Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton

Chapter 17

Phoebe focused on her food. And the weather. She talked in abundance about the varying types of clouds, anything she could think of to avoid the topics of courting and dancing and how to show interest in a lady.

Gratefully, Mr. Everly played along with her scheme. He gently responded to each of Phoebe’s inane remarks about whether the shape of the clouds could be used to determine impending storms. And he did not again touch on the topic of his intentions.

Through the entire course of the meal, Phoebe’s heart felt as though it might burst from her chest and land directly on her dinner plate. Every time Mr. Everly served her food, requested her glass be refilled, or gently asked a question unrelated to the weather, a calming breath was required before Phoebe found herself able to respond. The pounding in her chest left her feeling quite askew.

Her thoughts no longer lingered on Geoffrey and Hannah but on the man sitting beside her. Did he really wish to court her? Phoebe had daydreamed of such a moment, only her visions had featured Mr. Mason, not Mr. Everly. She’d thought on how Mr. Mason would declare his devotion and Peter would make all kinds of threats to ensure Mr. Mason would take care of Phoebe. But all the while, Peter would be delighted that his longtime friend and his sister had formed an attachment.

She had known William Mason for the entirety of her life. Mr. Everly she had known for less than two months. Was it possible a tendresse could kindle in so little time? Were Mr. Everly’s intentions sincere?

“Would you care for anything more?” he asked from his seat beside her.

She startled from her thoughts. “Oh. No. Thank you.” Phoebe knew how to put words together. Why would they not come now? She sounded like a fool.

Mr. Everly, in his formal black, a stark contrast to his blond hair, looked at her kindly with his deep gray-blue eyes. He did not act especially smitten; there was no doting over Phoebe’s preferred foods, no grand exclamations of her wisdom or beauty, and no proclamation of undying devotion. Mr. Everly simply spoke to her, asked her questions, and let her determine the direction of the conversation. So vastly different from the idea of what she’d supposed courting would entail.

She looked across the room to where Geoffrey sat with Hannah. He wore a wide, unfiltered smile. Could Mr. Everly be correct? Did her brother harbor feelings for her friend? Were true emotions found in the subtle things—a kind word, acknowledging another’s temperament, knowing when to speak and when to remain quiet?

“Miss Jamison,” Mr. Everly said. “I am grateful to have spent this time with you. The dancing is about to resume, and it is my duty to return you to your brothers.” He stood and offered Phoebe his hand. He placed it on his arm as they moved back toward the dance floor. “Though, please do not discount my earlier words,” he said softly so only she could hear. “I have grown fond of you and wish to further our acquaintance.”

“Mr. Everly—”

“You need not say anything,” he quickly said. “I do not expect your feelings to mirror mine. Nevertheless, I hope, as you contemplate potential suitors, my name might be considered.”

Phoebe glanced up at Mr. Everly. His eyes were set forward, and she realized he was looking at Mr. Mason, who was laughing with Peter and Abraham. They approached the trio, and Mr. Everly took her fingers in his and presented her to Abraham.

“Thank you for allowing me to enjoy the supper dance with Miss Jamison.” Mr. Everly’s voice had lost its friendly cadence.

Abraham took Phoebe’s hand. “You won the bet.”

Phoebe jammed her elbow into his ribs. “I am not a trophy to be earned.”

“You determined the wager, Phoebe.” Abraham rubbed his hand across his ribcage. “Did you not?”

“Did Everly abuse your company?” Peter made a show of looking her over. “You appear unscathed.” He turned to Mr. Everly. “I suppose I shan’t call you out.”

Mr. Everly did not laugh at Peter’s quip. Instead, he bowed. “I shall take my leave,” he said before turning and walking away.

“What did you do, Phoebe?” Abraham asked as they all watched Mr. Everly maneuver through the crowd. “Everly seems put out.”

She could not think on his departure, for her thoughts revolved around his request. Could she consider a suit by Mr. Everly? Would she?

“I’m determined to beat him at our next race,” Mr. Mason said. “Perhaps you will consider setting another wager, Miss Jamison.”

Phoebe turned her focus to Mr. Mason—handsome, familiar Mr. Mason—who stood before her. The subject of her courting daydreams. Peter’s longtime friend. Here was the man she had hoped would ask for her hand. And they would soon dance the waltz. She shook her thoughts away. “Pardon?” she said.

Mr. Mason smiled. “I asked if you would once again set the wager for our next race, knowing I plan to claim the prize.” He winked.

Phoebe’s mouth fell open.

“Mason!” Peter growled. “Don’t make me call you out.”

Mr. Mason laughed. “Phoebe knows I jest.”

Abraham cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath, “I should have brought my sword.”

“I am partnered with Miss Benson for the next set.” Mr. Mason raised his eyebrows and smiled wide.

His words and apparent enthusiasm rocked Phoebe as if she stood on the bow of a storm-tossed ship. One minute Mr. Mason requested her hand for the waltz, and in the next he boasted of his upcoming dance with Miss Benson.

“But you will return for our dance?” Phoebe confirmed.

He offered a sloppy bow. “Yes, yes. Don’t fret, Miss Jamison.” Then he disappeared to find his partner.

Phoebe could not untangle the confused web lacing through her mind. “Mr. Mason’s dancing with Miss Benson,” she said to no one in particular.

Abraham narrowed his eyes.

Phoebe tapped a finger to her lips. “Mr. Everly won the first race.”

“The first two,” Peter said.

“Yes,” Phoebe acknowledged without looking at her brother. “And Mr. Mason wants to race again. And he wants me to set the wager.” Phoebe pressed her lips together and dropped her hands to her side. She turned to Abraham. “Over dinner, Mr. Everly—” She took a deep breath and thought back on his words. “Did you know he intended—”

Abraham stared at his sister. She was not one to become easily discomfited. “Intended what?” he asked.

“Oh, never mind.” Phoebe’s cheeks heated, and she clenched her fists.

“It’s rather suspect, don’t you think?” Peter looked over the crowd, but Phoebe could not see the subject of his observation.

“Hmm,” came Abraham’s reply.

Phoebe pressed up on her toes, but her stature did not allow her to participate in her brothers’ musings. She pulled on Abraham’s arm. “What is it?” she asked.

“Geoffrey,” Abraham replied without looking at her.

Phoebe’s hand fell from Abraham’s sleeve. “Is he with Hannah again?” She sighed, and her shoulders fell.

A mumbled confirmation came from Abraham.

“That’s the second set they’ve danced this evening.” Peter looked at Abraham with raised brows.

The dance lines were beginning to form. “You must do something,” Phoebe said.

“And what would you have us do?” Abraham asked.

“Well, first, stop standing there like a . . . a . . . bufflehead!” Phoebe stomped her foot, and both brothers looked at her with wide eyes.

A smirk spread across Peter’s face. “Bufflehead?” he repeated.

Phoebe grabbed Peter’s hand, and ignoring his objections, she pulled him toward the dance floor as the musicians picked up their instruments. “I need to know what Geoffrey is up to.” She marched, with Peter in tow, and wedged herself near the dance floor, where she could stand with Peter and best observe Geoffrey. She ignored the pointed looks and comments, and when Geoffrey noticed her, she smiled innocently at her brother.

“Geoffrey. Oh, and Hannah.” Phoebe feigned surprise. “Peter wanted to watch the dance.”

“I wanted to watch the dance?” Peter sputtered incredulously.

Phoebe smacked his arm. “Yes. Remember, you told me you thought I had the steps wrong and wished me to observe how it’s properly done?” Phoebe’s false smile spread wide, and she returned her attention to Geoffrey. “You don’t mind if we observe from here, do you? Hannah, is that quite all right?”

Geoffrey frowned at Phoebe, and Hannah blushed. “Of course,” she said.

The dance began, and Geoffrey acutely avoided meeting Phoebe’s gaze. “Your explanation was poor, at best,” Peter said.

“Perhaps. But now you can witness Geoffrey’s flirting,” Phoebe said.

In truth, nothing substantial happened between Geoffrey and Hannah—no flirting or giddy smiles. Their dance was rather unspectacular and much more neighborly than the previous interactions Phoebe had witnessed.

After final bows were given, Geoffrey took Hannah’s hand and turned to Peter. “Would you please escort Miss Vane to her mother? I would like to have a word with Phoebe.”

Peter gave a slight bow to Geoffrey. “Miss Vane,” he said cheerily, “shall we?” He extended his arm.

“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Jamison.” Hannah smiled prettily at Geoffrey before accepting Peter’s escort.

Geoffrey watched them for a minute. Then his hands found his hips, and he looked down at his sister. “Phoebe, what are you about?”

Phoebe’s worry over her friend and frustration with her brother bubbled inside. She blinked up at Geoffrey. “Do you intend to court Hannah?”

“Phoebe!” Geoffrey hissed. “Mind your voice.” He grabbed Phoebe’s forearm and pulled her alongside him as he left the ballroom. They walked down a lit corridor, passing several doors before Geoffrey finally stopped and turned Phoebe to face him. “Now, explain yourself.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his displeasure written on his face.

Phoebe would not be intimidated. She matched Geoffrey’s stance and stared him down. “Well?” she probed.

“Well what?” Geoffrey asked.

She jutted out her chin. “Do you intend to court Hannah?”

Geoffrey sighed deeply and dropped his head.

“You partnered with her for the supper dance.” Phoebe ticked off one finger. “You asked her to dance another set.” She ticked off another finger. “Did you compliment her gown?”

Geoffrey’s face scrunched in confusion. “What?”

“Did you tell her you liked her gown or her hair or any part of her appearance?” Phoebe asked.

“Don’t ladies like those sorts of compliments?”

“Of course they do.”

“Then, why should I not offer them?” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I knew you told Hannah she looked handsome.” Phoebe dropped her hands.

Geoffrey shrugged. “She does.”

Phoebe sighed. “Is Mr. Everly right?” She posed the question more to herself than to Geoffrey, but he responded.

“What does Everly have to do with this?”

“He said you seemed happy with Hannah. He said you might be developing feelings for her.” Phoebe raised her eyes to her brother. “Is it true?”

After a deep breath, Geoffrey took Phoebe’s hands in his own. “I find I enjoy Miss Vane’s company. She is easy to converse with, and she possesses a happy countenance.”

“She can be rather silly.” Phoebe had seen every side of Hannah. They had, after all, been friends for more than ten years.

“I find it charming,” Geoffrey said with a smile. Phoebe knew then that Mr. Everly’s assessment was astute. Geoffrey’s feelings were genuine.

“She is smitten with you,” Phoebe reluctantly admitted.

Geoffrey’s eyes lit. “Do you really think so?”

“She’s admired you for some time. Now that you’ve paid her special interest and she’s come to know you, how can she not be?” Phoebe loved her brother, and she loved her friend. She forced herself to look at Geoffrey and smile. “Don’t hurt her, Geoffrey.”

“I don’t intend to.” He squeezed Phoebe’s hands. “Shall we return?”

“I think I need a moment to digest this revelation. I’ll join you in the ballroom momentarily.” She released his hands.

“Very well. Thank you, Phoebe.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek before walking away with a goofy grin.

Phoebe watched his light steps as he returned to the music. The music! The first bars of a waltz reached her. She gathered her gown, and after ensuring no one was around, she ran down the corridor toward the sound. Coming to a stop just outside the ballroom doors, Phoebe settled her breathing and straightened her gloves. Then, with a dazzling smile and her chin held high, she walked into the room. Mr. Mason would be looking for her. She searched the crowd for him, slowly turning her head in an attempt to not advertise the excitement she felt.

Darn her height; Phoebe could not see through the crush to find him. The musicians were playing the final chords of introduction, the dancers were settling into their places on the floor, and Phoebe was still without her partner.

Peter had asked Miss Benson to dance, and Abraham stood nearby, speaking with Lord Landon. Phoebe pushed through the crowd to them and curtsied. “Forgive my interruption, Abraham, Lord Landon. I hoped you might know where I can find Mr. Mason. He had requested my hand for this dance.”

Abraham’s eyes flicked toward the dance floor, and when he looked back at his sister, concern filled his eyes. Lord Landon also searched the room. He pointed to the gathered couples. “Ah, there Mason is. It appears he has found a partner. Perhaps he asked for your hand for another set.”

Abraham slapped a hand on Lord Landon’s shoulder.

“Right,” Lord Landon said, forcing a smile to his lips. “Would you do me the honor, Miss Jamison?” His dark hair flopped forward when he bowed.

Tears pricked Phoebe’s eyes. She blinked rapidly and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Lord Landon, but I think I should like a reprieve from the dancing. I find I’m rather tired.” Humiliated would have been a more fitting description. Frustration, hurt, and embarrassment pulsed through Phoebe’s heart. She needed to get away. “I . . . I think I will sit out for this set.”

“Phoebe, allow me.” Abraham reached for her arm, intending to escort her to a chair.

“No,” Phoebe snapped and pulled her arm away. Tears teetered near, misting her eyes.

Abraham clenched his jaw. “I’ll pummel him,” he said under his breath.

The first tear fell. Phoebe did not often cry, but she knew more tears would follow. She only wished to escape. She ducked her head and left Abraham behind as she pushed through the throng. She maneuvered around the colorful dresses and black pantaloons of the crowd, not daring to raise her watery eyes.

She noted an especially large group of men gathered between her and her exit. Phoebe swiped at her cheeks and turned to avoid them when suddenly another figure stood before her. Phoebe looked up to see the concerned face of Mr. Everly in the very moment she collided into his chest.