Chapter Twenty-Five
Phoebe paced the floor of The Women’s Weekly writing pit, as they had come to call it—the place where the lot of them congregated. She noticed Rhoda and the other writers glancing up at her from their pages time and again, but there wasn’t anything she could say to them. For how could she explain that she had fallen in love with the man who was trying to put an end to their dream? He could destroy not only the publication, but also their very livelihoods and what they held dear—the moral beliefs that she had pushed them all to share, that they risked their very reputations to defend.
The door creaked open—Phoebe made a note to have it fixed so it didn’t make such a noise—and footsteps echoed down the corridor, Julia walked in with a smile on her face. Phoebe had never been so pleased to see her friend. She needed counsel more than anything right now.
“Julia!” she exclaimed, walking toward her and taking her hands in hers. “It is wonderful to see you.”
Julia beamed. “Such a welcome certainly makes one feel appreciated, Phoebe,” she said, then spoke in a near whisper so no one else would hear her. “Is anything amiss?”
“Everything,” Phoebe said forlornly, and Julia’s eyebrows jumped in surprise.
“That is not exactly what I expect from you, Phoebe,” she said, her voice continuing in its low tone, but Phoebe had enough of her reporters’ questioning looks, and she pulled Julia back down the hall and into her office.
“I came to deliver my column in person—I love the idea of being a part of this, with the other writers, but it seems that I am required for something other than my love of racing and my surprising writing skills,” Julia said, gingerly taking a seat in the second office chair, the rickety wooden thing that seemed as though it would break even under Julia’s tiny frame.
“Sit here,” Phoebe said, ushering her instead into her own chair, which, while faded and ugly, did not look as though it were going to fall apart. “I cannot sit anymore myself.”
She continued her pacing, though it was significantly more difficult in her office, which was so much smaller than the larger room down the hall.
“Phoebe, you must tell me what is the matter before you fall over from your exertions, or wear a hole in the floorboards,” Julia demanded, her voice surprisingly strong and fierce, and Phoebe obeyed, stopping to face her.
“I love Jeffrey. And I made love to him.”
Julia sat there, stunned into silence as she stared at Phoebe, who could feel tears beginning to prick the back of her eyes.
“Oh, say something, damnit!”
Julia stood and crossed over to Phoebe. While Julia said nothing, she wrapped her slim arms around her, squeezing so hard that Phoebe could hardly breathe. With her friend providing her the support she so needed, Phoebe finally let the tears begin to fall down her face, and Julia simply held her, letting her feel all she needed to emote.
Finally Phoebe nodded into her shoulder, telling her she was all right, and Julia stepped back, holding up a dainty handkerchief. Phoebe took the offering and wiped her eyes and nose before finally sitting, defeated, in the rickety old chair that, despite its questionable look, faithfully held her up.
Julia sat on the edge of the desk in front of her, a sympathetic look on her face. She placed her hands under Phoebe’s chin and lifted her face.
“I know you are in turmoil right now, Phoebe, but for a moment, celebrate the fact that you are in love! How wonderful does that feel?”
Phoebe smiled ruefully. “That part of it, I suppose, is rather lovely.”
“And,” Julia continued, a wicked look coming into her eye. “You must tell me what it was like to make love to a man. I can hardly wait!”
Phoebe laughed at that, though she found that she couldn’t say much about it. What had happened was something to be kept between her and Jeffrey, and it was too difficult to murmur a word of it even to her very closest of friends.
“Honestly, Julia,” she said instead, “There are no words that can accurately describe what it is like to make love to a man for whom you hold such feelings. Not that I would know what it is like to be with a man whom I do not love, but still… it is nothing like what I could have ever expected, and no one could ever have properly prepared me for such a thing.”
Julia smiled dreamily then, before she was brought back to Phoebe’s plight when Phoebe sniffed into the handkerchief.
“As for your conundrum with Lord Berkley,” Julia said, attending to the matter that she knew was ruining Phoebe’s hopes for happiness, “I can see how you might be in some distress.”
“Oh Julia,” Phoebe began, running her hand over her hair, which was tied back today in a messy chignon, for she had not had the patience this morning to allow her maid much time with it. “My time with him was glorious, and yet my heart was breaking with the realization that it was likely the first and last occasion I would be with him. Was it worth it? Yes. For while I have not been able to use words to express what I feel for him, I was able to show him with our physical love. He proposed to me once more, said all sorts of lovely things to me, but never once did he say that he loved me, so I could hardly say the words first, now could I?”
“Of course you could have!” Julia exclaimed from her perch on the desk. “You are too proud, Phoebe.”
“Perhaps,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “But he keeps speaking about my damn honesty, and here I have been lying to him for weeks now. When it all comes out, he will not believe anything I have said. I meant to tell him all last night, Julia, truly I did, but then things got out of hand, and Aunt Aurelia came in—”
“Aurelia came in? During….” Julia’s shocked expression made Phoebe burst into laughter, and she shook her head vehemently.
“No, thank goodness. Afterward, when I was about to tell him once more of the paper and my role as publisher. Then he left, and now I must make an effort once more. I never exactly responded to his request for marriage, but I suppose he now believes following my actions that I am in agreement.”
“Well, of course,” Julia said, nodding. “A man such as the marquess would not take such liberties with just any woman, nor expect them returned by a young lady. But one who was his betrothed … well, it is more likely.”
“He attempted to apologize afterward, but I quickly told him that was rubbish and if he respected me he must dismiss those feelings of guilt at once,” Phoebe said with a nod. “Anyway, I must choose now. For even if, after I tell him the truth, he decides he still wants to marry me, then his quest to bring down The Women’s Weekly is complete. For you know as well as I that if he were my husband, all of this—” she held her hands in the air to signify her surroundings “—becomes his. The building, the staff, the paper, all of my funds that are tied into this, and even those that are not. He can do whatever he likes with it all, and we know that he will not keep it in operation. Is my heart worth this? Is it of equal value to the change that we are making, the jobs of the women who write for me, the very fabric of all I feel is so important to make a difference among society? It is selfish for me to choose love?”
She was breathing heavily now, so impassioned she felt about what she was saying, and Julia nodded in agreement.
“I understand, Phoebe, truly I do,” she said. “And I am afraid I do not have the answers you are looking for. All I can suggest is that you follow your heart, that you do what feels right. And perhaps, once you speak with him, all will not be as lost as you currently feel it is.”
“I don’t know, Julia,” Phoebe said, shaking her head sadly. “I just do not know.”
But even so, despite her melancholy, regardless of the knowledge of what the future could bring, she penned a note in deliberately neat handwriting—altogether different from her usual scrawl—requesting a meeting with the Marquess of Berkley tomorrow at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, at the offices of The Women’s Weekly. Signed, A Lady, the Publisher.
*
Jeffrey was about to leave Parliament to begin his trek to 53 Fleet Street when he was intercepted by a secretary and a piece of correspondence for him. He was delighted by what he found inside—an invitation to meet with the publisher of The Women’s Weekly, tomorrow. Splendid. It was exactly what he was after—a chance to reason with the woman, to make her come around to his way of thinking. It was far preferable to have an invitation than to push his way in the door uninvited.
He whistled as he wandered down the corridor. All was going very well in the life of Jeffrey Worthington, he realized, though his spirits somewhat dimmed when he found his brother awaiting him outside the doors of the Palace of Westminster.
“Ambrose,” he greeted him with a nod, though he didn’t stop. “What can I do for you today?”
“I was hoping for a word with the great Marquess of Berkley,” Ambrose said, pushing away from the wall and falling in step with him as he turned down Abingdon Street.
“You have my ear anytime you wish, as we live in the same home, though I should say it is high time you found your own quarters,” Jeffrey said, looking ahead at the bustle of people on the walkway in front of him. “Surely you must have good reason for finding me here, in the middle of London after a sitting of Parliament?”
“I do not understand how you do it every day,” Ambrose said with a sigh, shaking his head. “I would find it altogether far too boring.”
“Which is why it is fortunate for all of us that you are the second son and nothing untoward has yet happened to me,” Jeffrey said with a stiff grin, and Ambrose smiled ruefully.
“I suppose this is true,” he nodded. “And despite your noble demeanor, I am well aware that you do not attend every day.”
“I have a less than perfect attendance, I will admit,” Jeffrey said. “But I do my very best, as do most lords similar to myself. Now, what can I do for you today, Ambrose?”
Ambrose’s mouth was set in a grim line, and when he didn’t answer immediately, Jeffrey only sighed, wondering what it was Ambrose had gotten himself into now.
“What is it, Ambrose?”
“You remember Hector, do you not?”
“Hector?” Jeffrey struggled to place the name, searching his memory for the man to whom his brother might be referring.
“The man who could make us money, who you so rudely ignored?”
“Ah, yes,” Jeffrey said, grimacing. “I was hoping to not have to revisit that unfortunate circumstance.”
He heard Ambrose sniff beside him, angry at his words, but Jeffrey didn’t altogether care. Ambrose had been foolish to even entertain the idea that Jeffrey would consider parting with any funds to such a disreputable source.
“Well,” Ambrose continued, “I thought it was a fine idea, despite your reluctance, and so I invested some with him anyway.”
Jeffrey stopped walking then and turned to his brother. His tone was measured and even, but he couldn’t mask the anger from his voice. “You did what?”
“I invested with the man,” Ambrose said, holding his chin high. “And Hector says the investment is doing well. He just needs a bit more—”
“Oh, bloody hell, Ambrose,” Jeffrey said, throwing his hands up in the air and continuing his forward progress to where his phaeton awaited, leaving Ambrose behind. As his brother continued to follow him, waxing on of all the benefits of investing in this unfortunate scheme, Jeffrey finally turned to him once more, a finger leveled at his chest.
“I told you what your options were, Ambrose—the Peterborough estate, a commission with the military, or to continue your education. I have given you enough time to ponder all of this, so tell me now—what do you choose?”
Ambrose glowered at him, the two brothers locked in a battle of wills.
“I choose to make my own way.”
“Fine,” Jeffrey said, his words coming from between clenched teeth. “Then do as you wish. But you will not do so with any help from me. You may live in Berkley House, but your allowance is cut off. You will have what you need to survive, but you will not be wiling away any more of our family funds, do you understand?”
“You were always so high and mighty, Jeffrey,” Ambrose spit back at him. “But fine, if that is what you wish, then so be it.”
Ambrose turned and walked off in the other direction, and as Jeffrey watched him, his anger faded, to be replaced only by sadness and some regret.