“I had to. I couldn’t be a little girl, anymore, could I? Not with Papa gone and Mother needing me. And now, this.”
But I loved that other Phoebe.
She went on. “You know, I had always wanted to be needed. To feel myself important to someone. And I’ve had that with Mother these last two months. And it’s helped me.”
“I need you, Phoebe.”
“I think you’ve done very well without me.”
“That’s not true. I’ve been a ruin.”
She blinked.
“I want to be a good husband to you.”
She said nothing but she looked up at him, met his eyes.
“I know this isn’t how you wanted to be married, Phee.”
“No.”
He looked down at her hands in his hands. Nails bitten to the quick, cuticles ravaged and bleeding. Phoebe must have been in so much pain to do that to herself. It made him hurt to see it. She took her hands away.
“I’m sorry you have to marry me,” she said. “I will work very hard not to try your patience.”
“Phee—”
“Shall we discuss the wedding?”
“Yes, yes. I have an appointment with the archbishop tomorrow morning for the special license, just as you asked.”
“I’m sorry for the extra trouble.”
“No, Phee—”
“Shall we say two days from now then? At eleven o’clock?”
“Where?”
Phoebe looked around. “Here. In the drawing room. Andrew can be one witness. We’ll need another one.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother is in Abingdon and knows nothing about this. The day after we are married, I will go out to the country and tell her.”
“No.” George took a deep breath. “I will tell her. Or we’ll tell her together.”
A small smile on her lips. A hint of his Phoebe.
“You’re brave. Saint George will face the dragon?”
“I wish there were dragons, Phoebe. I’d slay one for you.”
The smile faded from her face. “No need.”
George was at a loss. How could he make her smile again? “Who shall we have as our other witness?”
Whom. Whom. Correct me. Care enough to correct me, Phoebe. Correct me and smile at my error.
