The road rose gently ahead, its packed earth darkening where the damp had gathered, and Samuel’s stride cut along it with uncharacteristic force. He’d gone over the words twice already, shaping them in his mind, discarding them, beginning again. Not the particulars—those would come when they must—but tone mattered as much as substance. So, he shaped his thoughts with care, arranging them as one might lay fragile things in a box, each cushioned against the next.
Beneath that careful ordering lay theothermatter. It sat like a stone behind his breastbone, forever reminding him of the discomfort that was slowly eating away at his marriage. Samuel felt it in the narrow passages of the house, in the weighty silence that rested between them. It was not coldness. It was not mere distance. It was an active avoidance.
And Samuel didn’t know how to resolve it. Or if it was undeserved.
Lengthening his stride, Samuel arrived at Langley Court’s front door, and the footman ushered him in, directing him to where Mrs. Whitcombe welcomed her guests, but just as Samuel was about to cross the threshold, he heard a familiar voice.
Phoebe.
For a breathless instant, his thoughts scattered. What business had brought her here? He pictured Phoebe standing too straight, speaking too plainly, and his ribs squeezed tight until his heart felt ready to burst. The day had already taken its pound of flesh; he could not afford another wound.
The footman announced Samuel, and Mrs. Whitcombe motioned him over.
“Ah, Mr. Godwin,” she said, nodding for him to sit. “What odd timing. Your wife just appeared with some urgent business to discuss.”
“What a happy coincidence,” said Samuel, glancing at Phoebe from the corner of his eye; she sat stiffly beside him, her eyes averted.
“Quite,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a speculative tone. “As you were saying, Mrs. Godwin.”
“I…” Phoebe’s cheeks colored the slightest bit, and her hands clenched in her lap. An impulse prodded him to place an armaround her shoulder, but that was neither appropriate nor (he suspected) welcome.
Drawing in a breath, she straightened and met Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes. “I wanted to apologize to you, madam.”
Chapter 33
The words struck with such force that Samuel forgot where he was, his gaze snapping to her before he could school his reaction. Phoebe sat rigidly, her spine straight and chin lifted in her usual manner, though it held only determination, not challenge. And her attention remained fixed upon Mrs. Whitcombe, as if Samuel were not there at all.
“I fear I began our acquaintance on poor footing,” she said, her voice steady though Samuel knew it cost her dearly. “I beg your pardon for any discomfort and offence I caused, and I hope you will be so gracious as to forgive me, though I do not deserve it.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Indeed?”
“Yes, madam.” Phoebe drew a breath, deeper this time. “The past months have been… difficult. As you so succinctly said in our first meeting, I have been haunted by my father’s mistakes and poor decisions. They forced me into a marriage not of my choosing.”
Though Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes darted to Samuel, the words were far gentler than those they’d shared behind closed doors, so it did not matter to him.
“As you are such a kindhearted lady,” continued Phoebe, “I am certain you can sympathize with the pain of one whose life is forced down paths that are not of their choosing.”
And that drew Mrs. Whitcombe’s attention back to the speaker; though Phoebe was wise enough not to speak of Mr. Whitcombe, those careful words hit their mark and drew to mind the self-same circumstances that had drawn that lady into an unwanted marriage of her own.
Phoebe’s eyes flicked briefly toward Mrs. Whitcombe’s hands, which rested motionless in her lap, before lifting again.
“It is a strange thing, to be forced into a role for which one is ill-prepared,” added Phoebe. “I never anticipated a life as a rector’s wife, and I am sorry to say that I have fallen short of expectations. But I do wish to be useful to you, my husband, and the parish.”
Something shifted in Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression—subtle but unmistakable. It was speculative and almost tender.
“I never spent any time around the wives of clergymen, so I did not know what I was meant to be.” Letting out a sigh, Phoebe shook her head. “And rather than asking for your guidance, I blundered ahead, forging my own path. I did not understand the intricacies of parish life, and I erred in assuming that goodwill alone would make up for my ignorance.”
Samuel could not look away. He saw the cost of each sentence, the restraint required to keep her composure intact. Phoebe did not go so far as to prostrate herself before Mrs. Whitcombe, but she draped herself in servility, feeding into every vanity the lady possessed. Heart pressing hard against his ribs, Samuel struggled to breathe, struck by the quiet magnitude of her sacrifice.
Mrs. Whitcombe regarded her for a long moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was warmer than before. But only just.
“You are very frank, Mrs. Godwin.”
Phoebe inclined her head. “To a fault, I fear. I shocked my husband on our wedding day by bluntly demanding frankness in our marriage. No doubt, he was dismayed to discover the demure lady he’d courted was actually domineering. But I am trying to improve, madam.”
Mrs. Whitcombe sat very still, her expression unreadable as her gaze fixed upon his wife with a scrutiny that did not invite interruption. Beside him, Phoebe’s shoulders tighten as her careful composure strained at the edges, her clasped hands tightening. He sensed her subtle intake of breath as the urge to fill the silence grew, and without turning his head, Samuel raised his fingers from his knee; the motion was small, almost nothing at all. Not a command but a caution.
Patience.
