He hugged her again, bending over and whispering in her ear, “He’s a good man. Give him a chance. You could be happy.”
Happy. The feeling seemed distant and foreign, as if she had never been happy. She squeezed her younger brother’s slender frame once more and then let him go.
George sat across from her in the carriage.
“Thank you for marrying me so quickly,” she said.
“I don’t want you to thank me anymore for doing something I wanted to do. For something that’s selfish.”
“All right.”
The streets of Mayfair were cleaner than most streets in London, but the carriage passed something foul-smelling and Phoebe lurched forward and had to press her gloved hand to her mouth quickly.
“George—”
A handkerchief was put in her other hand. She raised it to her lips, ready to catch the effluvium she was sure was coming. She closed her eyes.
“Shall I close the window, Phee?”
She shook her head. The moment passed. But the handkerchief. It smelled of him. That George smell. She opened her eyes.
“I suppose you’ll save a great deal in handkerchiefs, George. Since I never return them. Morton will know where to find them now.”
His expression was one of concern. Then he smiled a little. It looked like it pained him.
“Yes. But I never minded the loss of handkerchief or two.”
She sat back. She played with the handkerchief in her lap.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
“It’s my condition. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry anymore for something that’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” A silence of a few seconds. “I’ve had Mrs. Bowles put you in the blue bedchamber, Phoebe. I think you know my mother’s old room is my room now and my father’s room is my study, but there wasn’t time to rearrange things, but, of course, you can have any room you like, including Alice’s—”
“It’s fine. And we’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t we?”
“If that’s what you still want. If you’re well enough.”
“I’m well enough. And I want to be away from London.”
“Yes.”
“I want to see my mother.” She came very close to sobbing out the last word.
It wasn’t far to the Danforth town house. The footman helped her down. George hurried out of the carriage to give her his arm.
Wynn was waiting, smiling. “Many happy returns, Lady Phoe—Danforth.”
“Thank you, Wynn.” She turned to George. “I’ll go to my room now.”
“You don’t want to eat anything?”
“When Dawson gets here, I’ll have her talk to Mrs. Hay about what I can eat. You don’t have to worry.”
