And there was a performance going on in Cheapside that she’d wanted to see. Apparently, it featured two men who were extremely… acrobatic.
“And you’re sure you want to wear such a… sedate gown?” the maid tried again. Clearly, Phoebe’s understated gown and evenless remarkable coiffure were an affront to the young woman’s professional pride. She was, after all, a lady’s maid to a duchess. It was an esteemed position.
But Phoebe didn’t want to look like a duchess tonight. She didn’t want to look like anyone important. She wanted to blend in, to hover at the edges without being noticed.
“I am,” she confirmed, this time more confident in her answer.
Her maid let out a little, muted sigh, but she complied. She offered Phoebe jewels and adornments four more times, but she complied with each refusal, albeit with visibly diminishing patience.
Phoebe made a mental note to ask the woman for her advice over the next few days, just so that she knew her work was appreciated. A small gift might not go amiss, either.
Phoebe would say this much for being a duchess—it was nice to have a bit more pin money to go around for moments such as this.
When Phoebe was ready to go, she looked less like a duchess and more like the daughter of a merchant—one of middling success who probably didn’t leave his daughter with enough money in her reticule that she was worth the trouble of robbing. This was perfect. And in the event that any miscreant failed to be deterred, her reticule contained a handy little knife for personal defense.
“You look very nice,” her maid said, sounding like the words tasted sour.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said graciously, stifling her laughter. It felt good to be dressed like this. It felt good to laugh.
Who needed men?
Excepting, of course, for the acrobatic fellows she’d be watching on stage. Obviously. Those men could stay.
It was late by the time she started down the stairs to where the carriage she had summoned was waiting. Too late, apparently, because just as she was wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, the door opened?—
And in walked her husband.
When a man came home late in the night after slipping out alone, leaving his wife unaware of his whereabouts, Phoebe expected that man to smell of liquor. Possibly cheap perfume.
And there was technically a faint whiff of ale about her husband’s clothing, but mostly, he smelled of his own soap with a hint of something rich and warm like stew.
“Where have you been?” she demanded before she thought better of it, given that she herself was about to head out somewhere that she did not care to disclose.
And as predicted, Aaron looked back at her with the same question in his eyes.
“Never mind about me,” he said. “Where do you thinkyouare going?”
She resented this. It wasn’tfair. He could brush off her question—afteravoiding herfor days—but she was supposed to account for her comings and goings?
No. It was hypocrisy of the highest order. She wouldn’t stand for it.
“Oh, now you’re curious?” she asked archly. “How novel, given that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in days.”
“Phoebe,” he said in his forbidding ducal tone.
“Aaron,” she replied, not bothering to hide her mockery.
He scowled.
She copied him.
It was childish, certainly, but her options at the moment were either to be childish or to demand to know why he didn’t want her, and that latter choice would be embarrassing for everyone involved and would likely involve tears.
So, childishness it was.
“Phoebe, what do you think you are doing?” he asked when she returned to fastening the ties on her cloak.
“I’m going out,” she said.
