“We received word that Mr. Colby fell ill just two days into his journey,” she continued, “and despite that parish’s best efforts, he passed away yesterday.”
Mouth opening slightly, Mrs. Whitcombe’s brows drew together with genuine concern. “I am very sorry to hear that. Very sorry, indeed.”
“As are we,” said Phoebe, managing an even voice. “May I please beg your indulgence? We would like to bury him here—with private funds, of course. The parish where he passed will deliver him as soon as we send word.”
“My dear, you do not need my permission,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, shaking her head. “As it does not require ongoing involvement from Mr. Godwin or the vestry council, and no parish funds are to be used, then there is no reason you cannot. Though it is a tad unusual.”
Phoebe nodded. “My thanks, madam. I wanted to be certain.”
“It is a matter for the rector and the sexton to decide,” said Mrs. Whitcombe with a dismissive wave. “I do not intrude upon their work.”
“Of course not,” said Phoebe, managing to sound earnest, though Samuel nearly scoffed. “However, after making so many mistakes, I thought it best to seek your guidance first. You are the pattern card of behavior in Kingsmere, after all.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression softened at once, satisfaction smoothing the severity from her features. The compliment landed precisely where Phoebe had intended it to, and Samuel could almost see the tension ease from the room, as though some invisible latch had been quietly lifted, opening a window to let in a fresh breeze.
“You are very kind to say so,” Mrs. Whitcombe replied, a note of warmth entering her voice. “And you are wise to be cautious. Prudence is never misplaced.”
Inclining her head, Phoebe accepted the compliment.
“This has been an enlightening visit, Mrs. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, glancing between the pair. “Quite enlightening, indeed.”
“Thank you for welcoming us so graciously,” said Phoebe.
Obeying the clear dismissal, Samuel rose to his feet and extended his hand, the motion coming unbidden before he considered whether or not it was welcome. Phoebe accepted it without hesitation, and her tight grip made Samuel hope that ithadn’t been to please their hostess. Small though it may be, he clung to the possibility that perhaps all was not lost.
In short order, the footman led them out the way they had come, and the doors shut behind them with a solemn thud. Gravel shifted beneath their steps as they descended, the path curving away from the house and its ordered façade into the open sweep of parkland beyond. The air held that faint, earthen chill of autumn, touched with the scent of fallen leaves and damp grass.
Phoebe’s hand remained in his, the contact unremarked yet not forgotten. Her grip had eased, settling into something less insistent, but no less deliberate, and Samuel reveled in the feel of her and the comfortable quiet that had returned.
Yet he knew better than to expect his wife to remain silent for long.
“I do not know how we are meant to pay for it all,” she whispered. “The conveyance. The coffin. All of it.”
Samuel did not answer at once. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, on the familiar rise and fall of the hills that sat between them and home. He felt the truth of her words settle, felt the accounting begin in his mind—and then felt it give way to something steadier.
“We will find a way,” he said.
“We?”
Phoebe stopped abruptly, their joined hands pulling him to a stop, and when he turned to face her, he found her watching him with wide eyes, her chin trembling. Her breath faltered, then broke altogether, her quiet control snapping like a piano wire.
Bending forward as though the weight she had been carrying could no longer be borne upright, she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep the sound contained, but it did not work. The breath that left her broke apart, then another, sharper this time, her shoulders shuddering as her restraint gave way.
Samuel froze.
Phoebe shook her head faintly, though she did not meet his gaze. Tears streaked unchecked down her cheeks, her careful dignity lost to the moment. It struck him like a physical blow, and Samuel searched for some comfort to offer, but found nothing. Reassurance felt presumptuous. Consolation felt inadequate. Even an apology felt wrong, but he supposed it was as good as anything.
“I apologize—”
Shaking her head with jerky movements, Phoebe forced her feet ahead, though her lungs still shuddered.
“I do not… I do not… No…” Pausing, she drew in breath and pushed out, “I do not need hollow reassurances, Samuel.” Her lungs heaved as tears coursed down her cheek. “My blundering caused this mess.”
There was that word again. She had used it with Mrs. Whitcombe, and Samuel wondered why she clung to it so tightly, though some niggling memory warned that it may have come from his lips during that fateful argument.
Phoebe tried to march past him again, but Samuel reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her close until he could wrap his arms around her. Though she remained stiff for a long moment, her shuddering breaths muted by his shoulder, Phoebe soon reached for him, clinging fast.
They stood there on the grassy knolls of Langley Court, her face pressed into the roughness of his coat as Phoebe’s sobs came unevenly, each one shuddering through her frame as though her body wasn’t certain how to vent what she had held inside for so long. And he suspected it was more than merely this moment.
