Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,35

fondly taking in Caroline’s blush and grin.

“With good reason, Mrs. Fenwick,” Joseph Kimball said, laying his hand upon his wife’s. They sat most informally that evening, given the friendships between them. He had the same coloring as his sister, but quite a different structure. “Do tell them, my dear. I know you wish to do so.”

Caroline’s blush deepened.

Griffin chuckled. “Come, Caroline. We must know what brings you such joy.” Perhaps they had purchased a town home of their own, or planned to host a ball, or—

“We are increasing the size of our family by one,” Caroline said, her eyes glowing with joy.

Fenwick’s mother gasped and then raised her glass. “To my dearest Caroline Kimball. You will be a most excellent mother.” Everyone raised their glasses, and after drinking to Caroline’s health, Griffin’s father added his own kind words.

“Your mother and father must be very pleased. This will be their first grandchild by you, of course, but how many have your brothers and sisters produced by now?”

Caroline laughed, but Griffin sunk back in his chair when his mother gave him a knowing glance. “There are six others to be cousins to our future child.”

Griffin turned to look at Phoebe only to find her staring at him, with a rather perplexed expression upon her face.

“Do you not like children, Mr. Fenwick?” she asked quietly.

Dash it all, her list. He quickly recovered himself. “I have a great fondness for them, actually. When Caroline’s nieces and nephews descend upon their grandparents, who are my country neighbors, you will remember, I am always quick to lead them in their games. I was only surprised, just then. Caroline is younger than I am by seven years. It is strange to think of her as a mother.”

Phoebe’s eyes lightened. “Ah, it is as I said before. You are a very old man. All of eight-and-twenty years, even though you are unfortunate in the number of birthdays you have enjoyed.”

Griffin laughed at last, relieved that she would jest with him. When she teased, there was a spark in her eyes he rather loved. The way her lips tipped upward when she spoke quickly, with wit, drew him in, too.

The conversation shifted, and Phoebe rejoined it with gusto. Her dark curls brushed across her cheek on occasion, and Griffin’s hand itched to brush them away so he might see her eyes better. The topic of conversation turned to books.

“I have only recently finished reading a novel by a lady author,” Mrs. Fenwick said, and Griffin stiffened. “My son encouraged me to read it, which surprised me. Griffin will read many a first chapter but only continue if the book is excellent, of course, so I knew he must have enjoyed it. What was that book called, Griffin?”

His throat had closed. His correspondence over the last three days with Phoebe had included mention of the same book of which his mother spoke.

Mrs. Fenwick tapped her finger upon the table as she thought. “Oh, yes. Sense and Sensibility. Isn’t that a lovely title?”

“Oh, I have read it, too. I finished the last volume only last week.” Phoebe turned to Griffin, her eyebrows high. “What did you think of the book, Mr. Fenwick? You must have enjoyed it to recommend it to your mother.”

Trapped. He had utterly trapped himself. What opinions could he give that the anonymous letter writer had not already shared? He looked to his mother, but found she watched him with a hopeful gleam in her eye. She wished for him to have this conversation with Phoebe on his own.

His words came out strangled. “I did enjoy it.” Everyone at the table now stared at him, waiting for more. Why could not a servant drop a platter or something else distracting occur? A hurricane, perhaps. “I found the plight of the sisters most compelling. And though I began the book with full sympathy for the younger sister—Marianne—at its end I had a great deal more respect for Elinor.”

His father and Joseph Kimball stared at him as though he had just announced himself bound for the Americas. Reading a book written by a lady might not suit most men, but the writing had been quite good. And Phoebe had recommended it. He had wanted, very much, to know what she liked and why.

Phoebe nodded, her gaze turning thoughtful. She must think it strange that he and her mysterious friend had read the same book. Or perhaps not. It had become a rather popular novel.

When she looked at him again, her