by Rose Lerner
Sukey set down her basket and waited, and Phoebe sat in her father’s wing chair. She breathed in deeply, smelling the old leather and the faint, faint aroma of pipe smoke that still lingered. Maybe that was only her imagination—five years was a long time for the smell of smoke to linger. But she pressed back into the chair, ignoring the disapproving look on her mother’s face.
Mrs. Knight never sat in this chair. She kept it as a holy relic to be preserved, as she did all Mr. Knight’s things.
When he had been alive, she had complained that the chair was ugly and that she hated the smell of smoke, and if he would only think of his family instead of being selfishly concerned with his own pleasure, he would sell the chair and give up tobacco. Precious little good it did Mr. Knight to be worshiped now.
“Mama, I’m going to take care of all this. I’m marrying a man who wants to be made a freeman before the election, and my husband’s patron will pay for Helen to have the baby in secret. He’ll find a family for it.” She hated that in spite of everything, she was careful to pronounce “family” the way her mother liked. “It will all come right, and Helen will be able to go on with her life—”
“Go on with her life?” Mrs. Knight gaped at her, her face flushing bright red, the first sure sign of uncontrollable rage. “Go on with her life without her child? What woman could be happy, knowing she had done that? Knowing that somewhere she had a child being raised by strangers?”
As always, her mother’s condemnation sent pricks of shame sparking across her skin. Her stomach shrank to a hot-cold knot. The worst of it was the fear that her mother was right. What if Helen was never happy again? What if thoughts of her child tormented her forever?
But if Helen were unhappily married, or ruined in the town, that would hurt her even more surely. She had agreed to this plan. “What choice does she have? I won’t see her married off against her will!”
Mrs. Knight trembled. “You won’t see her? You aren’t her mother. And you’ll sell yourself to secure this disgusting bargain? How any daughter of mine could be so unnatural—”
Phoebe’s face burned. This was her most secret shame: her mother’s rage that so repelled her was also her own. Soon she would begin to shake, and things would come out of her mouth that she had vowed to keep forever buried. “What kind of natural woman puts her frightened child in the street?” Her voice was quavering already.
“That girl is a liar. I told her that since she lived under my roof she would obey me, and she said, fine as you please, that in that case she wouldn’t live here, and stormed out like a child!”
“She is a child!”
“A child who lifts her skirts for a man she must have been meeting in secret, for I never saw him. Who is the father, then? Did she tell you? Does she even know?”
Outrage choked Phoebe. She rose jerkily from her father’s chair, her heart pounding like a drum. “You—you—”
“Ma’am,” Sukey said desperately, “we’re going to be late to see Mr. Moon.”
Oh, how she hated to let Mrs. Knight have the last word—and such a last word. “We must be going,” she said with an effort. “I’ve obligations to see to.”
“Don’t walk away from me,” Mrs. Knight spat. “I’m your mother.”
“Can I choose to no longer be part of your family either?” Phoebe asked flippantly, and then froze in horror at what she’d said. She flinched even before her mother’s hand came up like a whip and slapped her, hard.
“You’ll speak to me with respect!”
Phoebe shut her mouth tight. I won’t speak to you at all then. Sukey yanked on her arm, pulling her sideways and forwards around her mother. “It was lovely to see you, Mrs. Knight.”
Mother and daughter glared at each other, and then Sukey tugged Phoebe out the door. The fresh air cleared her head a little, and she was able to go down the sidewalk, taking in huge lungfuls until the trembling in her limbs subsided.
“I hope I didn’t overstep, ma’am,” Sukey said at last, sounding worried.
Phoebe’s face burned again, this time with humiliation. She must have looked like a lunatic, or a child throwing a tantrum. Was this what awaited poor Mr. Moon? A shrieking harpy for a wife? “No, I—thank you,” she said in heartfelt tones. “If we’d stayed I would have said something awful.”
Sukey blinked. She didn’t understand that what Phoebe had said was cruel in a sort of general way; the things she had never, ever said were quite specific and far more hurtful to a woman, the foundation of whose life was a delusional memory of a happy marriage. “We’d better wait before going to the sweet shop,” Sukey said. “It will take a while for that to fade.”
Phoebe had forgotten her mother’s slap. She pressed a hand to her cheek. Her fingers felt freezing against it. “I told Mr. Moon nine o’clock, and we’re already late.”
Sukey waved a hand. “He’s busy. He won’t even notice.” That didn’t make Phoebe feel any better.
Sure enough, when they entered the Honey Moon a quarter of an hour later, Mr. Moon was not waiting anxiously. The shopgirl looked up from washing the windows. “Good morning, madam, may I get you something?” Sussex was thick in her voice, but she spoke carefully. The shop was neat and colorful and seemed the object of much care. She wouldn’t be marrying a sluggard, anyway.
“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Sparks. If you’d tell Mr. Moon I’m here and that I’m sorry I’m late—”
The girl, a pretty blonde with a round, fresh face, bit her lip. “He went out, ma’am. He said to tell you he’s that sorry, only you weren’t here and the milkwoman jostled us ten pounds of butter and he had to go and see about getting us some more.”
Phoebe felt deflated, and petty for feeling that way. “Of course a confectioner can’t do without butter.” She tried to smile. “Have you any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Half an hour?” the girl hazarded. “Only it might be longer if he has to go to the dairy in Warnham. If you’d clap down and wait, I’ll bring you a slavven of cake.”
Helen was waiting at home for her clothes, and Phoebe had a dozen chores she ought to be doing and poor Ann’s story to finish for the Girl’s Companion. “What’s your name?” she asked. After all, if she married Mr. Moon, she would be the girl’s employer too.
“Betsy, ma’am.”
“Well, Betsy, please tell Mr. Moon that I understand completely, but I can’t wait. Is there a time in the afternoon that isn’t usually as busy? I could try to come round again.”
Betsy glanced ruefully about the empty shop, but she said, “There’s generally a lull abouten three, ma’am. He’s baked something wonderful for you, only he told me to hold it clutch. He wants to give it to you himself, to see how you like it.”
“Are you wanting to leave the books for him, ma’am?” Sukey murmured.
There was no real reason not to. But it didn’t feel safe, leaving a stack of her precious books in some corner of the kitchen or behind the counter to be forgotten. And Mr. Moon hadn’t wanted to give her his cake by proxy, either. She shook her head, offering, “I’ll carry them home.” Sukey hesitated, then handed them over.
By the time they passed the steps of the circulating library, only a few hundred feet up the gently sloping street, the basket had already become unbearably awkward and heavy. She ought not to have made Sukey carry it all morning.
Jack was coming down the steps as they passed. She was glad to see him; they hadn’t spoken since their strange conversation Monday. Besides, if she asked him to walk her home, he would perforce offer to carry her basket. “Jack!” she hailed him. “There must be even less happening in Sleepy St. Lemeston than usual, if you have so much time for reading.”
He gave her a spooked look. “What are you doing here? Helen doesn’t work today.”
It had been a difficult morning. It would have been nice if Jack had been happy to see her. “This is the main street of a small town,” she reminded him sharply.
He glanced back at the door of the lib
rary anxiously. “Don’t talk so loudly.”
Phoebe had a voice that carried, and her father had been hard of hearing. It had been Mrs. Knight’s constant complaint that they embarrassed her with their vulgar shouting.
On another morning Phoebe would have tried to get to the bottom of Jack’s difficulties. Today, when Nicholas Dymond came out of the Lost Bell across the street and his face positively lit up when he saw her, she hissed at Jack, “I won’t talk at all, thanks,” and turned to Mr. Dymond with the best smile she could manage. It was better than she had thought it would be.
“Mrs. Sparks!” he said. “I thought I heard your voice.”
Phoebe felt her face fall. “From inside the inn?” Jack was walking away by this time, but she heard him laugh behind her, and Sukey snickered.
Mr. Dymond squinted at her. “Does this question have any particular significance?”
She shrugged, her arms slipping on the hamper. She rested it briefly on her hip to secure her grip.
There was a pause. “May I carry that for you?”
“Can you?” She didn’t see how he could, with his cane. It was too large to fit under an arm.
He frowned. “I’m not a cripple, Mrs. Sparks.”
There was a cough behind them. Phoebe turned—and saw, to her dismay, crippled Miss Jessop being settled in her chair.
“Would you like me to carry your basket, Mrs. Sparks?” the young woman asked, her gray eyes wide and innocent. “It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to hold it on my lap while Jeffrey wheels me along.”
Mr. Dymond closed his eyes tightly for a moment and sighed. “I beg your pardon,” he told Miss Jessop. “The truth is, it would be very difficult for me to carry Mrs. Sparks’s basket, and it is even more difficult for me to admit it. I hope you will forgive my really unforgivable choice of words.”
Miss Jessop raised her eyebrows and smiled at him. “I can forgive anything to a man who apologizes so well.”
His blue eyes glinted wickedly. “Anything?” Phoebe felt suddenly jealous of poor Miss Jessop, who was very pretty despite her thin frame and carroty hair.
The young woman’s pale cheeks turned pink, but she answered without hesitation, “Anything but the cruelty of not allowing Mrs. Sparks to introduce you.” Phoebe felt even more jealous. She had a certain talent for sarcasm, but archness was beyond her.
Of course, Miss Jessop was a gentlewoman and her father’s hostess. She had probably been trained in the social graces by governesses of higher social station than Phoebe.
“Miss Jessop, may I present Mr. Nicholas Dymond,” Phoebe said blandly. “He is in town to help his brother with the election.”
Miss Jessop’s eyes widened. Glancing up and down the street, she sighed. “Alas, I suppose I must add being an Orange-and-Purple to the list of things I cannot forgive. I’d better go before someone tells my father we were speaking.” She turned to Phoebe. “Unless you do need help with your basket.”
“No, thank you. It isn’t very heavy. But it was kind of you to offer.”
Miss Jessop’s gray eyes glinted warmly. “I am always kind to people I want to be friends with. We must talk some other time.”
Phoebe blinked. “I—yes, we must.” She hoped she didn’t sound as startled as she felt. “Some other time.” It occurred to her belatedly that Mr. Jessop was said to dote on his daughter, and that he had the ear of the Lively St. Lemeston Tories. If she could win over Miss Jessop, it might mean something for Helen if the time came when she needed to sell them her vote.
“I would love to,” she said more enthusiastically. “You must—” She was about to invite Miss Jessop to her home, but remembered the stairs and changed tack. “Perhaps we could meet at the Honey Moon one day. I hear they have splendid sweets.”
“What a lovely notion,” Miss Jessop said eagerly. “Perhaps tomorrow morning?”
Phoebe had planned to spend the following morning writing, after her meeting with Mr. Moon. “Of course. Is half past nine too early?”
Miss Jessop looked as if she rather thought it was, but she said, “Not at all, Jeffrey will bring me.”
Phoebe turned to smile at Jeffrey and realized he was ogling her bosom.
On a large scale, Phoebe believed firmly that the passage of time brought progress and improvements of all sorts. But sometimes in the short term—this morning for example—it seemed to bring only a succession of ever greater indignities. She waved as cheerily as she could at Miss Jessop as Jeffrey wheeled her away.
“I thought you would still be at Mr. Moon’s,” Mr. Dymond said. “Did it not go well?”
“He wasn’t there.” Mr. Dymond frowned, and she hastened to add, “Their butter wasn’t delivered and he had to go looking for more. I understood.”
His eyes stayed on her face. “You really didn’t mind? You look a bit frazzled.”
She tried to put a hand up to her hair without losing her grip on the basket. “Do I?”
He smiled, that warm curve that somehow made his honey-colored hair seem brighter, and plucked something out of her hair.
It was a dead leaf. The heat that flooded her face was half embarrassment and half simple lust. He had touched her hair.
He did it again, reaching out to push a pin in more firmly. This time, his fingers lingered, smoothing what she hoped were only a few errant strands. The heat spread. Meeting his eyes from this close felt suddenly intimate. She swallowed, lips parting breathlessly, and his eyes dropped to her mouth.
Sukey pinched her. Phoebe jumped, and Mr. Dymond let his hand fall, smiling so naturally Phoebe was left to wonder if she’d imagined the desire in his eyes.
It was foolish to like him this much, and yet—women must react this way to him all the time. It was natural and harmless.
It would be harmless if she could avoid standing in the middle of the main street gazing into his eyes, anyway. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said. “You only look as if you’ve had a trying morning. I’ve had a very calm one full of toast and marmalade, so you can tell me all about it without fear of oversetting me.”
She hesitated. Her arms were tired, and ordinarily being asked if something was wrong made her irritable and closemouthed. Yet here she was dying to confide in Mr. Dymond.
Sukey elbowed her encouragingly. “I don’t want to keep you standing,” Phoebe said. “Is your leg—?”
His forehead creased for a moment. Evidently he didn’t like to be asked if something was wrong either. He smiled less warmly than before. “Keeping it in one position is the worst. I’ll walk you to your door.”
As they went, Phoebe’s feet felt like lead. “I promised my sister I would get her clothes from our mother’s house, but I couldn’t. And now I’ve got to go in and tell her, and she hates not being neat, and wearing clothes that don’t fit—” Her voice wavered.
Luckily Mr. Dymond was watching where to place his feet on the clinkers that paved this part of town and didn’t look at her. “Why couldn’t you?”
It was too humiliating.
“She had a row with her mum,” Sukey said finally. Phoebe wished she could sink through the ground and disappear.
But Mr. Dymond frowned in instant concern. “A bad one?”
Mutely, she nodded.
“About your sister?”
“She said Helen had chosen not to be part of our family any longer.” She could feel Sukey’s skepticism like a palpable thing: You aren’t telling him what you said.
His expression darkened. “Did she mean it?”
“Probably not. But I—I got so angry with her, and now I don’t have Helen’s clothes.” It all pressed in on her, an angry weight on her chest. She was the only family Helen had left. Soon her sister would grow big and have to leave her employment, and it would be up to Phoebe to support them both. She didn’t have money for new clothes and she didn’t have time to deal with this, she had to get poor Ann’s story done and send it to London—
But she didn’t. All she had
to do was marry. The weight on her chest grew until her heart flailed desperately to free itself, pounding against her ribs.
“We’ll get the clothes,” Mr. Dymond said.
She darted a glance at him. “What?”
“Do you still have a key to the house?”
She nodded.
“And the servants?”
He’d seen her tiny lodgings. After that, it shouldn’t embarrass her to admit that her mother didn’t keep a full staff. But it did. “She has a girl come in most mornings. Not today, though. Are you suggesting burglary?”
His eyes twinkled. “I’ll invite her to dine with me. You can fetch the clothes while she’s out.”
“You—you’d do that?”
He smiled. “She isn’t my mother. She won’t bother me.”
It was dreadful to contemplate Mr. Dymond having dinner with her mother. What would Mrs. Knight say? What would she tell him about Phoebe? Would he pity her? Or worst of all, would Mrs. Knight charm him as she could sometimes unexpectedly do, so he’d think Phoebe an ungrateful, unnatural child?
She had promised Helen. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“Ask for her advice. Say you’ve heard many Orange-and-Purples speak of my father with respect. She loves that.”
“I have heard many Orange-and-Purples speak of your father with respect,” he said quietly.
Her eyes stung. “Everybody adored him.” Except my mother.
He pulled a gleaming gold watch from his pocket. Any further confidences died in her throat; that watch would feed her and Helen for years. “It’s half past ten now,” he said. “By half past eleven she’ll be out of the house.”
Chapter Six
Phoebe Sparks’s childhood home was a low brick townhouse with a roof of rippled Sussex stone, sheltered on one side by a spindle tree. Nick stopped to pick a few pinkish-gold leaves.
Either Mr. Knight’s practice had not been a lucrative one, or he had not been wise with money. Despite its welcoming appearance, the house was small compared to its neighbors, and the man had left his widow and daughter with only enough for a maid “most mornings”—some of whose wages might be paid by Mrs. Sparks, for all he knew.
