Page 32 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he evening light slanted through Phoebe's bedroom window, casting everything in shades of amber and rose.

She had changed from her formal meeting attire into a simple wrapper and settled into the cushioned window seat that had become her favorite spot in all of Lavender Cottage.

From here, she could see the endless rows of lavender stretching toward the horizon, their purple blooms creating a sea of color that shifted and rippled in the gentle breeze.

The air was sweet with their fragrance, made even more intoxicating by the warmth of the day giving way to the cool kiss of evening.

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the low lowing of cattle and the soft bleating of sheep in the neighboring fields.

A skylark trilled its liquid song from somewhere high above, and the whole world seemed painted in peace.

This was her sanctuary. Her chosen home. The place where she had finally learned what it meant to be safe and free.

But tonight, as she watched the lavender dance in the fading light, her thoughts drifted not to her present contentment but to golden memories of another time, another place, and the boy who had shared every adventure with her.

Archie.

She closed her eyes and let herself remember—really remember—what it had been like to be young and carefree and utterly certain that the world was full of wonders waiting to be discovered.

They must have been fourteen and fifteen that perfect summer, the last before everything changed. The summer when they discovered that the childhood friendship they'd always shared was transforming into something deeper, more thrilling, and infinitely more dangerous to their peace of mind.

"Phoebe! Come quickly!" Archie's voice had carried across the meadow where she'd been reading under her favorite oak tree. She looked up to see him running toward her, his dark hair catching the sunlight, his face alight with excitement .

"What is it?" she called, already closing her book and gathering her skirts to follow. When Archie had that particular expression, adventure was always close behind.

"The river! Come see what I've found!"

They ran together through the tall grass, startling butterflies and sending field mice scurrying for cover. At the riverbank, Archie led her to where he'd constructed an elaborate fleet of small boats from bark, leaves, and twigs, each one carefully balanced and ready for launch.

"We're going to have a regatta," he announced proudly. "Each boat will carry a message, and we'll see which one travels farthest downstream."

"What sort of messages?" Phoebe asked, enchanted by the tiny vessels bobbing at the water's edge.

"Wishes," Archie said seriously. "Secret wishes that we can only tell the river."

They spent the afternoon writing their hopes and dreams on scraps of paper, carefully waterproofing them with candle wax, and launching their paper prayers into the current.

Phoebe's boats carried wishes for adventure, for freedom to ride astride like the boys, for a life full of books and music and choices of her own making.

She never asked what Archie had wished for, but she caught him watching her with a soft expression as his boats disappeared around the bend, and something in his eyes made her heart flutter in a way that was entirely new.

The memory made her smile even as it tugged at her heart. How young they had been, how innocent in their certainty that wishing could make dreams come true.

Another memory surfaced, this one from earlier that same magical summer.

"I dare you," Archie had said, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked up at the ancient oak that stood at the boundary between their families' properties.

"You dare me to what?" Phoebe had replied, though she already knew. The tree was enormous, its lowest branches still a good eight feet from the ground, and it had always been understood that such climbing was far too dangerous for young ladies.

"I dare you to climb to the top with me. I'll wager the view is spectacular."

"Archie Lytton, you are completely mad. Ladies don't climb trees."

"Phoebe Atwater does," he'd said with that grin that made her want to follow him anywhere. "Besides, no one will see us. It's our secret. "

It had taken them three attempts and considerable strategizing to reach even the first substantial branch, but once they'd found their rhythm, the climbing became easier.

Up and up they went, Archie always just above her, ready to catch her if she slipped, calling down encouragement and pointing out handholds.

When they finally reached a broad limb near the Crown, Phoebe had to admit the view was indeed spectacular. The whole countryside spread out below them like a patchwork quilt—rolling fields, neat hedgerows, distant church spires, and the silver ribbon of the river winding through it all.

"It's beautiful," she'd breathed, forgetting entirely that her dress was probably ruined and her hair had come completely undone.

"Yes," Archie had agreed quietly. "Beautiful."

But when she'd turned to share her excitement, she'd found him looking not at the landscape but at her, with an expression so tender and wondering that it had stolen the breath from her lungs.

"Archie?" she'd whispered.

"You have a leaf in your hair," he'd said softly, reaching out to pluck it free. But his fingers had lingered, brushing against her cheek, and for a moment they'd simply stared at each other while the whole world held its breath .

Then a church bell had tolled in the distance, reminding them that the world was waiting, and they'd climbed down in companionable silence, both of them knowing something had changed between them forever.

Phoebe touched her cheek where his fingers had once lingered, amazed that she could still feel the ghost of that touch after all these years.

The lavender rustled outside her window, and she let herself drift into another treasured memory.

Their horses had been perfectly matched—her gentle mare Rosebud and his spirited gelding Thunder—and they'd spent countless hours exploring every path, lane, and hidden trail for miles around their homes.

That particular morning, they'd ridden farther than usual, following a barely-visible deer track deep into the woods until they'd emerged into a hidden meadow that neither of them had ever seen before.

"It's like something from a fairy tale," Phoebe had marveled, sliding down from Rosebud's back to walk through the wildflowers that carpeted the secret space.

"Or a perfect place for a picnic," Archie had added, already unpacking the simple meal they'd brought—fresh bread, cheese, early apples, and a jug of cider .

They'd spread a blanket under a flowering hawthorn tree and shared their food while planning all the adventures they'd have in their private kingdom. No one else knew about this place; it would be theirs alone.

"We could build a shelter," Archie had suggested, gesturing toward a cluster of young birches. "Something weatherproof, where we could come when we need to escape from governesses and tutors and people who don't understand."

"Yes!" Phoebe had agreed enthusiastically. "With books and blankets and perhaps a place to brew tea."

"And we could keep a journal of all the wildlife we observe. Make sketches of the flowers and birds."

They'd talked and planned until the sun was high overhead, their voices growing drowsy in the warm air. Phoebe had found herself lying back on the blanket, watching clouds drift across the blue sky, acutely aware of Archie stretched out beside her.

"Phoebe," he'd said quietly, and something in his tone had made her turn to look at him.

"What is it?"

"Promise me we'll always be friends. No matter what happens, no matter what our families decide for us, promise me we'll always have this."

The seriousness in his voice had made her chest tight with unnamed emotion. "I promise," she'd whispered. "Always."

He'd reached for her hand then, linking their fingers together as they lay side by side in their secret meadow, and Phoebe had thought her heart might burst with the sweet, terrifying joy of it.

The memory brought tears to her eyes. How could they have known that "always" would be interrupted by years of separation and heartbreak?

One more memory rose unbidden, perhaps the most precious of all.

The village children had been picking berries when the older boys arrived—the miller's sons, rough and mean-spirited, with nothing better to do than torment those smaller than themselves.

Phoebe had been walking home from the vicarage when she'd heard the commotion—shouting, crying, the sounds of a scuffle.

She'd rounded the corner to find the miller's boys throwing stones at a group of younger children who were huddled together in tears, their berry baskets overturned and their small harvest scattered on the ground.

"Stop!" she'd called out, but the boys had only laughed.

"Mind your own business, miss high-and-mighty," the eldest had sneered. "These little brats need to learn their place. "

That's when Archie had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, his face dark with fury.

"The lady told you to stop," he'd said quietly, but his voice had carried an authority that made the bigger boys pause.

"And what're you going to do about it, Lytton?" the miller's son had challenged, though he'd already taken a step backward.

"I'm going to give you exactly one chance to apologize to these children and help them gather their berries," Archie had replied, his tone conversational but his posture ready for a fight. "After that, we'll settle this a different way."

The bullies had looked at Archie—not particularly tall for his age, but wiry and clearly unafraid—and apparently decided the fight wasn't worth it. They'd muttered halfhearted apologies and slunk away, leaving Archie and Phoebe with the crying children.

What had followed was perhaps the most beautiful thing Phoebe had ever witnessed.

Archie had knelt down to the children's level, speaking to them gently, helping them dry their tears and recover their scattered berries.

He'd produced sweets from his pocket to replace what had been lost, told funny stories to make them laugh, and personally escorted each child safely home .

"You were wonderful with them," Phoebe had said as they'd walked home together afterward.

"They needed protecting," Archie had replied simply. "No one should pick on people smaller than themselves."

"Is that why you intervened? Because they were smaller?"

Archie had stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression serious.

"I intervened because it was the right thing to do.

Because someone had to stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves.

" He'd paused, his cheeks coloring slightly.

"And because I couldn't bear to see you upset by their cruelty. "

In that moment, Phoebe had fallen completely, irrevocably in love with Archie Lytton.

Not with his handsome face or his charming smile, but with the goodness at the core of him, the instinctive protectiveness and kindness that made him step between cruelty and innocence without thought for his own safety.

Phoebe wiped away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks.

That boy—that wonderfully good, brave, kind boy—had grown into the man who now slept just down the hall from her.

The man who had crossed an ocean to find her, who had vowed to protect her with his life, who had somehow managed to become even better than she remembered.

The lavender fields rustled in the evening breeze, and she pulled her wrapper closer around herself. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new decisions about her future and her heart. But tonight, she was content to sit with her memories and acknowledge the truth she'd been fighting.

She was still in love with Archie Lytton. Perhaps she'd never stopped loving him. And perhaps—just perhaps—that wasn't the disaster she'd convinced herself it would be.

The Widows would undoubtedly disapprove of such sentimental thinking.

Rule Three was quite clear about not falling in love again.

But as Phoebe watched the stars begin to appear over her beloved lavender fields, she found herself wondering if there might be a difference between falling in love and choosing love—between the helpless tumble of youth and the conscious decision of a woman who knew her own mind.

After all, she was no longer the frightened girl who had been bartered away for her father's debts.

She was Lady Smalling now, with wealth and property and choices of her own.

If she chose to love Archie—if she chose to trust him with her heart— it would be because she wanted to, not because she had no other option.

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. But as she finally rose from her window seat and prepared for bed, Phoebe found herself smiling. Tomorrow, she would begin the dangerous journey to discover Robert's final secrets. But she would not be making that journey alone.

And perhaps, when all the mysteries were solved and all the dangers faced, she might find the courage to discover what "always" could mean for two people who had found their way back to each other against all odds.

The lavender whispered its approval in the evening breeze, and Phoebe fell asleep to dreams of golden summers and the boy who had promised her always.