Phoebe let out a soft sigh and headed down the hall. According to family legend, when her newlywed parents were planning out Park House, her mother balked at her father’s overtly masculine designs for the study and insisted on a separate space of her own. Her father jokingly replied, “I suppose you’ll decorate it all inpinkas well!” And she did just that.
While the composition of Park House may be consideredgauche by some, few could find fault with the elegant interior thanks to her mother’s impeccable taste and eye for detail. Walls were either painted in soft shades of blue and cream, or papered in one of William Morris’s exquisite floral prints, while the floors were accented with carefully matched rugs or intricate tilework.
Phoebe knew Marion didn’t really understand why she lived in their little flat with the leaky roof that was too cold in winter and too hot in summer when she could stay here. Or why she bothered to work at all when she could spend her time going to balls and marry a perfectly nice man and have perfectly nice children. But Phoebe wanted no part of a society marriage’s gilded cage, nor the largely unspoken rules expected of a wife.
Even her parents, who had most certainly married for love, could not entirely escape these expectations. Phoebe had watched her mother, an intelligent, curious woman, take up and discard a dozen different hobbies over the course of her childhood: painting, sculpture, astronomy, landscape design, flower arranging, and, for a brief, torturous period, the harp.
Unlike most husbands of their class, Phoebe’s father doted on his wife and was indulgent of her many disparate pursuits, but they never veered from what was considered appropriate for a lady. A wife. Amother. And yet, Mrs. Atkinson was still considered an eccentric. Luckily she didn’t seem to care. “You must try to do what makes youhappy, my dear,” she had told Phoebe once. “And as often as you can. No one else is as concerned with your personal happiness as yourself.”
But at home Alex was their father’s golden child, while Winifred was content reveling in the superficial delights of the ton with their mother, which often left Phoebe feeling like the odd one out.So even though the little flat with the leaky roof was too cold in winter and too hot in summer, Phoebe could come and go as she pleased without interacting with at least half a dozen other people and their expectations of her, both silent and spoken. She could wear what she wanted and eat what she wantedwhenshe wanted. Phoebe could, in short, just be. If the cost of that freedom was having to wear extra stockings in February or change her chemise twice a day for a week in August, that seemed like a fair bargain.
Phoebe paused outside the door to the pink room and took a steadying breath before knocking. At her mother’s muffled response, she entered. Just like the rest of the house, this room was the picture of muted elegance. Phoebe didn’t even particularlylikepink, but her mother had dressed the space in warm, welcoming shades, silky textures, and sumptuous pieces of furniture that practically begged visitors to sit. Phoebe always felt immediately calmer as soon as she stepped across the threshold. Even her father couldn’t resist the siren’s call of the pink room—though he wouldneveradmit it. But on more than one afternoon he had been found dead asleep on the plush chaise.
Mrs. Atkinson, dressed in a fetching pale green silk afternoon gown, was looking at her reflection in a large gilt-framed mirror and adjusting her matching hat, but her hands stilled when she noticed Phoebe.
“Oh, hello Bee. I was just on my way out to see Lady Kirby. Is Freddie expecting you? She’s having a lesson with Monsieur Laurent.”
“No, Mother. Actually, I… I came here to speak to you. I need something.”
Mrs. Atkinson let out a surprised laugh and whirled around toface her daughter. “I don’t think you’ve needed anything from me since you were twelve years old.”
Phoebe glanced away from her mother’s deceptively sharp gaze. “It won’t take more than a moment.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Atkinson sat down on the sofa and patted the space beside her. “Come here.”
Once Phoebe had dutifully taken her seat, Mrs. Atkinson began inspecting her. “You’re looking a bit tired. Perhaps you need a break from that school.”
Her mother was always suggesting she take a break. Though Phoebe knew her concern was well meant, it was incredibly irritating.
“I’m fine,” Phoebe grumbled.
“Is this about a suitor?”
She ignored the hope in her mother’s voice. “It’s about the school, actually.” Before her mother could make any more guesses, she explained the situation while Mrs. Atkinson listened patiently.
“And since the headmistress has put me in charge of forming a committee, I thought I’d ask you for advice,” she added.
Mrs. Atkinson gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sure you don’t only want myadvice, darling.”
“No,” Phoebe admitted. “Obviously the headmistress would like it if we could attract the same people who attended the garden party, but we won’t have anywhere near the same funds to spend.”
Her mother didn’t look concerned. “We will come up with something. Lady Montgomery’s event was always lovely, but she was mostly concerned with keeping up appearances. If you’re looking to compel people to open their purses, I have a few ideas.” She paused to tap her chin. “Lady Graham and Mrs. Abernathy also have a fierce philanthropic rivalry we could exploit.”
But Phoebe was too distracted to comment on her mother’s scheming. “You… you attended the garden party?”
“Of course I did,” she said, offended. “Every year, in fact. Did you think I wouldn’t support the school myownchild worked at?”
“No,” Phoebe replied hastily. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just… you never said anything.”
“Well, you haven’t been around very much. And when I do see you, we have far more important things to discuss than what society functions I’ve attended.”
Phoebe looked down. It was true that her visits home had grown more and more infrequent since she started working at the school three years ago. Lately they were mostly relegated to holidays or family birthdays, as that was all Phoebe could take.
Though Mr. Atkinson had dutifully paid for Phoebe’s education at Bedford College, a local women’s institution, after she refused to endure another London season, he hadn’t understood her desire to teach.
If you insist on working, come down to the office. I’m sure your sister can find something productive for you to do.
But Phoebe immediately rejected the suggestion and her father had gone on to treat her job as little more than a lark.
