Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton
Chapter 11
Phoebe and Hannah visited nine families and interviewed seventeen girls. While the culling process was easier than either of them had anticipated, it wore them out. Mr. Hughes had driven them in his cart, and upon their return to the vicarage, Phoebe was glad to see Sundance waiting for her, but Paul was nowhere to be found.
“Phoebe, you shouldn’t go alone,” Hannah said. “Surely, Mr. Hughes can take you.”
“I’d be happy to assist, Miss Jamison,” the vicar said.
“Thank you, but no. If I hurry, I can beat the storm.” Phoebe was anxious to be on her way, as the clouds no longer wafted past. They now sat jammed together, a pile of white-gray down suffocating the blue from the sky. Rain was imminent. The breeze transformed to a galloping wind, and Phoebe’s skirts whipped around her ankles as she led Sundance to a nearby rock so she might assume her saddle.
“I am not concerned about the rain,” Hannah said. “You musn’t go alone.” She held one hand on her bonnet to keep it in place. “Come with me to Greendale. We can visit as we wait for the storm to pass.”
“I promise I will be well, Hannah.” Phoebe situated herself atop Sundance’s back and took the reins as her horse pawed the ground. “Primly Park is not so very far, and Sundance is anxious to run. I shall be home in no time.”
Hannah’s frown remained fixed, her brow pulled with concern, but she stepped back.
“Thank you, Mr. Hughes, Mrs. Hughes,” Phoebe said. She guided Sundance down the path, quickly moving into a trot and joining the wider road. A gust dropped down through the trees, and Phoebe had to place one hand on her hat for fear it would be blown away. The rain began then, gentle for only a moment before the larger, heavier drops began their onslaught.
Skewed visibility hindered Sundance’s speed. They plodded slowly along. The road quickly saturated. Mud flung from Sundance’s hooves, and it became apparent that the storm intended to stay for a while. Phoebe had not dressed for rain. Her green riding habit absorbed the water, and rivulets of rain ran down her back and the side of her face. Primly Park remained a good distance away, a twenty-five-minute ride on a cloudless day, but Ravencrest was near—only a mile off the juncture Phoebe could now see approaching. A tremor of chill ran from her shoulders to her ankles. There was nothing for it; she would stop at Ravencrest.
She was certain Mr. Everly would receive her, although she hardly deserved his kindness. Her rude behavior at the vicarage had not been intentional. Or perhaps it had. Phoebe simply could not reconcile her emotions and had decided Mr. Everly was to blame. He praised her, not with frivolous tosh but with sincerity. He noticed her actions, he had considered her character, and he paid her compliments she received from no one else. Compliments that, until he’d uttered the words, she never realized she had sought. His words, Mr. Everly’s words, had pierced her heart. Then he had to go and mention the Masons. Mr. Mason was the man she wanted to take notice of her. Why could Mr. Mason not compliment her kindness or her free spirit?
Phoebe brushed the water from her face and stopped Sundance at the front doors of Ravencrest. She looked about for a stablehand or a footman, any able body who could assist her, but no one appeared.
The door to the house finally opened, and the bald head of Mr. Gladstone peeked around the large wooden door. “Ho there!” he hollered through the rain. “What can I do for you?”
Phoebe waited for him to come nearer, to assist her down or to manage Sundance. Instead, he hid himself behind the great door, only peeking the shiny dome of his head into the opening. Patience abandoned her. “A bit of help, perhaps,” she shouted. Mr. Gladstone remained in his enclosure.
“’Tis little wonder Mr. Everly hired Mr. Thurston,” Phoebe said to herself. She huffed and unwrapped her leg from the high pommel, prepared to leap from the saddle.
“Miss Jamison!” Mr. Everly ran out the door of Ravencrest, jumping over the bottom two steps. He wore only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat and hurried to Phoebe’s aid. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and when he set her on the ground, her foot sank into the mud and a sting shot through her ankle, throwing her off-balance.
Mr. Everly wrapped his arm around her back and steadied her. “Gladstone!” he hollered. “Come see to this horse!” He did not wait to see if the man emerged. He turned his attention to Phoebe. “Are you able to walk?” he asked.
She nodded, and water flew off the brim of her bonnet. “I can manage,” she said.
Mr. Everly did not remove his arm but moved a step toward the house. Phoebe moved with him. The heel of her boot slipped in the slick mud, jerking her forward. Without a word, Mr. Everly scooped her into his arms. Phoebe cried out in surprise while her hands naturally fell to Mr. Everly’s shoulders. The rain had saturated his linen shirt, making the fabric nearly translucent. She meant to protest, to insist he put her down, but all she could do was stare at his muscled arms.
When they reached the entryway, Mr. Gladstone gave Mr. Everly a wide berth. Then he slapped his hat onto his head and walked out to tend Sundance. Mr. Everly climbed to the first floor, turned down a short corridor, and carried Phoebe into his study.
“The fire is warmest in here. We’ve not lit any beyond the bedchambers and the kitchen.” He gently lowered Phoebe to a green-striped sofa. “We weren’t expecting company.” His smile told her he did not mind the intrusion.
“The clouds burst, and I hoped I might wait out the storm.” Phoebe’s hands remained on his shoulders until his brow lifted in question. She jerked her fingers away and turned her attention to the room. The open curtains flooded the room with the muted gray of the pressing storm. The space was large, considering it served as a study. Beyond the oak desk and striped sofa were four armchairs, several small tables, a glass-doored cabinet filled with trinkets, two tall bookcases, and a small writing desk. Everything sat primly atop a dull-green woven rug.
Phoebe peeled off her wet gloves, then untied the ribbons at her chin and pulled off her bonnet. Strands of her hair hung all about her face. She used a single finger to brush them aside, then stood and looked about for a place to set her things.
“Allow me.” Mr. Everly stepped forward, took Phoebe’s hat and gloves, and moved them to a small table under one of the windows. Phoebe walked to the fireplace, and Mr. Everly returned and stood before her. “What happened to your escort?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Phoebe said as she rubbed her hands together.
“You are traveling on your own?” Mr. Everly’s disapproval was evident.
Phoebe sighed and extended her hands toward the flame. “I hoped to outrun the storm.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Everly watched her, and Phoebe wondered if he’d tattle to Geoffrey. “You’ve hurt your ankle. Shall I call for a doctor?” Mr. Everly asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” Phoebe said. She reached down and began to rub her foot. “The soreness will subside shortly.”
“I should send word to your brothers. They will be worried.” Mr. Everly pulled a blanket off the back of a chair. He opened the corners, then shook it out. Phoebe stood still while he wrapped it around her shoulders.
“They likely won’t realize my absence until suppertime.” Phoebe pulled the blanket tight. Her teeth chattered, and Mr. Everly tossed two more logs onto the fire.
Mrs. Gladstone announced her presence and stepped into the room. “I thought you might like something warm.” She lifted a tray filled with tea and biscuits, then placed it on an end table.
Mr. Everly placed his hand on Phoebe’s elbow and led her back to the sofa. Phoebe sat and looking longingly at the steaming drink, but her hands shook, and she did not trust herself to pour the tea without spilling it. “Allow me.” Mrs. Gladstone poured half a cup and carefully set it in Phoebe’s grasp. “Your gown is soaked, Miss Jamison. Mine are likely to drown you, but you’d be dry. I would be happy to fetch one, if you’d like.”
Phoebe’s dripping clothing was surely wreaking havoc on Mr. Everly’s couch. And dry clothing would help her warm so she could gather her scattered thoughts. She dipped her head. “That is very kind of you. Thank you.”
Mrs. Gladstone patted Phoebe’s hand and left to retrieve the gown. Phoebe sipped the tea, then looked up. Mr. Everly leaned against his desk at the opposite wall. His hair hung loose from its tie, and his arms were crossed, drawing her attention back to the definition of his muscles. He said nothing, so Phoebe forced her eyes to meet his. “I apologize for causing such an inconvenience,” she said.
“Not at all.” Mr. Everly smiled. “Allow me to apologize for the negligence of my staff.”
Phoebe shrugged and took another sip of the warm drink. “Mrs. Gladstone has offered one of her gowns. I shall be well once I am dry.” Another shiver ran through her. She set the teacup on the tray and stood and walked back to the fire. She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders.
“I think we should send word of your safety to Primly Park,” Mr. Everly repeated. “Your brothers are bound to worry, and with a kidnapper on the loose, they will want to know where you are.”
Phoebe turned to face him. She attempted a serious countenance, but her playful smile won out. “Do you think Mr. Gladstone would take a note?” She sputtered a laugh and covered it with her hand.
Mr. Everly laughed as well. He shook his head, then ran his hands through his wet hair and groaned. “You’ve now witnessed my absolute failure to properly manage my estate.” His hands moved to his hips. “I may have to keep you here so you won’t spread my inadequacies through all of Somerset.”
“I would never limit myself to Somerset. Not when all of England could be privy to your secret.” Phoebe smiled.
“Ah, La Belle et la Bête it shall be. You’ve given me little choice.” Mr. Everly grinned.
“I would rather like to play the part of the beast,” Phoebe said. “Then I can yell and stomp and curse as I wish.”
“Curse?” Mr. Everly laughed.
Phoebe nodded emphatically. “I have little excuse otherwise.”
Mr. Everly moved from his place at the desk and came to stand beside her. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”
“Why ever not?” Phoebe extended her hands to the fire. She needed an excuse for the sudden warmth consuming her. The blanket slipped loose from her shoulders. “I can curse as well as any man of my acquaintance.”
“That I do not doubt.” Mr. Everly reached forward and adjusted the blanket around Phoebe’s back. His hands remained close to her chin. He extended his thumb and brushed along her jaw. “But only a fool would ever mistake you for a beast when you are an obvious beauty.”
Phoebe’s breath stalled. Mr. Everly’s touch, his words, made her feel things she should not feel. She hardly knew the man, yet he evoked emotions she’d never felt before. A chaos she found delightful.
“I’ve the gown here.” Mrs. Gladstone bustled into the room, not noticing the sparks dancing outside the fireplace grate. She held a brown gown over one arm and a towel in her opposite hand.
Mr. Everly stepped back.
“You should change as well, sir,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “Won’t do to have you falling ill.”
“Is my chamber the only room with a fire?” Mr. Everly asked Mrs. Gladstone.
“That, the kitchen, and the servants’ quarters, sir.” Mrs. Gladstone laid the gown over an armchair and began dabbing the wet fabric of the couch with the towel.
The side of Mr. Everly’s mouth twitched. “I’d not have you think I’m a heathen, Miss Jamison, but I must insist you change in my room. The other bedchambers have not been aired, and it would be best for you to don dry clothing as soon as you are able. Mrs. Gladstone may attend you, and I will wait here until you return.”
“Very well.” Phoebe could see the reason behind his insistence. She’d never been one to require flounces and lace. Practicality fit her disposition. “If you could show me the way, Mrs. Gladstone.”
Mrs. Gladstone set the towel aside and led Phoebe from the room. The pain in Phoebe’s ankle had all but diminished as they climbed to the second floor and walked down the corridor toward the double-doored room at the end. Mrs. Gladstone chatted about the sudden storm, rambling about how ideal the stew she’d prepared for dinner would taste.
Phoebe said nothing. Countless times, she had passed Ravencrest, but never before had she been inside. She took the opportunity to evaluate every painting, tapestry, table, and candle, storing an image in her mind of the details she might assess later, in her quiet moments.
“Here you are,” Mrs. Gladstone said, opening the doors and granting Phoebe entrance.
The room smelled of warmth and spice. A large bed occupied the far wall. Dark-blue bedding matched the patterned chairs and the geometrical print in the curtains. Two doors sat on another wall, one most likely leading to the chamber of the future Mrs. Everly and the other to the valet’s quarters. The remaining wall housed a bank of windows, where the rain continued to tap-tap on the glass.
With Mrs. Gladstone’s help, Phoebe changed quickly. “I’ll hang this in the kitchen,” Mrs. Gladstone said as she held Phoebe’s riding habit aloft. Drops of water continued to fall from the hem. “Should be somewhat dry by the time the storm lets up.”
Phoebe stood in front of the looking glass, pulling a few pins and replacing them in an attempt to tidy her bright hair. Mrs. Gladstone’s gown gathered at Phoebe’s feet and hung wide around her hips. She clenched the extra bunches of brown fabric in her fists and returned to the study, where she waited while Mr. Everly changed into dry clothes.
When he returned, his hair was tied and he wore a blue coat that reminded Phoebe of the colors she’d seen in his bedchamber. Practical or not, the thought made her blush. The rich color made his eyes shimmer like two silver stars that had been plucked from the sky. Phoebe quite enjoyed the picture he presented.
The brown dress she wore reminded her of dirt. Plain. Boring. Brown. The color did nothing to flatter her hair, and the dress did nothing to flatter her figure. But she was dry. Practicality at its finest.
Phoebe stood near the fire, hoping to replace the ice in her bones with warmth from its crackling flame. Mr. Everly walked near, keeping a noticeable distance. He glanced at the fabric puddled around her feet and grinned. “Mrs. Gladstone’s measurements do not match yours, I see,” he said.
“And I hoped it was not obvious.” Phoebe fanned the extra fabric around her. She shifted her hips to demonstrate the range of motion the dress provided. Both she and Mr. Everly enjoyed a good laugh, and then she sobered. “It is warm, and that is all that matters. Thank you for allowing me refuge.”
“You are most welcome, though I fear your brothers may come knocking at the door and demand my head.” Mr. Everly looked toward the doorway. “I stand by my claim that we should inform them of your whereabouts.”
Phoebe extended her hands and rubbed them briskly. “My brothers don’t oft show their reasonability, but they are quite levelheaded. They will fault neither you nor me for choosing to remain dry.” She moved back to the green-striped couch, sitting on the opposite side from where she had soaked the cushion. Mr. Everly followed her away from the fire and took a seat across from her.
“Shall I ask Mrs. Gladstone to bring another pot of tea?” Mr. Everly asked.
“Thank you, but no. Hannah and I were well tended during our visits.”
“Did you meet with success?”
“Success on your behalf?” Phoebe smiled. “I’m pleased to tell you we did.”
She explained how she and Hannah had talked to seventeen prospective girls and in the end selected eight. They would report to Ravencrest the following week.
“I owe you and Miss Vane a great debt,” Mr. Everly said. He rubbed his hand across his knee and watched the rain rivulets run down the windowpane. Phoebe observed his profile: square forehead, defined brows and jaw, angular lips, and a soft-tipped nose. He turned from the window and watched Phoebe watch him. “How can I repay you, Miss Jamison?” he asked, his voice soft and lulling like the fire.
A warm wave of contentment washed over Phoebe. Whether from the fire or Mr. Everly, she did not know, but she gathered her wits and answered, “You owe us nothing. Neighbors are supposed to aid one another. My very presence here proves it is so.” Mr. Everly tilted his head, his eyes flickering with the reflection of the flames. Phoebe tried to remain unaffected. “Halsham has long been in need of a change, and we are glad to have a new acquaintance,” she said.
“Halsham required a change. And you, Miss Jamison, were you looking for a change as well?” One corner of Mr. Everly’s mouth pulled up in a knowing smile.
His grin tempted Phoebe, the way it tugged his lips to one side. She found herself staring at his mouth and considering various ways to remove his enticing smile, including kissing it away. Connecting his lips with her own. It was not a bad smile. Quite the opposite. It made Phoebe’s heart skitter and skip, and that was why it had to go.
Phoebe sniffed once, then again. A smell of burning touched her senses. It was the smell of the wood in the grate combined with the scent of burning paper—the smell of her father’s study when he purged his piles of correspondence—with yet something more. Mr. Everly noticed it almost in unison.
He stood and moved to the door. “Please wait here, and I shall investigate.”
Mr. Everly exited the room. Phoebe stood and gathered fistfuls of fabric. She was not one to sit idly while the house burned around her. She followed Mr. Everly to the main floor, and when he paused to ascertain the source of the smell, she caught up to him. He looked down at her and appeared ready to deliver a deserved rebuke when Mrs. Gladstone’s voice rang out from the right.
“Put it out! Stomp on it if you must!”
Mr. Everly rushed down the corridor to the kitchen. Phoebe hustled behind. But when he came to an abrupt stop, she collided with his back and ended up on her bottom, in yards of ugly brown fabric. He turned, mouth gaping, and looked at her. Then he looked into the room and back at her again.
Mr. Everly reached down and took her hands, lifting her back to her feet. “Miss Jamison, you have my sincerest apologies.” He released his hold on her fingers.
Phoebe untangled the skirt around her legs, fanning it out on the floor. “It was my fault for following so closely.”
“Are you injured?” he asked.
She winced. Her bottom was tender. “You did ask me to remain in the study,” she said.
“But I should have known better,” Mr. Everly said, a smile touching his lips. He looked back over his shoulder, and when he turned to her again, he had sobered. “I truly am sorry.”
“It was really more shock than anything. I’m only a bit sore, and I’m sure it will be forgotten tomorrow.” Phoebe really did not blame him. She had followed unbidden.
“While I am indeed sorry for your fall, I’m afraid I need to beg your forgiveness on another matter.” Mr. Everly slowly stepped to the side, and Phoebe looked into the kitchen to see Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone standing near the hearth, looking much worse for wear. Mrs. Gladstone’s hair was in utter disarray. She held a blackened broom in her hand, and her chest heaved in exertion. Half of Mr. Gladstone’s shirttails were untucked, and his hands were covered in soot. Phoebe’s gaze drifted to the ground. A heap of ash and bits of soggy green fabric sat amid a puddle on the tiled floor. Phoebe realized she was looking at what used to be her hunter-green riding habit. There was naught to do. She raised a hand to her mouth and burst into laughter.