The lights flickered, and the people in the aisles of seats below quieted. Everything went quite dark. Griffin leaned close enough for his shoulder to brush hers. “Let me know if there is anything you require this evening, Miss Kimball. Anything at all.”
Phoebe did not have time to reply before the orchestra began to play. As the man dressed as a fool put on his brief pantomime act, Phoebe’s thoughts tumbled about the way he tumbled across the stage. She had not thought, when she first laid eyes upon Griffin Fenwick in Hyde Park, that he could be more than a fool himself. Performing foolish pranks and jests in front of Society, thumbing his nose at propriety.
Yet she could not think of any man of her acquaintance, save her relatives, who had treated her with such kind attentiveness. While his humor was not what she was used to, there was nothing inappropriate about it. Not really. He had never behaved as anything less than a gentleman when near her.
For some reason, he spoke often enough about her to make his parents curious. To ask her to an evening at the theater. It was enough to make her consider, to entertain the thoughts, that Griffin Fenwick considered courting her.
The audience’s laughter filled the theater, and Phoebe forced a laugh as well. She laughed at herself. Griffin had proclaimed himself uninterested in marriage. She had heard it with her own ears. Her anonymous friend was wrong to put Griffin’s name in his list. The only reason he showed her any consideration at all was due to his friendship with Caroline. Perhaps he still thought he must make up for his verbal blunder.
Yet during the third act of the play, after the intermission wherein she and Mrs. Fenwick laughed at the plights of the confused lovers, Griffin sat closer than before. He leaned down often to make observations about the characters that made her giggle most unbecomingly. He did not seem to mind.
And at the very end of the play, for a very brief moment, his hand covered hers when the hero at last confessed himself in love with the heroine.
Chapter 9
A Friend Indeed
To P.K.,
I did see you at the theater. You appeared most lovely in your gown, reminding me of cherry blossoms in the spring, or roses in the summer. Your companions were fortunate to have you in their box. When I took my eyes from the stage, it was always to seek you out. You seemed to have enjoyed the evening’s entertainment, and I could not help but laugh when you laughed.
What thought you of Sir Francis? I rather wished I had the ability to throttle the character. Eleanor deserved someone far less reticent in telling her how he loved her. But that is the way of it at times; not everyone can wed someone deserving of their devotion.
I find I must address your curiosity now. You asked for a hint as to my identity. I fear I would choose poorly and send you on to an entirely wrong assumption. Or perhaps I would give you a hint that would reveal immediately who I am. Neither situation suits me at present.
Perhaps one day, in the future, I might tell you who I am. Until then, know that your letters are safe in my care. I have the greatest respect for you and for your family. When I wrote to you the very first time, it was the only choice I had to make you aware of the scoundrel at your door.
Tell me, did your Mr. Fenwick seem willing to introduce you to those other gentlemen I mentioned?
Your Friend
Phoebe sat in the parlor, waiting for Daphne Windham’s arrival. Somehow, Daphne had contrived to come without her mother and only a maid for company. Thank goodness. What Phoebe wished to discuss was not for Mrs. Windham’s ears. Mrs. Windham was terrible about keeping secrets, especially when they might be of use to her.
The latest letter written by her anonymous friend was in her sewing basket beneath the couch. She had already read through it several times, each time trying to puzzle out if there was any hidden meaning to any of the man’s words. The first time she read it through, she blushed and smiled, feeling he paid her compliments and perhaps even flirted. Then she read it again and thought he pushed her toward Griffin. Another reading and she had nearly convinced herself that the writer cared not at all for her, only for propriety.
“I am being nonsensical,” she said aloud.
“No one would ever accuse you of that, Phoebe. Except for perhaps those of us you convinced to swim in the pond at midnight.” Daphne had arrived in the doorway, without Phoebe realizing she had even entered the house.
Phoebe rose and went to her friend, arms extended. “Daphne. Here you are at last. Oh, my dear, how are you?” They embraced more like sisters than friends and soon were upon the couch recounting the last week to each other. All the friends wrote fairly regularly, but with Daphne so near they had exchanged letters almost weekly.
“My parents are still trying to find a wealthy husband for me, but I am not interested in a mercenary marriage. I am still hoping for a love match. But things have grown much more complicated lately, what with…” Her voice trailed away, and her eyes lost focus.
A twist of worry made Phoebe lean forward. “With what?”
Daphne shook her head and a bright smile reappeared upon her face. “Nothing. I am certain everything will come to rights in the end.” Phoebe nearly pressed her, but Daphne continued speaking. “Do tell me more about you, Phoebe. In your letter you made it sound like there was something rather particular you wished to discuss.”
“There is.” Phoebe chewed her bottom lip a moment, carefully watching Daphne. “Let us settle in with our refreshment first.” She led the way into the room. Her friend remained silent while Phoebe poured out for them. It was only after the two of them were seated that Phoebe tried to work out how to begin.
Her friend appeared as calm as ever, sipping her tea and waiting patiently. While Phoebe had always been the one with a plan, Daphne had always provided a quiet and steady presence, usually with a smile upon her face. She had always been easy to confide in. But this confession bordered on scandalous.
“As you know, I have decided I must find a husband this Season. Someone suitable to my tastes, equal to my family in status.”
“And someone you love,” Daphne put in quickly. “As we all promised.”
Phoebe looked away, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. “At this point, I think we ought to agree that promise we made was very well and good for children. But as we are all adults now, and with varying situations in Society as in life, we must be more realistic.”
Daphne sighed and set down her tea. “A year ago, I might have rejected that idea outright. But London has a way of making one doubt her own mind. Why is it that love is so difficult to find?”
Considering that Daphne had always seemed the one most determined to keep the promise they had made, Phoebe’s heart ached for her friend’s discovery that reality was not so romantic as they had dreamed it. Perhaps they would all come to that conclusion, in time. She studied her friend, trying to smile past her concerns. “I will continue to hope for the best for you, Daphne.”
Her friend returned the gentle expression. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
Phoebe pulled in a careful breath. “What I wish to tell you is that in my pursuit of a suitor, I started to receive notes from a stranger. Someone who wishes to remain anonymous. But he has helped me more than once by informing me of things I had no way of knowing, and saving me from making mistakes by courting the wrong gentlemen.”
Daphne blinked. “What do you mean, a stranger is writing you letters? How? And are you certain the stranger is a he?”
“I am. You can tell by his writing. And by the way he says things. Here. See for yourself.” She reached under the couch and plucked the letter from the basket, handing it directly to Daphne.
Her friend gave her an odd look, then hurried to read the letter. Phoebe watched for a reaction, desperate to know how her friend interpreted the words penned by the unknown gentleman who had promised to help Phoebe.
When Daphne lowered the letter to her lap, she looked at Phoebe with wide eyes. “Honestly, reading this, it sounds as
though the writer rather admires you and wishes to court you himself.”
The relief which flooded Phoebe’s mind caused a light laugh to escape her. “Oh, I am glad you think so. That is what I thought, too, when I read it. But then I was so worried—”
“Phoebe.” Daphne stopped her, though her voice was hesitant. “You know nothing about him. He might be fifty years old with twelve children. He might even already be married.”
The tightness returned to Phoebe’s chest. “Yes. I had thought of that. I wondered if I ought to ask him, but then I think he would know what I suspected, or he would be insulted.” Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back, most unladylike, on the couch. “But he writes such charming letters. And every time I receive one, I cannot help but feel some excitement.” Indeed, she could feel herself blushing just speaking about it.
Daphne sat back as well, eyeing Phoebe curiously. “Charming, you say? I suppose there is as much a chance of him being young and handsome as there is of him being fifty and married.” She tugged restlessly on one of her red-brown. “Excitement and mystery are all well and good, I suppose. But you are taking care, aren’t you? Not to be discovered?”
“I will not be discovered.” Phoebe sat up at once. “I have been very discreet, as has the gentleman. He has never even approached me—”
“That you know of,” Daphne corrected. Then she tapped the paper with one finger. “What about this Mr. Fenwick? It sounds as though your gentleman likes him. Did you enjoy his company at the play?”
Phoebe waved a hand dismissively. “I always enjoy Griffin’s—Mr. Fenwick’s company.”
Daphne’s eyes lit up at Phoebe’s slip of the tongue. “Griffin. That is his given name, yes?” Phoebe narrowed her eyes, but Daphne kept talking. “It seems to me that if your anonymous friend pointed you toward Mr. Fenwick, and Mr. Fenwick seems to like spending time with you, you ought to pay more attention to him than to someone who will not even tell you his real name.” Daphne nodded once, firmly, to punctuate her argument.
With a sigh, Phoebe accepted the letter from her friend’s hand and turned it over in her own. The rampant lion glared up at her from the red wax seal.
“I do enjoy Mr. Fenwick’s company. Last evening, at the theater, he was so attentive and kind.” Without thinking, she reached up to touch the tip of her nose, but hastily lowered her hand again to her lap. “But he as good as told me that he has no interest in marriage at present.”
Daphne pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at Phoebe. “I am certain most men say that up until the moment they meet the lady who interests them above all others. It is rather like showing one’s hand in a game of Whist. He does not wish you to know whether he holds a trump or a useless deuce.”
A laugh burst from Phoebe, and it only took Daphne a moment to join in with her own giggles. Phoebe shook a finger at her friend. “Your mother would not at all like your Whist metaphor.”
Daphne’s cheeks colored, but her eyes danced. “I know. But I trust you will not tell her.” She relaxed, and fixed Phoebe with a look of concern. “You are one of my dearest friends. I want you to be happy, but I also want you to be careful. Perhaps you ought to suggest a meeting. Nothing clandestine. Just a walk in the park where you both sit on the same bench or carry the same book. You would not even have to speak. But you would see him and know at once whether there is more there than a friendship.”
The wisdom in her friend’s suggestion rendered Phoebe silent for several moments as she thought it over.
“And,” Daphne added with a crooked smile, “perhaps give this Mr. Fenwick a chance. Since he was so ‘attentive and kind’ last evening.’”
“Perhaps I will.” Phoebe turned the note in her hands over again, hiding the lion from sight. “Now. I want to hear more about you. What plans have you this coming week? Perhaps we can contrive to attend the same parties for once.”
Chapter 10
Out of Sorts
Since the night of the play, Griffin had exchanged several notes with Phoebe. The first she had obviously written after their evening together as it was full of her thoughts on the play and nothing else. She did not ask for more hints, which was a relief. But she also did not mention the name Griffin Fenwick again.
He wrote a response, concluding his thoughts on the play, and then sharing thoughts on a book he had read. Of course, Griffin mentioned it in the anonymous letter because he had seen the book upon the table in her house when he had visited. It was the book she had put the anonymous letter inside. The second volume of a novel called Sense and Sensibility.
They exchanged a note each on the subject of the book, Griffin smiling over every word she penned, before he finally went somewhat mad.
Griffin needed to see Phoebe again. In person. And he had not been able to think of another excuse for arriving at her door, unless he finally admitted his interest in courtship.
“That would be the reasonable thing to do,” he muttered to himself as he entered his family’s townhouse. But making his interest known in such a way would put pressure upon it, he well knew, and cause those with critical eyes to watch and wait and comment on the relationship.
“Griffin, darling, is that you?” His mother called from the drawing room. “Do come here, son, and tell me where you have been the last two days.”
Entering the room, Griffin saw his father seated in a chair with his feet on a stool. He looked over the book he was reading and smiled at his son. “Fair warning, all your mother really wants to know is whether you have seen Miss Kimball of late.”
Griffin’s mother embraced him, then shook her finger at her husband. “Do not pretend I am the only one who is curious. You have been speaking of her as much as I have.”
Though it somewhat alarmed him to know his parents had speculated on his relationship with Phoebe, Griffin decided it would be better if he were merely amused. He fixed his grin upon his face, kissed his mother on the cheek, then flopped inelegantly into the chair near his father.
“What do you think of Miss Kimball, Father?”
“Same as I did after the play. She is a lovely, lively young woman.” Mr. Fenwick closed his book and took off his spectacles. “Ask me what I think of you, Son.”
Raising his eyebrows, Griffin obeyed. “What do you think of me, Father?”
“I think,” his father said slowly, drawing each word out with some severity, “that you have avoided us these two days past because you like Miss Kimball excessively.”
“I concur,” Mrs. Fenwick said shortly. She walked to the mantel, hands clasped behind her back. “You have never shown such interest in a young lady before, Griffin.”
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat would give too much away. Instead, he tipped his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Miss Kimball is lovely, I grant you. She has a lively mind, as you said. I find her to be intelligent and a witty conversationalist.”
“Then what keeps you from coming to know her better?” Mr. Fenwick asked, spectacles and book still in hand. “We raised you to recognize such things in others so that you would seek out the companionship of friends, and eventually a wife, with those fine qualities.”
Griffin considered the plastered ceiling with a grimace. “I do not think she views me entirely favorably. I am afraid our first introduction made me appear a fool, and I have hardly seen her since without there arising one problem or another. The theater was my first successful interaction with her since we met.” He swung his gaze down to his parents, his mother standing behind his father’s chair. “I rather wish for that impression to settle upon her before I try again.”
“And in the meantime, some cleverer chap will step in and—” His father’s unhelpful pronouncement was interrupted when Mrs. Fenwick covered her husband’s mouth with one hand.
“Your father made inquiries,” she said. “He quite likes what he has learned about the Kimballs.”
Mr. Fenwick took his wife’s hand, kissed it, then moved it to rest upon his
shoulder. “Your mother made inquiries, too. We both like what she has learned about the young lady.”
Griffin looked from one parent’s knowing smile to the other. “I suppose that is a good thing?” He did not like the way they stared at him, as though they had something else to share but thought it far too delicious at present. “But what is this? You have never pushed me, either of you, to take a wife. Why all the interest now?”
“Because of your interest, obviously,” his father said.
His mother made a sound Griffin would never dare call a snort. “And because all our friends have grandchildren.”
Griffin’s mouth popped open. “Grandchildren? That is putting the cart before the horse, is it not?”
Husband and wife exchanged another look, then his mother sighed. “I was afraid we would encounter this reluctance. I forbid you to get our hopes up about a daughter-in-law, Griffin.”
“I have not—”
“And that is why,” she said, speaking over him, “I have invited Miss Kimball and her family to dinner this evening.”
Griffin nearly fell out of his chair. “You have?”
“Indeed.” She smiled and lifted her chin. “Be here at seven this evening, please. We need you to decide if we should pin our hopes on this young woman or if we ought to settle in for an even longer wait.”
Griffin opened and closed his mouth several times, then he finally laughed and rose from his chair. “Mother, you are an angel.” He crossed the room and kissed her cheek. “Father, I will see you this evening.” He shook his father’s hand, then turned and went to the door.
“But Griffin,” his mother called. “You only just arrived.”
“I have things to see to before tonight. Thank you, Mother.” He left the house with a lighter heart. His mother had found a way for him to see Phoebe, without forcing him to reveal his intentions.
Letters for Phoebe (Promise of Forever After Book 1) Page 8