Letters for Phoebe, page 4
His head turned abruptly, and she sensed his eyes upon her, studying her. “Dotage, Miss Kimball? I’ll have you know I am younger than you are.”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned toward him, releasing his arm. “Sir, I cannot believe you would say such a thing. You are not. You must be nearer thirty than twenty.” She narrowed her eyes and studied the charming, tiny lines near the corners of his eyes; they grew deeper as he smiled. At her. He had a rather nice smile.
“I will have you know that I have only marked my birthday on six occasions.” His eyes glittered, bluer than gray in his amusement.
Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. “That is absurd. Indeed, the most absurd thing I have ever heard.”
He mimicked her stance. “I swear to you, on my honor, it is the truth.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again and stared hard at him. There was a puzzle in his words somewhere, and she would find the answer. Perhaps his family had not done anything on the anniversary of his birth to mark the occasion. That might be what he meant. Yet she had heard, from Caroline, all about the Fenwick family. They sounded as though they were all quite close, and if they had produced someone such as the gentleman before her, they likely did not ignore excuses to celebrate.
“Six birthdays.” She wrinkled her nose.
His grin turned almost cocky. He offered his arm again. She accepted it. “Six,” he confirmed. “I will wager you have celebrated twenty years of your life passing.” Their walk continued, even slower than before.
“I have.” Drat and bother. “Six marked birthdays. What happened during the unmarked anniversaries?” She ought to hate how curious he had made her. Yet she had always had a weakness for riddles. Especially those with logical conclusions.
“There were none. Only the six have passed since my birth.” He chuckled, sounding far too certain of himself.
Phoebe sighed. “I will think on this, sir.”
“Do. Take whatever time you need.” He was leading her around the square, she realized. They had passed Number Fourteen several houses before.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she said, turning to look up at him. He was taller than she by a head. “Are you very well acquainted with the Carew family?”
His smile momentarily faded, and though he did not look down at her, she sensed caution in the way his eyes narrowed. “Yes. Very well. I consider Phillip to be one of my oldest friends.”
“How fortunate for me. I have a question I must ask. A delicate question.” She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes to the path upon which they walked. “Is Mr. Phillip Carew already—that is to say, are you aware if he might already have bestowed his affection upon a young lady?”
The gentleman paused, and when she looked up, she saw, for the first time, a very deep line creasing his forehead and a frown upon his face.
“I do not mean to pry,” she said hastily. “Or ask you to betray any confidences. I need not know her name. Only if she exists. You see, I had thought to come to know the gentleman better, but if friendship is all that is possible, I should like to know.”
He glanced away from her, presenting a profile of a long, elegant nose and strong jaw. He took in a deep breath which expanded his chest, then released it with his answer. “Yes. There is someone Mr. Carew has set his hopes upon.”
A flicker of disappointment made her shoulders sag. Her mysterious correspondent had told the truth. She ought to write her thanks again, except she already had, in a way, even before confirming his news.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. The day had grown dimmer, and she drew a line through Mr. Carew’s name upon the list in her mind. “Would you be so kind as to walk me home, Mr. Fenwick?” She gestured behind them.
“Of course.” He turned and offered the opposite arm for her to take. The maid who had been trailing behind them squeaked and hurried to step aside so they might pass her.
Mr. Fenwick was quiet for some time, all the way up until he assisted her across the street. Delivering her to the very door of Number Fourteen, he released her arm and bowed. “Thank you for your company, Miss Kimball. I enjoyed it.”
Though distracted by the rearrangement of her plans, Phoebe curtsied and said what was proper. “It was pleasant to spend a few moments with you, Mr. Fenwick.”
The butler opened the door. The maid had already disappeared through the servants’ entrance below street level. Phoebe stepped inside, but the instant before the door shut, she had a bolt of understanding.
Phoebe threw the door open again and went to the top of the steps. Mr. Fenwick had already attained the pavement.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she called.
He spun, looking up at her. He took a step closer. “Is something the matter, Miss Kimball?”
When her grin burst across her face, her elation taking hold of her, he froze as though stunned. Good. A man like him ought to be surprised once in a while. Phoebe delighted in his full attention as she solved his riddle.
“You were born on a leap day. Then you would be near thirty, but with only six birthdays celebrated.”
His grin flashed, and he bowed to her, right there upon the street. Phoebe laughed, then covered her mouth with one hand. What would the neighbors think?
“Good day to you, sir.” She spun on her heel, walked into the house, and did not look back as the befuddled Lawler shut the door behind her.
Chapter 5
List of Suitors
To My Unknown Friend,
I have confirmed what you told me, sir. I must thank you again, even as I cross Mr. Carew’s name from my list. That must sound callous to you, that I keep a list of potential suitors. Or perhaps you understand. I am inclined to think you a sympathetic man, given your kindness to me thus far. You must know something of what it is like for ladies, to risk our future happiness upon men we hardly know by more than reputation.
It occurs to me that I might save myself time, having a friend such as you, by sharing my list. If this is presumptuous, do forgive me. But this may save you from future correspondence with someone as woefully uneducated on the bachelors of London as I seem to be.
What think you of these gentlemen? I have listed them alphabetically by surname.
Mr. Henry Brockton
Sir William Carter
Mr. Bartholomew Kenley
Mr. Howard Lambleigh
Lord George Pewton
Mr. Alfred Waymont
Yours Most Gratefully,
P.K.
* * *
To The Clever P.K.,
While some might find your list-making presumptuous, I am only intrigued. You appear to be an intelligent woman. You have given your future a great deal of thought, and I am most sympathetic toward you. Here is your list given back, with my notations.
Mr. Henry Brockton (A slave to his mother. I cannot imagine an independent woman enjoying such a thing.)
Sir William Carter (Has announced his intentions to marry a Frenchwoman of his acquaintance.)
Mr. Bartholomew Kenley (A possible candidate, if one does not mind his obsession with insects.)
Mr. Howard Lambleigh (He is a confirmed bachelor with no interest in the fairer sex. Not even a lady as lovely as you.)
Lord George Pewton (While an agreeable man, I must warn you: his hair is not his own.)
Mr. Alfred Waymont (I cannot imagine you wishing to spend more than a moment in conversation with him. He is intolerably stupid.)
My friend, I cannot say what it is you see in these gentlemen. There is no pattern I can detect here, or else I might provide you with a list of men who are more suitable candidates. Do share your requirements with me, P.K., and I will do my best to aid you in your search.
Most Humbly,
Your Friend
Griffin waited in the park, having an idea when Miss Kimball would appear to collect his letter from the flower girl, Anna. The child had agreed to keep his identity a secret, and keep acting as messenger, without even asking a copper of him. She seemed delighted to take part in an intrigue, and he promised to purchase flowers from her every day for the rest of the Season.
He checked his watch, then glanced up at the gray sky. If it rained, Miss Kimball might change her plans. He would need to change his, too, given that he had no umbrella with him.
At three o’clock she appeared, wearing a walking dress and bonnet festooned in emerald green ribbons. She had no maid, which meant she did not mean to go farther than the square. Perhaps she would only pick up her letter and then vanish again inside the house.
As soon as she was on the walk, her back to where Griffin stood in the shade of a tree, he started to follow. Not because he wished to speak to her, necessarily. But seeing her reaction to his letter would amuse him. Finding fault in each of her listed bachelors had proved far too easy.
Not that he had wanted her to cast them all aside. But he had instinctively known not a single of the six men were worthy of a match with someone as bold and intelligent as Miss Kimball. It would take a different sort of man to make her happy, of that he felt certain.
Miss Kimball retrieved her letter from the flower girl and kept walking, perhaps to complete a circuit around the square. She opened the letter and read as she walked, while he kept pace several yards behind her. He was close enough to hear her giggle. The light laugh, at something he had written, gave him reason enough to smile with satisfaction.
Griffin did not hail her until he saw her put the paper in her reticule. Then he called out, “Miss Kimball, is that you?”
She stiffened and looked over her shoulder at him. “Mr. Fenwick.” She stopped walking, and he quickened his step until he reached her side.
“We meet yet again.”
“So we do.” She folded her hands in front of her, the reticule bearing his letter dangling from her wrist. “What brings you out to Berkeley Square today?” She glanced up at the gray clouds. “In such uncertain weather.”
“A desire for a walk. I found the park here to my liking, when last we met.” He motioned to the trees and well-kept grasses. “Though it is horribly named.”
“I do not suppose Berkeley Rectangle would sound as lovely, or as though it might rival Mayfair and Grosvenor Squares.” Miss Kimball’s lips twitched, though she did not fully smile. “Mr. Fenwick, I was correct when I settled upon your birthdate at our last meeting, wasn’t I?”
Griffin bowed, theatrically. “You were most correct. I was born on February the twenty-ninth, in 1784.”
Her eyes brightened, and she leaned slightly closer, though a foot of space still separated them. “So you have been alive eight and twenty years, with only six birthdays, because the year 1800 had no Leap Day. Am I correct?”
He grinned at her. “You are.”
“You must take great delight in vexing people with that riddle.” She did not laugh, though he suspected she wished to do so. “That brings me all the way back to my original question, sir. A man of your advanced years seems oddly opposed to the idea of matrimony. Why is that?”
Griffin shrugged. “As I have said, I have not found a lady to my tastes.”
“Pity for you.” An ominous rumble rolled across the sky, causing Miss Kimball to look up and assess the clouds. “Dear me. It seems neither of us will have our walk.”
“Afraid of a little rain, Miss Kimball?” he asked, disappointed she would leave before they’d had a chance to enjoy a verbal duel.
“I am afraid of ruining my bonnet.” She touched one of the swirling green ribbons.
“Then I will walk you to your door.” Griffin glanced at the reticule on her wrist as she put her hand upon his arm. “Are you not particular about your choice of gentleman, Miss Kimball? I imagine you are on the hunt for a husband, as every single woman in London is on the hunt.”
“You make it sound as though I actually have a wide variety of choices.” She shook her head, her eyes upon her house rather than on him or the park. “No woman truly does, you know. I am limited by my family’s position in Society—”
Griffin interrupted. “Which is fair, given your address.” Berkeley rivaled Grosvenor when it came to fashion.
Her eyes narrowed. “My father was fortunate to purchase the house at a time when it was quite affordable. But as I said, my family is not noble; my father is only a gentleman. That narrows the options. Then there is the matter of my dowry; it is too small to tempt those looking to increase their riches or save themselves, yet my family connections are not remarkable enough to entice those that are solvent and only looking to better position themselves in society. We also must take into account my age and appearance. The pool of gentlemen narrows still more with other factors, such as my determination to have intelligent conversation rather than simper at a man as most would desire.”
Griffin laughed, a hearty sound that made her shrink and look about as though to make sure he had not drawn attention to them. They crossed the street to her house, but Griffin did not give up her arm immediately.
“Any man who would censure you for speaking your mind would only do himself a disservice.” Griffin looked down at her, wondering if he dared try for an invitation into her home. It would save him from the rain and provide entertainment.
What made him laugh turned her sober. “It intrigues me that you think so. My own brother is forever telling me to curb my tongue.”
“That is a shame. I find myself amused whenever we have an opportunity to converse.”
“Amused?” she asked, eyebrows drawing downward.
Griffin nodded and released her arm. “It is rare a woman speaks her mind as you do.”
“And a woman speaking her mind is…amusing.” Her tone remained flat, which he ought to have taken as a warning.
Griffin only widened his smile as he continued speaking, ready to explain how much he enjoyed their verbal battles. “Of course. It is refreshing to hear a woman converse with such lightness and wit. Most cannot take what you say seriously—”
Miss Kimball raised her hand, halting him mid-sentence. “That is quite enough.” Then she balled that delicate gloved hand into a fist, lowering it to her side while her cheeks turned red. “Most, in fact, do not take what I say seriously. I always thought that a mark against their intelligence, not my own.”
As she spoke, Griffin’s horror grew. Something had gone terribly wrong in their conversation. “Miss Kimball, if you will let me explain—”
She cut him off again, at the same moment a large raindrop fell past the brim of his hat. “I have no desire to converse further. I apologize for ending your entertainment this afternoon, but the show cannot go on in the rain. Good day, Mr. Fenwick.” She turned from him and ran up the steps. The door opened and when it slammed shut behind her, the sky broke open above.
Griffin stood like an addle-pated dunce, staring at the closed door. The rain did not care that it soaked him and came down all the harder.
At last he turned, walking away. What a fool he was. Even if they had come along in their relationship, apparently, she knew him less than he did her. He needed to mind his tongue. The conversation had turned too quickly, and now he needed to make amends. But when? And more importantly, how?
Phoebe paced her bedroom, the glow of the gas lamp the only light. None came from outside, despite the early evening hour, due to the heavy clouds storming above Town. The rain beat against her window, the sound soothing her troubled thoughts.
The letter from her anonymous friend lay open upon her writing desk, a blank sheet of paper beside it.
“Do share your list with me…”
Dare she? Having one man laugh at her that day had shaken her. Mr. Fenwick had seemed like the sort of man one might befriend, but knowing he only spoke to her because she amused him had stung.
Phoebe put her hand over the red beads of her bracelet, rolling the accessory down to her wrist again. How she missed her friends. If only they were near to one another and could laugh away their troubles as they had at school.
What would they advise?
She went to the desk and sat, staring at the neat handwriting of the man with the rampant lion seal. Who was he, and why had he taken an interest in her? Enough of an interest to warn her not once, but twice?
He had to be a gentleman. At least, that was what she hoped. But was he an elderly fellow merely doing her a kindness? Somehow, she doubted it, given the firm hand he used. And the humor in his words.
It was dangerous for a woman to write to a gentleman, let alone a stranger.
But the little flower girl would warn her if there was something amiss, wouldn’t she?
The memory of Griffin Fenwick’s smirk, his hurtful words, goaded her at last.
Biting her bottom lip, Phoebe took up the pen.
Chapter 6
An Evening of Dancing
My Dear Friend,
I am not certain many would call me clever. How clever is it, for example, to write out one’s hopes and wishes to a complete stranger? I will have to trust to your honor, sir, whoever you might be.
I suppose I wish for the usual things in a gentleman, in terms of health and general good nature. But when I think on those things that I most hope for, that I want to be part of my life, I find myself hoping for a generosity of spirit. I also wish to find a man who will be an attentive and kind father, as my father was, yet how can one know such a thing? I would hope for a gentleman who will view me as his equal in our marriage.
As you can see, these things are quite impossible to know about a gentleman. No amount of afternoon carriage rides, ballroom meetings, or afternoon teas will reveal so much about a person’s character.
But worry not. I do not expect you to find such a companion for me. For now, if you might point me toward someone of honor and financial stability, I will be pleased enough. This will be my last Season in London. I suppose I ought not be too particular.
With all my gratitude,
P.K.
