He made his way to Berkeley Square, with the hope of finding another note waiting for him. To have the pleasure of a letter and Phoebe’s company on the same evening would put him in the best of moods for days to come.
To My Friend,
I have enjoyed our exchange of letters this past week. I am delighted to know you have read so many of my favorite novels. But lest you suspect I fill my head with nothing but modern fiction, I will promise you that I have enjoyed many a Shakespearian play and sonnet, too. Of course, most of my reading is quite frivolous by scholarly standards.
This evening I go to dinner with the Fenwick family. I know Mr. Griffin Fenwick is a favorite of yours, from the list you gave me. Why is that? How well do you know him, or any of the men on that list, to recommend them?
I confess, I have not sought out anyone else you named. I find I would much rather come to know you more. You call yourself my friend, but how can that be, when we are restricted to letter writing and nothing more? I have confided in one of my closest friends, a woman I have known since childhood, about our letters. She has given me the best of advice.
I should like to see you. We need not meet in secret, or indeed speak a word to one another. I thought we might both go for a walk the day after tomorrow. In Hyde Park, at noon. It is not the fashionable hour, so there will be few people about. There is a particular tree near the Serpentine—it is old and bent, with one branch forming an arch all the way to the ground. If you will walk to that tree, and carry any object of red, I will know it is you.
We need not speak, if you do not wish it. But it is unfair that you know me so well, that you have seen me and known it is to me you write, and I know not if I have ever glimpsed you.
Please say you agree.
Yours,
P.K.
Phoebe followed Caroline and Joseph into the Fenwick townhouse. It was not far distant from their own. Merely a street over.
The uncle in Parliament would not be present, for which she was grateful. There was no one to impress. The Fenwicks had proved most kind the night of the play. And Griffin— he seemed to like her well enough.
Phoebe put her hand over the red-bead bracelet, drawing in a deep breath. She wore an ivory gown and her blue-green shawl, a red ribbon in her hair the only thing which matched her friends’ bracelet. Even if there was no one to impress, she hoped at least one person that evening would think she looked pretty.
“Mr. Kimball, Caroline, it is such a pleasure to have you both with us.” Mrs. Fenwick kissed Caroline upon the cheek after they curtsied and bowed to one another. Then she turned with a wide smile that looked very much like her son’s and extended a hand to Phoebe. “And you, Miss Kimball. I am simply delighted you could come. I so enjoyed getting to know you at the theater.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Phoebe said, then her eyes went to where the older Mr. Fenwick stood. The invitation had said their son would be present, yet he did not greet the guests with his parents?
“Griffin has not yet arrived,” Mr. Fenwick said, and she blushed when she looked back to him. At least he seemed to be telling all three guests, and not just Phoebe. “It is not like him to be late, so I am certain whatever keeps him is pressing.” He gestured to the steps leading to the next floor. “Caroline, permit me to escort you to the parlor. And do tell me how your father is doing, spending all his time in Bath.”
Joseph offered his arm to Mrs. Fenwick, leaving Phoebe to follow behind all of them. She hesitated a moment, feeling somewhat unsettled. The disappointment she felt at Griffin’s absence, even if it was temporary, surprised her.
Phoebe’s hand went to the bannister, and she took her first step upon the stairs, at the same moment the front door opened. Startled, Phoebe turned around with her heart in her throat.
With hat in hand, Griffin entered the house. He had not seen her yet. He handed his things to the footman. “Thank you, Clarkson. Have the other guests arrived?”
“Yes, Mr. Griffin. They have only just gone upstairs, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and saw her. His eyes widened, and his warm smile appeared. In three long strides Griffin was at her side, extending his hand to her. She took it without thinking, and he bowed over her bracelet as though she were a queen.
“Miss Kimball,” he said. “It seems my timing is quite perfect. I have caught you alone.”
Phoebe’s lips parted, and she looked up to see that everyone else had disappeared. Even the footman had gone, leaving her alone in the entry hall with Griffin. She looked back at him, but rather than feel startled at being alone with a man, relief made her laugh. “So you have, sir. If you have anything of a clandestine nature to reveal, now is the time to do so.”
His smile faltered, and Phoebe hastily spoke on. “Not that I think you are a secretive person, Griff—Mr. Fenwick. I only meant to jest.”
His congenial expression returned, though more subdued. “Griff. Hm. I rather like that. Are we acquainted well enough yet that I can insist you call me by that name and nothing else?” His voice was warm, but she could not call it more than friendly.
“Oh, I am afraid we have not known each other nearly long enough. Perhaps in a decade.” She attempted to keep the levity in her tone, though her heart raced. “And only if your wife does not mind.” Phoebe’s heart abruptly stopped, then everything above her shoulders went hot as she blushed. “I did not mean to suggest—that is—”
Griffin laughed, not unkindly, and offered her his arm. “It is only fair you should bungle a word or two, Miss Kimball, given how I have already had my turn at such a mistake.”
Though mortified, Phoebe took his arm. “I am somewhat out of sorts this evening, I suppose.” They started up the stairs, walking more slowly than necessary. Phoebe could not mind when it meant a few more moments to try to understand the man at her side. She did enjoy his company and simply being near him made her heart lighter.
“I am sorry to hear that. I hope you are not troubled by anything serious.” He sounded sincere, and when she looked at him from the side of her eye she saw his brow had drawn down, as though with real concern.
“Not troubled. Distracted, only. But now that you are here to keep me entertained, I will endeavor to be more focused.” She tightened her fingers about his arm a little, hoping to offer him her reassurance.
Griffin’s smile was fleeting. “Entertained. Yes, I suppose I am rather talented at doing that.” They made the landing and went through the open doors to the parlor before Phoebe could think what else to say to restore his cheer.
“Ah, there is Miss Kimball. And look, she has found our missing son.” Mr. Fenwick had a heartiness to him that brought a smile back to his son’s face, and Phoebe’s worry eased. Perhaps Griffin had private matters distracting him, too.
Chapter 11
Revealing Conversation
Though Griffin had looked forward to Phoebe’s company all the day long, her letter had thrown him off balance. To see her thoughts affected enough that she stumbled over her words to him on the stair actually concerned him. While he had attempted to put himself forward as a suitor gradually, with more caution than he normally exercised in any part of his life, he had also managed to create his own rival.
Given what Phoebe had said in her letter, and had implied in her desire to meet her “friend” at last, she had romantic interest in the anonymous writer.
What would she do when she discovered they were one and the same man?
“Mr. Kimball, I do hope you are treating our Caroline well. I must say, she appears even happier now than when you last visited us in Essex.” His mother smiled from her place at one end of the table, fondly taking in Caroline’s blush and grin.
“With good reason, Mrs. Fenwick,” Joseph Kimball said, laying his hand upon his wife’s. They sat most informally that evening, given the friendships between them. He had the same coloring as his sister, but quite a different structure. “Do tell them, my dear. I know you wish to
do so.”
Caroline’s blush deepened.
Griffin chuckled. “Come, Caroline. We must know what brings you such joy.” Perhaps they had purchased a town home of their own, or planned to host a ball, or—
“We are increasing the size of our family by one,” Caroline said, her eyes glowing with joy.
Fenwick’s mother gasped and then raised her glass. “To my dearest Caroline Kimball. You will be a most excellent mother.” Everyone raised their glasses, and after drinking to Caroline’s health, Griffin’s father added his own kind words.
“Your mother and father must be very pleased. This will be their first grandchild by you, of course, but how many have your brothers and sisters produced by now?”
Caroline laughed, but Griffin sunk back in his chair when his mother gave him a knowing glance. “There are six others to be cousins to our future child.”
Griffin turned to look at Phoebe only to find her staring at him, with a rather perplexed expression upon her face.
“Do you not like children, Mr. Fenwick?” she asked quietly.
Dash it all, her list. He quickly recovered himself. “I have a great fondness for them, actually. When Caroline’s nieces and nephews descend upon their grandparents, who are my country neighbors, you will remember, I am always quick to lead them in their games. I was only surprised, just then. Caroline is younger than I am by seven years. It is strange to think of her as a mother.”
Phoebe’s eyes lightened. “Ah, it is as I said before. You are a very old man. All of eight-and-twenty years, even though you are unfortunate in the number of birthdays you have enjoyed.”
Griffin laughed at last, relieved that she would jest with him. When she teased, there was a spark in her eyes he rather loved. The way her lips tipped upward when she spoke quickly, with wit, drew him in, too.
The conversation shifted, and Phoebe rejoined it with gusto. Her dark curls brushed across her cheek on occasion, and Griffin’s hand itched to brush them away so he might see her eyes better. The topic of conversation turned to books.
“I have only recently finished reading a novel by a lady author,” Mrs. Fenwick said, and Griffin stiffened. “My son encouraged me to read it, which surprised me. Griffin will read many a first chapter but only continue if the book is excellent, of course, so I knew he must have enjoyed it. What was that book called, Griffin?”
His throat had closed. His correspondence over the last three days with Phoebe had included mention of the same book of which his mother spoke.
Mrs. Fenwick tapped her finger upon the table as she thought. “Oh, yes. Sense and Sensibility. Isn’t that a lovely title?”
“Oh, I have read it, too. I finished the last volume only last week.” Phoebe turned to Griffin, her eyebrows high. “What did you think of the book, Mr. Fenwick? You must have enjoyed it to recommend it to your mother.”
Trapped. He had utterly trapped himself. What opinions could he give that the anonymous letter writer had not already shared? He looked to his mother, but found she watched him with a hopeful gleam in her eye. She wished for him to have this conversation with Phoebe on his own.
His words came out strangled. “I did enjoy it.” Everyone at the table now stared at him, waiting for more. Why could not a servant drop a platter or something else distracting occur? A hurricane, perhaps. “I found the plight of the sisters most compelling. And though I began the book with full sympathy for the younger sister—Marianne—at its end I had a great deal more respect for Elinor.”
His father and Joseph Kimball stared at him as though he had just announced himself bound for the Americas. Reading a book written by a lady might not suit most men, but the writing had been quite good. And Phoebe had recommended it. He had wanted, very much, to know what she liked and why.
Phoebe nodded, her gaze turning thoughtful. She must think it strange that he and her mysterious friend had read the same book. Or perhaps not. It had become a rather popular novel.
When she looked at him again, her eyes studied him. “I rather felt for Elinor during the whole of the novel. As practical as she was, the plans she tried to make, it must have been difficult to have everyone about her constantly undoing her careful work.”
“It is impossible to plan everything, though,” he said.
She lowered her chin and glanced away, her cheeks turning pink. “So I am learning.” She gave him such a look at that moment, her eyes warm and soft, her smile delicate and almost uncertain, that his heart twisted. He would give himself away if he lingered upon how she looked. His heart was hers for the taking.
“What else do you enjoy reading?” Griffin asked, desperate to change the topic from the novel they had written about in their notes. They were at a dinner table with his family and hers. It was not the time to stare at her like a besotted calf.
“Oh, I cannot think you and I have many more favorite books in common,” she demurred, lifting her fork with some haste. Perhaps she had sensed the danger, too.
Griffin relaxed. They both wished to leave the dangerous waters. The others at the table had continued on another topic of conversation, leaving the two of them to murmur quietly to each other. “I imagine we might. Most of my reading is quite frivolous, too.”
Phoebe’s fork fell from her hand to clatter upon the plate, then slid completely off onto her lap. She yelped and jumped to her feet, but the food upon the fork had already made a streak of color down her dress.
Griffin rose, mouth agape. He realized too late what he had done. Her letter.
“Of course, most of my reading is quite frivolous by scholarly standards.”
He had thought on it and responded as though she had spoken the words to him rather than written to the anonymous him. If she was not suspicious before, she certainly would be now. But perhaps not. Coincidences happened.
His mother stood too, napkin in hand. “Oh, dear girl. Here, let me help with that. Come, right this way.” She took Phoebe’s arm and led her from the dining room, obviously to tidy her up.
Just before the door closed upon them, Phoebe looked back, her eyes as wide and large as a full moon.
She knew.
“Most of my reading is quite frivolous, too.”
Phoebe had never admitted to having such habits, using such words, to anyone before she had written that letter. When Griffin had said that single word, frivolous, everything in her mind had come together. By the time his mother had finished helping her clear the stain, and then the damp, from her dress, Phoebe had a clear picture in her mind of what had happened.
Griffin had introduced her to the gambler, Mr. Milbourne, before understanding why she wished to meet him. As a favor to Caroline, and perhaps out of guilt for performing the introduction, he had written that first note. And he had been present when she spoke with Mr. Peter Carew, so he had seen the shift in her interest and had warned her away again. She had mentioned loving the theater in a letter, and then Griffin had invited her to see a play. He even dared write, anonymously, to tell her he had seen her present. She had shared a favorite book, and then Griffin had read it and given it to his mother to read, too.
That very day, she had written and asked to meet him, only for them to have dinner together. Griffin was her mysterious friend. He had to be. Everything aligned perfectly.
And I was too stupid to see it.
Mrs. Fenwick surveyed Phoebe’s gown again. “There we are. No one would ever know. Come, let us go back to the table. It is nearly time for dessert.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Phoebe followed her hostess as slowly as she could. What was she to say, or do, when she put eyes upon the man again?
What had he been thinking, writing her so many letters? Even putting forth his own name as a suitor! And to think she had been halfway in love with the letter writer, and certainly rather smitten by Griffin himself.
When she entered the dining room, she immediately lowered her eyes. What if she looked at him and saw laughter in his eyes? He had to know she had discovere
d the secret at last. Surely, he knew, and thought her a dull, foolish girl to have not realized it sooner. Perhaps he had even been laughing at her all along.
Pressure at the back of her eyes indicated that tears would come on, if she allowed it. But Phoebe pushed back the desire to cry.
“Is everything all right, Phoebe?” Joseph asked, his brotherly concern not as comforting as usual. He knew nothing of her plight. He could not help her.
Lowering herself into her seat, she looked across the table to her brother. “Yes, of course. Dear me, I do apologize for that interruption. I will not be so clumsy again.” She would not look at Griffin. Not for a thousand pounds did she want to meet his gaze and read his thoughts in his eyes. They sat so near, if he wanted, he could lean over and touch her, yet all she felt was his gaze upon her.
The conversation resumed around her, and if anyone wondered at her silence, they likely thought it an effect of her embarrassment.
She did not want to be right. If her charming friend with his witty letters that served to cheer her and distract her, and Griffin Fenwick who acted foolish and sincere at different moments, were the same man, what did that say about him? What did that mean for her growing feelings toward—well, either of them?
If Griffin had received her letter from that day, he knew of her desire to meet the letter-writer.
Phoebe winced when Mr. Fenwick spoke his son’s name.
“Griffin, were you not telling us about your plan to tour the old churches of London? It does not sound like an activity for one such as myself, but perhaps these younger people might be interested in joining you.” He looked pointedly in Phoebe’s direction.
“I do not intend to see them all at once,” Griffin’s pleasant tenor said from beside her, sounding as relaxed as ever. Oh, what a clever actor he was. “But I thought I would begin with All-Hallows-by-the-Tower. Situated that close to the oldest buildings in London, most of those I have talked to agree it is the oldest Christian church in the city.” He shifted in his chair, but Phoebe refused to look at him. “Then St. Helen’s and St. Giles.”
Letters for Phoebe (Promise of Forever After Book 1) Page 9
