Letters for Phoebe (Promise of Forever After Book 1)

by Sally Britton

  “That sounds rather delightful.” Caroline’s eyes fairly glittered with excitement as she turned to Phoebe. “What do you think? Ought we to form part of Griffin’s expedition? Exploring old churches would be a pleasant diversion after all the teas and parties. I know you prefer quiet to such noisy occasions.”

  What was Phoebe supposed to say? The noisy occasions were where women found husbands. She needed them. But Caroline’s expression, hopeful and sly at once, indicated she thought Griffin a suitable exchange for all the bachelors at musicals and salons.

  Phoebe looked to Joseph, her expression pleading.

  “I think it sounds like a most excellent undertaking. I will attend myself. Our family prefers small, private gatherings to the more boisterous assemblies.” Joseph had misinterpreted her look entirely, thinking she needed encouragement rather than a rescue.

  “Miss Kimball?” Oh, no.

  Phoebe slowly turned toward him, bracing herself for his deceitful grin.

  Instead, she found his dark eyes pleading with her. His chin was tucked close to his chest, his eyes wide. When he spoke, she caught the slight rasp to his voice, though she doubted the others heard. “Would you accompany me to All-Hallow’s? If you enjoy the outing, you might help me plan the next.”

  Phoebe lowered her head, uncertainty creeping over her like a chill. “Of course, Mr. Fenwick. Name the day.”

  She looked up at Caroline to find her sister-in-law with lips pressed flat and eyebrows drawn together. “Lovely,” she said, then abruptly turned to Mrs. Fenwick and changed the topic of conversation entirely.

  Griffin leaned close, voice low. “Miss Kimball, if you will allow me to explain—”

  “Not now.” She shivered and took up the new fork that had been placed on the table in her brief absence. She stabbed at a carrot, rather wishing she could stab at Griffin instead. Her humiliation was quite complete; the moment dinner finished she pleaded a headache.

  Somehow, she made it out the door without saying another word to Griffin and avoided his gaze almost entirely. A man such as he, known for tricks and frivolity, could never have meant for their correspondence to mean as much as it had meant to her.

  Chapter 12

  Botheration

  Discarding one letter after another, Griffin did not sleep. With his parents’ words of concern ringing in his ears, he left their home for his rented rooms in something of a daze. With one sentence, he had ruined all his own plans.

  Not that he had actually decided how to tell Phoebe he had been the one writing her anonymously. But he had started working on a plan. Almost. Mostly he had at least started thinking about it. When Phoebe’s letter arrived asking to meet, something cold and icy, and rather like dread, grew in his chest.

  “Turf and thunder,” he muttered, tearing yet another letter to pieces. “Botheration.” Truly, the situation merited more colorful language, but Griffin had no desire to add to his sins, at present.

  Dawn crept into the room through the window, with him slumped in a chair before the embers of a fire. Cream-colored balls of paper were scattered about the room, or torn to bits and laying about like forgotten snowflakes.

  “It shouldn’t matter this much.” He addressed his comment to his stockinged feet. He’d kicked his shoes off and tossed his cravat over a chair at some point in the night. But the sheer panic with which he had written and scratched out an explanation for what he had done, for writing her and then deceiving her, proved that he could not cast his worries aside. He needed to ask himself a different question entirely. “Why does it matter this much?”

  He had begun to consider courtship, and to consider what it might mean to enter into a formal commitment with Phoebe. But he’d hesitated in declaring such intentions. He had never courted anyone, because that meant making plans. Making plans hinted at a level of seriousness he had never felt quite prepared to accept. There would always be more time, another year, and plenty of women in England to consider.

  Except for the last fortnight, he had only thought of Phoebe. He had laughed over her letters, admired her determination, and found her irresistibly intelligent and beautiful. He wanted to be near her, to come to know her better.

  The last letter she had written him, before the fiasco of a dinner, she had asked to meet her anonymous friend. Perhaps he could convince her to meet him, still. Rather than explain in another letter. If he visited her home, the chances of them having a private audience were slim.

  But if they met in the park, perhaps he could make things better.

  He went to the curtains in his room, already open enough to allow a trickle of sunlight inside. He threw them open, wincing a bit. Then he took the edge of his desk and pulled it into the light. He had used all the paper, but he found a piece he could trim down and uncrumpled it on the flat surface.

  Griffin chewed on his bottom lip, tapping his fingers with the pen between them upon the desk. Then he wrote.

  To P.K.,

  I understand that you are upset. I understand if you are angry. But please, will you give me the chance to explain? We could meet, as you suggested, at the tree in Hyde Park. I will be there.

  Please come, as I remain, with my whole heart,

  Your Friend

  He sealed the note, the shortest he had ever written Phoebe. The rampant lion appearing rather angry with him.

  Griffin found his cravat and tied it on rather sloppily, then went in search of his shoes. The flower girl would be there even that early. She had an entire cart of flowers in the mornings, so grand houses might put flowers upon ladies’ breakfast trays and upon dining tables.

  He flew out the door, uncaring that his appearance might startle anyone of his class who saw him. The only person whose opinion mattered was the recipient of his note.

  Phoebe stayed in bed as long as possible. She had not slept much. Mostly she had tossed about in bed, trying to recall every word she had written to her anonymous friend. Had there been anything truly embarrassing? Anything that would compromise her standing in Society besides the letters themselves?

  Not that she thought Griffin would attempt to expose her in any way. Not intentionally.

  She pulled a pillow over her face, ignoring the sounds of life outside her window. “I cannot trust anything he said. Because he lied.”

  Another part of her mind argued that her statement was false. Griffin had never spoken or written a falsehood. She had reread all his letters in the middle of the night, then folded them up and retied them in the red ribbon.

  Even without the lying, Griffin had deceived her. What she could not understand was why he had kept writing once he had accomplished his purpose of warning her, or why he had continued to try to see her, in the park, and then escorting her to the play.

  Her aching heart rather hoped he still wanted…something.

  A knock on her bedroom door made her groan, then cast her pillow aside. “Who is there?”

  “Caroline.”

  Phoebe pushed herself up in bed, pushing a few strands of hair that had come loose in the night behind her ears. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Caroline came in with a maid behind her, carrying a breakfast tray. “You must eat, dear, even if you feel poorly. I have some tea with honey and lemon, and here is toast and some lemon cake.” Another maid entered, holding a vase full of scarlet roses. “Oh, and someone sent you flowers. There is a note.” The maids put their burdens on the dressing table, curtsied, and left.

  Phoebe stared at the flowers from her place in bed, her heart picking up speed until it reminded her of a galloping horse.

  “Thank you, Caroline.” Phoebe slid from between her sheets and went to the flowers. A note had been left tucked inside the stems. She pulled the paper out and went to the window, holding it up to the light.

  The rampant lion upon the seal challenged her, glaring fiercely from the wax. She swallowed.

  “It is kind of Griffin to send you flowers,” Caroline said.

  Phoebe near
ly dropped the letter, but instead pressed it to her racing heart and turned to her sister-in-law. “How do you know it’s from Griff—Mr. Fenwick?”

  Caroline sat in Phoebe’s chair near the hearth, tucking her legs beneath her. “The seal. His family has used the rampant lion for years. They have two statues like that, guarding the gate of their country estate.”

  Phoebe swallowed, then opened the note. She read it over twice in just a few seconds. The brevity in his words gave away nothing. Yet, she found herself relieved he had not attempted to explain, or make excuses, upon the paper. She folded it up and winced when she saw Caroline’s expectant expression.

  “He hopes I recover and that he will see me soon. Nothing else.”

  “Of course not. It would be inappropriate to say anything else.” Caroline’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Although I have heard a rumor that there have been a few letters with this seal coming into the house before.”

  Phoebe’s cheeks blazed with heat, then she went cold all over. “Who said such a thing?” She laughed, the sound weak and unconvincing to her own ears.

  Caroline’s grin widened. “Very loyal and honest servants. But never you fear, darling. I have nothing to say on the matter. I trust you. I have always known you to be practical, and Griffin is a gentleman for all that he behaves ridiculously at times.”

  Phoebe swallowed and nodded tightly. “Thank you. For not saying anything.”

  “I did sense that something was amiss between the two of you last evening. I do hope whatever happened will not cause a permanent wedge between you. He is a good friend of mine, do not forget.” Caroline rose, and her face went pale. “If you will excuse me. I am afraid my own breakfast has not entirely agreed with me.” She put a hand over her abdomen. “Actually, might I have one of your slices of toast to nibble at?”

  Phoebe hastily picked up a square of bread and handed it to her sister-in-law.

  “Thank you.” Caroline took a small bite, forced a smile, and hastily left the room.

  As much as her sister-in-law wished to help, her delicate condition had rather limited her ability to do much of late aside from rest and avoid becoming sick after every bite of food.

  The roses caught her eye, and she bent to inhale their lovely scent. Red roses. A rather intimate offering, even if there was a liberal scattering of white carnations with them. She considered the flowers, then the note.

  Did he deserve the chance to explain? Perhaps. But whether he did or not, Phoebe knew her own curiosity would drive her to be in the park the next day. She needed to hear what he had to say.

  Phoebe opened the small box upon her dressing table and drew out the red-bead bracelet. Her friends might offer her advice, were they present. But there was no time to solicit it now. At least she had the bracelet, and the encouragement it represented.

  Daphne, Marah, Lavinia, and Isabel, would all tell her the same thing. If she cared about Griffin Fenwick, and if there was any possibility that he had come to care for her, she had better meet with him.

  Her heart approved the plan.

  If only she did not have to wait an entire day to find out what Griffin had to say.

  Chapter 13

  A Beginning

  The head of the Serpentine was actually quite narrow and properly called the Long Water. But hardly anyone took the time to remember that the lake boasted two different names for its different forms. Griffin arrived early, though he knew precisely which tree Phoebe had meant in her letter.

  She had not written him after he sent the flowers or the note entreating her to meet him. What were the chances of her coming? Finding a chaperone to accompany her to the park, explaining why she wished to be present in the middle of the day rather than at the more conventional times, might prove difficult.

  The gray clouds above, while not precisely threatening, might keep her away, too. Hyde Park was terribly deserted for such pleasant April weather.

  He paced beneath the tree branches for a time before realizing he only added to his agitation with each step. So instead, and without a care for who saw him, Griffin sat down on the grass directly beneath the arching limb. He stared out over the water, watching a pair of swans glide slowly across the pond.

  Griffin took his hat off and put it on the grass by his side. He drew up his knees and folded his arms, considering what he would say when Phoebe arrived. How did he explain himself? He could justify his first note to her, perhaps. But not all those which came after. Not really. He ought to have written Caroline to issue the warning about Richard Milbourne. Then dropped the matter entirely.

  But he couldn’t. Because every time he thought of Phoebe, thought of writing to her, hoping to catch sight of her, he found he wanted more. More of her words, her time, her conversation.

  He scrubbed one hand through his hair before he remembered he wanted to look his best. He tried to press it back down into the style his valet had recommended, but gave up with a sigh.

  All Griffin could give Phoebe by way of explanation was the truth.

  He ought to have watched the paths but given that he did not expect Phoebe to come—not really, because why would she wish to give him even another moment of her time after his trickery?—it seemed better to watch the swans and birds.

  A horse nickered behind him. Griffin did not turn. It could be anyone riding along the nearly deserted paths.

  But then he heard her voice.

  “If you will stay with the animals, Thompson, just there. Yes. I should like to take a moment and walk.”

  “As you say, miss,” a young male voice said.

  Griffin slowly rose to his feet, then turned to see Phoebe upon the path. A groom held two horses, and he made a point of not watching Phoebe approach Griffin.

  He swallowed, squaring his shoulders and preparing to accept whatever she wished to say to him. If she railed, accused, stormed at him, he deserved it.

  Phoebe wore a red riding habit, with silver epaulets, and a black hat with a red band. She looked rather like a feminine soldier marching toward him. Her red bracelet showed between the sleeve of her riding coat and the black wrist-length glove she wore.

  Her eyes were not upon him, but upon the ground, until she stood only a few feet away from him. Then she looked up, her brown eyes full of questions. And pain.

  “I am here,” she said, voice soft. “To meet my mysterious friend.”

  Griffin swallowed and reached for his hat, only to realize he had left it upon the ground. He curled his hand into a loose fist instead, tapping it against his thigh. “Good afternoon, Miss P. K.”

  Phoebe stared at him, her lips pressed together tight, and her face rather pale. Then she licked her lips, looking away. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”

  He must be honest. Make no excuses. Only explain. “When I wrote those first letters, you did not seem to like me much. I thought it best to remain anonymous, so you would not discard my words as those of a fool.”

  Her eyes darted upward, her lips parted in surprise. “A fool?”

  He shrugged and tipped his head to one side, trying for a smile. “I am fairly certain that was your opinion of me. At least at first. And here I have proved it by creating this uncomfortable situation for you.”

  Phoebe stepped closer to him, her expression still neutral. “Perhaps at first, I did not recognize that you were a gentleman of wit as well as folly. But the more I saw you, I found myself rather hoping to be friends.”

  Griffin lowered his gaze to the ground between them. “I hoped for the same. That is why I did not admit to my secret, and why I kept writing. I wished to come to know you better, and I thought if I revealed myself too soon…” He squeezed his eyes shut and released a deep sigh.

  “What did you think would happen?” she asked, her voice soft. “I would be upset?”

  Though his laugh was short, and rather without humor, Griffin hastily looked up at her. “Are you not?”

  “I am most upset.” She took another step nearer. They were a
lmost within touching distance, if he were to raise his hand. “Or I was. I find myself more curious now. When I met you near the flower girl, were you there for our exchange of letters?” Her eyes were narrowed, her focus intent upon him.

  Curious was far better than angry, which was likely what he deserved.

  “That was why I was there. To leave a letter, or retrieve one, but I also hoped each time that I might be fortunate enough to meet you there.” He wanted to close the remaining distance between them himself, but he rather doubted he should.

  Color entered her cheeks, giving them a rosy hue he found charming. “And that list of eligible gentlemen you provided to me. You included your own name. Why? Did you mean to use your letters to persuade me to give the men a chance?”

  He swallowed, then nodded. “I did not intend to do it—not until the night of the ball. When we danced, and I had to introduce you to others, I knew I wanted a chance of my own.” He lowered his gaze again, wondering exactly how pitiful he must sound to her.

  Phoebe moved closer, her riding boots coming into view. “What sort of chance, Griffin?” His head jerked up at her use of his given name, and then he saw it—a sparkle in her eyes. His heart lightened with hope.

  “A chance to come to know you, to court you.” Finally, he raised his hand toward her, palm up. “To see if, perhaps, we suit one another as well as I feel we must.”

  She regarded his expression carefully, then looked down at his gloved hand. Slowly, she reached out to him, placing her hand in his. Everything in him both relaxed and became electrified at her touch. He sensed her understanding, her forgiveness, and something more. Something quite beautiful.