Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,33

several times, then he finally laughed and rose from his chair. “Mother, you are an angel.” He crossed the room and kissed her cheek. “Father, I will see you this evening.” He shook his father’s hand, then turned and went to the door.

“But Griffin,” his mother called. “You only just arrived.”

“I have things to see to before tonight. Thank you, Mother.” He left the house with a lighter heart. His mother had found a way for him to see Phoebe, without forcing him to reveal his intentions.

He made his way to Berkeley Square, with the hope of finding another note waiting for him. To have the pleasure of a letter and Phoebe’s company on the same evening would put him in the best of moods for days to come.

To My Friend,

I have enjoyed our exchange of letters this past week. I am delighted to know you have read so many of my favorite novels. But lest you suspect I fill my head with nothing but modern fiction, I will promise you that I have enjoyed many a Shakespearian play and sonnet, too. Of course, most of my reading is quite frivolous by scholarly standards.

This evening I go to dinner with the Fenwick family. I know Mr. Griffin Fenwick is a favorite of yours, from the list you gave me. Why is that? How well do you know him, or any of the men on that list, to recommend them?

I confess, I have not sought out anyone else you named. I find I would much rather come to know you more. You call yourself my friend, but how can that be, when we are restricted to letter writing and nothing more? I have confided in one of my closest friends, a woman I have known since childhood, about our letters. She has given me the best of advice.

I should like to see you. We need not meet in secret, or indeed speak a word to one another. I thought we might both go for a walk the day after tomorrow. In Hyde Park, at noon. It is not the fashionable hour, so there will be few people about. There is a particular tree near the Serpentine—it is old and bent, with one branch forming an arch all the way to the ground. If you will walk to that tree, and carry any object of red, I will know it is you.

We need not speak, if you do not wish it. But it is unfair that you know me so well, that you have seen me and known it is to me you write, and I know not if I have ever glimpsed you.

Please say you agree.

Yours,

P.K.

Phoebe followed Caroline and Joseph into the Fenwick townhouse. It was not far distant from their own. Merely a street over.

The uncle in Parliament would not be present, for which she was grateful. There was no one to impress. The Fenwicks had proved most kind the night of the play. And Griffin— he seemed to like her well enough.

Phoebe put her hand over the red-bead bracelet, drawing in a deep breath. She wore an ivory gown and her blue-green shawl, a red ribbon in her hair the only thing which matched her friends’ bracelet. Even if there was no one to impress, she hoped at least one person that evening would think she looked pretty.

“Mr. Kimball, Caroline, it is such a pleasure to have you both with us.” Mrs. Fenwick kissed Caroline upon the cheek after they curtsied and bowed to one another. Then she turned with a wide smile that looked very much like her son’s and extended a hand to Phoebe. “And you, Miss Kimball. I am simply delighted you could come. I so enjoyed getting to know you at the theater.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Phoebe said, then her eyes went to where the older Mr. Fenwick stood. The invitation had said their son would be present, yet he did not greet the guests with his parents?

“Griffin has not yet arrived,” Mr. Fenwick said, and she blushed when she looked back to him. At least he seemed to be telling all three guests, and not just Phoebe. “It is not like him to be late, so I am certain whatever keeps him is pressing.” He gestured to the steps leading to the next floor. “Caroline, permit me to escort you to the parlor. And do tell me how your father is doing, spending all his time in Bath.”

Joseph offered his arm to Mrs.