Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton
Chapter 23
Phoebe had been pleased to see Mr. Everly’s progress. He still wore the sling, but Doctor Daniels had predicted the injury would heal, in time. She had worried Mr. Everly’s stitches might become infected, but he had appeared to be recovering fully.
Paul escorted her today, for she wished to ride to the edge of the field. She had replayed the moment of her rescue in her mind, but it seemed so fantastical that she could scarce believe it had actually happened. In the two weeks since the accident, her bruises had disappeared along with the fright she had felt as her horse bolted across the open space. She remembered she had cried, but when she recalled the event, she did not think of the tears on her cheeks. She only remembered Mr. Everly. The way his voice had soothed her as he leapt from the saddle and wrapped his arms around her.
Phoebe rode slowly along the rocky edge of the field and could easily decipher where she and Mr. Everly had fallen to the ground. A patch of wild grass was torn up, and a dark crimson stain marked the sharp triangular rock Mr. Everly had struck.
Where Phoebe could usually stomach such things, she found her vision fuzzy, and she turned away. One question continued to linger: Why? Why had Mr. Everly taken such a risk? When, at the Summer Solstice Ball, he’d expressed his desire to court her, she had dismissed him. She had assumed he flirted only to provoke her. Yet . . . could his desire be sincere? Could a man as handsome and capable as Mr. Everly single her out? And what of Mr. Mason?
Geoffrey claimed he had not given Mr. Mason permission to court her. He had said he was not opposed to the suit, but in the end, Phoebe would decide whom she wished to marry. Phoebe was grateful Geoffrey acknowledged her opinion and would not force her into an unwanted courtship. Mr. Mason was everything Phoebe had thought she wanted, yet . . . perhaps she’d been wrong.
Her thoughts jumbled, and she only wished to right them. She appreciated the straightforward manner of her brothers. She did not understand why ladies would demurely state an opinion or defer to the males in the room when the slightest disagreement would arise. Phoebe wanted an answer. She needed an answer. And it was an answer only Mr. Everly could provide.
She turned her horse back toward the house and kicked it into a canter. The musicale at Ravencrest was scheduled for the following evening, but Phoebe could not wait a moment longer. She would recruit Peter to escort her to Ravencrest and find a way to ask Mr. Everly for his explanation.
Grover panted hard by the time they reached Primly Park. Phoebe allowed Paul to help her dismount, and she asked him to hold her horse while she set off in search of her brother. She thought she might find Peter in the library. She entered the house through the rear door, and the voices carrying down the corridor told Phoebe her hunch was correct.
Red determination fueled Phoebe’s steps. She pushed the door open and found not only Peter but Mr. Mason as well. Her courage wilted. She sought Mr. Everly, not Mr. Mason, and was surprised at the disappointment she felt at seeing Peter’s longtime friend.
“Phoebe,” Peter said. “Come join us.”
“I came to ask a favor, but I will find Abraham.” Phoebe turned toward the door. She had not sorted her feelings about Mr. Mason, and when she looked on him, she thought only of his cut at Lady Granby’s ball.
“Nonsense,” Peter said. “Mason was just asking after you. Now you may answer yourself.” He walked over, took Phoebe’s hand, and led her to the sofa. They sat together while Mr. Mason took the chair across from them. “What was it you were asking, Mason? Something about Phoebe’s preference in music?”
Mr. Mason cast Peter a furtive glance. Then he turned his attention to Phoebe. “I’ve been asked to sing at the musicale at Ravencrest. If you have a favorite selection, I would be honored to perform it.”
“Oh.” Phoebe found the idea that Mr. Mason would tailor his performance to her quite surprising. “I . . . I could not say. Anything you chose would suit.” She wondered if her opinion truly mattered. If Mr. Mason cared for her notice, he would not have left her without a partner at the ball.
“As I said, chap. She’s not particular.” Peter leaned back, crossed his legs, and laid his arm across the back of the couch.
“Are you certain you’ve no preference, Miss Jamison?” Mr. Mason looked at Phoebe. His brown eyes, filled with determination, focused on her.
She did not answer right away. The air felt weighted and thick. Her answer seemed to carry more than just a preference. It felt definitive, like the boundaries of a circle or the binding of a book. “You should sing something you enjoy.”
“Very well,” Mr. Mason said. He stood and bowed directly to Phoebe. Peter’s eyes danced back and forth between his sister and his friend. “Until tomorrow.”
Upon Mr. Mason’s departure, Peter sat upright. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands together. “Phoebe, what are we to do?”
Phoebe pressed a finger to her lips. “Did Mr. Mason really come only to ask my preference?”
“He clearly did not pay call on my account.” Peter grinned.
“Does the pact extend to your friends as it does to mine?” Phoebe asked.
Peter leaned back and thought for a moment. “No, I don’t believe it does.”
“Why not?” Phoebe asked.
“Any man who is interested in courting you must get Geoffrey’s approval, at least while Father is away, and Geoffrey would not approve someone without knowing Abraham and I would support the match as well.”
“You support Mr. Mason’s suit?”
Peter wagged a finger at his sister. “No, Phoebe, you will not sway me to reveal my feelings on the matter. You have two eligible gentlemen seeking your hand. As Geoffrey has told you, the decision is yours.”
“You mean Mr. Everly is earnest in his suit as well?” Phoebe asked.
Peter laughed aloud. “The man leapt from a horse to ensure your safety. When you occupy the same room, he is aware of your every movement. He smiles when you smile and barely refrains from calling me out when I tease you. I’d say Everly is quite smitten.”
The cadence of Phoebe’s heartbeat doubled. “I did not know.” She pressed her eyes closed and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Peter. What am I to do?”
“Today, you must play me in chess, for Abraham is determined to beat me, and I feel I should sharpen my skills.” Peter stood and extended a hand to Phoebe. “Then, tomorrow, we have the promise of diverting entertainment, for we have a musicale to attend.”
***
Miriam secured Phoebe’s hair and pulled a final red strand to curl prettily near Phoebe’s right ear. “There you are, miss.” Miriam stepped back, pleased with her work.
“Are you certain this gown is better than the blue?” Phoebe asked.
Miriam offered a patient smile. “You look lovely. Your brothers are waiting, and you’d best be on your way.”
Phoebe’s abigail was right. The white muslin and green silk ribbons were a stunning combination with her hair. She took a deep breath, pulled on her long gloves, and descended to the ground floor, where Windly waited with her green spencer. Phoebe’s three brothers stood near the carriage. She stepped outside, well aware of the teasing that would ensue.
Geoffrey acknowledged Phoebe with hardly a glance. “We will be late. Hurry.”
Abraham walked close and leaned toward Phoebe’s ear. “He only wishes to claim the seat near Miss Vane.”
Peter slid his hand into Phoebe’s and led her to the carriage step. “Such entertainment. I can hardly wait.” He handed her up the step and then followed behind.
The footman secured the door, and with a jolt, they started their journey. “What do you think of my gown?” Phoebe asked.
The brothers looked between themselves, avoiding direct eye contact with Phoebe.
“Do you not like it?” Her shoulders slumped against the rear seat of the carriage.
“The color suits you,” Geoffrey said, turning from the window.
“It’s very nice,” Abraham said.
“The same shade as fresh milk,” Peter teased with raised brows.
Phoebe scoffed. “I wish Mother were here.”
“You know we’ve no sense for these things.” Geoffrey tugged at his cravat. “Consider it a compliment that we said nothing. It means you do not look ridiculous.”
Peter looked over Phoebe’s person and shrugged. “Geoffrey is right, of course. If there had been fault to find, Abraham would have noted it.”
Abraham’s jaw fell open. “Pardon?”
“You are the most direct,” Geoffrey said matter-of-factly.
“’Tis true,” Peter agreed with a nod.
“Phoebe, how can you allow such blaspheme?” Abraham looked between his siblings. “I would not dare find fault with a lady.”
“Phoebe’s not a lady,” Peter said. “She’s your sister.”
Abraham turned to Phoebe. “What are they about? Have I criticized your attire? Your manners? You must agree I am not at fault on this count.”
Phoebe smiled. “You did say I am a poor chess opponent.”
Abraham’s jaw fell again. He looked to his brothers for support, but they only laughed. With a huff, Abraham pulled his shoulders high. “Chess is not your strength, Phoebe. Shooting, perhaps, or horsemanship.” He frowned. “I only spoke the truth.”
Phoebe patted Abraham’s knee. “I adore your honesty, Abraham. I pray you never change.”
The coach rolled up to the entrance of Ravencrest. Geoffrey handed Phoebe down from the carriage, and Phoebe wondered at the transformation before her. Fresh paint coated the front door. The steps had been swept and washed and were now lit by two torches. Thurston opened the door before Geoffrey had a chance to knock. He bowed with a smile and ushered them to the music room.
Mr. Everly stood with his mother just inside the door. He greeted each of the Jamison brothers, and while Geoffrey stood speaking with Mrs. Everly, Mr. Everly addressed Phoebe. “Good evening, Miss Jamison.” He bowed over her hand. “Your gown compliments you.”
Phoebe turned knowing eyes to Peter, who stood beside her. He grinned but said nothing.
“Thank you, Mr. Everly. You look well,” Phoebe said. Mr. Everly did look especially fine. His blond hair was tied with a blue ribbon, and he wore a dark-brown jacket over a waistcoat the same color blue as his eyes.
Mrs. Everly updated Geoffrey on Mr. Everly’s recovery. “He uses the sling only when I force it upon him,” she said.
“Which is daily,” Mr. Everly said.
Geoffrey laughed, but his eyes wandered toward the harp, where Hannah and her mother stood admiring the instrument.
“We’ll not keep you,” Mrs. Everly said, looking over her shoulder at Hannah. “It would be best for you to mingle with the others; we’ve only a small gathering this evening. The Claytons and Vanes have arrived, and thus, we only wait on Mr. Mason. His mother, unfortunately, sends her apologies.”
“Yes, yes.” Geoffrey bowed and began to walk away, and Phoebe was grateful for Mrs. Everly’s knowing smile.
“I think the pact is officially compromised,” Peter said to no one in particular, but Abraham mumbled his agreement.
“Mr. Everly?” Mrs. Clayton called. She stood in front of a painting of Halsham. “Do you have any knowledge of this artist?”
Mr. Everly turned and smiled at Phoebe, Peter, and Abraham. “Excuse me.” He bowed, then went to speak with Mrs. Clayton.
Mrs. Everly clapped her hands together. “Mr. Mason shall arrive soon, and Mrs. Thurston has prepared refreshments for after the entertainment. Excuse me while I verify the arrangements.” She walked through the door to find the housekeeper.
Peter leaned again toward Abraham. “Mason. Everly. Phoebe. Entertainment indeed.” He chuckled.
Abraham smirked. “I believe Mrs. Everly hopes the entertainment might include some music.”
“She’s new to the neighborhood,” Peter said. “She’ll know soon enough.”
Phoebe swatted first Abraham’s arm, then Peter’s. “That’s quite enough. Both of you need to behave.”
Peter rubbed his arm as if Phoebe had hurt him. “Come, now, Phoebe. If we have to sit through a dreadful musicale, you can allow for a bit of fun,” he said.
Mrs. Everly returned, escorted by Mr. Mason. “Look who has arrived,” she said. She gave him an affectionate smile before freeing herself and walking to stand near the pianoforte. “Thank you all for joining us this evening,” she said. “You have all welcomed Franklin and myself to Somerset, and we look forward to a night of music and friendship. Please find a seat, and we shall begin.”
The seating was arranged in clusters throughout the room. Geoffrey had joined himself with the Vanes. He sat on a golden couch beside Hannah, who wore a constant smile. Abraham sat in one of four square-backed chairs carved with intricate detail. Mr. Mason and Peter talked easily and moved to sit near Abraham. Mr. Mason looked at Phoebe. He indicated the available seat next to her two brothers, but Phoebe hesitated. In the past, she would have been eager to sit with the men, to be included in her brothers’ banter and have a chance to converse with Mr. Mason. The comfort she once felt in the notion no longer existed.
She looked across the room to where Mr. Clayton sat. Mr. Everly held a chair for Mrs. Clayton, who smiled and took the seat next to her husband. Their seats were only a pair, and Phoebe looked about to see where Mr. Everly might situate himself. A dark-blue canapé sofa with golden stripes was positioned near the window opposite the pianoforte. It appeared to be the last available option.
Mr. Everly walked to the canapé, but before he sat, he turned and looked about the room. “Miss Jamison?” he asked. “Would you care to join me?”
Mr. Mason stood abruptly. “There is a seat here, by your brother.” He pointed to the empty place near Peter. “It boasts a lovely view of the pianoforte.”
Silence fell over the room, and Phoebe felt as though she were caught in a tug-of-war. The tiniest movement would either split her apart or send her tumbling to the ground. Peter smirked and directed his gaze to his knuckles.
“I would like to stand,” Phoebe said, hoping her smile was wide enough to cover the fib.
Mr. Everly remained fixed, his eyes on Phoebe. Mr. Mason’s mouth fell open, and he raised his hand and took a tiny step forward. “Miss Jamison, I must—” His words fell away when Abraham reached for his wrist and gave a small shake of his head. Mr. Mason looked at Abraham and then noticed the shift of attention toward him. He cleared his throat and pressed his lips into a hard line before finally retaking his seat.
Mrs. Everly clapped her hands together. “Very well,” she said. “If everyone is settled?” She looked to each grouping, ending with her son. He still stood. With a tiny lift of her eyebrows and a placid smile, Mrs. Everly addressed him. “Franklin? Did you wish to greet our guests?”
Mr. Everly came to himself, and with a quick breath, he forced a smile. “We welcome you, once again. My talented mother will begin our entertainment this evening.” He sat on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.
Mrs. Everly situated herself at the pianoforte and extended her fingers to the keys. Her selection was a lilting tune, requiring a decent amount of skill. Phoebe made every attempt to appreciate the trills and crescendos, but she found herself very aware of the gentlemen seated on either side of her. She was decidedly uncomfortable with the sideways glances and shifting attention of both Mr. Everly and Mr. Mason.
The final chord was executed with dramatic flair and a lofty sigh as Mrs. Everly lifted her fingers from the keys. Applause sounded throughout the room, and Phoebe joined the praise, eager to shift attention to someone other than herself. She continued clapping, and the other guests followed suit. Mrs. Everly rose from the pianoforte with a flush in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, holding a hand over her heart. She curtsied. “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “Our next performer is Mrs. Vane. She will treat us first to a solo on the harp. Then we will have the privilege of Mrs. Vane and her daughter performing Thomas Moore’s ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’” Mrs. Everly walked to the canape sofa and sat by her son.
Mrs. Vane truly had a gift. She plucked the harp strings with precision, eliciting a peaceful melody that floated like a lullaby through the room. The final note reverberated, and Mr. Vane clapped heartily for his wife. Mrs. Vane smiled and motioned for Hannah to join her. The duet did not disappoint. When Geoffrey led the others in a standing ovation, Hannah ducked her head to hide her blush.
Once the fervor calmed, Mrs. Everly spoke again. “Mr. Mason, I believe you prepared a piece?”
“Yes.” Mr. Mason took a seat at the pianoforte. He stretched his fingers and placed them on the keys. He turned and looked directly at Phoebe. “My selection this evening is, ‘Love Will Find Out the Way.’”
“A classic choice,” Mr. Clayton said.
“Precisely.” Mr. Mason smiled and began the song.
Mr. Mason possessed a lovely voice. He had chosen a song meant to impress. And while Phoebe acknowledged his abundant talent, she held her breath every time he stole a glance in her direction. His attention did not produce a sense of awe; rather, his singular glance suffocated any pretense of peace and left Phoebe for want of air. She fanned her hand near her face, trying to chase away the fog suffocating her thoughts. She glanced at Mr. Everly. His attention was not focused on the piece being presented on the pianoforte; his eyes were fixed on her. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and a smile danced on his lips. He winked at Phoebe, and a sudden faintness washed over her. She did not wish to collapse on the floor, so she moved to the open seat next to Peter and lowered herself into the chair. A smug smile filled Mr. Mason’s face as he retook his seat, and while Phoebe applauded his performance, she could not dismiss the flame in her cheeks ignited by Mr. Everly.
Abraham played a classic piece and modestly accepted a string of compliments. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton played a romping duet and received another standing ovation. Once they retook their seats, Mrs. Everly stood again. “Franklin and I are not ones to stand on formality. Are there any others who wish to perform this evening?”
Peter looked about the room, and his gaze settled on Mr. Everly. “You will not be singing, Everly?”
Mr. Everly looked away. He adjusted his coat over his injured arm and then met Peter’s gaze. “Our purpose was a chance to better know our friends and neighbors. I did not intend to perform.”
“Surely, you have a song you prefer. One you need not practice,” Mrs. Clayton said. When Mr. Everly did not budge, she urged him further. “You mean to deprive us of the opportunity to hear our host?” Mrs. Clayton smiled at him. “Come, now, Mr. Everly, I’ve no doubt you shall rise to the occasion.”
“I’m sure a performance would go a long way in endearing you to your new neighbors,” Mrs. Everly said.
“I would be honored to accompany you,” Mrs. Clayton offered.
The prodding women prevailed. Mr. Everly’s face broke into a grin. “That will not be necessary.” He stood and walked to his mother. Then he leaned close and whispered something into her ear. Mrs. Everly’s lips parted as if she wished to argue.
She took a deep breath, and her lips pushed into a stern line. “That is not exactly the selection I had envisioned.”
Mr. Everly tilted his head. “If they are to know me, I wish to erase all pretense.” He turned to his audience. “I beg your forgiveness ahead of time.” He bowed and placed his right hand over his heart. “I mean no offense to your sensibilities, but I warn you my song is quite juvenile.” He grinned directly at Phoebe. Then he looked to where his mother sat at the pianoforte and gave a single nod.
Mrs. Everly shook her head, but a hint of a smile settled on her lips as she set her hands on the keys and began the piece with a high trill. Mr. Everly pitched his voice an octave lower than the note his mother played. He held his shoulders high and looked above Phoebe’s head with a staid expression. Though, upon closer inspection it was quite obvious his seriousness was only a guise. Mrs. Everly held the high trill for three long beats. Then Mr. Everly dropped his haughty facade, sporting a mischievous grin while he began singing.
Lavender’s blue, diddle diddle
Lavender’s green,
When I am king, diddle diddle
You shall be queen.
Lavender’s green, diddle diddle
Lavender’s blue,
You must love me, diddle diddle
’Cause I love you.
Down in the vale, diddle diddle
Where flowers grow,
And the birds sing, diddle diddle
All in a row.
Mrs. Everly played an interlude. Her hands danced around the notes on the pianoforte, and Mr. Everly’s foot tapped the rhythm. He was a practiced tenor, and though there was nothing particularly commendable in his voice, Phoebe quite enjoyed the playful, bright nature of the performance. The crescendo rose, building octave by octave, and with it, Mr. Everly’s grin. He caught Phoebe’s gaze and gave a quick wink before sweeping into the next verse. Phoebe felt as if she were witnessing a sunrise, the first rays of apricot-orange light skipping over the vista to announce another day.
A brisk young man, diddle diddle
Met with a maid,
And laid her down, diddle diddle
Under the shade.
There they did play, diddle diddle
And kiss and court.
All the fine day, diddle diddle
Making good sport.
I’ve heard them say, diddle diddle
Since I came hither
That you and I, diddle diddle
Might lie together.
Mr Everly gazed only upon Phoebe. His voice did not falter, and his face lit with a grin. The warmth in Phoebe’s cheeks could not be helped. No matter the words he sang, Mr. Everly’s voice made her happy. Her jubilance escalated, and her smile could not be contained.
Therefore be kind, diddle diddle
While here we lie,
And you will love, diddle diddle
My dog and I.
For you and I, diddle diddle
Now all are one,
And we will lie, diddle diddle
No more alone.
Lavender’s blue, diddle diddle
Lavender’s green,
Let me be king, diddle diddle
You be the queen.
Lavender’s green, diddle diddle
Lavender’s blue,
You must love me, diddle diddle
’Cause I love you.
Mr. Everly held the final note, and his eyes remained on Phoebe’s. Mrs. Everly’s laughter joined with that of the other guests, Mr. Mason’s deliberate scowl being the only exception. Mr. Everly paid no heed to Mr. Mason’s glower and offered a theatrical bow. In truth, he offered three. Mrs. Clayton stood, bringing the others to their feet as well. Phoebe rose with the others, clapping and laughing and commenting on the entertainment Mr. Everly had provided. Of course, the company knew the familiar tune. However, it was not usually adapted to a musicale and polite company.
Mr. Everly raised his right hand, waving off the praise. His smile spread as wide as the horizon, and his eyes found Phoebe’s once again. His words fell to the audience in general, but with his direct gaze and pointed pronunciation, Phoebe felt he spoke only to her. “I hope you enjoyed it.”
She ducked her head, savoring the emotion spreading through her core, light and happy, like a warm summer rain. Mrs. Everly said something about refreshments in the drawing room, and Phoebe startled when she felt a hand on her lower back.
“Miss Jamison,” Mr. Mason whispered, leaning near. “May I entreat you to allow me to escort you to the drawing room? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
The lightness Phoebe felt moments before turned hot, like the wild flames of a reckless fire. She turned to Peter, who stood nearby, but he was speaking with Mr. Clayton and did not see her plea for intervention.
Mr. Mason did not wait further for a response. He lifted Phoebe’s hand and wove it through his own, wordlessly guiding her from the room. Ahead, in the corridor, Geoffrey walked with Miss Vane and her parents, and Phoebe longed to join their happy chatter. But her heart pounded as if it were filled with leaden weights. She had an aching suspicion she knew the topic Mr. Mason would address.
A table spread with cakes, fruit, and tea had been arranged beneath the bank of windows in the drawing room. A moderate fire crackled behind a decorative iron grate, and fresh flowers brightened the heavy maroon decor. Mr. Mason led Phoebe to the wall opposite the table, stopping in front of a framed canvas depicting a hunting party trailing a desperate lone fox.
Phoebe felt a kindred connection to the fox. She pulled her arm from Mr. Mason’s sleeve and turned to face him. If she could steer the course of their conversation, perhaps she could regain a sense of control. She currently felt as though she’d been submerged in a murky pond.
“Your performance was inspiring, Mr. Mason.” Phoebe knew Mr. Mason thrived on compliments. “Your ability to play the pianoforte and sing never fails to impress.”
He smiled, as Phoebe knew he would. “I chose the song particularly for you,” he said.
“Did you?” Phoebe barely squeaked the words out.
Mr. Mason moved nearer. “Yes.” He turned toward the painting, concealing his movements from the room, at large, and reached for Phoebe’s hand. She gasped as his fingers closed around hers. “You must be aware of my intentions, Miss Jamison? We’ve known each other for many years, and I am anxious to solidify our union.”
Phoebe had waited for this exact moment for almost as long as she could remember. In her dream, her heart would flutter and her nerves would skitter as she breathlessly devoted herself to Mr. Mason. Yet, as his thumb trailed across the back of her gloved hand, she felt neither breathless nor fluttery. She felt suddenly ill.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Phoebe pulled her hand free and stared at his chest. Her breaths came quickly.
Mr. Mason looked down at her. “Miss Jamison?” When she did not answer, he tried again. “Phoebe?” This time Phoebe raised her head. “Did your brother not tell you of my desire to court you?” he asked.
Phoebe nodded. Mr. Mason smiled, the same condescending smile he employed when he chastised her behavior or counseled her in her actions. It did not feel like the sentiment of a man in love, and Phoebe knew she would settle for nothing less. “Why?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Mr. Mason, why do you suddenly seek a connection between us?” Strength came with Phoebe’s words. She was not a simpering young miss, desperate for Mr. Mason’s attentions. Her chin lifted. “Why did you not claim my hand for the waltz at the Summer Solstice Ball? And why do you desire to court me now?”
“Truthfully . . . that night at the ball, I forgot which dance I had promised. I did not mean to slight you, and I apologize.” Mr. Mason’s smile spread a sickening feeling through Phoebe’s stomach. “We’ve always had a connection, Phoebe. I’ve known your family for years. Peter is like a brother to me.” He reached for her hand again, but she stuck her fisted fingers into the folds of her skirt.
“And, by extension, I am a sister?”
“Quite,” Mr. Mason said before he noticed Phoebe’s frown.
“Yet, despite this connection, you left me playing the part of a fool while I awaited the dance you requested.” Embers of anger lit in Phoebe’s lungs. The flames began to stoke through her chest.
“I apologize for my actions that evening.” Mr. Mason began to reach for her hand again, but Phoebe was not pacified. She took a small step backward.
“Do you care for me?” she asked.
Mr. Mason sputtered a laugh. “What sort of question is that? Come, now. We get on well. We suit one another. That is more than many marriages can claim.”
“And that is precisely the problem.” Phoebe knew the truth of his words, but that did not change her desire to be loved. It had rooted deep in her heart long ago.
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Mason admitted. “I can give you a comfortable home. I can provide for your wants.” Perplexity drew his brows low. “I thought you would be pleased.”
Phoebe took a deep breath. “Pay me a compliment.”
“What?” Mr. Mason asked.
“If you wish to court me, and possibly marry me, there must be some aspect of my being that you admire. Something that will make you not forget when you’ve requested my hand for a dance.” Phoebe moved her hands in front of her, clasping them together and meeting Mr. Mason’s gaze. “Pay me a compliment.” She’d heard his poetic descriptions of everything from brightly colored trout to sleek thoroughbred horses. When Mr. Mason had described his visit to Dover, Peter had teased him for using eloquent words while Phoebe had stood by her brother’s side, enraptured as Mr. Mason had described his adventure in such intricate detail. She had almost been able to smell the salty mist from the ocean far beneath the starched white cliffs. If his desire for her hand were sincere, she would know with his compliment.
A moment passed. Then another. Mr. Mason’s eyes darted around Phoebe’s face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again without uttering a word.
Shame rushed in with the proof of Phoebe’s realization. “Your silence has answered for you, Mr. Mason. Please excuse me.” She turned quickly, finding herself facing the silver buttons of Peter’s waistcoat.
Peter placed both hands on her shoulders and dipped his head to look into her eyes. “Phoebe? Are you well?”
Phoebe pressed her hand to her lips and nodded with a shaky breath. “I need some air.”
Peter looked over her head, and a scowl filled his usually jovial face. “Come.” He took Phoebe’s hand and led her through the corridors to a door that exited into an enclosed courtyard. There were no candles lit, but light from the house tumbled from the windows.
“Thank you for your escort, Peter, but might I have a moment alone?” Phoebe blinked rapidly to keep her tears at bay. If he witnessed her tears, he would tell both Geoffrey and Abraham. They would harass her until she revealed the cause of her distress, and she had no desire to repeat all that had transpired.
“Are you certain?” Peter’s sympathy was almost Phoebe’s undoing. But she nodded without shedding a tear. Peter hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Then, I shall be right inside.”
Phoebe watched him walk away, and once she was alone, she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Mr. Mason did not stir her heart as he once had. She’d thought her feelings might resurrect if he paid her notice. However, his inability to articulate a single compliment said everything his words did not. She could not be Mrs. William Mason. Phoebe inhaled deeply and dropped her fingers.
When she opened her eyes, Mr. Everly stood before her, his left arm secure in its sling as his right hand hung at his side. Multiple yellow strands mischievously escaped from his hair tie, brushing against his jaw.
He said nothing, at least with words. His eyes, however, spoke volumes, and the frozen pins around Phoebe’s heart began to thaw. Each beat of her heart thrummed a bit stronger, heavier, pushing emotions through her that she had never before felt. A sense of right. The lifeblood of joy.
“Mason hurt you,” he said.
Phoebe slowly shook her head and struggled to find her voice. “Not in the way you presume.” Mr. Everly’s chest rose and fell, and with the release of his breath, Phoebe’s epiphany arrived. “I believe he set me free.”
Mr. Everly did not hesitate to close the distance between them. He captured Phoebe’s left hand and held it between them. “Do you care for him?”
“Mr. Everly—”
“Franklin. Please call me Franklin.”
Soft yellow danced from the windows. Phoebe nodded and whispered, “I consider Mr. Mason only a friend.”
An unfiltered smile wafted across Mr. Everly’s lips only to be replaced by a sudden seriousness. He tightened his hold on Phoebe’s hand, his eye’s light and hopeful. “Then . . . can it be me?”