Stephen had never questioned Winnie’s word on the subject, or any subject for that matter. But now . . . Sophie’s incredulity about Winnie’s mental state, and about her “prophecy,” gave him pause. Unlike his mother, Sophie was an objective observer. Might there be reason to doubt Miss Whitney’s mind . . . and her word?
chapter 11
Later that afternoon, Captain Overtree left to attend a village council meeting. Alone and lonely, Sophie found herself thinking of Wesley. She supposed it was only natural, surrounded as she was by reminders of him—his paintings everywhere, his portrait, his family, his very home.
She remembered Mrs. Overtree pointing out the closed doors of Wesley’s bedchamber and studio during her tour of the house, and was curious to see them. She was also curious to see if the full-size portrait he’d painted of her last year might be inside. Apparently it was not on display anywhere in the house, as no one had mentioned it, nor having seen her somewhere before. What had he done with it?
But she knew she probably shouldn’t venture up there. What excuse could she give if caught?
Instead, she went and stood in front of the portrait of Wesley again, unable it seemed, to help herself. Gazing up at his likeness, she found her thoughts returning to the first year he’d come to Lynmouth. . . .
The week after she had first met Wesley Overtree, the two again stood on the summit of Castle Rock as the sun began to sink in the sky.
She sensed his gaze on her profile and felt self-conscious, knowing her nose was not flattered by a side view.
He said, “Ah. My first impression was correct—the sunset indeed becomes you. You are quite beautiful. But I suppose you know that, Miss Dupont?”
She shook her head, too stunned to speak.
“Surely you have been told that before?”
Again she shook her head.
“I assume many of your father’s students and colleagues have asked to paint you. I don’t want to be tiresomely redundant, but—”
“No one has asked.”
“You must be joking.” His eyes widened. “Incredible. Blind fools . . . Then may I be the first?”
The first . . .
She shook her head. “How self-conscious I would feel. Father says it is beneath me. You know the reputation painters’ models have.”
“I would never think that of you, Miss Dupont. You are clearly a modest young lady of excellent character as well as beauty and talent.”
“You needn’t offer to be kind. I know I am not the feminine ideal.”
“No? Just leave that to me.”
Eventually she agreed.
He began on a small scale, sketching her however she happened to be dressed or wearing her hair. First, he painted only her head and shoulders, testing different hues to bring out the many colors of her hair and eyes. Then, he painted her full-length but in miniature, situating her in different poses—all very modest—to best capture her features.
And he had been right. She had been surprised the first time she saw her likeness. If beauty was in the eye of the beholder, Wesley Overtree certainly saw her as beautiful. In his rendering, her eyes seemed larger, more soulful, more arresting. The long slope of her nose proportionate to her oval face. Her cheekbones high, shadowed by a delicate blush. Looking at those first sketches, the woman gazing back at Sophie seemed almost afraid. Those large eyes pensive. Worried. But gradually they warmed, softened. Believed themselves as beautiful as he said they were.
Finally, he hit upon the pose, the composition he wanted to commit to a large canvas. And after that she had had to sit in that pose for several more days—looking at him over her shoulder. How her neck had ached.
He gave her time to rest and treated her with gentlemanlike respect throughout those days. He did not try to touch her but patiently gained her trust as though taming a wild fawn, until he had her eating from the palm of his hand.
When he departed that first spring, he left her quite in love with him. How she hoped he would return the following year. Maurice told her she was making a cake of herself, saying a wealthy, pretty boy like Wesley Overtree would never take a respectable interest in her. He, on the other hand, would. But Sophie continued to rebuff the impertinent fellow as gently and soundly as she could. Her thoughts, her hopes, were pinned on Wesley Overtree. The first man to tell her she was beautiful.
Sophie returned to the present with a sigh. There was no doubt in her mind that Wesley Overtree had found her beautiful. How special, how desirable she had felt in his presence. But what, she wondered, did Captain Stephen Overtree see when he looked at her? Apparently nothing irresistible.
She retreated to her bedchamber, stunned anew to think she was sharing it with Wesley’s brother. God, have mercy on us all.
That evening, Libby again helped her dress for dinner. Sophie didn’t know where the captain was, and the dressing room was silent, so she decided to go downstairs on her own. In the anteroom, she drew up short at the sight of a familiar figure slouched in an armchair, a newspaper spread on his lap, a glass of something in one hand, the other sleeve of his evening coat hanging limp. Carlton Keith.
He looked up at her, and a lazy smile lifted his face. “Ah, Miss Dupont. No, sorry. It’s Mrs. Overtree now. How could I forget.”
He set aside the paper and belatedly rose, performing a perfunctory bow and nearly spilling his brandy in the process.
Ignoring the slight, she curtsied in turn. “Mr. Keith. A pleasure to see you again. I had heard you might be joining us.”
“So not an unwelcome surprise, then? I am glad to hear it. My presence irritates Mrs. O, I can tell you. But I once told Katherine the story of how I saved her brother’s life, and she told her parents . . . and now I am an honored guest here at Overtree Hall whenever I like.”
“And the captain does not correct your account of who rescued whom?” Sophie asked. “Remember you already told me the true story.”
“Nah. He is content to let me be the hero. Not fond of fawning attention, our captain, if you haven’t learned that yet. Unlike me.” He grinned. “I drink it like broth from a bowl.”
He gestured toward his evening clothes and cravat. “I clean up pretty well, don’t I? Vexes the colonel’s valet no end having to dress me, too.” He chuckled. Then his green-eyed gaze swept her curled hair and satin gown. “You clean up well yourself.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Keith stepped to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “Look at the pair of us. Both here in Overtree Hall, where we’ve both longed to be for some time, I imagine.” He smirked. “Now don’t look daggers at me like that. We each have our ways of getting what we want. I imagine you had been practicing writing a certain name in a hopeful hand long before you met the captain. Mrs. Sophie Overtree. Mrs. Sophie Overtree . . .” He drained his glass.
Captain Overtree entered, looking masculine and almost civilized in black evening attire and starched white cravat. Only his longish hair, overgrown side-whiskers, and his glare marred the image of a well-turned-out gentleman.
“Keith. What have you been saying to my wife that has her looking so ill?”
“I was simply congratulating her on her marriage, old man. And the same to you.” Mr. Keith crossed the room, hand extended. “I wish you happy, Captain. I sincerely do.”
Colonel Horton joined them late for dinner, saying little about the errand that had taken him away that day, except that he had paid a visit to an old friend. Sophie remained quiet throughout the meal as well, discomfited to find Mr. Keith’s amused gaze watching her, and feeling even more self-conscious than she had before about sitting at the Overtree table as though she belonged there.
Afterward, when the ladies rose to withdraw to the parlour, Captain Overtree excused himself from the other men and walked out with them. He drew Sophie aside and led her into the empty great hall. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“You were awfully quiet at dinner. Are you worried about Lieutenan
t Keith?”
Sophie sighed. “A little, yes. I think he knows, or at least suspects, what went on between Wesley and me.”
The captain nodded. “Likely. Come to think of it, he mentioned having to spend a great deal of time away from the cottage while Wesley painted you. The insinuation was definitely there, if not the absolute certainty.”
She felt her face heat. “At first painting was truly all it was. I refused to pose with Mr. Keith there, lying on his pallet, head propped on his hand, smirking up at me. Especially when Wesley asked to paint me in Grecian robes, though I drew the line at one bare shoulder.” She shook her head. “What a hypocrite you must think me. You no doubt scoff at the notion of my modesty.”
“Not at all. I can see you are modest and ladylike by nature.”
She blinked up at him timidly, afraid to find irony or sarcasm there. When he earnestly met her gaze, she sighed in relief. “Thank you. I am usually, yes.”
“And it becomes you. Try not to worry about Keith. I will speak to him.”
“And after you leave . . . ?”
A muffled sound caught her ear. A scuff or cough. She turned to look over her shoulder.
The captain frowned and looked around the hall as well, but there was no one there.
He lowered his voice, “I will make sure he knows there will be consequences if I hear of any disrespect or innuendo.”
“Thank you.”
Neither of them raised the unspoken question: But what if the captain didn’t live to return, let alone to dish out the threatened consequences?
Later, after they’d spent a little time with the others in the parlour, Stephen suggested he and Sophie retire early, which caused knowing looks to be exchanged and Sophie’s face to redden. He silently cursed his lack of tact.
As they climbed the stairs together, Sophie hissed, “Did you have to do that? Now they’ll all wonder what we’re doing . . .”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “We are supposedly on our honeymoon, Sophie. I don’t think they’ll wonder if we slip off alone now and again. In fact, they would wonder if we didn’t. And as I am due to leave soon, I thought we should talk.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Of course.”
When they reached their bedchamber, Stephen closed the door behind them, then closed the door to each dressing room as well.
He began, “I realize you have only been here a brief time. But I hope you are, in general, comfortable here? After being with you in Bath, I confess I detest the thought of you raising your child in the same house as your stepmother, not to mention her nephew. I would like you to stay here. Our physician will help you through the birth itself. And my family will take care of you afterwards. Of course, I cannot insist you stay here after I leave. But my mind would be easier knowing you were here.” He looked at her closely. “What do you want to do?”
Sophie considered. “I am not eager to return to Bath either. Assuming your family is agreeable, I will stay, for now. Though I cannot promise for how long.”
He nodded. “I have already spoken with my parents, and they quite naturally assumed you would live here. I thought it best not to mention the child any earlier than necessary to avoid raising questions, but I can, if you would prefer me to break the news.”
“Let’s wait.” She bit her lip, then said, “And what about when Wesley returns one day . . . ?”
He crossed his arms. “That is up to you, I suppose. If I don’t come back, I shan’t be here to object either way.”
She touched his sleeve. “Stop saying that. I did not mean that I . . . that I anticipate anything with Wesley if and when he returns. I just fear how he might react to me being here. In his house.”
“In our house,” Stephen insisted. “Don’t forget. You are my wife. You have every right to be here whether he likes it or not.”
“And if he reveals our . . . past?”
“Then I shall kill him. Or would, were I here.” Stephen ran a frustrated hand over his face. “God willing, he has more sense and discretion than that.”
“Do I have to tell him the child is his?”
“He may be an artist, but I think even he can count backwards and realize the truth. Unless the baby is long overdue. But hopefully Wes will keep his suspicions to himself.”
Sophie nodded. “He’ll probably be relieved you have claimed responsibility for me and the child.”
“I can’t pretend to guess how he will react. If Wesley asks, it is up to you to decide whether or not to confirm the facts. I would prefer the baby to be known as mine, for my pride’s sake, perhaps, but also for the child’s, so he or she will not be viewed as illegitimate and grow up under the shadow of scandal.”
“I agree.”
Stephen was surprised she consented so readily. “Well, good.”
She asked, “Do you have a preference about what I name the child, assuming I give birth while you are away?”
Stephen hesitated. Would it not be presumptuous of him to suggest names for her child? His brother’s child? All he knew was that he didn’t want her to name the child after Wesley. He faltered, “My . . . grandfather’s given name is George. But beyond that, I have no . . . preference.” Or rights.
Again a faint sound reached Stephen’s ears. A scuffing step. If one of the footmen was eavesdropping, so help him . . . He stalked to the door and jerked it open. The corridor was empty. He checked his dressing room, and taking his cue, she checked hers. No one in sight.
He sighed. “Sorry to be tense. I’m imagining things, no doubt.”
“If you are, then I am as well. Though I suppose an old house like this makes many odd noises.”
“True. Well.” He turned back to his dressing room. “I will excuse myself and allow you to change.”
He closed himself into the dressing room, rang for the valet, put up with the man’s meticulous help in folding his clothes, and washed and cleaned his teeth. All while thinking about Sophie and their conversation.
Then he knocked softly and entered the bedchamber to wait while the valet tidied up and went to dump the wash water. He was surprised to see Sophie sitting at the dressing table in her evening gown, hair down. His chest tightened, and he tried not to stare.
He swallowed. “Sorry. I thought I gave you enough time.”
“Libby is apparently running late this evening. After all, we did retire earlier than usual.”
His gaze ran over her golden hair, falling like a silky curtain around her face and shoulders.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I have never seen it down like that before. It’s lovely.”
“Thank you.” She dipped her head, clearly embarrassed. “I took it down straightway. The pins were giving me a headache tonight. Do you mind if I brush it while we wait?”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
But a minute or two later, he cleared his throat and turned to the door. “You know, I think I will go up and check on Winnie. Good night.”
He left the room—and the tantalizing sight of Sophie brushing her hair—hoping to quell his desire. Time with his old nurse would certainly do that. But when he reached Winnie’s door and knocked, no one answered. Filled with concern, he let himself in but found the room empty. He wondered where she was and hoped she was all right.
In the morning, Sophie awoke to murmuring voices. Libby and another housemaid were talking somewhere nearby, perhaps in her dressing room or out in the corridor.
“Hush, Flora,” Libby said, a barb of irritation in her usually cheerful tone.
Sophie had seen the maid, Flora. She was a pretty, buxom brunette with a ready if crooked smile.
Flora said, “I’m only repeating what Edgar told me. The captain sleeps in the dressing room. He’s almost sure of it.”
“And I repeat—hush.”
“All I’m saying is if she won’t let him warm her bed, he can warm mine.”
“Flora, if Mrs. Hill heard you say that, you’d be out on
your ear.”
“And who’s going to tell her?”
“I will, if I hear you spreading this claptrap . . .”
The voices moved on.
Sophie felt her ears burn quite literally to be the subject of such unflattering supposition. Kind Libby probably knew or at least suspected there was truth in what Flora and Edgar had said, but how loyal of her to try to curb the gossip.
She thought of Captain Overtree saying he was going to check on Winnie last night and heading up the attic stairs in his dressing gown. Had he really been going to see Winnie? Especially when the nurse had said she didn’t want visitors at night?
If he were seeking another bed to warm, had Sophie any right to feel the resentment that curdled her stomach at the thought? She could not blame him if he pined for or desired someone else, not when she did that very thing. But she was not carrying on a physical relationship—nor a relationship of any kind—with another lover. Could he say the same? She did not really think Captain Overtree would have an illicit relationship with someone in his employ. At least she hoped not. She wanted to believe that Stephen Overtree was an honorable, moral, godly man.
But was he?
That afternoon, Stephen and his father interviewed two possible candidates to take Humphries’ place as estate manager. One man was young but showed potential. The other had more experience but would probably follow Humphries into retirement in a few years. Stephen wondered if it was worth the trouble to train in a new man for such a short time. Then again, there was no guarantee a younger man would stay on longer. He might take the experience he earned with them to another post.
He and his father debated the merits and drawbacks of each but made no decision, his father wishing to think on it some more, perhaps wait and see if anyone else applied to their advertisement first. Stephen, however, had hoped to see the matter settled before he left.
Later, Stephen went upstairs again to check on Winnie, since she had not been in her room the night before. He found her contentedly feeding her birds, her cat watching and chattering from the windowsill. He idly wondered if she fed the birds for her own amusement or the cat’s.