in high esteem. The gardeners from Langley Court managed the majority of The Parsonage’s grounds, butperhaps Mrs. Godwin preferred to take over some of its maintenance. That was something to consider.
Pausing in their conversation, Mrs. Godwin glanced at Samuel and gestured toward a book on the table beside Mr. Colby. “Would you mind if we read a chapter aloud? We began the story last week, and I am eager to learn of Desdemona’s fate.”
“I dare say it’s full of tears and heartache,” replied Mr. Colby with a wheezing laugh. “I don’t know why I tolerate this Gothic drivel.”
Mrs. Godwin snatched up the book and gave him a gimlet eye. “You enjoy it as much as I, for all that you complain when others are about.”
That she felt the need to ask permission unnerved him, but Samuel gave a sharp nod, and the pair settled quickly into the story as her voice found a steady rhythm. He watched with quiet interest as the tale unfolded (with a great deal of tears and heartache for poor Desdemona), but he found himself more entranced with the reader than the characters.
Such a small service, so easily overlooked, and yet the comfort it offered was immediate and powerful. An unremarkable kindness that warmed the room more than the hearth ever could.
Here was the lady Samuel had spied in Haverford, who had moved through company with ease, who had spoken readily and laughed without calculation before the cares of the world and Mr. Winwood’s influence had soured her. And something inside him loosened at the sight.
Was this what a marriage could be? So often of late, Samuel had simply prayed that his would not be a disaster. But perhaps a marriage need not be solely an endurance. The recognition settled slowly, without fanfare, though Samuel did not namethat hope. He merely allowed it to remain, tentative but present, as the chapter came to a close.
Chapter 22
Mrs. Godwin’s voice faded gently, rather than stopping outright, as she marked their place and set the book aside, and Mr. Colby let out a contented breath as though roused from a pleasant reverie. Pressing his palms on the arms of his chair, the gentleman moved to stand, and Samuel hurried to his feet, reaching over to help him. Mr. Colby’s balance wavered, his feet uncertain upon the worn floorboards, but Samuel kept close, ready to steady him at the slightest sway.
