pink roses were lovely against her ivory skin. She'd looked young, gay, innocent.
Well, it's nothing
, she'd told herself.
He simply needs a bit of quiet, the morning after a late night out. And after all, I
can
be a bit of a bluestocking at times. Hasn't mother always told me that? Men hate it, she says, and I guess she's right
.
And so she'd given up newspapers and political conversation at breakfast. Henry purchased subscriptions to several fashionable lady's magazines: it was terribly important to him that she be elegantly dressed. She owed it to herself and her beauty, he told her. And to him and his position as well, he'd add in a slightly frosty voice, mornings when Trimble would bow respectfully and hand her the latest installment of
Ackermann's Repository
or
The Lady's Monthly Museum
.
Phoebe spent many weary breakfast hours poring over fashion plates while Henry monopolized the newspaper, sometimes reading aloud to her from the gossip pages. He always opened to that section first, to find out who had been invited to the most exclusive events—and more importantly, who had not. It didn't take Phoebe long to realize that he hated politics, found it boring, intimidating, and far less important than the latest society news and horseracing results.
And that nothing in the world was more loathsome or frightening to him than "a woman with her own independent intellect."
It had taken her a bit longer to understand that her handsome, sociable husband had the worst absentee voting record in the House of Lords. And that when he did vote, he did so frivolously, or to gain points with gentlemen who were richer than he was.
It had been a year later, after her confinement with Bryan, that she'd learned there was only one matter upon which he was sure to vote a consistent
yea
: that of enclosing common farmlands.
She and Henry had been to a brilliant reception at his mother's. She hadn't wanted to be there: her mother-in-law was always cold and rude to her. And as this had been Phoebe's first evening out since Bryan's birth, she'd been bored and sleepy, wishing almost from the outset that she could be back home with the baby.
Just allow me a moment's respite before I have to make any more polite conversation
, she'd implored Henry.
VII sit behind those ferns where nobody can see me
.
And it seemed that nobody
had
seen her—at least not the two gentlemen on the other side of the ferns, who were clearly discussing Henry and his voting record.
"A bit of unusually astute thinking for him," one of them commented. "Somebody must have taken him aside and explained the principle of Enclosure; typically he's too lazy to follow the simplest debate. But last week he even made a little speech in favor of this latest bill. What old maxim did he quote? Something about how 'the workman, like the willow, sprouts more readily for being cropped,' was it?"
"Sprouts quicker profits for an investor, I'd say," the other had returned.
"Well," the first had added, "you know he made a nice little pile investing in that new textile mill."
"Needs it, I expect, in order to support the handsome establishment he keeps. Wife and new baby, you know…"
"Not to speak of that mistress with the big…"
When just then Henry had returned from the refreshment table with the lemonade she'd asked for, and the gentlemen's conversation had ceased abruptly.
But it had never really ceased for Phoebe. It still echoed hollowly in Phizz Marston's austere pale blue breakfast room six years later.
She drained her cup and forced herself to relax as the coffee's warmth seeped through her. The tragedy of her marriage was over and there was no point reliving it.
And even, she thought now, if her present life were in truth a bit of a farce, at least it was a farce of her own authoring and control. Phizz Marston moved about as he liked: no more riding sidesaddle or following a man's lead on the dance floor. He was master in his own house: no more sneers from cold-eyed
Well, it's nothing
, she'd told herself.
He simply needs a bit of quiet, the morning after a late night out. And after all, I
can
be a bit of a bluestocking at times. Hasn't mother always told me that? Men hate it, she says, and I guess she's right
.
And so she'd given up newspapers and political conversation at breakfast. Henry purchased subscriptions to several fashionable lady's magazines: it was terribly important to him that she be elegantly dressed. She owed it to herself and her beauty, he told her. And to him and his position as well, he'd add in a slightly frosty voice, mornings when Trimble would bow respectfully and hand her the latest installment of
Ackermann's Repository
or
The Lady's Monthly Museum
.
Phoebe spent many weary breakfast hours poring over fashion plates while Henry monopolized the newspaper, sometimes reading aloud to her from the gossip pages. He always opened to that section first, to find out who had been invited to the most exclusive events—and more importantly, who had not. It didn't take Phoebe long to realize that he hated politics, found it boring, intimidating, and far less important than the latest society news and horseracing results.
And that nothing in the world was more loathsome or frightening to him than "a woman with her own independent intellect."
It had taken her a bit longer to understand that her handsome, sociable husband had the worst absentee voting record in the House of Lords. And that when he did vote, he did so frivolously, or to gain points with gentlemen who were richer than he was.
It had been a year later, after her confinement with Bryan, that she'd learned there was only one matter upon which he was sure to vote a consistent
yea
: that of enclosing common farmlands.
She and Henry had been to a brilliant reception at his mother's. She hadn't wanted to be there: her mother-in-law was always cold and rude to her. And as this had been Phoebe's first evening out since Bryan's birth, she'd been bored and sleepy, wishing almost from the outset that she could be back home with the baby.
Just allow me a moment's respite before I have to make any more polite conversation
, she'd implored Henry.
VII sit behind those ferns where nobody can see me
.
And it seemed that nobody
had
seen her—at least not the two gentlemen on the other side of the ferns, who were clearly discussing Henry and his voting record.
"A bit of unusually astute thinking for him," one of them commented. "Somebody must have taken him aside and explained the principle of Enclosure; typically he's too lazy to follow the simplest debate. But last week he even made a little speech in favor of this latest bill. What old maxim did he quote? Something about how 'the workman, like the willow, sprouts more readily for being cropped,' was it?"
"Sprouts quicker profits for an investor, I'd say," the other had returned.
"Well," the first had added, "you know he made a nice little pile investing in that new textile mill."
"Needs it, I expect, in order to support the handsome establishment he keeps. Wife and new baby, you know…"
"Not to speak of that mistress with the big…"
When just then Henry had returned from the refreshment table with the lemonade she'd asked for, and the gentlemen's conversation had ceased abruptly.
But it had never really ceased for Phoebe. It still echoed hollowly in Phizz Marston's austere pale blue breakfast room six years later.
She drained her cup and forced herself to relax as the coffee's warmth seeped through her. The tragedy of her marriage was over and there was no point reliving it.
And even, she thought now, if her present life were in truth a bit of a farce, at least it was a farce of her own authoring and control. Phizz Marston moved about as he liked: no more riding sidesaddle or following a man's lead on the dance floor. He was master in his own house: no more sneers from cold-eyed
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