Chapter 18

18

P hoebe and Margaret spoke little on the carriage ride back to the vicarage. Her younger cousin burned with questions; that much was clear by her intent stare from the opposite bench. However , Phoebe silenced them with a single withering look.

“ I’m sorry if I said anything wrong in front of the marquess,” Margaret had exclaimed as soon as they stepped into the privacy of the Rockliffe carriage and started down the drive. “ The vicarage is in such an uproar, and if I didn’t reveal the truth then and there, I wasn’t sure you’d see the urgency of the matter. Sir Ambrose arrived looking for you right when Papa was in the middle of writing his sermon, and you know how vexed he gets when interrupted. And then Mama , who was hosting a tea, worked herself into a frenzy, for Sir Ambrose grew quite insistent and loud. He doesn’t have very fine manners, and he’s rather malodorous. But is it true you’re going to marry him?”

Phoebe had stopped the girl with a shake of her head and a few dismissive words, which nearly stuck in her throat. As much as her stomach churned, and she had an overwhelming urge to scream, she couldn’t blame Margaret . Her cousin was merely a messenger doing as she’d been told. Withholding the information would have only led to an even worse possibility. Namely , that Ambrose , incensed by Phoebe’s delayed response to his letter, would take the initiative to fetch her at Beaumont Manor himself. That Emily and Mrs . Connelly would return at the same time he did so. No , she couldn’t allow that sordid aspect of her life to invade the marquess and Emily’s home. She had far too much to regret as it was.

She peered dully out the window as the edge of Bowden came into view, reminding her that with each revolution of the carriage’s wheels, the dreaded vicarage neared, whereas Beaumont Manor grew farther and farther away. Not that it mattered. An infinite distance could pass, and all she would envision was Lord Rockliffe’s face as Margaret uttered the shattering words. Sir Ambrose Windham . Wishing very much to see his betrothed .

The air had rushed from Phoebe’s lungs in an agonizing swoop, nearly making her buckle, and still, she’d observed the split second when his lips had parted and then curled into a look of … she had no words to describe it properly. Outrage ? Perhaps a little, but that didn’t fully get at the heart of it. Shock , more like. Bewilderment , as though she’d just pulled the rug out from beneath his feet. Vulnerability .

Except , just as quickly, that unnamable flicker had vanished, the lines of his face hardening into an expressionless veneer.

No . It’s wrong. This is all wrong . She’d wanted to cry, to shout, to cling to him. Such a thing couldn’t be happening, not when he’d just bared his most safeguarded secrets to her and turned so much of what she believed on its head. His stubbornness during their conversation had incensed her, but it couldn’t negate how her heart ached for him. For what he’d lost. For the assumptions he’d come to make of himself as a result.

However , before she could tell him any of that, he’d cast her with a cool glance, his blue irises sharp enough to cut through her. Do you wish to go, Miss Windham ?

She’d wished it only marginally more than flinging herself off a cliff. But what other option was there? Margaret had stood waiting, throwing curious looks between her and Lord Rockliffe . Just as Ambrose waited at the vicarage, seeking the answer she hadn’t taken time to write him, ready to wreak havoc that she couldn’t allow to spread.

And so, she’d nodded, the action creating a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach as she’d uttered the most useless words: I can explain later .

Lord Rockliffe , to his credit, hadn’t driven her out and slammed the door without a second thought. Instead , he’d offered—no, insisted—for her and Margaret to take the carriage, uttering a succinct farewell that proved maddeningly detached.

Which was what led her to this moment, with the familiar brown stone of the vicarage materializing outside the carriage window.

By the time she jumped to the ground, the deep, throbbing pain within her had become more a sense of numbness. Best not think too hard on what she was about to face and instead enjoy her last few seconds of freedom.

That’s all it was: seconds. She took no more than a step up the path before the front door flew open and Harriet came bursting out into the sunshine.

“ Phoebe .” Her aunt called her name with false cheer, the highness of it betraying a note of hysteria. “ How lovely that you’ve arrived. There’s someone here to see you.”

That someone appeared instantly, his large body coming up behind Harriet as a shadow in the doorway before he plodded into the light, the sunrays illuminating his smirk. Making every jarring detail about Ambrose Windham far too clear for comfort.

“ Isn’t this a surprise?” Harriet’s saccharine voice grew shriller to the point she sounded like a poor actress on Drury Lane . “ It’s such a pleasant day, and Sir Ambrose has spent much of it confined to a carriage. Why not take him for a stroll in the garden so you can both enjoy some air?”

Dread hooked its claws in her belly once more, and she shot a desperate glance in her aunt’s direction, her mouth forming a silent plea for help. But for what purpose? She abruptly shuttered her features, turning as emotionless as Lord Rockliffe when she’d left him. Harriet wouldn’t help her. Why demean herself by pretending otherwise?

She drew in a steadying breath, the summer sun unable to prevent the ice that built in her chest. “ Good day, Sir Ambrose .” Even the simple greeting caused another wave of nausea to take hold, but she made herself look at him, willing her disconcertment to stay below the surface.

“ Phoebe , my dear.” He started toward her, stumbling like a man in his cups, but that mattered little to Harriet . Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe spotted her aunt make a brusque summoning motion toward Margaret , and by the time Ambrose reached her, Margaret had flitted into the house, allowing Harriet to make a final insincere comment and slam the door. No one was there to see the moment when his sweaty fingers clamped around her arm, forcing her to tense her muscles so she didn’t flinch, nor did anyone witness the cold, threatening sneer he bestowed. “ It’s been far too long.”

Too long ? On the contrary, another five decades of separation could pass and she’d consider the period insufficient.

She forwent reminding him of their encounter in Bath mere weeks ago at the time of Eugenia’s death, instead leading him wordlessly toward the back garden, where perhaps one of her cousins would be playing, or someone at least might be looking out the window. However , the garden proved deserted, and the curtains of the back windows drawn.

It seemed the encounter would be hers alone to bear.

She brought him to the wooden bench beneath the apple tree, using the opportunity to shake free of his grip and lower herself to the seat. It came as little surprise when he sat, gracelessly, with his thigh skirting hers, but her lack of shock didn’t make it any easier to suppress a shudder. Even in the short time since she’d last seen him, his teeth seemed to have yellowed further and his pale hair to have turned even oilier. Not to mention that he smelled, as strongly as ever, like he’d doused himself in a barrel of ale.

It doesn’t matter . She shifted to the edge of the bench, looking through him instead of at him. If she could just endure a little longer, he’d leave her alone; this would be over.

“ You’ve misbehaved, Phoebe .” He began by flashing another self-satisfied smirk, hefting his weight to her side of the bench.

She tilted her head back, trying not to inhale the noxious air he breathed. “ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

His lips curved downward, and he made an obnoxious clucking noise. “ Has no one ever told you it’s exceptionally rude”—the word exceptionally slurred and staggered on his tongue—“to ignore your correspondence?”

Foolish . So foolish . She silently chided herself for putting off his letter as if the problem would disappear on its own. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy—although, to be fair, he’d given up on her easily enough eight years prior.

Well , enough was enough, and she would delay no longer. She ceased caring about the thin facade of politeness, wanting only to put an end to the encounter as quickly as possible. “ I apologize for my tardiness and inconsideration in responding to your letter. Allow me to make amends immediately. Thank you for your proposal, but my answer remains unchanged from the first time you made it. No , I will not marry you. If that’s the lone reason you came here, then our business has concluded, and I’ll bid you good day.”

His unkempt brows drew together, the frown deepening. “ You always were a stubborn one. Thinking yourself high and mighty, even when you’d been cast down into the dirt. But what do you have to feel superior about now, hmm? Eugenia’s gone, and you look about as welcome at the vicarage as a bad case of the pox. You should really reconsider my offer.”

“ Why ?” She inched her body so far over that she was in danger of toppling off the bench, and still, he came closer, his unwelcome heat pressing against her, making her irritation flare. “ Why do you want this union so much? You know as well as I that we wouldn’t suit, and you’ve made no secret regarding your opinions of me. Shameful . Of loose morals ?—”

“ A doxy. A ladybird. A slut ,” he supplied, the words creating a dull stab in her chest, one she’d never been able to shake no matter how many times she heard them. He fumbled in his pocket, retrieving a silver flask and grasping at the cap. “ My thoughts on your character haven’t changed. However , your time with Eugenia seemed to properly subdue you, and you’re the only woman who will suit my purposes.”

She gave herself a moment to stare at the grass and fight off the encroaching surge of nausea. She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to imagine. Yet her tongue moved anyway, her mouth acrid from the taste of bile. “ What purposes?”

“ Don’t you already know?” She made herself look up just in time to see him take a gulp from the flask and pull it away, wiping the wetness from his lips with the back of his hand. “ Sir John always made it known how little he thought of me. How much he loathed me being his heir. He was downright dish … dish-re … dis respectful. But now look. He’s dead, and I have his house. His lands. His title. All I’m missing is his daughter.”

“ And that’s one thing you will never get!” She sprang from the bench, glaring down at him as she waited for her trembling legs to accommodate her weight and flee.

Ambrose was wrong; her long, unhappy years with Eugenia hadn’t left her demure and subdued. Instead , she was about to find herself scandal-ridden yet again. Even more lost and uncertain than the day she’d first encountered Lady Emily in the field.

She didn’t know what to do. Where to go from here. She had no idea if she could still rely on the exorbitant sum Lord Rockliffe promised her, which had come to pale in comparison to everything else she’d gained at Beaumont Manor —everything she now stood to lose.

But of one thing, she remained stalwartly certain. “ I won’t marry you,” she repeated, stomping her foot against the grass. “ I won’t . I’d sooner retreat to a workhouse. To sew in a dark garret until I go blind. To walk the streets like the harlot you say I am.”

Ambrose blinked unsteadily, her heated words seeming to catch him off balance. Yes , she’d refused him once before, a long time ago, but she’d never raised her voice. Never returned the insults hurled her way. The novelty of it didn’t appear to make sense in his drink-addled brain, and he tipped the flask to his mouth again, taking long swallows until all that remained were drops, which he shook into his throat.

When he lowered the flask this time, though, his mind must have reached a place of understanding, for his eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared in anger. “ You know what you are? Ungrateful .” He clambered to his feet and hovered beside her, making the summer air she breathed develop the pungent staleness of a barroom. “ You say you’d rather a workhouse? We should have sent you there after what you did. Left you to rot in a gutter somewhere. It’s only because Genie was too soft for her own good, and I condoned it, that you escaped that fate.”

A painful jolt seized her heart. Eugenia , soft? Eugenia , who’d begun her daily lectures on repentance and morality from the moment they’d departed for the cottage at the edge of the Suffolk fenlands. Eugenia , who hadn’t relented—in fact, had only increased her efforts—when they’d relocated to Bath and Phoebe had dragged herself along, still shattered in both body and soul. Aching with a hurt so potent that she didn’t think it could heal. Eugenia’s actions had been more merciful than casting her onto the street, perhaps. But never soft.

“ And still, you can’t even say thank you .” He hurled a thick, wavering finger toward her chest, and she stiffened her spine, refusing to let him see her cower. “ I made you a good offer—far better than you deserve—and look at you! Saying no . Having the nerve to appear re- … repulshed . It’s just the same as when you moped around after Genie with all the cheer of a Newgate convict. Couldn’t even show grath- … grati- … thanks for how she took you in. How she hid your mish-takes and provided for your brat.”

Phoebe’s breath caught, and an odd flutter rippled through her chest. Ambrose , in addition to becoming insulted, was unquestionably foxed and, thus, apt to spew all manner of nonsense. Yet those last words he’d said … that he’d spluttered so maliciously but casually, as if they contained a well-known truth …

“ What did you mean by that?” She stared at him hard, examining every detestable feature—the glassy eyes, the sallow skin, the deep grooves around his mouth—for the answer she sought.

Ambrose , blast him, said nothing. The dratted man hiccupped, then busied himself with straightening his limp cravat, no longer meeting her eye.

“ Ambrose !” Her voice turned too high, too sharp, unable to mask her rising panic. “ What did you mean? When you claimed Eugenia provided for … for my …” She couldn’t repeat it, the word that reflected nothing of her loss, her grief, her heartbreak.

Her memory flashed to the night she’d awoken in her cold, silent bed in the fenland cottage, her body battered, her eyelids so heavy it proved a struggle to pry them open. The space had felt eerily still and foreboding in those last few seconds of sleep-hazed ignorance. Those final uncertain moments before Eugenia’s face, misty and out of focus, had appeared above her, the older woman’s lips forming words that flickered at the edge of her awareness before sinking in to deliver a devastating blow. The babe did not survive .

Ambrose turned his attention to his pocket, pulling out the flask he apparently forgot he’d drained. Only after giving it a shake, and frowning from the disappointment of finding it empty, did he turn to her and shrug. He actually shrugged . “ I mish-spoke.”

“ Tell me the truth.” Her voice came out as a strangled whisper, and tears began stinging the corners of her eyes. Why would he have said that? That Eugenia provided for … Even while drunk, why would he have blurted out such a thing unless … unless …

“ Tell me the truth!” she repeated, only she screamed it this time, her fingers inches away from grabbing his waistcoat and giving him a good jostle. “ I heard you. You said Eugenia provided for my … my child. How , Ambrose ? How , when she made something explicitly clear: the babe did not survive .”

Ambrose winced, pressing a palm to his sweat-stained brow. “ Stop shouting. I don’t know. What difference does it make now?”

“ What difference ?” Her mouth gaped, and her knees began trembling beneath her skirts, making her stagger backward before she could stop herself. If he were to heave a knife in her chest, it wouldn’t hurt as much as those callous words.

He scowled, his bleary eyes traveling over her with distaste. “ That babe was never yours to keep. You would have dish-graced all of us—yourself included—but Genie stopped you. Did you a favor.” He flung his arm out, pointing another accusatory finger toward her chest. “ Like I said. You . Are . Ungrateful .”

Her hands shook at her sides, itching with the urge to swing up and slap him. She wanted to scream even louder. To inundate him with her outrage. To force him to cooperate.

Except that would get her nowhere. If anything, it would render him even more uncommunicative and recalcitrant. If she wanted Ambrose —blast the soused, cold-hearted swine—to help her, she would need to exhibit delicacy.

“ You’re right.” She swallowed back the acid her words created and took a breath, using every remaining bit of strength she possessed to keep her voice steady. Subdued . “ Forgive me. I assure you, I would be very much obliged if you’d simply tell me where Eugenia sent the child she provided for.”

For a long, uncertain moment, he studied her, his lips twitching as if the information lay on the tip of his tongue. Yet all of a sudden, he broke the gaze, and he jerked his shoulders into another detestable shrug, the gesture rife with annoyance. “ I told you, I don’t know, so cease nattering on about it. Genie’s affairs were her own. Has nothing to do with me.”

“ Ambrose !” She shrieked his name in frustration as she staggered again, grasping the back of the bench so she didn’t crumple to the ground. She was unable to look at him anymore, was going to be ill. Yet she couldn’t lose her head when information so crucial hung in the balance.

She stared at the clipped blades of grass around her feet, trying to find purchase amidst her spinning thoughts. If Ambrose was too useless to assist—whether due to obstinacy or true ignorance—then she would need to sort this herself. However , nothing made sense. She’d long aided Eugenia with both her correspondence and household accounts—particularly in the last weeks when Eugenia had become bedridden—and had never seen anything that even hinted at such a deception.

How had the woman managed it? Holding in a secret—an untruth—of that magnitude for seven full years.

Phoebe’s fingers curled and tightened around the bench, her nails digging into the wood as her mind flashed back to the days following Eugenia’s death when she’d helped clear out their rented rooms in Bath . When assorted trinkets and papers had been deemed of no importance and thrown into the dustbin. The thought proved even more sickening than peering upon Ambrose in his smug-faced superiority.

Her grip on the bench abruptly loosened, and she stumbled backward, struggling to make her feet break into a run. Remaining here, shouting and talking in circles, was naught but a waste of time. She had to go, to search, to find?—

“ Wait .” Ambrose’s call made her footsteps freeze, and she whirled around to the sight of him lumbering toward her, an unsettling glint in his eye. “ If you were an obedient wife, maybe I’d feel inclined to help you.”

Her splintering heart lurched, grasping for a string of hope even as the rest of her recoiled at the prospect. What he proposed—the cruelness of it, the utter disgust it evoked in every fiber of her being—was no better than making a deal with the devil. But if that’s what it took …

He ground to a halt in front of her, causing her nose to burn once more from the odor of ale mixed with sweat. His lips twisted into a cold sneer—even in his drunken stupor, he could obviously see her contemplating, could recognize how he’d cornered her—and in the blink of an eye, the flutter of hope within her broke into thousands of painful slivers.

She was desperate. He knew she was desperate. As such, she could see his words for what they were: a lie. Ambrose wouldn’t help her. Even if he knew how—which was doubtful at best—he wouldn’t. If she were his wife, he would never allow her to seek out the child whom he viewed as evidence of her shame.

She detected the clumsy motion of his hand approaching her wrist, and she darted away just in time, preventing herself from falling into his clutches. She peered into his too-red, perspiring face. Felt her teeth clench and loathing simmer within her as she spat a rejoinder. “ My answer is no. It will always be no.”

And then, she ran, finally finding the speed she required. Her legs flew over the grass and back around the vicarage, impervious to the affronted protests that rang out behind her. The front door creaked open as she passed, and Harriet’s unpleasant voice joined the cacophony, but she ignored that, too. She would find no help from her aunt and would squander not a second of her time by futilely begging for it.

Perhaps there was no help to be had anywhere. There was, however, the Rockliffe carriage, which hadn’t returned to Beaumont Manor but remained waiting for her in front of the house.

She couldn’t be certain of her reception if she went back there. Nor could she think how she’d begin to explain …

Yet , for better or worse, the Rockliffe carriage meant the one thing she needed first and foremost: escape. A place to sit, to calm her heaving breaths, to push through her shock to determine what she needed to do next.

And so, she ran toward the familiar black vehicle and the pair of matched bays that stood exactly as she’d left them. As if naught had changed. A striking contrast to the cruel reality that nothing in her world would ever be the same.