Phoebe waited for the sun to rise that following morn.
Miniscule amounts could be recalled of how she came to wake in her bed. The carriage ride had gone in silence, which had been both a relief and a hardship. The silence prevented required exertions--past fighting the nausea from the swaying transportation--, but it also formed guilt from the lacked endeavor to converse with the adjacent travel company as social protocol dictated. She wasn't certain how lengthy that torment reigned, for the following event that Phoebe recalled was the assistance to her own room and succumbing to Hypnos before she could question how it all transpired.
The slumber went undisturbed, but the escape from mundane struggles ended shorter than expected. Now, laying in layers of quilted-make-shift warmth, she watched as color painted the blinds of her window as one would watch grass grow.
The sun never rose before she left the comfort of solidarity. It was this moment that reminded her why she desired it so. To endure a day of extended length feigning emotions to please people that she rarely saw more than once seemed a struggle more so now than any other day.
Which was of considerable magnitude to begin with.
There was one reason, one motivation, that had allowed her to overcome her fear of communication. One risible reason that she could no longer fathom how it founded and grown to the monstrous extent it did. No, that wasn't entirely true. Not even her head throbbing could deprive her of recalling the affections he had expressed. The lack of care he took to disguise them.
The clarity was crystal as to his interest for her. The insistence in a title of 'friendship', his unhesitant caresses, and his asking for dances were the frankest and impatient of nature. Niall Claremont expressed a fondness of her, yes, but his history and fiancé made it quite clear they were of the non-platonic sort.
Yes, of course, his history. Phoebe must appear a goddess in comparison to the hags he--oh, she had not the nerve to speak the verb. How foolish of her to have forgotten such a peculiar hobby and quickly placed him on a righteous pedestal. In truth, he was the definitive scum that all woman would desire to avoid when selecting a potential spouse. She pitied Miss Cunnington and dubbed her a martyr for her attachment to the lout prevented Phoebe from further distress.
The door to her room opened, and Phoebe reflexively rubbed the blanket over her face to remove moisture. Once dried, she lowered it, but rather than the sight of a maid giving a morning call, an entrance was made by her grandmother. Phoebe made what haste she could to rise, but her grandmother was at her side and placed a hand on her shoulder to instruct her otherwise. While she raised the blanket to her granddaughter's chin, Phoebe cautiously examined her.
"I've sent word for a doctor," Her Nana declared.
Phoebe blanched.
The brittle hand ran a thumb against Phoebe's throbbing head. "I'm sorry you felt you couldn't confide in me."
Birds chirped outside the cover window.
"'C-confide'?" Phoebe inquired.
Nana's hand trailed to Phoebe's lower eye lid, where a remnant of moisten betrayal lay. "I hope you don't blame me for misguiding you with that medication. I mean, you should, but I hope you won't. I merely thought it would help, but I see it has worked adversely."
Color returned to Phoebe's features. "I merely wished to avoid troubling you. I see it has worked adversely. I'm much better now."
Nana tucked the blanket around her. "Well, I've already sent for the doctor and some rest would be a good precaution."
YOU ARE READING
Salvation of Ignorance
Historical FictionPhoebe has been encumbered with a task: finding a husband. Of course, it was a rather common expectation for a young woman of the early 1800s. However, Phoebe's husband-to-be had additional requirements. First, the man should be willing to give his...
