Page 3 of Letters for Phoebe

A lump formed in Phoebe’s throat. She looked around the circle of girls, meeting their eyes in turn. “We must promise to try.”

Lavinia held out the bracelet, the red beads a glimmering circle in her palm, reflecting the weak moonlight. Daphne reached out first and touched the bracelet, Isabel’s and Phoebe’s hands following soon after. Her eyes prickled, and she raised her head to look at Marah, watching them.

“All of us,” Daphne said gently.

Marah sighed, then scooted forward to touch a tentative finger on the bracelet.

“A pact for love,” Isabel said, “for each other, and the men we choose to stand beside us.”

They nodded together, the solemnity of the moment settling heavy in the air around them.

This could not be the end. Phoebe could not accept that this would be the last time she met with her friends, speaking their secrets into the night. Somehow, they would come together again. A bond such as theirs would not be easily forgotten, nor dimmed by time.

“Give me your hand, Marah,” Lavinia said, and they all sat back save for Marah. Lavinia slipped the bracelet around her wrist, securing the gold fastener.

Phoebe had to busy herself with something else before she cried. She uncovered the Chelsea buns and Marah smiled for the first time that night as they laughed, their hands becoming sticky messes as they ate their stolen treats. Even if Cook found out, even if Phoebe had to help first years practice their German vowels for a week, it would be worth it for that shared moment of happiness.

As they settled back onto the blankets, Isabel once again held up their prized leather book. “Huddle close, ladies. The Love of Count Rudolph, the final chapter.”

Lavinia put an arm around Marah, and Phoebe scooted closer to Daphne, wrapping a spare blanket about both their shoulders. They watched Isabel expectantly as she opened the book and paused dramatically.

“The clouds over Mount Morocco made the silvery moon seem like a ghost, and Esmerelda heard the howl of the wolf pack from a far off and shivered. Where was her handsome Count? Would he come for her? She fingered the battered locket at her chest. He’d promised his love would stretch across oceans. Was a mountain too far?”

Chapter 1

April 1, 1812

The crowd at the park had reached ridiculous proportions, which kept Phoebe seated squarely in her small phaeton. Her driver sat stiffly before her, knowing well enough that to show interest in the display to the left of the path would not elevate him in the eyes of his mistress.

For her part, Phoebe Kimball kept her eyes averted from the ridiculous activity nearby and upon a cloud drifting overhead. She most certainly did not peer from the corner of her eye to see the two men on the green, stripped of their coats, hats, and gloves, hurling balls of dough at one another. Not like her sister-in-law, who watched the whole thing with a delicately crafted opera spyglass pressed to her eye.

A spyglass. In broad daylight.

Phoebe pushed a dark lock of hair behind her ear and made a mental note to tell her maid to use more egg-whites in her next hair-setting tonic.

Laughter erupted from the field. How two grown men, with family names well known and respected throughout England, could behave in such a common manner, she would never know. The crowd enjoyed their well-advertised “duel,” if the cheers and applause were any indication of their thoughts on the matter.

“Why they chose the fashionable hour is beyond my understanding,” Phoebe muttered aloud at last. She had come hoping for a glimpse of a particularly suitable bachelor known to ride at that time. “Though the date makes perfect sense. They are behaving as fools, and they are causing a standstill on Rotten Row. This will be in all the papers.”

“Of course. April is the month of fools.” Caroline murmured her agreement but made no effort to ignore the fight. “Oh, the viscount lobbed that one directly into Mr. Fenwick’s face. That must be the final blow. I cannot see how one might do better.”

“It pains me to know you are acquainted with that man.” Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut. Where did they even get all the dough for this incredible foolishness? Stolen from some overworked baker, no doubt.

There had been a time when Phoebe would have been as delighted by the spectacle as her sister-in-law. A time before her mother grew ill, before her father grew distant. Indeed, she had planned her own amusing adventures with her friends at school down to the smallest detail to ensure their merriment.

But those days were past, and Phoebe had other things to plan. Such as a marriage wherein she might be seen as an equal rather than a sack of coins. She shivered despite the sunshine pouring through the trees above.

“Oh. It is over.” Caroline sat back in her seat and collapsed her telescope, her bottom lip protruding as though she had been robbed of a treat. Really. A woman of her delicate condition, even if said condition wasn’t yet widely known, ought to show more decorum. “That was the liveliest thing that has happened all week.”

“But hardly appropriate.” Phoebe turned her head barely enough to see the crowd dispersing, but the two men in the middle of the odd display were pulling on their coats and exchanging huge grins. Phoebe hastily looked away again. “Did you hear how it came about? They were tossing food at one another at their club, like common ruffians in a public house.”

Caroline had obviously grown used to Phoebe’s ways and tended to ignore her sister-in-law when Phoebe addressed subjects relating to decorum. As a married woman, perhaps Caroline did not worry as much over her reputation as Phoebe must. But associating with the dough-ball-duel was not high on Phoebe’s list of accomplishments she hoped to expound to a future mother-in-law.

People climbed back into their carriages or made their way across the green lawns of Hyde Park, everyone chatting and laughing about the duel they had witnessed. Doubtless, accounts would appear in every newspaper about the event, all of it mocking both the participants and those who had lingered to watch.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes, sweeping the carriages lined up in front of theirs, looking for a particular gentleman in a plum-colored coat. Mr. Richard Milbourne, heir to an estate estimated to be worth eight thousand pounds per annum. Rumor had it he wished to marry before the end of the Season.

From what Phoebe knew about him, he might prove an excellent husband.