by Lisa Kleypas
“I would hardly classify you and the children as ‘remnants.’” Edward reached out and guided her face to his. “I’ve always been fond of you, Phoebe. But now it’s turned into something more.”
Don’t compare, Phoebe commanded herself as she went upstairs. Don’t.
But she couldn’t help it.
Edward had just given her several long and lingering kisses, and truth be told, it had been pleasurable. His lips had been soft and warm, stroking over hers repeatedly, his breath sweet as it mingled with hers. But she had felt nothing close to the dizzying excitement of West Ravenel’s mouth consuming hers, the rough urgency of his embrace. No matter how attractive she might find Edward, he would never leave her shaken with desire, never seduce her into some trembling and mindless version of herself.
It wasn’t a fair comparison. Edward was a perfect gentleman, well-mannered and reserved by nature. West Ravenel, on the other hand, had been raised with few constraints, with the result that he spoke and acted more freely than another man of his class would. He was a full-blooded, unpredictable male: part hero, part scoundrel.
He was a mistake she couldn’t afford to make.
Suffused with frustration and longing, Phoebe went to the tiny private parlor where her mother-in-law spent the greater part of each day. The door was ajar. After tapping gently on the jamb and receiving no response, she went inside.
The walls had been covered in deep plum paper, the furniture upholstered in heavy burgundies and browns. Thick brocade curtains had been drawn against the daylight, admitting just enough illumination to reveal Georgiana seated by the window.
The dowager was having tea at a miniature table. She was so still that she might have been a carved marble figure in a mausoleum. The only movement was a continuous curl of steam rising from the porcelain cup in front of her.
Georgiana’s frame had shrunk to diminutive proportions since Henry’s death. Grief had inscribed its history on her face like written lines on parchment. Dressed in twilled black silk with old-fashioned voluminous skirts piled around her, she resembled a finch huddled in its nest.
“Georgiana,” Phoebe asked softly, almost remorsefully, “has my redecorating driven you out of the house? I’ve kept my promise not to touch the upstairs floors.”
“I shouldn’t have consented to any changes at all. It no longer resembles the home Henry grew up in.”
“I’m sorry. But as I told you, it’s not good for Justin and Stephen to be raised in dark rooms. They need light and air, and cheerful surroundings.” And so do you, she thought, contemplating the elderly woman’s chalky pallor with concern.
“They should stay in the nursery. The downstairs rooms are for adult company, not romping children.”
“I can’t confine the boys to the nursery. This is their home too.”
“The child of bygone days was seldom seen and never heard. Now it seems a child must be seen and heard everywhere, and at all hours.”
In Georgiana’s opinion, children must be strictly managed and kept within controlled boundaries. To her frustration, she had never been able to corral her own son’s irrepressible spirit or follow the twists and turns of his mind. One of Henry’s first decisions after inheriting the estate had been to turn a formal courtyard into a topiary garden filled with animal shapes. It was undignified, she had complained, and far too expensive to maintain. “You turned an elegant courtyard into something perfectly outlandish,” she had said for years afterward.
“Perfectly outlandish,” Henry had always replied, with great satisfaction.
Phoebe knew the sight of Justin must stir up distant memories for the dowager. He was sturdier and more athletic than Henry had been, with none of the delicacy or shyness. But the impish gleam in his eyes and the sweetness of his smile were the same.
“They’re too noisy, your boys,” Georgiana said bitterly. “All this wild running about and shouting . . . the constant uproar hurts my ears. It hurts.”
Realizing what was causing Georgiana such pain, Phoebe replied gently, “Perhaps staying in a mild seaside climate is a wise idea. All the sun and salt air . . . I think it will be a tonic. Edward said you’re leaving quite soon. Is there something I can do to help?”
“You might start thinking about your sons’ welfare. No man would be a better father to them than Edward. It would be best for everyone if you married him.”
Phoebe blinked and stiffened. “I’m not convinced it would be best for me.”
Georgiana made a flutter with one thin hand, as if waving away a gnat. “Don’t be a child, Phoebe. You’ve reached the time in life when there is more to consider than your own feelings.”
It was perhaps a good thing that Phoebe was temporarily speechless. As she reined in her temper with effort, she reminded herself that of the five children to whom Georgiana had given birth, Henry had been the only one to survive into adulthood, and now he too was gone.
“You needn’t instruct me to think about my children’s welfare,” Phoebe said quietly. “I’ve always put them first, and always will. As for me being a child . . . I’m afraid I’m not nearly enough like one.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Children are optimistic. They have a natural sense of adventure. To them, the world has no limitations, only possibilities. Henry was always a bit childlike in that way—he never became disenchanted with life. That was what I loved most about him.”
“If you loved Henry, you will honor his wishes. He wanted Edward to have charge of his family and estate.”
“Henry wanted to make sure our future would be in capable hands. But it already is.”
“Yes. Edward’s.”
“No, mine. I’ll learn everything I need to know about managing this estate. I’ll hire people to help me if necessary. I’ll have this place thriving. I don’t need a husband to do it for me. If I marry again, it will be to a man of my choosing, in my own time. I can’t promise it will be Edward. I’ve changed during the past two years, but so far, he doesn’t see me for who I am, only who I was. For that matter, he doesn’t see how the world has changed—he ignores the realities he doesn’t like. How can I trust him with our future?”
Georgiana regarded her bitterly. “Edward is not the one who is ignoring reality. How can you imagine yourself capable of running this estate?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Women aren’t capable of leadership. Our intelligence is no less than men’s, but it is shaped for the purpose of motherhood. We’re clever enough to operate the sewing machine, but not to have invented it. If you asked the opinions of a thousand people whether they would trust you or Edward to make decisions for the estate, whom do you think they would choose?”
“I’m not going to ask a thousand people for their opinions,” Phoebe said evenly. “Only one opinion is required, and it happens to be mine.” She went to the doorway and paused, unable to resist adding, “That’s leadership.”
And she left the dowager fuming in silence.
Chapter 21
On the morning of Georgiana’s departure, Phoebe made certain her sons were dressed in their best clothes to see her off in style. Justin wore a pair of black serge short trousers and a linen shirt with a sailor collar, while Stephen was in a linen smock with a matching sailor collar. The three of them waited in the entrance hall with the dowager, while Edward directed a pair of footmen to load the last of the trunks and valises on the carriage waiting outside.
“Grandmother,” Justin said, holding out a gift for her, “this is for you to read on the boat.” It was a book of pictures he’d drawn and painted. Phoebe had stitched the pages together and helped him spell out words to accompany the illustrations. “Stephen can’t draw yet,” Justin continued, “but I traced his hand on one of the pages.” He paused before adding helpfully, “It’s sticky because of the strawberry jam on his fingers.”
Georgiana took the gift and looked into the boy’s sweetly earnest face for a long moment. “You may kiss me good-bye, child,” she said, and
bent to receive Justin’s obliging peck on the cheek.
Although Phoebe tried to nudge Stephen forward, he resisted and clung to her skirts. She picked him up and held him on her hip. “I hope your journey abroad will be wonderful, Mother.”
Georgiana gave her a wry glance. “Try not to paint the house pink in my absence.”
Recognizing the attempt at humor as a peace overture, Phoebe smiled. “I won’t.”
She felt Edward’s gentle touch at her elbow. “Good-bye, my dear.”
Turning toward him, Phoebe gave him both her hands. “Safe and happy travels, Edward.”
Lifting her hands, he kissed the backs of them gently. “Don’t hesitate to call on my family if there’s anything you need. They’re anxious to be of service.” He hesitated, looking sheepish. “I forgot the account ledgers again.”
“No need to worry,” Phoebe assured him blandly. “I knew you were busy with preparations for the trip.” She didn’t think it necessary to mention that as soon as he and Georgiana left, she was going to retrieve the books herself.
She took the children out to the front portico, while Edward helped Georgiana into the carriage. The dowager had to have her lap blanket arranged just so. The level of the window curtains had to be adjusted meticulously. An eternity seemed to pass until the team of matched bays finally drew the vehicle away, its iron-rimmed wheels crunching on the graveled drive. Phoebe and Justin waved cheerfully at the departing carriage, while Stephen waggled his fingers. At last, the vehicle passed a copse of trees and disappeared.
Filled with elation, Phoebe lowered Stephen to the ground and spread a flurry of kisses over his face, making him chortle.
Justin crowded against them and received the same treatment, giggling as the storm of kisses engulfed him. “Why are you so happy, Mama?”
“Because now we’re free to do anything we want, with no one to complain or say we can’t.” It was such a relief to have both Edward and Georgiana gone. More than a relief. It was glorious.
“What are we going to do?” Justin asked.
Phoebe smiled into her children’s expectant faces. “Shall we go on a picnic today?”
“Oh, yes, let’s do that!” Justin enthused, and Stephen chimed in, “Mama, picnic!”
“I’ll tell Cook to pack a nice big basket for us. We’ll take Nanny and Ernestine, too. Now, let’s go upstairs, so you can change out of these stiff clothes into your play suits. I have an errand in town to take care of, and after that we’ll have our picnic lunch in your Papa’s topiary garden.”
To her surprise, Justin wrinkled his nose and asked, “Do we have to have it there?”
“No, but . . . don’t you like the topiaries?”
Justin shook his head. “Nanny says they used to be shaped like animals. But now they all look like turnips.”
“Oh, dear. I suppose they’re overgrown. I’ll speak to the gardener.” Phoebe stood and took their hands in hers. “Come, you two. A new day has begun.”
After taking the children up to the nursery, Phoebe asked for her carriage to be brought around, and told the butler she would need two footmen to accompany her to town, as she would be returning with heavy parcels.
The day was pleasant and sunny, with flowering leafless crocus mantling the roadside on the way to town. However, Phoebe took little notice of the scenery during the ride to the Larson offices. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts. It would be a relief to have all the information she needed to start making accurate assessments of the home farm and all the leaseholds. But she also dreaded what the account books would reveal.
Despite Edward’s reassurances, Phoebe didn’t believe the tenants and leaseholds were doing nearly as well as he’d claimed. Every time she rode out in the company of a footman to take a look at the estate leaseholds, she saw a multitude of problems with her own eyes. Most of the steadings and structures on the tenant farms were badly in need of repair. The narrow, unfinished estate roads couldn’t begin to accommodate the wheels of heavy agricultural machinery. She had seen pools of standing water in poorly drained fields, and sparse-looking crops. Even during haymaking season, one of the busiest times of the year, a listless, defeated feeling seemed to drift over the Clare lands.
The carriage passed picturesque greens, and streets lined with timber-framed shops and houses. After entering a square of symmetrical buildings faced with stucco and fronted with fluted columns, the vehicle stopped in front of the handsome brass-plated door of the Larson offices.
Once inside, Phoebe was obliged to wait only for a minute before Edward’s father, Frederick, came out to greet her. He was tall and stout, his face square, the upper lip canopied by a handsome silver mustache with deftly waxed tips. As an established member of the Essex squirearchy, Frederick was a creature of habit who liked Sunday roast and his pipe after dinner, foxhunting in the winter, and croquet in the summer. At his insistence, traditions were maintained in the Larson household with the fervor of religious belief. Frederick hated anything intellectual or foreign, and he especially disliked newfangled inventions that had accelerated the pace of life, such as the telegraph or railway.
Phoebe had always gotten on well with the old gentleman, who was impressed by her father’s title and connections. Since Frederick hoped to have her as a daughter-in-law someday, she was fairly certain he wouldn’t risk antagonizing her by withholding the account ledgers.
“Uncle Frederick!” Phoebe exclaimed cheerfully. “I’ve surprised you, haven’t I?”
“My dear niece! A most welcome surprise this is.” He guided her into his private office, lined with black walnut cabinets and shelves, and sat her in a leather upholstered chair.
After Phoebe had explained the reason for her visit, Frederick seemed flummoxed by her desire to collect the Clare estate account books. “Phoebe, complex accounting is a strain to the female mind. If you tried to read one of those ledgers, you would soon have a headache.”
“I keep the household account books and they don’t give me headaches,” she pointed out.
“Ah, but household expenses are in the feminine realm. Business accounting pertains to matters in the masculine realm, outside the home.”
Phoebe had to bite her lip to keep from asking if the rules of mathematics changed when one ventured past the front door. Instead, she said, “Uncle, the empty shelves in the study at Clare Manor look so bereft. It seems only right and proper for the account ledgers to be kept there, as they always have been.” She paused delicately. “One hates to break with decades, if not centuries, of tradition.”
As she had hoped, that argument held more sway with him than anything else.
“Tradition is the thing,” Frederick agreed heartily, and thought for a few moments. “I suppose it would do no harm to let the books reside on their old shelves at Clare Manor.”
Seizing on a sudden inspiration, Phoebe said, “It would also oblige Edward to visit me more often, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed it would,” he exclaimed. “My son could attend to the account books at Clare Manor, and enjoy your company at the same time. Two birds—I rather wonder that he hadn’t thought of it yet. How slow-witted young men are nowadays! It’s settled, then. Shall my clerks convey the ledgers out to your carriage?”
“My footmen can do it. Thank you, Uncle.”
Eager to leave, Phoebe began to edge toward the door of his office. However, it appeared she would not escape without additional conversation.
“How are your young lads?” Frederick asked.
“Quite well. It will take some time for them to adjust fully to their new life in Essex.”
“I expect so. I have concerns about what might become of growing boys with no paternal figure in the house. A father’s influence cannot be too highly estimated.”
“I’m concerned about that as well,” Phoebe admitted. “However, I’m not yet ready to marry again.”
“There are times in life, my dear, when one must set emotion aside and view the situation from a rati
onal perspective.”
“My reasons are quite rational—”
“As you know,” he continued, “my Edward is every inch of him a gentleman. An ornament to his class. His qualities have often been remarked on. Many a marriage-minded young woman has set her cap for him—I wouldn’t expect him to stay on the market forever.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
“It would be a great pity for you to realize too late what a treasure you might have had in Edward. As the captain of your family’s ship, he would steer a steady course. There would never be surprises with him. No arguments, no unconventional ideas. You would live in perfect serenity.”
Yes, Phoebe thought, that’s exactly the problem.
On the ride back to Clare Manor, Phoebe sorted through the cumbersome pile of ledgers on the seat beside her until she found one with yearly statements of the estate’s profits and losses. After hefting it onto her lap, she began to page through it slowly.
To her dismay, the information was laid out very differently from the ledgers West Ravenel had shown her. A frown worked across her brow. Was the word “liability” used interchangeably with “debt,” or did they mean different things in this system of bookkeeping? Did “capital” refer only to property, or did it include cash? She didn’t know how Henry or Edward had defined such terms, and to make matters worse, the pages were littered with acronyms.
“I need a Rosetta stone to translate all of this,” Phoebe muttered. A sinking feeling came over her as she looked through another ledger, the crop book. Mystifyingly, some of the tenant farmers’ yields had been reported four times, and each number was different.
As the carriage continued along the flint-graveled road, Phoebe considered what to do. She could ask the estate’s land manager, Mr. Patch, to answer some of her questions, but he was quite old and infirm, and a conversation lasting more than a few minutes would exhaust him.
There was always the option of waiting for Edward to return, but she didn’t want to do that, especially since he believed she shouldn’t be bothering with accounting in the first place. And in light of the way she’d commandeered the estate ledgers and brought them home herself, Edward would probably be just a bit smug, and one could hardly blame him.
