Page 9 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

Chapter Six

T he morning sun cast long golden shadows across the lavender fields as Phoebe stepped outside Lavender Cottage, a wide wicker basket tucked under her arm.

The air was sweet with the perfume of countless purple blooms, and she breathed deeply, trying to let the peaceful beauty of her surroundings calm the turmoil that had kept her awake most of the night.

He was the best of men.

Mr. Crane’s words had echoed in her mind through the long, restless hours, challenging everything she thought she knew about Robert, about their marriage, about herself. The packet of his letters sat unopened on her kitchen table, waiting like a door she wasn't quite ready to walk through .

But this morning, she needed normalcy. She needed the simple, grounding rituals of domestic life to help her make sense of the impossible revelations swirling in her head.

The lavender was at its peak, heavy purple spikes releasing their fragrance at the slightest touch.

Phoebe moved slowly through the rows, selecting the best stems and cutting them carefully with her small knife.

The repetitive motion was soothing, and gradually she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.

She had never done work like this before—at her father's house, there had been gardeners for such tasks, and during her time at the northern estate, the servants had tended to all outdoor activities.

But here at Lavender Cottage, she was learning the deep satisfaction of caring for things with her own hands.

As her basket filled with fragrant stems, her mind drifted back to the impossible puzzle Mr. Crane had presented.

If Robert truly had been a good man—the best of men—then how had she so completely misunderstood their relationship?

How had she spent two years believing herself unloved when the truth might have been entirely different?

There are people searching for you, he had said. He was involved in covert operations for the Crown.

A spy. Her quiet, courteous husband had been a spy.

Phoebe paused in her cutting, trying to reconcile this revelation with her memories of Robert.

He had always been well-informed about political matters, she recalled now.

He had received correspondence at odd hours, had sometimes left on unexplained journeys.

She had assumed it was estate business or social obligations she wasn't important enough to know about.

But what if it had been something far more dangerous?

She toyed again with her newfound thought. What if the isolation she had experienced hadn't been neglect, but protection?

The thought made her hands tremble as she reached for another lavender stem. If Robert had been protecting her from genuine danger, if her safety had required her ignorance of his activities, then perhaps... perhaps he had been as lonely during their separation as she had been.

The letters . The letters will tell me the truth.

But even as she thought it, she knew she wasn't ready to read the rest of them.

One paragraph had shaken her well being.

The possibility that she had been wrong about everything was too overwhelming to face directly.

She needed time to prepare herself, to build up the courage to learn how thoroughly she might have misjudged the man she had married.

Her basket now full of lavender, Phoebe made her way back to the cottage, her steps slower and more thoughtful than when she had left.

The domestic routine would continue—she would hang the lavender to dry, would prepare bread for the day, would lose herself in the simple tasks that reminded her she was finally, truly free to make her own choices.

In the cottage kitchen, she arranged the lavender in loose bundles, tying them with string and hanging them from the exposed beams. The sight was charming and rustic, so different from the formal arrangements that had graced the grand houses of her past. This was hers, created by her own hands for her own pleasure.

As the lavender swayed gently in the morning breeze from the open window, Phoebe turned her attention to bread-making.

She had been teaching herself to bake over the past weeks, finding unexpected satisfaction in the simple alchemy of flour, water, and yeast transforming into something nourishing and beautiful.

The physical work of kneading the dough was therapeutic, allowing her mind to wander while her hands stayed busy. She found herself thinking about the servants at the northern estate, wondering if she had misunderstood them as thoroughly as she had misunderstood Robert.

They had always been kind to her, she realized now.

Respectful, attentive to her needs, concerned for her welfare.

At the time, she had interpreted their constant presence as surveillance, their refusal to let her travel as imprisonment.

She forced herself to keep considering another option.

What if they had genuinely been trying to keep her safe?

What if they had cared about her?

The thought brought unexpected tears to her eyes. How lonely she must have seemed to them, how ungrateful for their protection. How painful it must have been to watch her suffer while being unable to explain the true reasons for her isolation.

As she shaped the dough and set it aside to rise, Phoebe caught sight of the packet of letters on her table. Robert's final communications to her, holding who knew what revelations about his feelings, his regrets, his love.

Soon, she promised herself. When I'm stronger. When I'm ready to learn the truth.

The bread would need time to rise before baking, so Phoebe decided to tidy the cottage, another domestic task that helped quiet her restless mind. She swept the floors, dusted the furniture, arranged fresh flowers in the simple vases she had found in the cottage's cupboards.

It was while she was reaching up to clean a high shelf that the nausea hit her.

The sensation came suddenly and powerfully, a wave of queasiness that made her grip the edge of the shelf for support. For a moment, the room seemed to spin around her, and she had to close her eyes and breathe deeply to keep from being sick.

When the feeling passed, leaving her slightly shaky but functional, Phoebe sank into the nearest chair with dawning realization.

The morning sickness had been getting stronger lately, impossible to ignore or explain away. Combined with the other changes in her body—the tenderness, the fatigue, the way certain smells had begun to bother her—there could be only one explanation.

She was carrying Robert's child.

Her hand moved instinctively to her still-flat stomach, a gesture of protection and wonder. A baby. Robert's baby. The heir to whatever title and estates she was apparently inheriting .

The timing made perfect sense—their last night together before he departed for his final, fatal journey. A night that had been tender and sweet, filled with an urgency she hadn't understood at the time but that now seemed heartbreakingly prophetic.

Robert would never know about this child. Would never hold his son or daughter, never see the continuation of his bloodline. The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes, not just for her own loss but for his.

But as the initial shock faded, Phoebe began to realize the implications of her condition. This child—Robert's child—would be heir to everything Mr.Crane had described. The estates, the fortune, the mysterious legacy of a man who had apparently been far more important than she had ever imagined.

People were searching for her, Mr. Crane had said. People who wanted information about Robert's work, who might see value in controlling his widow. How much more dangerous would her situation become if they discovered she was carrying his heir?

No one can know, she thought with sudden, fierce protectiveness. Not until I understand what I'm truly inheriting. Not until I know who can be trusted.

The secret would be hers alone, at least for now. She was still early enough that her condition wasn't obvious, and if she was careful about her clothing and her activities, she could probably conceal it for several more months.

By then, perhaps she would have read Robert's letters, would understand the true nature of his work and the dangers it might have brought to their door. Perhaps she would know who could be trusted with the knowledge that the Smalling line would continue.

The time had come to check her bread. The dough had risen beautifully, and she shaped it into loaves before setting them in the oven to bake.

The familiar ritual was comforting, grounding her in the simple reality of her new life even as her mind reeled with the complexity of what lay beneath the surface.

As the scent of baking bread began to fill the cottage, Phoebe made herself a cup of tea and settled into her chair by the window. The lavender fields stretched out before her, peaceful and beautiful, giving no hint of the secrets and dangers that might be lurking beyond her sanctuary.

She placed one hand on her stomach and the other on the packet of letters, feeling the weight of past and future pressing down on her shoulders. Robert's child and Robert's secrets, both requiring her protection, both demanding decisions she felt unprepared to make.

But she was no longer the frightened, lonely girl who had been married off to settle her father's debts. She was a woman of property now, with wealth and independence and choices. She could take the time she needed to understand her situation fully before deciding how to proceed.

The baby would be safe, loved, and protected—she would make sure of that. And when she was ready, when she had gathered her courage and her strength, she would read Robert's letters and learn the truth about the man whose child she carried.

For now, it was enough to sit in her own kitchen, breathing the scent of lavender and fresh bread, feeling the first flutter of maternal love for the tiny life growing inside her.

Whatever dangers lay ahead, whatever secrets waited to be revealed, she would face them as a mother protecting her child.

It was a role she had never expected to claim, but one that already felt as natural as breathing.

The future was uncertain, but it was hers to shape. And that, perhaps, was the most precious gift Robert could have given her—the freedom to choose her own path, even if that path now included the responsibility of raising his heir in a world that might not welcome either of them.

Outside her window, the lavender swayed in the gentle breeze, and Phoebe allowed herself to believe that somehow, everything would work out as it should.

It had to, for her sake and for the sake of the child who would never know his father but who would be raised with love, security, and the truth about the good man who had given him life.

She lifted that first letter. One. She could finish reading one. She felt close to him, knowing their child grew inside her.

By the time she finished the first letter, Phoebe was sobbing openly, mourning not just for Robert but for the marriage they might have had if circumstances had been different.

If his work hadn't put them both in danger.

If he had been able to share the truth with her. If they had been given more time.

She reached for the second letter with trembling hands, it too revealing more of Robert's character, more of his love, more of the sacrifice he had made to keep her safe.

As the afternoon wore on and the pile of read letters grew, Phoebe began to understand not just the truth about her marriage, but the truth about herself.

She had been so hurt by what she perceived as Robert's abandonment that she had closed her heart to any other possibility.

She had been so convinced of her own interpretation that she had never questioned whether there might be another explanation.

She had, in short, been exactly what she accused Robert of being—someone who put her own pain before the possibility of love.

The realization was humbling and heartbreaking in equal measure.

But it was also, somehow, freeing. If she had been wrong about Robert, if love had been possible in their marriage after all, then perhaps it might be possible again.

Perhaps the walls she had built around her heart weren't as necessary as she had thought.

As the sun began to set over the lavender fields, Phoebe carefully gathered Robert's letters and held them to her chest. She owed him an apology that she would never be able to give in person. She owed him understanding that had come too late to matter for their marriage.

But she also owed him something else: the courage to live the life he had died protecting. The courage to be happy, to love again, to trust in the possibility of a future built on truth rather than misunderstanding.

Soon, Mr. Crane would return with arrangements for servants and information about the man who had been searching for her—Archie Lytton, whose name had brought such an unexpected surge of emotion.

She would have decisions to make about her future, about her inheritance, about the life she wanted to build.

But tonight, she would mourn for the marriage that might have been, and forgive herself for not understanding it while she had the chance.

And perhaps, just perhaps, she would begin to believe that love—real, true, honest love—might still be possible for her after all. Maybe. Not yet, but some day, perhaps.