Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe stilled. She must not have heard him correctly. For if she had, Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, had just asked her to marry him. Which was preposterous. For not only would he never marry a woman like her, but he certainly wouldn’t ask her in the middle of the theatre, surrounded by his mother, sisters, and her aunt. And definitely not while Henry VIII was onstage divorcing his wife and denouncing Cardinal Wolsey of all of his titles and possessions.
But Jeffrey’s insistent gaze didn’t leave her, and she was overcome by the musky, spicy scent of his cologne, the warm hand upon her, the hard planes of his face, and the set line of his lips. When she finally looked up to meet his eyes, they beseechingly searched hers.
“Will you?” he whispered.
“I … I…” she had no idea what to say. For her heart—her traitorous, mutinous heart—was telling her to say yes. To nod enthusiastically and tilt her head back just enough so that he could lean down and kiss her here, in front of an entire theatre of patrons. They would celebrate with their families and announce their betrothal, before having a beautiful wedding at St. George’s, and she would live out the rest of her days as a marchioness.
But would they be happy days? Her mind intervened now. How could she be with a man with such vastly different beliefs? The two of them had simply avoided returning to the conversation they had first clashed upon for some time now. Anytime she raised the subject, he quickly changed it, or they averted the argument altogether.
They couldn’t, however, escape the inevitable for a lifetime. And what would Jeffrey do when he realized that she had, if not been lying to him, been evading the truth—that she was the woman he sought, the publisher of The Women’s Weekly, which he so hated?
She couldn’t, however, say no. The words wouldn’t come.
“Later?” she pleaded instead, asking him for some time in which she could consider it, to determine what she should do. Slight disappointment clouded his eyes, but he nodded in understanding and leaned back in his seat, though he didn’t relinquish her hand, for which she was grateful.
Of course, paying attention to the play now was certainly out of the question. Instead, thoughts swirled round her mind, as two vastly distinct futures stretched out in front of her. One as his wife, hosting events and welcoming children, waking up to his face every day. The other as a woman creating change, following her passions, and making a difference.
She managed to finish the evening without having to provide any type of response. With their families present, as well as the stream of acquaintances who came to greet them following the play, there was not a moment for the two of them to be alone.
When Phoebe and Aurelia took their leave, Jeffrey lifted her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against it, and she could feel the promise that he left along with it, as well as his hope for something more.
She would sleep on it, Phoebe decided. By the morning, she would know what to do.
*
But of course, in that, she was completely mistaken. She woke after a fitful night no closer to knowing what it was she should do regarding the request of the marquess.
Instead of preparing to go into the offices of The Women’s Weekly, she prepared for a meeting of a different sort. She sent out notes of invitation to her three friends. She desperately needed advice, and there were no other people to whom she would prefer to turn.
And so she found herself, a couple of hours later, surrounded by the ladies in what she thought of as her mother’s drawing room. Her father’s parlor was far too distracting. At first, she had thought to meet in a tea shop somewhere, but the possibility of prying ears surrounding them was too great a risk. As it was, she hoped Aurelia was otherwise occupied.
Julia sat next to her, while Elizabeth and Sarah were side-by-side on the facing coral-and-white striped sofa. A tea tray sat between them, and Sarah was already helping herself to one of the pastries that lined the tray.
“Well, Phoebe, I must say, my curiosity is certainly piqued. Never before have you summoned us so urgently,” said Elizabeth, her auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, not a hair out of place.
“I wouldn’t say summoned,” Phoebe said delicately. “Requested.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth replied. “Now, on with it. I can hardly wait a moment more to know what it is that vexes you so.”
“The Marquess of Berkley has asked me to marry him.”
She could have stood screaming as though she were stark mad and she didn’t think she would elicit such surprise as she did from that one statement.
Phoebe looked around at her friends, who all stared at her with mouths and eyes opened wide. Sarah had paused with the pastry halfway to her lips, while Elizabeth sat frozen and Julia leaned in just slightly closer.
“Say that again?” Julia finally queried in a hushed voice.
“The Marquess of Berkley has asked me to marry him,” Phoebe repeated, her voice just as matter-of-fact as it had been before.
“But what—when—how—what did you say?” Sarah finally managed.
“Last night. I said, ‘Later.’”
“Pardon me?” Elizabeth asked now. “The Marquess of Berkley asked you to marry him and you told him, ‘Later’?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, refusing to duck her head in any sort of shame as she defended herself. “He caught me off guard. We were in the middle of the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden, our voices likely echoing around the theatre. Henry VIII was onstage, for goodness sake! I wasn’t going to accept a marriage proposal in front of a king who lopped off the heads of his wives.”
“It was a play, Phoebe,” said Julia with a sigh, as she tilted her head. “Oh, how utterly romantic. He asked you on a whim. His heart was so overcome with emotion for you that he couldn’t wait a moment longer. Oh, you must agree.”
“But the paper!” Sarah protested. “Does he know about the paper?”
“No,” Phoebe said, biting her lip. “And therein lies the problem. He told me once that what he appreciates the most about me is my honesty. Well, I certainly have lied to him. He asked me if I knew the publisher of The Women’s Weekly, and I outright told him that no, I did not. But I knew that if I told him it was me, he would likely never again speak to me again.”
“And you did not want to push him away because you required information on his movements in regard to the publication, is that it?” Elizabeth asked cryptically.
“I suppose at first that was why,” Phoebe said slowly. “Though I have to admit that from the very start, there has been something about him that draws me to him, something I cannot even put into words. At first it drove me mad that I should want to be around a man so vexing, however, I must admit that I have grown to enjoy our time together. He is not who I originally thought he was. He can be kind, and caring. The way he is with his sisters, his mother, his dog even. It is hard to reconcile the man I first met with the man I have come to know.”
“But he is still there,” Elizabeth persisted. “The man you slapped for his disparaging remarks toward you.”
“Toward women,” Phoebe amended. “But yes, I suppose, he is. So you see my difficulty now?”
“Phoebe,” Elizabeth said carefully. “You know I love you, I do. And I hate to say that I told you this would happen but…”
“But you told me this would happen,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “I know.”
They were all silent for a moment as they contemplated her dilemma. It seemed none of them possessed any quick answers.
“Do you love him?” Julia asked softly.
“What?” Phoebe said, her head snapping up toward her.
“Do you love him?” Julia repeated. “Can you imagine a life with him?”
Phoebe looked down at her fingers.
“I can picture that life, yes,” she responded quietly. “But the image of contentment, of love, slowly slides into one in which the two of us argue, when I am bored by simply being the mistress of a house. The purpose I feel now with what I am doing—it is what I have always longed for, and I have never felt so complete. And yet … there is something missing.”
“Him,” Sarah said simply.
“Yes,” Phoebe said, her breath coming out in a swift exhale. “Is it too much to want to have both?”
“It is more than most men would allow,” Elizabeth said practically.
“Though, Phoebe, you have to know,” Sarah said, leaning forward and placing a hand on her knee, “The Women’s Weekly is something of which to be very proud. In a mere couple of months, you have created change. Not only do women now have a resource which matters to them, in terms of fashion and advice—and even horse racing,” she bestowed a small smile upon Julia, “but women are speaking now of our role in this world. Conversations within salons and drawing rooms are expanding beyond gossip and theatre and sewing patterns to matters of Parliament, to the plight of those less fortunate, to the role of women in our entire society. You have done that. Do not forget that. I am not suggesting you give up on love. I am only suggesting that you do not give up on what you have created.”
Phoebe blinked back tears at Sarah’s words. She was proud of her work, it was true, but to hear such praise from someone she loved and respected meant more than the words of a stranger, and helped erase some of the words of hate that were often spewed toward her and the paper, most often through letters addressed to the publication.
“I believe you have two options, Phoebe,” Elizabeth said, her head tilted in contemplation.
Phoebe looked up hopefully, grateful for a potential answer to her plight.
“The first is that you choose between your passion and the marquess.”
Phoebe did not altogether like that suggestion.
“The second is that you tell him the truth, explain what you long for. He will either agree or force you to choose anyway.”
“Or, perhaps, he would want nothing more to do with me anyway.”
“That is another possibility,” Elizabeth said with a nod, her mouth firm.
Phoebe squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose I am the one to blame for being in this mess to start with. Now I must extricate myself from it. But you are right, Elizabeth. I can no longer hide within my fear. I’ll tell him,” she said with a decisive nod. “And then … come what may.”
“Come what may,” Elizabeth agreed, raising her teacup to her lips.