Thinking back to that last morning with West, Phoebe recalled him saying something to the effect that he had nothing to offer except a relationship that would insult and lower her.
Love affairs were common among the upper class, who usually married for reasons of family interests and connections and sought personal fulfillment outside of wedlock. Phoebe had never imagined herself doing such a thing or having needs that might outweigh the risk of scandal. But neither she nor West were married; no vows would be broken. No one would be harmed . . . would they?
A shock went through her as she realized she was actually considering it. Oh, God, she was turning into a cliché—the love-starved widow seeking company for her empty bed. A particular figure of mockery, since women were supposed to be above the kind of base physical desire that was considered far more natural and explicable in men. She herself had liked to think so, until West had proved otherwise.
She wished she could talk to Merritt.
She tried to imagine how such a conversation might go:
“Merritt, I’m thinking about having affair with West Ravenel. I know it’s wrong . . . but how wrong?”
“Don’t ask me,” Merritt would probably say, her eyes laughing. “As a moral relativist, I’m thoroughly unqualified to judge your decisions.”
“A fine help you are,” Phoebe would retort. “I want someone to give me permission.”
“No one can do that but you, dear.”
“What if it turns out to be a mistake?”
“Then I suspect you’ll have had a delightful time making it.”
After the carriage had stopped at the front portico of Clare Manor, the footmen carried the stacks of account ledgers to the study. They placed the volumes on the empty bookshelves while Phoebe seated herself at the old oak desk. She smoothed a sheet of writing paper onto the desk’s green leather inset, reached for a slim lacquered pen holder, and inserted a nib.
“Milady,” said one of the footmen, “the books have been put away.”
“Thank you, Oliver. You’re free to go now. Arnold, if you’ll wait a moment, I have another errand for you.”
The younger footman, always eager to prove himself, brightened at the request. “Yes, milady.” He waited at a respectful distance while she wrote a few lines.
Post Office Telegram
Mr. Weston Ravenel
Eversby Priory Hampshire
Knee deep in quicksand. Need rope.
Would you possibly have time to visit Essex?
—P. C.
After folding the paper and tucking it into an envelope, Phoebe turned in her chair. “Take this to the telegraph desk at the post office and make certain they dispatch it before you leave.” She began to extend it to him, then hesitated as a tremor of mingled fear and craving ran through her.
“Milady?” Arnold asked softly.
Phoebe shook her head with a rueful smile and held out the envelope decisively. “Take it quickly, please, before I lose my nerve.”
Chapter 22
“Mama,” Justin said the next morning, pausing in the middle of licking the drizzle of white icing on top of his breakfast bun, “Nanny said I’m going to have a governess.”
“Yes, darling, I plan to start looking for one soon. Please eat the entire bun and not just the icing.”
“I like to eat the icing first.” As Justin saw the objection on her face, he pointed out reasonably, “It’s all going to end up in my tummy, Mama.”
“I supposed so, but still . . .” her voice trailed away as she saw that Stephen had emptied his bowl of applesauce onto the tray of his high chair and was circling his hand through the puddle.
Looking very pleased with himself, the toddler squeezed applesauce through his fingers and licked at it. “Yummy apples,” he told her.
“Oh, dear—Stephen, wait—” She used the napkin from her lap to mop at the mess, and called out to the footman who stood beside the sideboard. “Arnold, fetch the nursemaid. We need reinforcements.”
The young footman dashed away immediately.
“You were doing so well with the spoon,” Phoebe told Stephen, catching his little wrist and wiping his dripping hand. “I rather wish you’d stayed with that method.”
“Ivo didn’t have a governess,” Justin said.
“That was because Granny had time to help with his manners and all the other things a governess teaches.”
“I already know all the manners,” Justin said indignantly.
“Justin—” Phoebe broke off as Stephen smacked his free hand into the applesauce, sending splatters everywhere. “Goodness gracious!”
“It’s in his hair now,” Justin said, looking at his younger brother in the manner of a scientist observing a failed experiment.
The nursemaid, a wiry and energetic girl named Verity, charged into the room with a stack of nursery flannels. “Master Stephen,” she scolded softly, “did you overturn your pudding again?”
“Applesauce this time,” Phoebe said.
The toddler held up his empty bowl with a pair of sticky, glistening hands. “All gone,” he told Verity brightly.
A snort of amusement escaped the nursemaid as she unlatched the tray from the chair. She shook her head as Phoebe reached out to help. “Stand back, if you please, milady—we can’t have applesauce splashing on your dress.”
Justin tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Mama, if I must have a governess, I want a pretty one.”
Another snort from the nursemaid. “They start early, don’t they?” she remarked in an aside.
“In my family, they do,” Phoebe replied ruefully.
The applesauce was mopped up by the time the butler, Hodgson, brought the morning mail on a silver tray. It was far, far too soon to expect a reply from West—the telegram had been dispatched yesterday morning, for heaven’s sake. Still, Phoebe’s pulse turned brisk as she rifled through the stack.