Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton
Chapter 15
“Firing!” Peter called. His shot rang in the clearing, and the breeze carried the smell of gunpowder to where Phoebe stood. “Clear!” he shouted.
“Well done,” Geoffrey said. The four siblings stood in front of their respective targets, which consisted of a hay bale standing on end. Secured to the front of each was a piece of fabric on which a target had been painted. “Though, I believe my mark will prove my superior aim.”
“Do not boast yet, Geoffrey. I have my turn yet,” Phoebe said.
“You certainly can’t do worse than Abraham.” Peter snickered. Abraham had fired two rounds, cursing when his second shot missed the target entirely, striking the knoll beyond the hay bales. Peter stuck a finger in the air. “Perhaps the shifting wind came into play.”
“Scoundrel,” Abraham growled at Peter.
“This is only the first round.” Peter shrugged. “Maybe next time, the wind will blow in your favor.”
“Hello,” a voice called.
Phoebe turned with her brothers to see Mr. Everly walking toward the clearing her father had designated as the range.
She had yet to fire her first shot. The small loaded pistol hung at her side.
“Everly,” Geoffrey called. He walked to meet Mr. Everly, setting his pistol on the table that had been set up by the servants.
“Your butler told me I could find you here,” Mr. Everly said.
“You are welcome to join us,” Geoffrey said. “It is Phoebe’s turn to shoot.” He nodded for her to continue as he and Mr. Everly drew near.
Phoebe fingered her preferred pistol. It belonged to her father, the maple stock inlaid with patterned silver filigree on the grip and a bronze mechanism. She turned toward her target and squared her boots with her shoulders. “Firing!” she shouted. She held the pistol in her right hand and cupped her left palm beneath the grip. She inhaled and slowly released her breath, setting her sight on the center of the target. When her lungs emptied, her finger pulled the trigger. The shot fractured the air, and the smell of sulfur wafted from the gun. “Clear,” Phoebe called, lowering her weapon back to her side. She squinted to see if she had hit her mark, but the distance was too great and would require a closer inspection.
“You handle a weapon well, Miss Jamison,” Mr. Everly said.
Phoebe turned from her examination of the hay bale. “’Tis my father’s pistol, the one he taught me with.” Phoebe walked to where Mr. Everly stood.
He wore his tall hat with a blue jacket. “So your father approves?” he asked.
“Phoebe didn’t give him much choice,” Abraham said. “He bought each of us a weapon on our sixteenth birthday. When Phoebe turned sixteen, she begged and pleaded for a gun of her own. Mother discouraged the entire thing, but Phoebe would not relent. If she uses one of Father’s pistols, the arrangement keeps Mother appeased.”
The four men and Phoebe had gathered around the table, where the powder, balls, and ramrods were laid out. Peter began reloading his pistol. “Beyond that, Phoebe is not required to care for the weapon.”
“You are all more detailed than I in that regard,” Phoebe said. “I have not the patience for it.”
Mr. Everly’s lips twitched, and his eyes danced with amusement.
Geoffrey chuckled. “You simply don’t care for the task.” He removed the ramrod from his pistol and set his weapon on the table.
“Thus, our wager proves ideal.” Phoebe began the process of loading a single shot into her gun. “The one with the poorest aim cleans the weapons.” She grinned wickedly at Abraham. “Going on three times, aren’t we, Abraham?”
Abraham scoffed. “The added distance is not to your advantage.”
“I’ll not make excuses,” Phoebe said. “And neither should you.” Peter and Geoffrey laughed aloud. “Shall we examine the targets to see who may claim round one?”
Together the group walked to the front of the range to inspect the targets.
Despite her weapon having but one shot, as compared to her brothers’ two, Phoebe’s marksmanship was second only to Geoffrey’s. The brothers returned to the table, leaving Mr. Everly and Phoebe near her bale of hay.
Mr. Everly touched his finger to the hole in the fabric. “Well done,” he told Phoebe. “I am impressed but not surprised. I’m discovering that you impress me quite often.”
His compliment touched Phoebe like a refreshing breeze on a clear, brisk night. She wanted to keep breathing so her lungs might awaken with every delicious breath. The way Mr. Everly evaluated Phoebe caused a searing ember to light inside of her, and she needed to keep inhaling the cool air to balance the emotions erupting within her.
“Phoebe!” Peter called. “Clear off so we might continue.”
Phoebe shook her head and walked with Mr. Everly back behind the firing line. “You should stand in my place for the next round,” she said.
“My intent was to talk to your brother, not to displace you in your sport.” Mr. Everly’s eyes focused on her.
Phoebe could not explain the quickened pace of her heart. Firing a weapon held a particular thrill, but she knew shooting the pistol did not justify the rapid cadence of her pulse. She needed to clear her head, to try to understand why she felt so flustered. “Please join my brothers. I think I’ve hit my mark today.”
“There I can quite agree.” Mr. Everly offered a delightful grin.
***
Rain pattered the window. Steadily. Not an ideal day to celebrate the summer solstice, though despite the lack of sunlight, Phoebe determined she would enjoy the day. The sun was still shining brightly upon the tops of the clouds, even if England glimpsed only the gray, weepy bottoms of them.
Geoffrey had presented her with her new gown only the day before, and Phoebe loved it. The day after visiting Ravencrest, Geoffrey had approached her at breakfast. “Miss Vane mentioned purchasing a gown. Mother would see to it if she were here, and Father would take no issue with the expense. I’ve secured an appointment with Miss Dantry for this very morning.”
A slow smile had spread across Peter’s face. He wiped his hands on his napkin and set it aside. “And Geoffrey’s insistence has nothing to do with pleasing Miss Vane,” he said.
“I’m glad Miss Vane intervened on Phoebe’s behalf,” Geoffrey said. “She plans to meet you at the shop. Hurry and eat, or you’ll miss your appointment.” He had quickly filled Phoebe’s plate. Then he’d sent her with Miriam and Paul in the family coach to Miss Dantry’s.
Phoebe had known she wanted the jeweled blue silk the moment Miss Dantry had presented it to her. Now, as she stared at the gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe, she could not wait for the hours to pass until she could put it on.
Lord and Lady Granby had hosted the Summer Solstice Ball at their home, Granby Meadows, for more years than Phoebe had been alive. Lady Granby’s ball was famous beyond the borders of Halsham, and members of the aristocracy throughout all of Somerset, and even neighboring counties, oft made the journey to attend. Phoebe had attended the previous year, and while Mr. Mason and her brothers claimed the ball to be repetitive and boring, she thought it a delight. Remembering the rich food, the crush of high-class society, and the endless dancing stirred excitement for the evening to come.
Through the past weeks, Phoebe had considered that she might not be as disappointed in the result of the race, her claimed supper dance, as she originally thought. Mr. Everly’s smile had become familiar. She looked forward to his visits and could not dismiss the way her heart lifted when he was near. He was attentive to her, acknowledging her thoughts and including her in conversation—something her brothers oft neglected. Phoebe knew they cared for her, loved her, and would run through any who dared hurt her, but they were often caught up in their own mischief and were insensitive to her needs. Phoebe’s mother had filled that gap, offering a listening ear and wise counsel, but now she was far away and her letters focused on her delight in her travels, only sparing a word or two to inquire after Phoebe. The time and distance between correspondence did not allow for any true resolution or companionship. Phoebe did not feel lonely, exactly, but sometimes she felt alone.
Tonight she would be surrounded by people. She would dance with Mr. Everly and perhaps Mr. Mason, and she was particularly excited for the prospect of the waltz. Phoebe had practiced the steps with Peter, though he had stuck out his tongue and made ridiculous faces the entire time, so while Phoebe knew the steps, she’d not truly experienced the dance. She also wanted to observe Geoffrey and Hannah. Something about their interactions niggled and tugged her conscience. Peter continued to tease Geoffrey about escorting Hannah home in the rain when Phoebe had taken refuge at Ravencrest. Abraham said nothing more than, “Geoffrey broke the pact.” For Geoffrey’s part, he insisted it had been the neighborly thing to do.
Hannah’s mother had counseled her that when choosing a husband, social status and income played a vital role. Geoffrey had both. Combined with his natural good looks and charm, Phoebe was certain Hannah would easily be swept off her feet if Geoffrey showed even the slightest interest. And Mrs. Vane would fill Hannah’s trousseau in record time if she thought she might claim Geoffrey Jamison as a son-in-law.
What Phoebe could not decipher was Geoffrey’s view on the matter. She’d warned him not to encourage Hannah, nor pay her special attention, and he’d laughed at Phoebe’s concerns. Yet, recently, Phoebe had noticed his interest perked whenever she mentioned Hannah’s name. Was he beginning to form an attachment?
Hannah had oft eyed the Jamison brothers and commented on their handsomeness, but she’d been a true friend to Phoebe. She never pushed Phoebe aside when her brothers were near, though she did sigh wistfully and get a starry look in her eyes. Phoebe could only hope Geoffrey was not leading Hannah to think there might be a possibility of their match. Unless he truly wished for one.
Phoebe thought on her last few interactions with her friend while Miriam helped her dress. Her abigail expertly curled and pinned Phoebe’s hair and wove tiny white pearls throughout the arrangement. “They look like tiny snowdrops,” Miriam said as she secured the last pearl. She stepped back, and Phoebe stood. “You look lovely, Miss Jamison. I doubt you will sit out a single dance.”
Phoebe turned side to side, looking in the mirror. “Thank you, Miriam. You’ve done wonders.”
Miriam ducked her head and smiled.
Phoebe pulled on her long white gloves and gathered her wrap. She descended the stairs, and Abraham let out a long whistle. “You look lovely, Phoebe,” he said.
Phoebe smiled as her brother ran up the stairs to offer his arm. “Thank you, Abraham. You look handsome as well.”
Peter and Geoffrey turned from where they stood near the door. Peter shook his head. “I’m afraid we must send Lady Granby our regrets.”
“What are you about?” Phoebe asked. She reached the ground floor and released her hold on Abraham.
Geoffrey chuckled, and Peter propped his hands on his hips. “I want to dance tonight. Especially with Lady Granby,” Peter said. Abraham scoffed, and Phoebe couldn’t help but smile. Peter continued. “But how am I to do so when you are present?” He motioned to her figure.
Phoebe’s smile fell. “Is something wrong with my dress?”
“Yes!” Peter proclaimed.
Phoebe looked down at her skirt and then raised a hand to her hair. Geoffrey walked near and captured her hands in his. “You can dance, Peter. I’ll fend off Phoebe’s admirers.” He leaned near and kissed her cheek. “You present quite a lovely picture.”
Each of the brothers stood grinning at Phoebe, and she felt her cheeks heat. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Peter sighed loudly. “Truly, we shall have to form ranks around Phoebe to make sure no one whisks her off to Gretna Green.”
“Phoebe can handle herself quite well,” Abraham said. “As she proved in our shooting contest,” he mumbled. He pulled on his gloves.
“And I’d like to do a bit of dancing myself.” Geoffrey nodded at Windly to open the door.
Peter came beside Phoebe and slipped his arm through hers, pulling her from Geoffrey. “With Miss Vane, perhaps?” Peter’s words were quiet, but Phoebe heard them.
Geoffrey led the way to the carriage. Peter leaned near Phoebe’s ear and whispered, “You are bound to break a few hearts tonight. If you need rescue, you need only ask.”
“Thank you, Peter.” Phoebe squeezed his arm where her fingers rested, and then he handed her into the carriage. As she settled herself on the bench, she resolved to voice her concerns to Geoffrey.
She studied his features. His solid jaw that conveyed either sternness or humor, depending on his mood. His kind, warm eyes and styled hair. He was an ideal catch, both in temperament and appearance. He would treat his wife with respect, and Phoebe knew Geoffrey would never hurt Hannah on purpose. “Geoffrey?” Phoebe began. “Do you intend to dance with Hannah this evening?”
Her question seemed to catch him by surprise. “I had not thought on it,” he said, and Peter coughed dramatically beside him. Geoffrey ignored his brother’s theatrics.
When Peter settled, Phoebe tried again. “I only worry that you are confusing her. Hannah has always been fond of you, but you never paid her notice until the ball at the Assembly Rooms. And since then you have conversed with her numerous times.”
“Conversation may confuse a lady?” Geoffrey asked. “You’ve never been swayed by such things.”
“Phoebe is superior to most females,” Abraham bragged.
Peter leaned forward and held up a single finger. “To which I can attest. Only the other day both Everly and Mason were vying for her attention, and she neither slighted nor encouraged either of them.” He looked at Phoebe and nodded with pride. “It was very well done.”
“But again,” Abraham said, “Phoebe is the exception.”
Phoebe clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath while she gathered her patience. “You both exaggerate. Mr. Mason and Mr. Everly were simply conversing—”
Peter began coughing again. Phoebe reached across the space between them and swatted his arm. “That is enough, Peter.” She turned back to Geoffrey. “Hannah is a dear friend. She cannot hide her emotions, nor should she have to. Yet if you lead her to believe there is the possibility of a connection between you when there is not . . .” Phoebe paused and waited for Geoffrey to meet her eyes. “I know you would never intentionally mislead her, Geoffrey, but you might unintentionally break her heart.”
Geoffrey’s expression turned somber. His eyes focused on Phoebe’s face, and when he spoke, she did not doubt his words. “I will not hurt Miss Vane. You have my word.”
Emotion swelled in Phoebe’s chest. She felt the matter settled. She looked between Peter and Abraham, determined to enjoy the evening’s festivities. “Have you two thought on whom you might ask to dance?”
Peter made a show of tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve set my cap for only one woman.” None of his siblings asked him to expound. They knew he would in time. They only stared and waited for his explanation. Peter drew out his show, brushing off his pant leg after he’d adjusted his sleeves. Finally, he huffed. “Very well. It’s Lady Granby, of course.”
Phoebe smiled, and Abraham said, “I thought you might try to beg off your part of the bet.”
“Never!” Peter feigned shock.
Geoffrey stared out the window, and the carriage halted. Phoebe’s anticipation built as the siblings waited their turn to exit. The slow progression continued for the next fifteen minutes until their coach pulled in front of the lavish facade. A footman opened the door and lowered the step. Geoffrey was the first to disembark, followed by Abraham and Peter. All three brothers stood near the carriage door. Phoebe took Geoffrey’s hand and stepped down. Torches lined the steps, where servants stood straight-backed and stone-faced. Phoebe took Geoffrey’s arm, and Abraham and Peter followed behind. When Phoebe reached the last step, Peter dramatically cleared his throat. She turned around to see one of the servants following her movement. Peter speared the man with a look, and the servant’s eyes snapped back to stare straight ahead.
Geoffrey touched her hand, and they walked into the house. Lord and Lady Granby greeted each of their guests, chittering at each compliment as if shocked by the praise. Lady Granby’s extravagance existed solely for the admiration of her guests. She possessed a keen memory and stored each compliment away, rehearsing them to her friends for the entirety of the year until the next summer solstice arrived and more accolades could be acquired.
“Thank you for including us,” Geoffrey said.
Phoebe curtsied before Lord and Lady Granby. “Your ball is the envy of the entire county—”
“You stand corrected, dear sister. It is the envy of all of England.” Peter winked at Phoebe, then made his bows to the host and hostess.
Lady Granby batted her eyelashes. “All of England? Oh, Mr. Peter, you are such a flatterer.”
“I only speak the truth, Lady Granby.” Peter offered his charming smile. “Perhaps later you will take a turn with me on the dance floor.”
Lord Granby shifted and peered around the feathers on his wife’s head. “Do you plan to dance, my lady?”
She giggled, a high-pitched twittering sound, and touched her husband’s arm. “If so, I would dance with only you, my lord.”
Lord Granby turned back to Peter. “Lady Granby kindly declines your offer.”
“I had to ask.” Peter’s smile remained fixed, and he bowed his head to the host. “You’ve dashed my hopes, my lord, but I shall bear up and find another partner, though I doubt her skill will match that of your wife.”
A tight grumble was Lord Granby’s reply. Abraham stepped forward. “We are honored,” he said simply before his eyes settled on the three large feathers in Lady Granby’s hair. He cleared his throat. “We shall leave you to your other guests.” He bowed, and the Jamisons collectively moved toward the ballroom.
Up a flight of stairs and down a wide, brightly lit corridor they walked, finally turning at a set of large wood-paneled doors. Phoebe rubbed one hand over the other as they waited in yet another line for their names to be read. ’Twas the moment Phoebe had anticipated since she first tried on her gown. Their names would be announced by the butler, and then she would descend a grand staircase that led to the ballroom floor. She cared little for the judgments and whispers that would spread; she only hoped William Mason would find her appearance pleasing, that he might be enticed to ask her to dance.
Phoebe knew her gown suited her. The jeweled blue silk complemented her orange hair, which Miriam had taken pains to style. Shoulders steady, back straight, chin high, Phoebe stood next to Geoffrey and held his offered arm.
“Mr. Geoffrey Jamison, Mr. Abraham Jamison, Mr. Peter Jamison, and Miss Phoebe Jamison,” the butler announced.
Geoffrey moved to the top of the steps, and Phoebe searched the crowd below, looking for Mr. Mason. The majority of guests glanced briefly at the Jamison clan before resuming conversation. One man, though, continued to watch as Geoffrey led the family down the steps—Mr. Everly.
His lips did not quite smile, but they turned up enough to indicate he was pleased with the picture before him. His hair was tied back, secured with a black ribbon, and his formal black attire suited him well. He moved toward Phoebe, making his excuses as he pushed through the throng. All the time his eyes never drifted; his gaze never faltered. His focus was entirely on her.
Mr. Everly appeared before them as Phoebe’s slippers touched the ballroom floor. His eyes finally pulled away as he bowed and greeted the Jamison men.
Phoebe curtsied, and Mr. Everly addressed her. “You are . . .” He looked about him, meeting each of her brothers’ stares. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “Beautiful.”
Warmth touched Phoebe’s cheeks, and she dipped her head.
Geoffrey clapped a hand across Mr. Everly’s back, but before he could say a word, Mr. Mason joined their circle. “Greetings Jamison, Abraham, Peter. And to you, Everly,” he said. Then he turned to Phoebe. “Miss Jamison, you are a picture of loveliness.”
“I should have worn my sword,” Peter mumbled softly.
Phoebe looked at Peter, questioning his meaning, until Mr. Mason claimed her attention again. “Miss Jamison, I hoped to claim your hand for the waltz.” While Mr. Mason was asking her for the dance, the very thing Phoebe had hoped for, she did not like the way his eyes drifted to Mr. Everly rather than focusing on her.
Peter bent low and whispered into Phoebe’s ear, “And so it begins.”