Page 12 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

She closed her eyes. How could this possibly be true?

How could the man she knew be the same man writing this letter?

She reviewed in her mind everything about him, their marriage and then immediate banishment.

Could she have viewed everything one way when it was actually something else entirely?

She shook her head. No. She grabbed a blanket and headed for the front door.

It was going to be painful, but she had to think this through.

Her mind returned to Archie, the only other person she’d known to show any kind of love for her.

She and Archie were sitting on the back verandah with their assignments from governesses and his preparations to go abroad but they had stopped concentrating on anything productive and instead were guessing how many times they could get their servants to nudge them to work. Such simple days. She sighed.

Without warning, all four of their parents had joined them.

Her father was frowning, her mother’s eyes were red from crying and both his parents looked like they were there under duress.

Lord Lytton began. “Son. There’s something we need to explain.”

She and Archie both stood, curtsying and bowing and greeting them, mostly because of the shock of the meeting, and they could both sense something was terribly wrong. It triggered their manners.

“There certainly is.” Her father looked about to boil over.

She moved closer to Archie, and they both sat again.

Lord Lytton cleared his throat. “We began a financial endeavor together. Which has not worked out well.” He dabbed his face with a handkerchief.

“Oh goodness, Charles. Just spit it out. The whole world is going to know soon enough. He lost it all, all the money, all of it.” Archie’s mother’s face was red and her whole manner greatly agitated. She waved a hand in their direction. “And your chance of being together.”

Phoebe’s mouth had dropped open. And Archie’s face had drained of color.

They were then told that the next day a man would arrive to ask for Phoebe’s hand. She was to accept. And the money from that arrangement would provide for her and heal the financial distress of their family.

Archie’s parents explained that he would be sent abroad, but it was to explore business opportunities to save their family, not to travel or enjoy himself. And that they might as well say goodbye to one another that afternoon because they wouldn’t see each other again.

Phoebe still felt some of the fear of that moment.

But so much had hollowed and dimmed with time.

She and Archie had tried to argue their way out of things, but it was pretty clear nothing was going to change their parents’ plans, nor did it seem like there really was a viable option they had not already considered.

Their walk in the back gardens had been full of tender promises and whispers of love but had come to nothing.

The next morning, she’d met Lord Smalling for the first time and that weekend, she was married.

Her plea the night before her actual wedding had come to nothing.

Archie had simply given up and let her go. At least that’s what it felt like.

The inside of her house was not helping.

She gathered her stack of letters/papers and information including Archie’s letter to her from the floor and made her way to the lavender.

She found a patch of grass, a space just big enough for her, spread out her blanket, sat and reached for the next letter.

But before the words drew her in, she was brought back to her wedding day.

Her mother had made it as special as possible.

They’d gone through the hope chest with all her dowry items. She’d given her special family jewelry.

Everything moved forward as if her heart was not breaking, as if she wasn’t missing Archie for every step.

And when she walked down the aisle to meet Lord Smalling in front of a Bishop who he knew, who had come to officiate, she had hope even then that things would improve.

She could learn to get on well with a stranger. He had seemed nice enough…

After three hours, she was exhausted and happy to be married simply to be done with the process.

When the Bishop said, “You may kiss the bride.” Lord Smalling lifted her veil.

His eyes held approval, appreciation, goodness even.

She focused on that. Was he a good man? Eyes didn’t lie.

Then he whispered, “You’re beautiful. I’d love to kiss your lips, but let’s get to know each other better, shall we?

” Then he’d lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips there instead.

She had been grateful for the consideration and for his gentleness and careful manner in which he treated her in that regard.

Her hand went to her stomach without thinking. The moments they had together in the creation of this little one had been pleasant, safe, and warm.

There were many good things about him that belied her subsequent imprisonment. Did a good man lock up his wife, shut her out and completely neglect her? She remembered long cold winters with little coal, sparse and unvaried food, and no visitors. His words were lovely. Her reaction to them hopeful.

She could not reconcile him. Not yet. She lifted the letter again. Perhaps it would all become clear.