by Jayne Davis
The sound of knocking echoed up the stairs—a welcome distraction. Curious, she went to the door and, hearing a voice she recognised, she dropped her book and dashed out onto the landing and down the stairs. Cookson was taking the visitor’s hat and heavy cloak.
“Joe!”
Phoebe ran towards him. He picked her up and swung her around, before hugging her close.
“Pleased to see me then, sister dear?” His grin was almost as wide as hers. “You are looking splendid!”
“Oh, Joe! We didn’t expect you yet!” She searched his face in sudden anxiety. He was tanned, but there were shadows beneath his eyes. “You look tired—very tired—but you are well? What happened when your ship was wrecked?”
“No fevers here, Fee, but we’ve had a long journey up from Falmouth. I’ll tell you about the ship some other time. I’m afraid I’ve come in all my dirt; we’ve only just arrived.”
There was a tut from behind them. Phoebe turned to see her aunt watching from the bottom of the stairs.
“Joseph,” the comtesse said, without any warmth in her voice. “I suppose you’ll be expecting to stay here?”
“Pleased to see you as well, Aunt Lavinia,” said Joe, sweeping a low bow.
Phoebe bit her lip—she was sure Joe was overdoing it on purpose.
The library door opened. “Of course you must stay here, Joseph,” the comte said, approaching Joe and shaking his hand. “Welcome back. Are you here for long? You must be hungry, let me order—”
“No, sir, but thank you. I’m staying with a friend. I… er, he…”
“Join us for dinner, then,” the comte suggested. “Bring your friend too.”
“But Eduoard,” the comtesse protested. “We are playing cards with the Brothertons this evening.”
“I don’t suppose Lady Brotherton will mind if Phoebe doesn’t go,” the comte said. “I was not intending to go in any case. You can make Phoebe’s excuses.”
Phoebe smiled. Dinner with Joe was a much more attractive proposition than the card party.
“Oh, very well,” the comtesse said, and went back up the stairs.
“Thank you, sir,” Joe said. “I’ll be pleased to come. I left a trunk of clothes here last time I was in England. Could you get it sent over?”
“Give Cookson the address of your lodgings. I’ll have someone look it out and send it over.”
“Thank you, sir. Until this evening.” He gave Phoebe another swift hug. “Sorry, Fee, but I’ve got a lot of things to sort out. I’ll see you later.”
Later would do, now she knew he was back and safe.
That evening Phoebe was descending the stairs as Joe and his friend arrived, and observed them unseen while they handed hats and coats to Green. Joe looked smart in his dark coat and breeches. His friend, too, was attired correctly for a dinner engagement, apart from having his right arm in a sling, a bandaged hand showing. Phoebe drew in a sharp breath as he turned and she saw a jagged, livid scar running from his right eye almost down to his chin. Poor man—but thank heavens Joe had not been hurt.
“Fee!” Joe called when he caught sight of her. “Fee, may I introduce Lieutenant Andrew Marlow? Marlow, my sister Phoebe.”
Lieutenant Marlow bowed politely, his expression shuttered.
Phoebe smiled, keeping her gaze on his eyes and not on his scarred cheek. “I am pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” she said. “Won’t you come into the parlour?”
The comte arrived as they took seats near the fire, and soon they were all settled with glasses of wine.
“We weren’t expecting you back for months, Joe,” Phoebe said. “Longer. Is it because of your ship being wrecked? Will you tell us about it?”
Phoebe’s stomach knotted as Joe related a sad tale of incompetence on the part of his captain. Knowing that fighting at sea was dangerous was very different from hearing the details of her brother’s narrow escape. Although the ship had been wrecked, no men had been lost and a court martial had exonerated Marlow and Joe, the second and third lieutenants, from any blame.
Dinner was served, and over food and wine the talk moved on to less gloomy tales of incidents at sea and on land. Lieutenant Marlow gradually relaxed and became more talkative, relating amusing anecdotes with a dry wit. It wasn’t long before Phoebe didn’t even notice the scar, or the clumsiness with which he cut up his meal with his bandaged hand.
As they talked, Phoebe wondered how harsh their life at sea was. It was not something Joe was ever likely to be honest about, having passed off all such enquiries in the past with some flippant comment. Whatever their discomforts, though, it was clear that both men were proud to be serving their country. She knew that Joe, at least, had wanted that career.
With their uncle present, and Lieutenant Marlow too, there was no opportunity for Joe and Phoebe to exchange more personal news, so as the party broke up Phoebe arranged for Joe to accompany her on a walk in the park the following morning.
“But not too early,” he pleaded. “We’re still both short of sleep after our travelling. There’ll be plenty of time for you to tell me everything you’ve been doing.”
Phoebe retired to her room and let Ellie help her undress. What would she say to Joe the following morning? The trip to France had been an adventure, as had the events surrounding the decoy note, but she wasn’t sure how much of that she could tell her brother. That chapter of her life might well be over now anyway, and what else did her future have in store?
When Ellie had gone, she walked over to the closet and opened the door, gazing at the array of gowns hanging there—all new. That was her lot, she thought, looking at them with less of the pleasure their colours and fabrics had given her before. These were designed to make her sufficiently attractive to snare a husband. That was her purpose in life.
Joe had little more than the small trunk of clothing her uncle had sent over to his rooms earlier that day. But he had the satisfaction of doing a useful job for his country. And unlike Alex, Joe and Lieutenant Marlow were acknowledged to be doing so.
Until now, she’d never really questioned her mother’s willingness to forgo her aristocratic upbringing to become a surgeon’s wife, accepting that it was the way things were. Perhaps she was beginning to understand. Although not rich by many people’s standards, her family had been comfortably off. More importantly, to Phoebe’s dawning realisation, her mother had spent her life helping others. Being useful.
Closing the closet door firmly, she got into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She was happy that Joe was home, and safe for the moment. There was nothing she could do to change society’s expectations for women of her class, so she had better make sure she chose a husband who could give her the opportunity to do something useful.
Alex would…
Joe was already in the library when Phoebe went downstairs ready for their walk. Georges and her uncle were there, too, Georges pestering Joe with questions about ships, how they worked, and whether Joe could take him to see one.
“I’m afraid I’m not in charge of anything,” Joe said. He looked at the comte for help.
“I might be able to arrange something,” said the comte. “But Georges, you must give Joseph time to talk to his sister! And—”
“—pay attention to Miss Bryant,” Georges finished for him as Joe and Phoebe took their leave.
They set out down Berkeley Street to Green Park, Phoebe’s hand on Joe’s arm, and were soon strolling on the grass. She related the bare details of their trip to France, and after he’d exclaimed at their aunt’s stupidity, she told him about the comtesse’s subterfuge with her allowance.
“She really spent it all on herself?” Joe asked, turning to face her.
“And Hélène.”
Joe shook his head. “It’s all sorted out now, is it? I have to say you’re looking really well, Fee. Not what I expected from your letters, at all.”
“It wasn’t what I expected either,” she said. So much had changed since their escape from France.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Mostly.” She caught a turn of his head, his raised brows. “I enjoy dancing, but it has the attraction of novelty. I can’t imagine doing the same thing year after year.”
“God, no,” Joe said, with feeling.
“I’m learning to drive,” she added, with more enthusiasm.
“You used to drive the gig at home, didn’t you?”
“Sometimes, yes,” she said.
“I’m driving a pair, now,” she went on. “But I’d like to learn to drive four as well. Could you take me driving?”
“I haven’t got any horses, Fee,” he protested.
“You could hire them? Or Uncle Edouard might lend some?”
He hesitated again. “Well…”
“Can you drive a pair?” Phoebe asked.
He laughed and shook his head. “There’s not much call for driving at sea,” he pointed out. “And where would I have learnt before I signed on? I was only thirteen, remember?”
“I never thought of that,” Phoebe admitted. “Never mind, I’ll have to ask someone else.”
“Why do you want to? Most women don’t drive, do they?”
That was a poor reason not to do something. “I enjoy being able to control the horses,” she said slowly, thinking it through as she spoke. All that power, hers to command, if she knew how to do it properly. “I’d like to be able to do it well—to be competent at something.” There was satisfaction in being able to do anything well.
“You can draw—”
“Something useful,” she interrupted. Was that so wrong?
Guessing Joe’s reaction, she asked her next question anyway. “How about shooting, then? You must be able to fire a pistol in the navy.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Can you teach me?”
“Why on earth would you want to? Ladies have no need to do things like that.”
“Ladies don’t need to learn how to swim, either. And if they did, there are better ways of learning than being thrown in the pond by their brother!”
Joe had the grace to look ashamed. “I was a lot younger then.” He looked down at her. “You are serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The confidence gained from knowing how to shoot might have helped her in France, even though she hadn’t needed to fire a pistol in the end. Although there was little reason to suppose she would need to use one in the future, she still wanted to know that she could.
“I like learning how to do things,” she said, not wanting to describe those events to Joe. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ve no desire to learn how to embroider. That’s women’s work—pistols are not.”
Phoebe sighed, trying to put out of her mind the idea that Alex would not have said such a thing.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Joe went on. “Marlow’s mama is pressing him to find a wife. She insists he attends balls and other events while he’s on leave. Personally, I’d tell her to go to the devil, but he’s…”
“A dutiful son?” Phoebe suggested.
“Would you dance with him if he asked you?”
“Yes, why ever shouldn’t I?”
“His face is—”
“Don’t be silly. He can’t help that! Besides, I stopped noticing last night.”
“She’s got him an invitation to the Carringtons’ ball tomorrow.”
“We’re going to that. So I’ll see you there?”
He started to shake his head, but she caught his eye and he gave a rueful grin. “It looks as though I may be attending after all.”
* * *
Alex glanced at a milestone as the hired post chaise ahead of him rounded a bend. It would be another few hours to Andover, where they would stop for the night. Madame de Brevare would have to put up with a maid from whichever inn received the dubious privilege of their custom, although he hoped she would be too tired to protest much by the time they arrived.
His mind turned to Phoebe, as it had for most of the journey. When he’d visited Bella the day before, he’d been pleased to find that she had taken Phoebe under her wing. She’d talked of Phoebe’s new wardrobe, and her enjoyment of her season so far. He was pleased for Phoebe—her success was more than she’d been expecting.
Marstone had made a comment about marriage. He’d thought about that, of course, but his longing for her was not just wanting her in his bed, but having her with him, working with him as a partner. He could see now how impractical that was; he was tiring of the life himself—he could not inflict it on someone else, even if she were willing.
What else could he do, though? Marstone would still have some use for him—preferably something more interesting than returning to work at Pendrick’s. It would undoubtedly involve travelling, too, even if only as a courier. That wasn’t a good life for a wife either, whoever she might be: sitting at home waiting for a long-absent husband who might possibly not return.
He was making too much of that final kiss, he told himself. In all his imagining, he’d assumed that she would want to be with him. It had been a dangerous evening, and she must have been terrified inside that tavern. The kiss was a fairly natural result of being so close for several days. She’d not said anything other than wishing him safe, and he had made no promises to her. He had no reason to think she would want to see him again.
On that depressing thought he spurred the horse on, overtaking the chaise to have a word with the postilions.
Chapter 33
Phoebe stood behind her aunt and cousin in the queue for the receiving line in Carrington House, looking around for any familiar faces. Peering back down the line of guests, she could see no sign of Joe. However, they had arrived on time, for once, and she doubted he’d be an early arrival.
“Do you think Lord Harlford will be here tonight, Mama?” Hélène said. Her manner towards Phoebe had been distinctly cool since the balloon ascension.
“I do hope so, my dear,” the comtesse said. “You have saved dances for him, haven’t you? It would be a feather in your cap if you can attach him.”
Lord Harlford had said to Phoebe that he’d be here. She was beginning to wish she’d told Hélène, to stop this endless speculation.
“Oh, yes, the supper dance and one afterwards.” Hélène turned to peer at the waiting crowd. “He must have been away, Mama, or he would have called on me before now.” Of course, Hélène would not attribute his absence to a dislike of being kept waiting.
“If he is not here tonight, I’m sure he will call on you as soon as he returns. You must make sure not to accept too many invitations from your other suitors.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Thankfully they had now reached their hosts and, once greetings had been exchanged with Lord and Lady Carrington, Phoebe was free to move away.
“Our dance, I believe, Miss Deane?” Lord Tresham stood before her—one of Hélène’s court, but willing enough to dance with Phoebe when his goddess was not available. Exchanging the usual pleasantries with him was undemanding, and at the end of the set, he thanked her with sincerity and escorted her to a seat by the wall. She found herself beside Lady Jesson.
“My lady,” Phoebe said, warily recalling Bella’s description of her as a gossip.
“Miss Deane.” Lady Jesson inspected her gown, then smiled. “Miss Fletcher has done you proud again, I see. That pale gold suits you well.”
Relaxing, Phoebe returned the smile, smoothing her skirt.
“Your cousin has found her target,” Lady Jesson said, nodding towards the steps down from the entrance to the ballroom, where the Marquess of Harlford stood talking to Hélène. His countenance had lost the besotted look she’d noticed during his first encounters with her cousin.
“Silly girl,” Lady Jesson said. “That game of keeping her suitors waiting—bound to go wrong. I wonder if it was her idea or Lavinia’s.”
Phoebe felt her jaw slackening—how did Lady Jesson know abou
t that? She heard a chuckle.
“That is why you and your younger cousin accompanied him to see the balloon, is it not?” Lady Jesson wore an innocently enquiring expression, but Phoebe was not deceived.
“I think you already know that, my lady,” she said, trying not to smile too broadly.
Lady Jesson chuckled, her eyes on the latest new arrivals. “Hmm. I think Lady Brotherton could use Miss Fletcher’s advice, don’t you? Although she dresses her daughters well.”
The Brothertons moved on into the ballroom, Lady Brotherton frowning as she passed the marquess. Lady Jesson kept Phoebe entertained with snippets of gossip, but although some of the comments were poking gentle fun at their targets, they felt good-natured.
“Your brother has arrived,” Lady Jesson said as the next set was nearing its end. She waved a hand. “Do go and dance with him before he escapes to the card room.”
Phoebe was half-way across the floor before it occurred to her to wonder how Lady Jesson knew who Joe was, and that he would avoid dancing if he could.
She enjoyed her sets with Joe, then with Lieutenant Marlow. She danced until supper, when Marlow and Joe escorted her to the dining room and went to fetch plates of food.
While they were gone, Lord Harlford appeared with Hélène on his arm, and asked if he might join their table. As Phoebe agreed, Hélène’s tightened lips indicated that it had not been her idea. She made the introductions when the men returned.
Unfortunately, Hélène appeared to be one of the people who could see Lieutenant Marlow only as a scar and not as a person. Phoebe was annoyed on Marlow’s behalf when Hélène did not look at him directly, even on the few occasions when she replied to something he said. After a couple of short responses, Marlow gave up.
“I have an interest in gunnery,” Lord Harlford said into the resulting awkward silence. “However, I have talked mainly to artillery officers. What do you see as the main differences between operations?”
“Rolling decks,” Joe said, with a laugh. “The ground doesn’t normally move as you are trying to aim!”