“Where will you go, child?”
“I’m hoping to go and stay with my uncle, the Earl of Greenwich. I’m waiting to hear from him.”
“I hope it works out for you. You deserve to be with family.” He bowed. “I wish you all the best.”
Some of Mr. Brown’s servants stopped by here and there, but for the most part, Phoebe sat on the threadbare settee and stared at her mother’s body for hours on end. She forced herself to nibble on the food Mr. Brown brought, but nothing tasted good.
The undertakers came by at nine in the morning on the second day and took away her mother in the now closed coffin. Panic had Phoebe following them outside, begging to be taken along. It was then she noticed a fine carriage pull up and a well-dressed gentleman exit. He must be her uncle as he resembled her father.
“I’ve come to take you to St Martin-in-the-Fields, so you can see your mother’s final resting place. Unfortunately, there won’t be a service in the church.”
Phoebe hadn’t anticipated a service. In fact, she had expected her mother to be buried in the paupers’ field. So anything her uncle did was better than what she had thought. “Thank you.”
“Then I’m bringing you to Greenwich House. I can’t have my niece be homeless. What will people think of me?”
He waved to a footman. “Where are your things?”
Thank goodness she had already packed all her worldly possessions into two bags. One full of clothes, and the other books and other worthless mementos her father couldn’t pawn... because, well... they were worthless.
“I left two bags at the top of the stairs.”
“Come,” her uncle said, indicating the most beautiful carriage she’d ever seen, bearing the Earl of Greenwich’s crest. The driver and two footmen were dressed in the splendid livery. She tried not to feel jealous, but it was useless.
“Thank you,” she said as she left the rented house she had lived in for the past thirteen years. With the footman’s help, she entered the carriage and sank into the comfortable, cushioned bench.
Her uncle, who was an older, healthier version of her father, sat on the bench opposite her. As she studied him, she wondered if he gambled.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” her uncle said thoughtfully. “She deserved someone better than my wastrel brother, but there’s no accounting for love.”
“Thank you.” The ride to the St Martin-in-the-Fields cemetery beside the church was silent. When they arrived, Phoebe looked out the carriage window and saw that the undertakers were already there and lowering the coffin into the ground.
“I will wait here for you while you say goodbye,” her uncle said.
A footman opened the door and helped Phoebe down. With her heart pounding and tears streaming down her face, she walked on unsteady legs over grass and around headstones to where her mother’s coffin lay six feet down. Glancing around, she saw a large bouquet of flowers on a nearby grave. She hurried over and plucked a yellow rose from the grouping and approached her mother’s grave, tossing it on top of the coffin.
“Goodbye, Mother,” she whispered. It was all she could manage with her throat clogged with tears. She took a deep breath and continued. “I love you and will miss you every day. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be living at Greenwich House.” She bent down, picked up a handful of dirt, and sprinkled it over the coffin. Before she did something crazy, like jumping into the hole and lifting the lid of the coffin to look upon her mother’s face one last time, she turned, walked away, and with the footman’s help entered her uncle’s carriage.
“Now that that unpleasantness is over, I hope you find Greenwich House to your liking. My wife will see that you have everything you need.”
“Thank you,” she replied. The rest of the ride was silent until they pulled up to a magnificent home in London’s Grosvenor Square, according to the sign she’d just read. She had heard about the home her father grew up in, but she had never been in this part of London. Sighing, she wondered what it would have been like if she had grown up here. It was useless to dream and wonder. Her mother’s family lived nearby, if her memory served her correctly. Her mother had told her little about how her marriage to her father came about. All she knew was that they ran off to Gretna Green, and her mother’s parents were furious and disowned her.
Too bad she spent her entire married life paying for her decision. Not that her mother had ever complained; quite the opposite. She was happy, or at least pretended to be, until shebecame sick. She had doted on Phoebe whenever she could. Phoebe cleared her throat, the unshed tears clogging it again. Would she ever not feel sad about the loss of her devoted mother?
A liveried footman opened the carriage door, and her uncle exited first. She took the offered hand of the young footman and stepped out of the carriage. Her eyes traveled up the exterior of the enormous house. It had a lovely, welcoming façade. Since meeting her uncle, he had been nice to her. Could she hope the rest of his family would welcome her with equal kindness? A chill settled in her bones warning her. If her uncle had truly cared about her wellbeing, he wouldn’t have cut off her father’s inheritance.
She followed her uncle up the stairs and into a large entry hall, where a butler took his overcoat, hat, and gloves. “Warwick,” said her uncle. “This is my niece, Miss Phoebe Windham. See that Mrs. Cummings gets her settled in her room.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Just then, a thin, middle-aged woman with a pinched face came into the entry hall. “Did I hear my name?”
“Mrs. Cummings,” Warwick said as her uncle strolled away without another word. “Yes. This is His Lordship’s niece, Miss Phoebe Windham. Please show her to her room.”
Mrs. Cummings looked down her long nose at Phoebe, her eyes narrowing. Had Phoebe offended her somehow? Phoebe didn’t think so. She had just arrived and hadn’t said a word. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cummings.”
Mrs. Cummings huffed. “Come this way.” She looked at the footman holding her bags. “Follow us.”
Phoebe followed the housekeeper, who was dressed in a dull gray dress, into the kitchens and up the servants’ stairs.They climbed past even the servants’ quarters until they reached a small attic room with one window and a slanted roof. The room was clean. The wooden floors were mostly covered with a worn blue rug. There was a bed, a small table beside it holding a candle, a small dresser, a writing desk even more rickety than the one she had at her house, and a small wooden chair. In one corner was a screen, which she presumed hid her chamber pot. She shivered. Not from the cold, but from the feeling that her aunt and uncle were going to keep her a prisoner up here. Obviously, she was not to be treated as one of the family. If that were the case, she would have a guest room on the third floor with the rest of the Windham family.
