“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice low. “For being there. For helping.”
Phoebe tightened her hold, her cheek pressed against his coat. “Thank you for letting me.”
They stood that way for a long moment as the chill seeped through wool and linen. Then, without ceremony, they turned toward home with fingers laced together, the contact sure and steady as they walked back through Kingsmere, side by side.
***
The dame school occupied the large public chamber of the nearby inn, now cleared of its tables whilst its patrons were out in the fields. A narrow hearth sat cold along one wall, its ash swept clean, while tall windows admitted thin beams of light, which pooled across the creaky floorboards. In the morning sunshine, the room took on a different character altogether. Now stripped of its evening frivolities, the rough wooden chairs stood in orderly rows, the slates laid out alongside dog-eared primers and copybooks, whose covers bore the marks of many small hands.
Exhaustion settled over Phoebe like a physical thing. Not the sharp ache of overused muscles, but a deeper strain that sapped her strength from the inside, making even simple motions difficult. Her limbs obeyed her, but only just. And her every thought felt mired in the mud.
It was not simply the loss of sleep. Phoebe could have borne that. It was the culmination of all that had passed that night—the waiting, the helplessness, the mournful finality of it—which clung to her, dulling the world around her until it felt as though she were wrapped in cotton.
And matters only grew worse with the chaos swirling about her.
Mrs. Broad ran a tight ship and expected her pupils to behave in an orderly fashion, yet it felt as though each child was a tempest, bounding about with far too much noise and bluster than anyone ought to possess. Voices rose and fell in uneven waves as some practiced their recitations whilst others worked on their sums, punctuated by the scratching of slate pencils. Mrs. Broad presided from a sturdy chair near the front, her presence calm and immovable, guiding the room with a practiced economy of motion.
Phoebe took her place among the children, bending when needed and straightening with care (which taxed her more thanit ought for a lady of four and twenty). She corrected letters, steadied hands, and offered encouragement where she could. Each small task anchored her to the moment, though the weight of the night lingered still, pressing softly but insistently, as she struggled to be useful when her nerves were already strained.
“Mrs. Godwin,” came a quiet voice, and Phoebe turned to see Martha, who angled her slate for inspection. “Is this correct?”
Despite being both literate and capable of managing a good many sums, Phoebe stared at the scratches and couldn’t say whether they were Sanskrit or advanced calculus. As neither subject was taught by Mrs. Broad, Phoebe forced her foggy mind to focus until the question and answer came to light.
“Excellent,” she replied, and the girl beamed as she returned to her work.
Phoebe exhaled slowly once Martha’s attention was elsewhere. The fog pressed back in at once, thick and unyielding, and she braced herself against the edge of the table for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The slowness of her own thoughts was mortifying, yet it was better to be here than sitting about her quiet home with nothing to occupy her sluggish thoughts.
Mrs. Broad rose and moved between the rows, her steps measured, her voice lowered as she corrected and encouraged in turn. When she reached Phoebe’s side, she glanced at the young lady.
“You ought to go home,” she murmured, quiet enough that only Phoebe could hear. “You look liable to collapse at any moment.”
“Mr. Godwin and I had a difficult night, that is all,” she said.
“May I be of any assistance?” asked Mrs. Broad with a furrowed brow, but Phoebe shook her head.
“A family in the parish lost a child last night, and he was called in to perform the baptism,” she said, the words sitting heavily in her heart.
“That is dreadful business,” she said, a sigh on her lips as she slipped her arm through Phoebe’s. “Though I am certain you were able to give them some comfort.”
Phoebe nodded, though she didn’t think it was enough.
“May I give you a word of advice?” asked Mrs. Broad.
Straightening, Phoebe slanted a look at the lady. “I rely heavily on your guidance, madam, and I would be furious to learn you were withholding advice until I asked for it.”
A smile crossed her face, though it dimmed as Mrs. Broad added, “Keep a close eye on them three months from now. In my experience, everyone rushes in to comfort and support the bereaved when the pain is fresh, but some of the darkest days come when the others return to their lives, leaving the bereaved to carry on alone.”
Nodding, Phoebe vowed to make note of it in her diary. No doubt the anniversary of this day would be an agony as well that most would not recall, and she would be certain to do her best to lift Mrs. Miles’ spirits then.
“Mrs. Broad?” called a little voice from the other end of the room. “Will you tell us a story?”
Another chimed in, “One about a girl who marries a prince.”
Mrs. Broad gave Phoebe’s arm a gentle squeeze before she withdrew, her expression softening as she turned toward the girls.
“Stories are for when your fingers are at work,” she said as her gaze swept the room. “But I suppose we might begin our sewing a bit early today—”
There was a flurry of movement as small hands scrambled to obey, setting aside their schoolwork for new tools. Soon, linen was smoothed and needles held at the ready, and only once therustle of fabric settled did Mrs. Broad begin, her voice calm and measured as she told the story of Griselda.
