Page 8 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

Chapter Five

W ith time to consider what she’d just learned about Lord Smalling, her world seemed to tilt at a whole new angle.

The quiet afternoon mocked her with its normalcy—birds still sang in the lavender, bees still hummed among the flowers, the sun still shone as if the world hadn't just tilted completely off its axis.

He was the best of men.

The solicitor's words echoed in her mind, simple and matter-of-fact, spoken with the quiet conviction of someone who had known Robert well. Someone who had worked with him, respected him, even grieved for him.

The best of men .

How could that be true? How could the man who had abandoned her, who had left her isolated and lonely for two years, who had never once written and very rarely visited or shown any care for her welfare—how could that man be described as "the best of men"?

His letters heavy in her hands. Her legs felt unsteady, as if the foundation of everything she thought she knew had just crumbled beneath her feet.

For two years, she had built her understanding of her marriage on one simple truth: Robert didn't love her.

Had never loved her. Their marriage had been a business arrangement, nothing more, and when duty called, he had chosen his work over his wife without a second thought.

Worse, secret thoughts plagued at her sense of confidence.

Had she disappointed him so wholly, so completely that he was ashamed to claim her?

But Mr. Crane’s words suggested something entirely different. They suggested a man worthy of loyalty, worthy of sacrifice, worthy of grief. They suggested a man whose death was a tragedy not just for her, but for many others who had known his true character.

Could she have been so wrong? Or was she so completely, correct?

Was he a worthy man who found her so incredibly not?

Was she really not husband worthy? No matter.

She would never again know. Because never again did she wish to be so openly and completely rejected.

Nor did she wish to lose what independence she had regained.

Phoebe made her way to the small parlor on unsteady legs, sinking into her chair by the window.

The parcel of letters sat in her lap, unopened, as if she were afraid of what they might contain.

What if they confirmed her worst fears about her marriage?

What if they were cold, formal communications that proved Robert had seen her as nothing more than an obligation?

But what if they didn't?

The thought was almost more terrifying than the alternative.

If she had been wrong about Robert—completely, utterly wrong—then what did that say about her judgment?

What did that say about the two years she had spent nursing her hurt and anger, building a wall around her heart to protect herself from further disappointment?

"Was he a good man, then?"

She had asked the question almost without thinking, desperate for some small reassurance that the man she had married hadn't been entirely without virtue. But Mr. Crane’s response had been so much more than she had expected, delivered with such quiet certainty that it left no room for doubt.

He was the best of men.

Not good. Not decent. Not adequate. The best.

Phoebe closed her eyes and tried to reconcile this description with her memories of Robert.

He had been unfailingly polite during their brief courtship, gentle and considerate during their wedding and the few weeks they had spent together afterward.

He had never raised his voice to her, never been unkind, never shown any sign of cruelty or selfishness.

But he had left her. Without explanation, without comfort, without any promise of return. How could a good man—the best of men—do such a thing to his wife?

Unless...

The thought crept into her mind like dawn breaking over the horizon, slow but inexorable. What if Robert's absence hadn't been about choosing work over family? What if it had been about something else entirely?

Mr. Crane had mentioned that people were searching for her. That there were those who wanted information about Lord Smalling. That Robert had been involved in "covert operations" for the Crown.

What if the isolation she had experienced hadn't been abandonment at all, but protection?

The possibility hit her like a physical blow. She remembered the servants at the northern estate—always polite, always attentive to her needs, but also always watching. Always present. Always ensuring she didn't venture too far from the house or receive any unexpected visitors.

At the time, she had seen their behavior as evidence that she was a prisoner. But what if they had been guards? What if they had been protecting her from something—or someone—dangerous?

What if Robert had stayed away not because he didn't care about her, but because caring about her had made her a target?

Phoebe's hands trembled as she untied the string around the letters. If she was right—if she had misunderstood everything—then these letters might contain explanations, apologies, even declarations of love that she had never received because it had been too dangerous to send them.

Or they might contain nothing but business correspondence and formal communications that would confirm her original understanding of their marriage.

There was only one way to find out.

She opened the first letter with shaking fingers, immediately recognizing Robert's careful handwriting. The paper was of good quality, the ink still dark despite the passage of time. At the top of the page, in Robert's familiar script, were words that made her breath catch:

My Dearest Wife,

Not "Lady Smalling." Not "Phoebe." My dearest wife.

She read the opening lines once, twice, three times before their meaning truly sank in.

If you are reading this, then I am no longer able to tell you these things in person, and for that I am more sorry than words can express. I had hoped we would have years together, that I could show you through my actions what I am about to try to convey through mere words.

The letter continued, but Phoebe had to stop reading, overcome by the gentle affection in Robert's tone. This wasn't the cold, formal communication she had expected. This was the voice of a man who cared deeply, who regretted their separation as much as she had .

She set the letter aside for a moment, needing time to absorb what she had already read. If this first letter was any indication, everything she thought she knew about her marriage had been wrong.

But as the implications began to sink in, Phoebe felt a new kind of pain begin to build in her chest. If Robert had cared for her, if he had missed her during their separation, if their marriage had meant something to him beyond mere duty—then she had spent two years hating a man who had never deserved her anger.

She thought of the times she had cursed his name, had imagined him living carelessly in London while she suffered in isolation.

She thought of the bitter letters she had written but never sent, full of accusations and hurt.

She thought of the wall she had built around her heart, the decision she had made to never trust or love again.

All of it based on a misunderstanding. Perhaps.

The worst part was that there had been signs, she realized now.

Moments during their brief time together when Robert had seemed to want to tell her something, to explain or comfort or connect.

But she had been too young, too frightened, too overwhelmed by the suddenness of their marriage to really listen.

She remembered their last conversation, the morning before he left for what would be his final journey.

He had seemed reluctant to go, had lingered over breakfast, had looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

She had assumed it was duty warring with convenience—the inconvenience of having to attend to his work when he might have preferred to stay home.

But what if it had been love warring with necessity? What if leaving her had been as painful for him as being left had been for her?

Phoebe picked up the letter again, forcing herself to continue reading despite the tears that blurred her vision. With each word, each gentle phrase, each expression of regret and longing, her understanding of her marriage shifted and reformed.

Robert had loved her. Perhaps not passionately, not desperately, but genuinely.

Perhaps not with all the knowledge of a long relationship.

He had thought of her during their separation, had planned for their future together, had hoped for a time when they could be together without the shadow of danger hanging over them.

And she had never known.