Bowing with courtly formality, Mr. Winwood turned away, his footsteps soft and unhurried, the sound fading into nothing.
Phoebe stood where he left her, nails biting into her palm as his remnant warmth leached into the cold emptiness he’d left behind. Her heart thudded hard and uneven, caught between relief and loss, as though it could not decide which feeling deserved dominion.
Closing her eyes, Phoebe steadied her breath before opening them again. Picking up her drawing board and satchel, shesettled them into place before emerging from the bushes and returning to the world outside their sanctuary. Though bleak, the path ahead lay clear enough, and Phoebe forced her feet down it.
Chapter 4
Astone wall stood as a barrier between the lane and Beckett Place, but despite being finer than most homes in Haverford, the building seemed plain and poky compared to the grand edifices of Dunsby Hall and Rensford Park. However, the masonry was clean and well-kept, and sunlight glimmered along the many windows that decorated the front and sides, and a handsome garden surrounded it with neatly trimmed paths and shrubs, though the heat had dulled the greenery.
In short, it was a perfectly adequate home.
But for all that the golden stone gleamed in the sunlight, a shadow hung over the building. Or perhaps it was simply over Phoebe’s mind.
Brushing at her skirts and straightening her bonnet (though neither required it), she gathered her strength and forged ahead, not allowing herself to reconsider her course. In a trice, she was ushered into the parlor, and Mrs. Godwin motioned for the young lady to sit.
“We are delighted to see you,” said the hostess, with a gracious smile that reminded Phoebe far too much of the lady’s nephew.
With practiced ease, Mrs. Godwin leapt into the usual conversation, remarking upon the warmth of the day, the stubbornness of her needle, and the difficulty of keeping one’s hands busy when the weather was more suited for lying about. Phoebe nodded where expected and murmured agreement when there was a pause long enough to invite it, but all the while, she was acutely aware of how little she belonged in this parlor.
Gaze drifting to the doorway, Phoebe cursed her luck: at this time of day, one would expect her nephew to be about, yet there was no sign of the gentleman. It was fitting that fate would not allow her plans to unfold as intended.
Perched on the edge of her chair, Phoebe smoothed her gloves again and again as the minutes stretched. Each word seemed to circle the matter at hand without touching it, and irritation pricked beneath her composure. Phoebe had braced herself for this meeting, rehearsed it in her mind until her resolve felt sharp and ready, and now she was stymied by small talk and social propriety. Her fingers tightened in her lap, then loosened, and she drew a measured breath, forcing herself to be patient.
At last, she lifted her eyes and spoke with what she hoped was an air of casual inquiry. “Is your nephew not at home?”
A pause followed—brief but telling—but Mrs. Godwin nodded toward the door and the stairs just beyond. “He is speaking with my husband in the library at present. Some spiritual matter, no doubt.”
“How fitting, for I had hoped to speak with him about a spiritual matter as well,” said Phoebe with brittle cheer. “He posed a question I was ill-equipped to answer when last we spoke, and I would greatly love to continue that discussion.”
There. That was an entirely unremarkable explanation. Mr. Godwin may not be her rector, but a man of the cloth was a manof the cloth. To pay a call on him was no different than speaking to any tradesman or man of business.
Mrs. Godwin straightened, her eyes gleaming with far too much speculation for Phoebe’s comfort, but the lady set aside her sewing and rose to her feet. “Ah, yes. That does sound very important. I shall fetch him at once.”
Clinging to the knowledge that the lady’s opinion mattered not one jot, Phoebe tried to remain still as she waited, but receiving yet another speculative glance was too much to bear. Standing, she tucked her hands before her as she considered the room—and ignored the hasty footsteps that climbed the stairs just outside the doorway.
Though much smaller than Dunsby Hall’s parlor, it was a good size with well-appointed furnishings and decorations. Yet something niggled at her as she examined the details before her. There was something familiar about it, though Phoebe did not think she had ever set foot in Beckett Place before. Familiar yet foreign.
And then she realized why: ‘twas a copy of Lady Grenville’s morning room. Certainly, this was cozier, and the decorations weren’t as fine as those which the baronet and his wife could afford, but once noticed, Phoebe couldn’t ignore the eerie similarities.
Would her marriage be like this poor replica? A cheap mimicry of something grander?
Or was Miss Phoebe Voss simply another acquisition for the Godwin family? No matter how well appointed, a rector couldn’t hope for an alliance to a family whose estate had existed centuries before the Godwins had pulled themselves free of the working class. And now, they were snatching up a discounted bride to set on their mantelpiece as they groveled at the feet of the upper class.
The ridiculousness of it all made Phoebe want to huff and sweep out of the room. Posturing was a waste of time, for in her experience, the higher the climb, the less appealing the company—
“Miss Voss.”
The voice startled her, ripping Phoebe’s attention away from the vase of roses atop the mantelpiece. Turning to face her future, she met Mr. Godwin’s eyes. If he wished his name to be bound to her lineage, then so be it: everything the Vosses owned was going for cheap at present.
Faith, her tongue felt like a leaden weight, stiff and immovable, and the gentleman simply stared at her, those dark eyes watching her with more interest than was good for her nerves.
Mr. Godwin was of middling height and build, the sort of man one’s eye slid past without effort, his presence registering only because propriety demanded it. His brown hair was neatly arranged with a care that suggested diligence rather than vanity, and his features were serviceable to the point of tedium. Only his nose (being a shade too prominent) gave his face any distinction.
Everything about him appeared carefully managed: coat brushed, cravat tied with precision, coiffure perfectly coiffed. It was so determinedly unremarkable that there was nothing striking or appealing about the fellow. All in all, he was just the sort of gentleman one ignored as he was indistinguishable from any other.
“How good of you to call on us this fine afternoon,” he said, giving her a bow that was far deeper than warranted, and Phoebe couldn’t help wondering if his nose scraped the ground. “You do us a great honor.”
Sniveling was a word that Phoebe had only ever thought belonged in novels. The adjective evoked such comical behavior, the groveling so pronounced that she couldn’t imagine anyoneemploying such tactics, yet Mr. Godwin did his best to personify it.
