The day after New Year’s Day was her birthday. She was twenty. He did not come. Alice showed up with a birthday gift, a book of poetry. Alice said it was from her and George. But when Phoebe opened the cover, the inscription under the frontispiece was in Alice’s hand only and wished her many happy returns.
She was a silly child to think he might remember the promise he had made to her long ago. She was a fool to think he might consider that promise binding. She was an idiot to think he was romantic enough to propose in a book of poetry, to think he would propose to her at all. When had he ever offered her anything beyond tutelage and friendship?
Never.
She must stop thinking like a little girl.
She smiled at Alice and thanked her. “I so look forward to reading it,” she said. “Tonight, in bed.”
She did not read the book of verse that night. It was a night full of pain. And part of the pain was that she had done this to herself. How many times was she going to tell herself to stop thinking of him?
She did not rise the next day. Or the next. “I don’t feel well,” she told her mother when she came to her bedchamber.
But the next day was her chess game with George. “I feel much better today,” she said at breakfast.
“You don’t look better,” her mother said.
“What is wrong, dearest girl?” her father asked.
“Nothing, Papa. I was tired, and now I just have been lying abed too long. You know I can’t bear that.”
Despite her best intentions, despite walking as quickly as she could, she was late, as always, upon arrival at the Danforth estate.
George had his nose deep in a book when she came into his study. He did not look at her or greet her but held a finger up.
“You made me wait for you, so now you can wait for me.”
She did not speak until he had closed the book and put it away and started setting up the chess pieces.
“I apologize for my lateness, George.”
“Apologies are all very well and good, Phee. But they don’t mean anything unless you resolve to change your behavior.”
“I do try.” She put a finger in her mouth and bit down on a nail.
“Try harder.”
She moved her finger out of her mouth and took a deep breath. “Thank you for my birthday gift.”
He looked up, startled.
“The book of poetry?” she said. “Alice said it was from both of you.”
He ran his hand over his almost bare skull. “I’m sorry, Phee, I quite forgot. Happy birthday. Was it a happy one?”
“I missed you.”
“I’ve been inundated, trying to get the estate’s accounts reconciled.”
“Perhaps I could help you? My mother has been teaching me how to read our household books.”
“It’s so dull. I wouldn’t want to drag you into it. Better that you help me by showing up on time.”
“But I could do more than that, George. I could . . . I could be a helpmeet.” How brave she was being. Because George knew the word helpmeet could mean a spouse. She fiddled at one of her cuticles.
“Help me by being on time. And by playing chess with me. As I’ve told you before, it distracts me, eases my mind. Let’s see. It’s my turn to be White.” He rotated the chessboard. “Remind me which birthday this was for you?”
“My twentieth.”
