Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton
Chapter 3
Mr. Mason led Phoebe down the long corridor to where Peter stood speaking to someone inside the room before turning to see Phoebe approach. “Thank heavens you’re here,” Peter said. “She will not listen to reason, and I dare not go in without a chaperone.”
Phoebe peeked into the billiard room, where Hannah sat—a crumpled pile of soggy hysteria. Thankfully, dancing was the order of the night, so the room remained unoccupied. Phoebe turned to her brother and pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, where she knew he kept it. “Divert anyone who comes this way. I’ll look after Hannah.” Then she took a deep breath and steeled herself as she entered the room.
Phoebe unfolded the handkerchief and lowered herself to sit beside Hannah.
“He must think I am a buffle-headed ninny,” Hannah cried.
“Who?” Phoebe rubbed her hand up and down Hannah’s back.
“Your brother,” Hannah said.
“Peter?”
“No, Mr. Jamison. Mr. Geoffrey Jamison!” Hannah wailed.
Phoebe pressed the handkerchief into Hannah’s hand. “Now there. It can’t be that bad. Wipe your eyes.” Hannah’s sobs muted to sniffles. She pressed the linen around her eyes, clearing the moisture from her face. “There you are,” Phoebe said. She raised Hannah’s chin and pushed the loosened hairs back from her face. Nothing but time would reduce the red puffiness in Hannah’s cheeks. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“You know Mr. Jamison asked me to dance. Deep down, I knew it was only so you could dance with Mr. Everly, but I thought perhaps . . .” Hannah began sobbing again, covering her face with her hands.
Phoebe continued to rub her friend’s back. “Hannah,” she began. “I can guarantee Geoffrey does not consider you a bufflehead. First off, because I’ve never heard him use that particular term and secondly, if he were to call anyone a bufflehead, it would be Peter. Those two have been quarreling for as long as I can remember.”
Hannah sniffled. “But did Mr. Peter ever step on Mr. Jamison’s feet in a dance? Or turn clockwise when the steps required him to go counterclockwise?” She took a shuddering breath.
Phoebe laughed lightly. “Should they ever dance together, I’m certain Peter would do exactly that, if only to test Geoffrey’s mettle.”
“But I did not mean to do it. And I am sure I embarrassed him. To be honest, I am shocked he asked me to dance at all. My mind doubted the reality, and I could not think on the steps of the minuet.” Hannah dropped her head again.
“Come.” Phoebe stood. She wrapped her fingers around Hannah’s wrists and lifted her from the floor. “Your mother will ask all sorts of questions if you return in a crumpled gown.”
Phoebe led Hannah to the sofa. Peter stuck his head through the doorway, and Phoebe shooed him away before Hannah saw him.
“Let me tell you a few things about Geoffrey,” Phoebe said. “He does not act rashly. He is a dutiful son who honors the dictates of propriety to the letter. If he asked you to dance, it was not on a whim. He knew very well what he was about.”
“You believe he wanted to dance with me?” Hannah asked in a quiet voice. She twisted the handkerchief in her lap.
Phoebe reached over and took the linen in hand, wiping the last bit of moisture from Hannah’s chin. She did not want to lie. She thought on her answer. “How many occasions has Geoffrey had the opportunity to ask you to dance?”
Hannah blew air through her lips. “I can hardly say. Too many to count.”
“Precisely.” Phoebe pulled Hannah’s hands into her own. “And on how many of those occasions has he actually asked you to dance?”
“Today was the first.” Hannah stared at her fingers.
“Which meant he knew what he was doing.”
Hannah’s eyes lifted. “Why today?”
“Shall I ask him?” Phoebe moved to stand.
“No! You most certainly shall not!” Hannah pulled Phoebe back to the sofa and squeezed her fingers so hard Phoebe yelped.
“Hannah, I am only jesting.” She pulled her fingers free and shook them.
Hannah folded her arms with a huff. “You are teasing me.”
Phoebe smiled. “What did Geoffrey do when you turned the wrong direction?”
“He made some joke about being so handsome that it was understandable I got turned around. And then his arm practically encircled my waist as he whirled me into the correct position.” Stars filled Hannah’s eyes as she stared at a random sconce over Phoebe’s shoulder.
Oh dear. Phoebe pressed her lips together and pondered how to help Hannah out of her doldrums without encouraging her to pursue Phoebe’s eldest brother. “Not one mention of bufflehead. I told you. Geoffrey is every bit a gentleman.”
Hannah sighed her agreement. “He truly is.”
“Shall we return to the dancing?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t think I am fit to be seen.” Hannah placed her palms on her cheeks.
“Nonsense.” Phoebe stood, intent to ask Peter to fetch two lemonades, but Hannah grabbed her hand again.
“I cannot return like this, Phoebe. Please tell my father I’m ill and ask him to send for the carriage.”
Redness rimmed Hannah’s eyes, and although her coloring had improved, splotches still marked the tender parts of her cheeks. Phoebe wanted to return to the ballroom. She wanted to continue her conversation with Mr. Everly. She enjoyed his wit and lighthearted banter, his warm gray eyes and playful grin. But Hannah had been her confidante for nearly a decade; Phoebe would not desert her friend.
“I shall ask Peter if I may escort you home. I can send the carriage back for the remainder of my family,” Phoebe said.
“Thank you, Phoebe.” Hannah pressed a hand to her heart.
With an understanding nod, Phoebe left to make the request of Peter.
“I cannot allow you and Miss Vane to travel alone,” Peter said.
“We will have the footman and the coachman. We will be well enough.” Phoebe touched her brother’s arm. “I’ve promised Hannah I will see her home.”
Peter lifted Phoebe’s hand from his arm and squeezed her fingers. “Then, I shall go with you.”
“There’s no need to cut your evening short,” Phoebe said.
“Lord Granby received a new report only this evening.” Peter placed his hands on Phoebe’s shoulders. “A young woman from a modest family in Stangreen is missing.”
In a blink, Phoebe met her brother’s eyes. “Stangreen?” The village lay not far from their own. “Are they certain it was . . . him?
Peter swallowed and continued. “The magistrate has not issued an official statement, but we may assume it is the same culprit.”
Phoebe’s chest tightened. The previous week, Geoffrey had been extremely somber at dinner. When Phoebe had questioned him, he revealed he’d received a visit from the constable in Halsham. Several girls from the surrounding towns had gone missing. Three, to be exact. Now four. Their ages and statuses had varied, but they’d all been considered handsome young women, and there had been no apparent reason for their departure. It was believed they’d been kidnapped.
“No more traipsing about without a chaperone,” Geoffrey had told her.
“And you must always have one of us or a groom accompany you when you ride,” Abraham had said.
“Perhaps we should have Phoebe carry a gun,” Peter had suggested. “She shoots as well as the three of us.” While Peter spoke true, Phoebe had scoffed at the idea.
In the end, her brothers had not insisted she hide a weapon in her skirts, but they had each admonished her to be careful.
Peter was right to insist he escort Phoebe and Hannah now.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Hannah had been deposited home and Peter led Phoebe through the front door of Primly Park.
“I must thank you, Phoebe. Now I get to read a bit and sleep while my brothers are consigned to offer false platitudes to their dance partners.” Peter smiled while he handed his hat and gloves to the butler. “Thank you, Windly.”
“Do you mean to say you do not regret having your evening cut short?” Phoebe handed over her things to Windly and then followed Peter to the library.
He laughed. “The only regret I harbor is that your evening was cut short as well.” Peter walked to the grate and stirred the embers until a flicker of flame appeared. He then tossed a log from the woodbox onto the fire.
“I’m grateful for your assistance with Hannah. And if your insistence on escorting us home offered you reprieve from the dancing, then I do not feel quite so badly. Although, I do believe we could have managed with the footman.” Phoebe’s gaze drifted to the low-burning fire. “Do you think the kidnapped girl will be found?” she asked.
Peter glanced over his shoulder before adding a second log to the fire. He brushed off his hands and then moved to stand before his sister. “I wish I could tell you she will be returned unharmed.” He sighed and grasped Phoebe’s shoulders. “You must promise to remain safe.” Fear laced Peter’s words, and despite his valiant effort, he could not mask the anxiety in his eyes.
Phoebe swallowed the knot in her throat and forced a smile. “If the kidnapper attempted to abduct me, I would kick him in the shins.”
Peter’s lips lifted a bit. “Only the shins?” He removed his hands from Phoebe’s shoulders and stood straight.
“I’d kick him elsewhere as well.” Phoebe raised her chin. “I’ve no plans to be whisked away.”
“By a kidnapper, no. Do you feel the same about a suiter?” Peter rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Mason warned me that the new gent appeared quite taken with you.”
“The gent has a name—Mr. Franklin Everly—and Mr. Mason exaggerates.” Greatly. Phoebe considered the high praise he’d doted upon Miss Benson.
Tall shelves filled with volumes of books lined the wall opposite the fireplace. Phoebe walked past her father’s selections to her mother’s growing collection of poetry. She tilted her head and considered what might catch her interest this evening.
Peter clasped his hands behind his back and feigned interest in the poems she considered. Phoebe eyed her brother. “What are you about? You’ve never cared for poetry.”
“Bah.” Peter pretended disgust. “It leans too romantic for my taste.”
“There is plenty of verse written about subjects other than love.” Phoebe selected a compilation she’d oft read.
Peter peeked over her shoulder at the Shakespeare’s Sonnets she held. Drat! Peter dramatically cleared his throat and recited, “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’” He chuckled. “Thank you for proving my point.”
Phoebe tucked the book to her chest, snubbing Peter as she settled herself into an armchair near the fire. The book fell open to the well-worn page of her favorite sonnet, number 116.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
Oh, how the words touched her, reaching the deep recesses of her conscious soul. She longed to be adored in such a manner. To have a man love her, no matter her faults.
Peter coughed, and Phoebe looked up to see him seated on the couch with a dull volume of a scientific journal nestled in his lap. He pretended to read, and knowing Phoebe watched, he raised his eyebrows as if he’d discovered the secret of the stars. Phoebe shook her head at Peter’s antics, but when he gasped, clapping a hand to his cheek, he won the laughter he sought.
After Phoebe sobered she said, “Thank you for helping with Hannah this evening. The moment Geoffrey extended his hand, I knew trouble would ensue.”
“Geoffrey asked her to dance? That was the cause of Miss Vane’s distress?” This time Peter’s wide eyes were genuine. “What about the pact?” He slammed his book closed.
“You know I’ve never condoned your silly pact,” Phoebe said.
“Your opinion is the reason we made the vow to begin with,” Peter reminded her. He raised a finger and listed the rules. “Courting, flirting, or otherwise cajoling with one of Phoebe’s friends is strictly prohibited. That includes dancing.” Peter stood and tossed his book aside. “And Miss Vane’s behavior tonight is the exact reason why.” He planted his hands on his hips.
“Hannah will be well. She only needs a good night’s rest,” Phoebe said, though she did not believe the words herself.
Hannah’s mother focused only on getting her daughter married to a proper gentleman. Hannah spoke of this on a regular basis. Her extensive list of requirements quite exceeded her mother’s, and the Jamison brothers met the majority of them: handsome, titled, wealthy, kind, young, a proper horseman, possessing a cheerful countenance, not stingy—or in other words, willing to grant a generous allotment of pin money. Titled was perhaps the only requirement the Jamison men could be found wanting, and Hannah would certainly scratch that qualification from her list in exchange for being courted by Geoffrey Jamison. But Geoffrey had no intention of courting Hannah. He’d only asked her to dance.
“There is a reason we made the pact, Phoebe. Miss Vane was a large part of that agreement, although we thought it best to include any of your close acquaintances.” Peter shook his head and walked to the fireplace. He turned to face Phoebe and returned his hands to his hips. “I now understand the reason for Miss Vane’s . . . fit.”
Phoebe stood and slammed her own book down. She marched over to the fireplace and pressed up on her toes in an effort to meet her brother’s distinct height advantage. “Hannah did not have a fit! She was simply distraught because she feared she’d embarrassed Geoffrey.”
A smile played on Peter’s lips, though he made a valiant attempt to fight it. “Pray tell, how did she embarrass our eldest brother? Did she swoon in his arms? Declare herself in love with him? You and I both know Geoffrey is not easy to ruffle.”
Phoebe lowered her heels to the floor and crossed her arms. “She missed a step in the dance and landed on his toes.”
Peter laughed aloud. “Miss Vane weighs no more than a pillow, and Geoffrey is as solid as a tree. I doubt he even noticed.”
“Well . . .” Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “There was a bit more to it. Geoffrey may have settled his hand on Hannah’s waist to direct her, and she may have interpreted it as—”
“Flirting!” Peter covered his grin. “Oh my.”
Phoebe threw her fisted hands to her sides. “It was unintentional, of course,” Phoebe insisted.
“Of course,” Peter agreed. “Geoffrey is in trouble,” he mused. “Perhaps I shall stay awake so I may rile him upon his return home.”
“And how does that help the situation?”
“It is completely self-serving, I assure you. Geoffrey does not misstep often. I need to take advantage of his error.” Peter leaned one arm across the mantel, a content smile on his lips.
“That does not help, Peter.” Phoebe’s frustration flared. “You are only mischief making. It’s best left alone. You are doing Hannah a great disservice to mention her . . . her . . . anxieties to Geoffrey.”
“You said she only needed a good night’s rest,” Peter teased.
Phoebe hit Peter in the arm. “Has Geoffrey ever called you a bufflehead?”
Humor filtered through his eyes. “A bufflehead?” he repeated with a laugh.
“Yes.” Phoebe hit him again. “That is precisely what you are. A bufflehead!” She hit him a third time, then turned and marched from the room. The sound of Peter’s laughter followed her all the way to her bedchamber.