Phoebe’s breath caught. Heat rose again, swift and traitorous, and she turned away at once, her cheeks aflame as she busied herself with unnecessary tasks. Yet as she fled the room, she carried the certainty that the moment was merely interrupted—and that she was equally eager to see it to its proper end.
Chapter 27
The bed was warm. The blankets, soft. And Phoebe lay curled against him, her cheek tucked into the hollow of his shoulder as though it belonged there, and a wayward lock brushed his jaw when she shifted. Something tugged at him, drawing him from his slumber, but Samuel did not open his eyes. There was no need. The world was still dark.
A deep contentment settled through him, heavy and untroubled. The sharp edges of the world dulled into something distant and meaningless. Samuel’s hand rested at Phoebe’s back, fitting there perfectly, and though it still felt strangely odd to hold her, her nearness settled his heart as sleep blurred his mind once more—
Thunderous knocking shook the house, echoing through every corridor as someone bellowed for those within to wake. Though Samuel was coherent enough to recognize that trouble was stirring, his thoughts were too fogged to rouse himself.
“Someone is knocking,” said Phoebe, sitting up as she rubbed at her face. “What is the hour?”
Samuel didn’t know or care. His mind was already drifting back into a dreamworld—when she shook his shoulder, rattling his teeth.
“There is someone at the door,” she hissed.
As he doubted burglars or footpads were lurking around the great and mighty Langley Court, Samuel couldn’t muster the strength to care about the racket. But his wife shook him again, poking and prodding and then sealing his fate when she rose from the bed to fetch her dressing gown, ready to confront the intruder herself.
Groaning, Samuel forced his limbs to move and made it to the door just before his wife. Molly and Mrs. Johns appeared at the bottom of the stairs with candles lit, and Samuel blinked against the light, but quickly stepped around them to answer the door.
“Jacob?” he asked, peering down at the lad.
“Come quick, Mr. Godwin,” he said, motioning down the lane. “It’s my ma, sir. She’s had the babe—came just after midnight—but she…” He swallowed, his hand twisting in the edge of his coat as he glanced back down the lane. “The babe isn’t doing well. She’s hardly breathin’. Ma’s beggin’ for you to come. Please, sir!”
The words were like ice in his veins. “Tell them I am coming straightaway.”
With that, the lad shot down the lane, and Samuel shut the door. Turning, he took the stairs two at a time and rushed to his bedroom, snatching up his clothes and tugging them on as quickly as he could manage. Then Phoebe appeared at his heels, pulling on her own gown.
“You needn’t come,” he said, shrugging on his tailcoat.
But Phoebe ignored him, and by the time he grabbed his bag from his study, his wife was rushing down the stairs ahead of him, her braid swinging behind her. Molly had their cloaks and gloves at the ready, but Phoebe slipped into the parlor.
“I must be on my way,” he called.
“Wait for me!” And Phoebe appeared the next moment, a christening gown in her hand.
“We do not need that,” he said, urging her toward the door.
“Yes, we do,” she said in a tone that brooked no refusal as they stepped into the night, their pace quick and unyielding.
Samuel’s strides ate up the lane before him, every instinct pressing him to run and close the distance between himself and his destination. Beside him, Phoebe worked to match his steps, her shoes scuffing against the packed earth as she hurried to keep pace. Samuel heard a hitch in her breath and forced himself to slow, but the restraint was like a physical pain, tightening across his shoulders as he measured each step.
They passed cottage after cottage, the villagers all tucked into their beds with their windows dark, their shutters drawn tight, and the chimneys cold. Only the Miles’ cottage showed signs of life with rushlights burning, drawing them in.
The door opened before Samuel knocked, the dim light spilling across the front step as Mr. Miles ushered them in, his shoulders bowed as though folding in upon himself. Silently, Samuel and Phoebe followed the fellow as he guided them past the children lying on the pallet beside the hearth and up the narrow stairs that were tucked into the corner.
The air warmed as they climbed, thick with the scent of burning rushes, clean linen, and the metallic tang of childbirth. At the top of the stairs, the space narrowed into a low-ceilinged chamber with a bed in the center where Mrs. Miles lay, propped up with pillows. Though her complexion was ashen, her eyes were bright as she fixed them upon Samuel.
And in her arms sat a bundle that was far too still and quiet.
Mrs. Levy glanced up as they entered, giving a small nod before stepping aside to make room at her patient’s side.
“Mary is struggling,” whispered Mrs. Miles, her voice thin but urgent. “She’s here—but she won’t…” The words failed her, and she swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the blanket. “She needs to be baptized, Mr. Godwin. Please, sir.”
“Of course,” he whispered, setting down his bag as he settled into the seat Mrs. Levy vacated.
“I brought Mary a present,” said Phoebe, holding up the gown. “It is not quite finished, but it seems she was just too impatient to wait and wanted to wear it straightaway.”
“Right you are, Mrs. Godwin. Too impatient for her own good,” she said with a watery smile as she gazed down at the tiny wisp of a babe nestled in her arms.
