Yet the silence stretched, thick and weighty, and Phoebe found herself counting the steady beat of her heart, which measured the passing of time like a clock. Mr. Godwin shifted at last, clearing his throat with an air of earnest deliberation, as though preparing to give a sermon.
“I feel as though I ought to say something more, but I was not expecting matters to resolve themselves so efficiently,” he said with all the liveliness of a corpse. No doubt, the gentleman was waiting for his patroness to dictate how he ought to feel. “I believe it is customary to mark such an understanding with a token, though I confess I do not know what would be appropriate.”
“I see no need,” she replied, curt but composed, unwilling to dwell on what he meant by “token.” No doubt it was a book of sermons or something equally banal—and entirely unequal to the token Mr. Winwood had just given her.
With that, Phoebe inclined her head and moved toward the door with sharp efficiency.
“Please speak to my brother concerning any legal arrangements that must be made, and my mother will contact your aunt to settle the details of the wedding,” she said, finding the lady in question standing on the other side of the door with an expression full of the eagerness that ought to be on the bride and groom’s faces.
Stepping around Mrs. Godwin, Phoebe strode from the house, and the weight of the moment followed her, chains and relief alike, but she did not pause to examine it. Matters were settled now, and whatever came next would be managed in due course.
Chapter 5
Nothing made a man feel more appealing than seeing his bride-to-be standing at the altar, her eyes dimmed and cheeks mottled from hours of weeping. Though the tears had been scrubbed away, there was no hiding the evidence they’d left behind, etched into every line of Miss Voss’s face. Every man yearned to feel as though forcing his lady fair to exchange vows upon pain of death.
Oh, happy day.
Holding back the sigh that threatened to escape his lips, Samuel Godwin tried to focus on the words slipping from the curate’s lips, but having performed quite a few weddings, he knew the ceremony well enough that his mind wandered far afield.
This was her choice. The lady had been emphatic on that point. And try as he might, Samuel couldn’t begrudge Miss Voss’s honesty. He hadn’t hidden the fact that a metaphorical saber was held to his back; if not for his patroness’s insistence, he wouldn’t have come to Haverford in the first place.
As if a rector couldn’t do the job on his own. Samuel knew his parish’s needs and did his best to meet them. What good would a wife do? He wasn’t barred from visiting the womenfolk on hisown, and heaven knew Miss Voss couldn’t perform any of his clerical duties.
The only saving grace was the steel within Miss Voss’s gaze. Her skin looked bruised beneath, but whatever tears she’d spilt the hours leading up to this moment had faded into determination. Her dark eyes dared him and everyone else in attendance to pity her and her choice.
And if Samuel was forced to make this choice, he was glad that it would be a blessing to the lady.
Poverty and loneliness. Though everything he had seen of Miss Voss testified that she was quite capable of managing any trouble that crossed her path, the bleakness with which she had confessed those fears struck him to the core. At least it would save her from the former, and perhaps in time, even the latter. That was a comfort.
For pity’s sake! The curate was doing his level best to draw out every aspect of the ceremony, and Samuel yearned to prod the fellow along. Granted, Mr. Tudor did not add a word to the rites, but the undue weight he gave each syllable made it feel as though he were. There was a balance between conveying the importance of the sacrament and brevity; solemnity was paramount, of course, but it mattered not one jot if the audience’s attention waned, leaving the windbag of a clergyman without a single listening ear.
Perhaps the gentleman was allowing the couple to rethink their choice, but it was a fool’s hope. Samuel had been from his flock for far too long, and both bride and groom were too desperate to abandon their course now. What was done was done. His fate had been sealed the moment Mrs. Whitcombe had leveled her dictate.
Finally, Mr. Tudor gave the closing prayer and blessing, and Miss Voss turned to face him. For a long moment, they stood there, simply looking into one another’s eyes, and Samuelwished he knew what was passing through the lady’s thoughts. But perhaps there was nothing but a great gaping void where thoughts ought to be—just like Samuel’s head felt at present.
The curate herded them to the vestry to see the ceremony properly concluded. The signing of the registry and marriage license passed in a blur of ink and paper, names set down with finality, and the scratch of the quill sounded far louder to Samuel’s ears than it ought to have been. When at last they emerged once more, the air felt thinner, the business of the day sweeping them along whether they were ready or not.
Aunt Lenore and Uncle Bertram looked ready to cheer, despite the reverent setting, and Samuel didn’t know why they believed the match to be a feather in their cap when local society was already distancing itself from the Vosses. But then, many of their ilk considered it a grand success to secure a marriage with someone who, in other circumstances, wouldn’t deign to acknowledge them in public, and Samuel wasn’t conceited enough to think Miss Voss would’ve accepted him if not for desperation.
Just as he wouldn’t have proposed otherwise.
But Miss Voss wasn’t Miss Voss anymore. She was Mrs. Godwin. Samuel’s wife for the rest of their days.
Those in attendance gathered close, passing the bride and groom about with their well-wishes that varied from earnest to doubtful, though Samuel refused to dwell on the latter. His attention drifted to the edge of the gathering, where Miss Voss (or Mrs. Godwin, rather) stood with Miss Thea Keats, near enough to be seen but not overheard by the other guests.
Mrs. Godwin clasped Miss Keats’s hands, their heads bent together as only a few scant words passed between the two before their arms drew around one another with a fierceness that belied the calm expressions they hid behind. The embracelasted only a moment, but there was a quiet urgency to it, as though clinging to more than one another.
Then they released, and the moment dissolved. Miss Keats stepped away, and before Samuel knew what he was about, the newly married couple were deposited in the waiting carriage, which Uncle Bertram had hired to convey them a portion of the trip. The cost of taking a private coach the entire journey was more than he was willing to spend, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the Vosses thinking the Godwins couldn’t afford it altogether.
Tucked into their conveyance and with the meager well-wishes, husband and wife trundled off to their new home in Kingsmere. Or his old home, rather. It simply had a mistress now.
Seated beside him, Mrs. Godwin stared out the window, watching as the village passed by. Samuel wanted to reassure her that they would return soon, but with her family scattering and her home sold off, there was little reason for her to return.
“Miss Keats may come for a visit when you are settled, of course,” he said.
“How magnanimous,” whispered Mrs. Godwin, the words so quiet that Samuel wasn’t certain he had heard them, but he couldn’t mistake the stifled huff that followed. The lady was not as good at schooling her feelings as she believed herself to be; the last few years in Mrs. Whitcombe’s parish had taught Samuel quite a bit in that regard, and he easily hid the smile that yearned to emerge.
Did he boast some secret desire to be counted amongst the martyrs? To enter a marriage with a lady who openly despised him must be a form of self-flagellation, yet it was impossible not to find her amusing when her dander was so thoroughly ruffled.
