Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton

Chapter 21

While Geoffrey related the events of Phoebe’s runaway horse and Mr. Everly’s bold rescue, Phoebe’s heart sped. The memory of pounding hooves, tears flooding her eyes, and the solid safety she’d felt in Mr. Everly’s arms stirred something within her. Gratitude and appreciation, yes, but Phoebe’s emotions pulsed beyond these—a sentiment so deep and unfamiliar, she wondered when it had become ingrained within her. She struggled to define the feeling. Admiration? Wonder? It pricked a tender spot in Phoebe’s being, and she longed to understand why, when she looked at Mr. Everly, everything felt different. Safe. Better.

“You leapt from your horse?” Mrs. Everly’s wide eyes scolded her son.

Mr. Everly’s cheeks colored. “It was the only option.”

His mother scoffed, and Phoebe lowered her head. Mr. Everly’s bruises had softened, and the angry scratch beneath his ear streaked more pink than red. Mrs. Everly’s condemnation would be greater had she witnessed his raw wounds. Mr. Everly had put himself at great risk to save Phoebe. His mother had every right to protest his actions, but what was done was done.

“I take full responsibility for the incident,” Geoffrey said. “I am ashamed I put my sister in harm’s way and relied on another to protect her.”

Phoebe raised her eyes. Geoffrey sat tall, prepared to receive his reprimand. He reminded Phoebe of the great oak on the estate, and of her father. A good man. How she missed her parents.

“Well,” Mrs. Everly huffed. “Franklin has always been aware of those around him. It does not surprise me that he would be foolish enough to leap from his saddle, and while I am grateful his injuries are not more severe, I must insist he remain here until there is no question of his health.”

“You have my unconditional agreement.” Geoffrey tipped his head, and Mrs. Adler entered with a tray.

Mrs. Everly’s rigid posture faltered. “I would like to lie down for a bit.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Adler set the tray aside. “I shall take you to your room. Your trunk has been delivered.”

Mrs. Everly looked at her son and Geoffrey. Then she turned to Phoebe, and her lips puckered as if she’d eaten a sour lemon. Her stare remained fixed for what felt like an hour, but it was, in actuality, only eight seconds. With a nod, she dismissed them all and followed Mrs. Adler from the room.

Phoebe acknowledged Mrs. Everly’s frustration with her son’s injury, yet she felt that, along with his actions, Phoebe’s had been scrutinized as well. A cloud of insecurity settled around her, resting on her shoulders along with a sensation of being pulled down into the earth. None of the events that had occurred that day had been of Phoebe’s making. Of course, she could have opted to watch the race from the hill rather than riding to the oak, but that choice alone had not put her in danger.

“Please don’t mind my mother.” Mr. Everly shifted in his place on the couch. “I’m sure the uncertainty of my situation shook her. Now that she has seen I am recovering well, she will be able to rest easy.”

“I only wish I would have heeded your warning,” Geoffrey said. “It all could have been avoided.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

“I did not mind playing the part of rescuer.” Mr. Everly grinned. His hair was free from its tie and brushed against his chin.

Geoffrey cleared his throat.

“Your mother is correct. There is no need to return to Ravencrest when you may convalesce here.” Phoebe had enjoyed the ease of having Mr. Everly near. Tending to his needs allowed her to show him her gratitude for his actions. “It would not do to have you fall ill.”

Mr. Everly’s lips twitched into a smile. “Concerned, are you?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly, I’m concerned,” she said. She kept her eyes on Mr. Everly but reached for Geoffrey’s arm. “You must insist Mr. Everly remain at Primly Park.”

“If the doctor says Everly is fit to return, he may decide for himself.” Geoffrey patted her hand, then crossed his legs.

Phoebe clenched her fists. “You are both insufferable.” The men chuckled. “I’m glad Mrs. Everly has arrived. Perhaps she may talk some sense into you.”

The next morning, Phoebe sat reading while Abraham played chess with Mr. Everly. Mrs. Everly arrived and was quite put out that her son was not resting.

“I’ve been bound to my bed for days, Mother. A game of chess is a welcome reprieve and hardly requires much effort,” Mr. Everly said as he moved a chess piece forward.

“Pardon?” Abraham looked affronted.

Franklin gave Abraham a flat stare. “Besting you would require effort. Seeing as you’ve won the previous two games, you are well aware of that fact. I do not provide the same challenge as Peter.” He waved his hand over the board. “Simply playing, as I am, requires no amount of exertion.”

Abraham looked over the pieces, and a sly smile filled his face. He made his move. “Checkmate.”

“And there you claim round three,” Mr. Everly said. Abraham sat taller in his seat, reveling in his victory.

Mr. Everly met his mother’s stare. “Would you care to play a round?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped.

Mr. Everly’s face softened, and he smiled at his mother. “I am being cautious, Mother. The doctor has given permission for me to walk about the room today, but I am waiting for Jamison to return so he and Abraham may assist me. There is no need for concern.” He motioned to a nearby chair. “Now . . . tell me news of home. How fare Barton and his bride?”

Abraham picked up the chessboard and carried it to the table near the window. Franklin’s question piqued Phoebe’s curiosity. She pretended interest in her book, but her eyes did not stay on the page. Instead, they continually flickered to where Mrs. Everly settled in the chair next to her son. Phoebe could hear only wisps of conversation: a family renting Doyle’s cottage, Thomas and numbers, and an expected visit from Mr. Everly’s brother.

“Will Bethany come as well?” Mr. Everly asked, his voice carrying farther than his mother’s.

“Have you not heard?” Mrs. Everly pressed a hand to her heart. “Bethany is increasing.”

Mr. Everly’s smile grew, and Phoebe thought him extremely handsome. The duo chatted for a while, and Mrs. Everly began to smile and laugh with her son.

When Geoffrey appeared, he stood on one side of Mr. Everly, and Abraham stood on the other, ready to assist him if he should need it. Their presence proved entirely unnecessary. Mr. Everly stood slowly, but after shaking out one leg, then the other, he moved easily through the room. He tried to mask his wince when he stood in front of the fireplace and stretched his back, but beyond the splint on his arm and the discomfort in his back, he appeared well and freely moved about.

Mrs. Everly watched her son in silence. She tipped her head to evaluate him from a particular angle, then tipped her head again to assess from a different perspective. By the time Mr. Everly returned to stand in front of the couch, she had made up her mind. “I do not think you need wait until the end of the week. I believe we may remove to Ravencrest tomorrow.”

Phoebe set her book aside. She almost stood but instead teetered on the edge of her chair. Tomorrow was too soon. Abraham and Geoffrey stood flanking Mr. Everly, waiting for him to sit or take another turn about the room. Mr. Everly, however, focused on Phoebe. He looked at her as if he wanted to say something.

Her chest stirred in contradiction to the strict pose she attempted to maintain. She wanted to ask him what he was doing. How could he send her insides tumbling with a simple look? But in the company of the others, Phoebe could ask him none of those things and instead dug her fingers into the fabric of her chair.

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Everly said, but it was neither a question nor a statement. The word hung in the space between them until Geoffrey suggested they dress for dinner.

Phoebe left the room feeling unaccountably sad. Mr. Everly’s recuperation was a cause for joy, but she felt sorrow. She had not spent an inordinate amount of time with Mr. Everly, yet knowing he was nearby had lifted her spirits. Ravencrest was not so very far away, and she knew she should take solace in that fact, but she still loathed to see him leave.

Mrs. Everly had requested to dine alone with her son. Thus, the family ate in the dining room. Phoebe picked at her food while Geoffrey spoke of the errands he planned to complete the following day.

“Phoebe?” Peter asked. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Quite well.” Phoebe’s head darted up, and she forced herself to eat a bite of venison.

“You don’t seem quite yourself this evening,” Abraham said. He was seated beside Phoebe and dished a serving of beans onto her plate.

Phoebe widened her eyes and squared her shoulders. “I haven’t much of an appetite.”

“Did you know Mason would come to see me today?” Geoffrey asked.

“Mr. Mason?” Phoebe asked. “I was not aware he had called.” She looked at each of her brothers individually.

“Truly?” Peter asked.

“You were unaware of his errand?” Geoffrey asked.

“I’m not sure what to make of it.” Abraham set his glass down, and a somber look filled his face.

“What would I know of it? I spent the majority of my day in Mr. Everly’s sickroom with you, Abraham.” Phoebe began to run her hands over the napkin on her lap. “Geoffrey, you said Mr. Mason came to see you, though why he did not take tea with us seems odd, along with the fact that he did not ask for Peter.”

Geoffrey rubbed his hand over his chin and twisted his lips. “I think I might believe her,” he said to his brothers.

“It’s true we were together most of the day,” Abraham said.

“Hmm.” Peter’s lips pinched together.

“Geoffrey!” Phoebe slammed her napkin onto the table. “What are you about? I’ve never been one to meddle in your affairs.”

“You meddle when Miss Vane is involved,” Geoffrey said.

Phoebe conceded Geoffrey’s point with a pout. “That is entirely different.”

“Is it?” he teased.

“Yes. And you know it. I have Hannah’s best interest at heart. And besides, you are guilty of breaking the pact.” Phoebe raised her chin defiantly. She refused to apologize for questioning Geoffrey’s intentions. She was determined to protect her friend. Phoebe’s voice softened. “My actions were based on loyalty to my friend and honesty with my brother.” She took a steadying breath. “Now. The three of you seem to share a conspiracy where Mr. Mason is involved. Do you intend to tell me?” She stared at Geoffrey, and when he gave nothing away, Phoebe turned her scrutiny on Abraham.

“I’m not the one Mason asked to see.” Abraham raised his hands defensively.

“Peter?” Phoebe pressed while Geoffrey chuckled in his seat.

Peter shrugged and pointed at the eldest. “I didn’t talk to him either.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “At least, not until after he spoke to Geoffrey.”

“Geoffrey, if you don’t confess, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“What will you do?” He laughed.

Phoebe’s eyes darted around the items on the table. She snatched up her water glass and held it near her shoulder.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Geoffrey said.

Peter planted his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together. “This should prove entertaining.”

“Tell her, Geoffrey.” Abraham shook his head, leaned back in his seat, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“No,” Geoffrey said with a mischievous grin. “Not until Phoebe asks nicely.”

Frustration filled Phoebe, heating her cheeks and stoking her courage. “Explain why William was here, or you’ll find yourself doused.”

“It’s William now, is it?” Geoffrey chuckled. “That explains a lot.”

In the next second, droplets fell from Geoffrey’s chin onto his cravat while he sat shocked. Peter applauded, and even Abraham laughed aloud. The footman in the corner had to stifle his laugh.

“Well done, Phoebe,” Peter said. Geoffrey looked incredulous. “You deserved that,” Peter said with a laugh.

“Now.” Phoebe meticulously set her glass back in its place. “What did Mr. Mason say?”

Geoffrey grimaced and pulled his napkin from his lap. He wiped his face dry, then pegged Phoebe with a stare. “He asked if he could court you.”

***

Phoebe took another turn in her room. Mr. Mason. William Mason. The man she’d harbored feelings for, for a very—very—long time, wanted to court her. She’d often thought on what it would be like if Mr. Mason proclaimed an interest in her. She had envisioned her joy and even conjured the sensation of butterflies that would skip in her belly. And now the time had come. Mr. William Mason had declared his intentions. Yet, instead of felicitous rapture, Phoebe felt numb.

She paced toward her wardrobe and attempted to decipher her reaction. She had always considered Mr. Mason to be one of the handsomest men of her acquaintance. That fact had not changed. She stopped abruptly and spun a hundred and eighty degrees. Then she walked to the wall anchoring her bed. Mr. Mason paid her attention on occasion, but he was not consistent with his notice. Phoebe stopped, turned around, and passed the window again. He came from a good family. He was a gentleman, and her brothers counted him among their friends. Another pass by the darkened window, but this time Phoebe stopped and looked at her reflection in the glass. She wore her nightdress beneath a lovely pale-green dressing gown that had been a gift from her father. Her bright hair hung loose over her left shoulder. She did not enjoy the natural beauty Hannah or Miss Benson could claim, but neither was she homely or plain.

Unbidden, her thoughts wandered to the evening of Lady Granby’s ball. Mr. Mason had left her without a partner for the waltz. His cut had left deep wounds. Why now did he wish to pursue a match? Her hopes had been high that evening, flitting like the wind in the tops of the trees. She’d imagined that as she and Mr. Mason danced the waltz, a spark would light his eyes and the tie between them would change, ignite to something more. But he had never come, never sought her out, and he had yet to address or even acknowledge his fault. The day after the ball Abraham had disappeared for a few hours. Upon questioning, he would not reveal his destination, but Phoebe had a suspicion that her brother had confronted Mr. Mason. Where Mr. Mason had often joined them for dinner or made himself known when he came to visit Peter, Phoebe had not seen any sign of him in the days between the ball and the calamitous race. And now he’d met with Geoffrey.

Instead of bliss and anticipation, anger filled Phoebe’s veins. How dare he? How dare Mr. Mason dismiss her, reprimand her, and sweep aside his request to waltz as if it were as trivial as snuffing a candle, and then ask to court her?

She had not been wooed before, but she knew what she expected a proper courting to be. The gentleman would be kind, make his interest known through a mixture of gestures, large and small. He would seek her out, desire her opinion, and even flirt on occasion. He would steal secret glances, caress her with his eyes, and do all in his power to protect her . . . Phoebe pressed a hand to her lips and walked the length of her room three more times before sitting stiffly on the side of her bed.

Mr. Everly.

He had done those things. He had shown nothing but kindness. Even now, he lay upon the couch in the library because of his willingness to risk himself to save Phoebe. And he, too, had declared his desire to court her.

Phoebe thought on Mr. Everly’s words, the way he’d held her hands in the dance, and his rescue at the ball. How he valued her thoughts and respected her judgment. He complimented her beauty and sought her good opinion. The hotness in her blood faded, replaced with a different sort of warmth.

A sudden desire to see Mr. Everly flooded her soul. She needed to prove her memory valid—the way his eyes begged her to see him, the way he said her name, the way he cherished every moment in her presence.

Phoebe stood and walked to the door. She hurried down the corridor and descended the stairs to the bottom floor. She passed the morning room and had the door in sight before she realized she could not traipse into the library in her dressing gown. She halted her assault abruptly. The hour was not particularly late, but Phoebe noticed only a few candles remained lit. The usual chatter and din of the house had surrendered to quiet. While she had paced in her room, Primly Park had gone to bed. Only the sound of her racing heart filled the darkness.

She pulled her pale-green gown closed and tied the sash around her waist. It would be best if she slept now and rose early to bid Mr. Everly farewell. She looked to where soft light slipped beneath the seam of the library door.

Mr. Everly’s voice rang out. “Blast,” he cursed.

Emotions she’d never experienced pinged through various parts of her soft heart, and try as she might, Phoebe could not place them. She’d always been impulsive; Geoffrey’s wet hair and cravat at the dinner table proved she acted rashly. With a swift nod, she walked forward and tapped on the library door.

“Yes?” came the reply.

Phoebe turned the knob and revealed herself. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, even before she looked upon Mr. Everly.

He was alone. Standing beside the couch. He wore dark-brown trousers and a loose linen shirt, cut low in the front. Mr. Everly had discarded his sling, and he held his splinted arm at his side. In his other hand, a string of leather dangled from his fingers.

He looked surprised, though not displeased, to see her. “Miss Jamison,” he said. Then he looked down as if he only just remembered his state of undress. He swallowed. “I thought everyone had gone to bed.”

Phoebe became aware of her imposition. She wrapped her arms around her middle, hoping to hold herself together despite the pulsing in her heart and the euphoria in her head. “I could not sleep and . . . while standing in the corridor, I heard . . .” She glanced back at the door, feeling foolish for her reply.

“You heard me curse,” Mr. Everly said knowingly. Then he smiled, and Phoebe was grateful for her impulsiveness.

“Yes.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “Is there something you need?”

Mr. Everly looked at the string of leather in his hand. “Yes,” he said. “I wished to tie my hair back, but my injury won’t allow me use of both hands.” His lips turned in a tempting grin, and he held the leather forward. “Perhaps you could assist me?”

Phoebe noted their solitary surroundings. The fire had been banked, the servants all slept, and her brothers had retired to their rooms. She and Mr. Everly were entirely alone. She determined aiding Mr. Everly was no different than helping one of them. She’d been called upon to assist all three of her siblings in various ways throughout the years—many of them unpleasant, like the time she’d washed Peter’s feet for hours after he’d stayed in the snow for too long and his toes had become discolored. Or when Abraham and Geoffrey had been roughhousing in the garden, and Abraham had fallen into their mother’s rosebushes. Phoebe had cleaned each and every one of the nasty cuts left by the thorns. She’d pulled dozens of leeches from Geoffrey’s back when they’d had an especially wet summer and he had decided to run shirtless through the sedges by the pond. Arranging Mr. Everly’s hair was a simple task in comparison.

He had sacrificed much for her. The very reason his arm hung stiffly at his side was her doing. Tying his hair was straightforward, trivial even. She would be quick and then return to her room.

“You’ll have to sit down. Or I suppose I could stand on a stool.” Phoebe looked about for a chair.

“No, no. I’ll sit.” Mr. Everly thoughtfully chose his place, a chaise longue on which the back dipped lower on the right side.

With measured breaths, Phoebe walked to where he sat.

She met his eyes. “Do you have a hairbrush?”

Mr. Everly looked up at her, and Phoebe noticed their breaths had synchronized. No verbal response came. Mr. Everly simply shook his head.

Phoebe blinked and tried to remind herself of the simplicity of her task. She walked behind him, standing silently as she stared at his sturdy shoulders. In the moment before the pause turned awkward, Phoebe reached forward. She curled her fingers and combed through Mr. Everly’s blond strands. His hair felt as she had imagined, soft and featherlike. She pulled back one side, from his brow down the side of his scalp, and held it in her hand as she did the same to the other side. Mr. Everly’s shoulders did not move, and Phoebe wondered if he held his breath as she held hers.

She ran her hands through his hair, assuring each section lay smooth. Her voice was barely a whisper. “The cord, if you please?”

Mr. Everly held his right hand over his shoulder. Phoebe looked down at his open palm and slowly, tentatively, reached for the strip of leather resting there. The pads of her fingers brushed against his skin. The warm, pleasurable sensation made her want to keep the connection, to press her fingers more firmly against his hand. Instead, she slid her fingers around the leather cording and lifted it away.

She wrapped the leather around his hair once, twice, and tied a firm knot. Her fingers lingered for only a moment before she dropped her hands back to her side. Mr. Everly stood and walked around the chaise longue to stand before her.

“Thank you, Miss Jamison,” he said.

“Phoebe,” she said, shocking herself. She scrambled to explain. “You are like a brother to me.” She recognized the lie, and so did Mr. Everly.

His lips twitched. “I do not wish to be a brother to you.” He inched forward; his gray eyes danced around Phoebe’s face and fell to her lips. “Phoebe.” He said her name with all the tenderness of a kiss, and Phoebe longed for him to draw closer still. Mr. Everly reached his right hand forward. He caressed the hair on Phoebe’s forehead and trailed his fingers down the long orange strands. “May you have sweet dreams,” he said. Then he stepped away.