Page 34 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)
Chapter Twenty-Five
R osemont Hall rose from the Hampshire countryside like something from a fairy tale, its honey-colored stone glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Phoebe pressed her face to the carriage window as they approached, hardly able to believe that this magnificent estate was truly hers.
"It's enormous," she breathed, taking in the sweeping drive lined with ancient oaks, the perfectly manicured gardens, and the graceful architecture that spoke of both wealth and exquisite taste.
"Forty-seven rooms, according to the inventory," Mary said practically, though even she seemed awed by the grandeur. "And that's not counting the servants' quarters. "
As their carriage drew to a halt before the imposing front entrance, Phoebe felt a flutter of nervousness. This wasn't just a house—it was Robert's vision of their life together made manifest in stone and mortar. What would she find within these walls?
The front door opened before they could even alight, and an elegant woman of perhaps fifty years descended the steps with a warm smile. Her graying hair was perfectly arranged, her black dress immaculate, and her bearing spoke of someone accustomed to managing grand households.
"Lady Smalling," she said with a deep curtsy. "Welcome to Rosemont Hall. I am Mrs. Thornbury, your housekeeper. We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival."
"Thank you," Phoebe replied, accepting the woman's offered arm as she stepped down from the carriage. "I confess I'm rather overwhelmed by it all."
"Perfectly understandable, my lady. Lord Smalling spoke of this day often—when you would finally see what he had prepared for you." Mrs. Thornbury's eyes grew soft with memory. "He was so looking forward to showing you everything himself."
The words brought an unexpected tightness to Phoebe's throat. "Perhaps you could give me a tour? I'm afraid I know very little about the house."
"Of course, my lady. And your companion?"
"This is Mary, my lady's maid. And..." Phoebe glanced around, spotting Archie approaching on horseback from the direction of the village inn. "That gentleman is Lord Lytton, a family friend who has kindly offered to assist me with settling my late husband's affairs."
Mrs. Thornbury's sharp eyes assessed Archie as he dismounted and approached their group. "My lord," she said with a respectful nod. "You are most welcome at Rosemont Hall."
"Thank you," Archie replied. "I hope my presence won't inconvenience your household."
"Not at all. Lord Smalling left instructions that Lady Smalling's friends were always to be welcomed here." Mrs. Thornbury turned back to Phoebe. "Shall we begin with the main reception rooms?"
The next hour passed in a blur of magnificent chambers, each more beautiful than the last. The ballroom could indeed accommodate two hundred guests, its crystal chandeliers casting rainbows across polished marble floors.
The dining room featured a table that could seat thirty, set beneath portraits of distinguished ancestors.
The morning room was decorated in cheerful yellows and blues, with French doors opening onto a terrace that overlooked the gardens.
But it was when Mrs. Thornbury led them to the music room that Phoebe truly understood the depth of Robert's planning.
"This was Lord Smalling's particular pride," the housekeeper said as they entered the spacious chamber. "He spent months ensuring the acoustics were perfect."
Phoebe stood in the doorway, hardly able to breathe.
The room was a temple to music—and to her.
A magnificent harp stood near the windows, its golden wood gleaming in the afternoon light.
Beside it sat a pianoforte of the finest craftsmanship, its ivory keys polished to perfection.
Sheet music was arranged on stands, and she recognized several pieces she had loved as a girl.
"He remembered," she whispered, moving toward the harp as if drawn by invisible strings.
"Remembered, my lady?" Mrs. Thornbury asked gently.
"I told him once, during our brief time together, that I had always dreamed of having a harp.
I said the pianoforte was lovely, but the harp seemed like something from heaven itself.
" Phoebe reached out to touch the strings, which hummed softly under her fingers.
"I never imagined he was listening so carefully. "
Archie had remained quiet during the tour, but now he stepped closer, his expression soft with understanding. "He loved you very much."
"Yes," Phoebe said simply. "I'm beginning to realize just how much."
Mrs. Thornbury cleared her throat delicately. "If I may, my lady, Lord Smalling left specific instructions about this room. He said that when you were ready, you would know what to do here. He mentioned something about music that was particularly meaningful to you both."
Phoebe frowned, trying to think what Robert could have meant. They had shared so little time together, and most of it had been spent in awkward attempts at conversation. What music could have been meaningful to?—
Her hand went automatically to her left ring finger, where Robert's wedding ring still rested. She had worn it throughout their separation, first from duty and later from a growing understanding that it represented more than just their legal union.
"May I see your ring, Phoebe?" Archie asked quietly, apparently following her thoughts.
With trembling fingers, she slipped the band from her finger for the first time since her wedding day. It was a simple design, elegant but not ostentatious, but as she held it up to the light, she could see there was something engraved on the inside.
"There's writing," she said, squinting at the tiny script. "Musical notes, I think?"
Archie moved closer to examine the ring, and Phoebe was acutely aware of his nearness, the warmth of his body, the clean scent of his shaving soap. "It's definitely a melody," he confirmed. "Short, but complete. Do you recognize it?"
Phoebe shook her head. "I've never seen it before. But perhaps..." She looked toward the pianoforte. "Perhaps I should try to play it?"
She settled onto the piano bench and carefully picked out the notes engraved in her ring. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, sweet and melancholy, but when she played it through twice, nothing happened.
"Try the harp," Mary suggested. "Mrs. Thornbury said Lord Smalling spent months perfecting this room. Perhaps it's meant to be played on the instrument he chose specifically for you."
Phoebe moved to the harp, her fingers finding the strings with the muscle memory of years of practice. When she played the melody this time, the notes seemed to float through the air with an almost magical quality, the perfect acoustics of the room enhancing every sound.
As the last note faded, there was a soft clicking sound, and a panel in the wall near the fireplace swung open silently.
"Good heavens!" Mrs. Thornbury exclaimed. "I've been in this house for fifteen years, and I never knew that panel existed!"
Phoebe rose from the harp bench on shaking legs. "What's inside?"
Archie was already moving toward the hidden compartment. "There's a shelf," he reported, "with what appears to be a journal and a sealed note."
He carefully withdrew both items, handling them as if they were made of spun glass. The journal was bound in fine leather, with "For My Beloved Wife" written on the cover in Robert's familiar handwriting. The note was sealed with his personal signet and addressed simply "Phoebe."
"The note first," she decided, her heart pounding.
With careful fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
My Dearest Phoebe,
If you are reading this, you have discovered the first of my gifts to you.
The journal contains my private thoughts during our brief time together— thoughts I was too shy or too careful to share with you then.
Read them when you are ready, but know that every page contains proof of how deeply you captured my heart in those precious weeks.
When you have finished with the journal, go to the library. Find the poetry section and look for the works of the three poets you mentioned as your favorites during our conversations: Wordsworth, Byron, and Keats. Pull them in that order, and you will discover what lies beneath.
Know that everything I built here was built with love, in hope of a future we never had the chance to share.
Your devoted husband, Robert
Phoebe's hands trembled as she folded the note. "He... he made a puzzle. The music, the journal, and now something in the library."
"A treasure hunt," Archie said softly.
"Mrs. Thornbury," Phoebe said, turning to the housekeeper, "might we have some privacy? I think... I think I need to read this journal, and it feels rather personal."
"Of course, my lady. Mary and I will see about arranging your rooms and perhaps prepare some refreshment. You must be tired from your journey."
As the two women withdrew, Phoebe sank into one of the comfortable chairs arranged near the windows. The journal felt warm in her hands, as if it still carried some essence of the man who had written it.
She opened to the first page and began to read aloud, her voice soft in the beautiful acoustics of the room.
"She smiled at breakfast this morning, and I felt as though the sun had risen twice.
Such a simple thing, yet it transformed my entire day.
I find myself storing up these moments like a miser hoards gold—the way she hums unconsciously when she's content, how she tilts her head when she's thinking, the graceful movement of her hands when she plays.
I am falling in love with my wife, and I pray that someday she might learn to love me in return. "
The words were so tender, so full of hope and wonder, that Phoebe had to stop reading for a moment to compose herself.
"He truly did care for you," Archie said quietly from where he had positioned himself near the bookshelves, giving her space but remaining close enough to offer comfort if needed.