On Sunday, Stephen’s mother announced, “Your father will not be joining us for church today. Not with this damp weather. It is not good for his chest.”
“I feel perfectly well, my dear,” his father protested.
“Now, yes. And I should like to keep it that way. But the old church with its chilly draughts and sniffling children? Very catching. Especially in your weakened state. No, you stay here, quiet and warm. Better yet, in bed. Don’t forget Dr. Matthews comes tomorrow with a new elixir from London. I won’t have him thinking I’ve grown lax in my duty.” She pulled on her gloves. “We shall pray for you.”
Poor Papa, Stephen thought. It must be hard at times, being married to a woman raised by a take-charge army commander.
They put on their coats and hats, and made ready to leave. The footman handed around umbrellas, just in case. The ladies accepted, but the colonel waved away the offered implement and made do with turning up the collar of his greatcoat. Stephen did the same.
As they walked to church, the damp mist turned to steady rain. Around him, three umbrellas opened like mushrooms. A flash of orange caught Stephen’s eye. He glanced over and saw Gulliver dash through the wet grass and behind the church. Uh oh.
“Where is that cat going?” His mother wrinkled her nose. “Mangy creatures. A stray, no doubt. Better in the churchyard than Overtree Hall.”
Stephen exchanged concerned looks with Kate. Then he tried to catch Sophie’s eye, but her gaze remained on the fleeing feline. He hoped she wouldn’t give away Winnie’s secret. He sifted through his sluggish mind, trying in vain to think of something to say to distract them both.
“Do you . . . never miss church, Mrs. Overtree?” Sophie asked his mother, sending him a subtle, knowing look.
Stephen exhaled in relief.
“Never. I attend every divine service, and give alms to charity, and pray without ceasing. Who knows what would happen if I failed to do so?”
“Mamma . . .” Stephen gently protested. “It isn’t all on your shoulders. It’s on God’s. Do you really think that if you were to miss one service, or forget to pray, or even heaven forbid, do something wrong, that God would take Papa from you as punishment? Or say, allow me to die, when I otherwise would have lived?”
“Of course He might.”
“Mamma. . . . I don’t think God works that way. Yes, He wants us to pray, read the Scriptures, and fellowship with other believers, but it isn’t as though marking off duties on a list is a guaranteed cure-all.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know that I agree with you. In any case, it is better to be safe than sorry.”
“But it sounds almost like a superstition for you. And how taxing to believe you hold Papa’s fate, not to mention that of your entire family, on your own shoulders. Do you never grow weary?”
“Always. But it is my lot in life.”
“Your mother is a paragon, Stephen,” his grandfather spoke up. “The vicar respects her highly and holds her up as a model for his other parishioners. We should all be half as diligent.”
Stephen nodded, but he thought that his mother secretly enjoyed all the attention she received as the long-suffering, dutiful wife of sickly Mr. Overtree. He wished she relied a little more on God and a little less on her own good deeds and religious observances.
They entered the church as the bells rang. Around them, the congregation filled the boxes and pews.
The parish clerk called the service to order as the vicar, Mr. Nelson, climbed into the pulpit. For a moment, Stephen tried to imagine himself in those black forms and white collar, instead of his usual uniform—visiting the sick, helping the poor, and making sermons. Perhaps his grandfather had been right to steer him away from the church. He enjoyed being active and outdoors more than studying, though reading the Scriptures certainly satisfied his soul. Whatever the case, Stephen wouldn’t “put his hand to the plough and look back.” He wanted to serve God, his country, and his family wherever he was. And if he could do some good to friends or neighbors along the way, so much the better.
The topic of Mr. Nelson’s sermon that day was God’s merciful redemption of the world, through Christ’s sacrificial death. He read from Psalm 32, “Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.” And he ended with Galatians 1, “Grace be to you and peace from God the Father, and from our Lord Jesus Christ, who gave himself for our sins, that he might deliver us from this present evil world, according to the will of God and our Father: To whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.”
Sophie, he noticed, listened intently through it all. Did she know the matchless peace that came from God’s merciful grace—sending His Son to die to pay the price for mankind’s sins, so all might live with Him, forgiven, forever?
He hoped and prayed she did.
chapter 13
The day of the picnic arrived, and Stephen found himself both anticipating and dreading it at the same time. He doubted he had the courtly manners to eat dainties on his lap without spilling and help ladies with their parasols over rough ground, all the while keeping up a pleasant flow of polite conversation. His ideal day out-of-doors would be spent fishing or hunting, stopping to drink water from a stream when he was thirsty, and when he felt hungry, to eat a pie wrapped in waxed paper begged from Mrs. John’s kitchen. Stephen sighed, dressed himself in trousers and tweed, and decided to make the best of it.
The weather was fine and the wood not far off, so the party gathered in the hall to walk to Norcombe Wood together. Stephen looked forward to the exercise, which would no doubt rouse their appetites. Mrs. Hill, however, arranged for a horse and wagon to carry the hampers of food and drink, and a footman to serve it.
Together, the five of them walked beneath the entrance gate and strolled down the lane into the open countryside. Daffodils bloomed among the trees, and birdsong punctuated the peaceful silence. Newborn lambs cavorted in the meadows while bored-looking ewes chewed and bleated. Stephen relished every sight. Perhaps no artist would be eager to paint this landscape, but to him it was a beautiful scene. It was home. He was proud to think his family owned a great deal of the land stretching in all directions.
He hoped Sophie liked what she saw as well, that she would come to love this place as he did. He glanced at her, noticing she wore an elegant lilac dress and white spencer, her gloved hands clasped behind her back. Honeyed strands of hair escaped her bonnet and gleamed in the sunlight. He swallowed, and shifted his gaze.
Angela Blake also looked stylish in a green and buff dress and bonnet, her parasol wavering in the spring breeze. He saw scant vestiges of the reedy girl with red plaits who had shadowed him and Wesley growing up, sometimes beating them at their own races and games. Lieutenant Keith, Stephen noticed, remained near her side.
After about a mile, they crossed a stone bridge and turned into Norcombe Wood. They halted at the edge of a clearing bordered by a stream—one of his favorite spots to fish. In fact, there was a man on the bank now, casting a line into the water. The figure turned, and Stephen recognized young Mr. Harrison.
“How delightful!” Kate beamed and called a greeting. Mr. Harrison waved in reply.
Miss Blake sent Stephen a sidelong glance, eyes innocently wide. “What a fortunate coincidence.”
Stephen doubted it.
Kate hurried ahead, and Angela called after her, “You must invite him to join us, Kate!”
Stephen did not miss the mischievous slant of her smile.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Harrison?” Sophie asked, looking from him to Miss Blake and back again.
Stephen nodded, eyes narrowed. He knew Mr. Harrison, of course, but not well. With his mother’s disapproval in mind, he did not wish to encourage the man where his sister was concerned.
Sophie’s hand on his arm surprised him. She whispered, “You’re not going to send him away, are you?”
Stephen met her hesitant gaze with a wry grin. “I am not so ill-mannered, I assure you.”
“Good.”<
br />
She dropped her hand, the feathery warmth of her fingers disappearing. He should have reacted more quickly—laid his hand over hers—but it was too late.
The groom helped carry over the hampers and spread the picnic blankets, then returned to the horse and wagon while the footman remained behind to serve.
Keith offered to hold Miss Blake’s parasol while she sat down and arranged her skirts. Then he dispatched a trespassing insect from the blanket as though a sworn enemy. Stephen studied Angela’s reaction, trying to gauge if she minded the man’s attentions. His former lieutenant could be overbearing at times, especially when drinking, but it was early in the day and he had yet to start. Angela’s expression remained benign as she regarded Keith, apparently tolerating his attentions as one tolerates warm licks from an overeager pup.
Stephen sat near Sophie, feeling awkward, unsure what to do with his long legs. Sophie tucked hers beneath herself with enviable ease. Mr. Harrison looked awkward himself, standing there with his fishing rod and empty pail.
“No luck, Mr. Harrison?” Miss Blake asked with a smile.
He shook his head. “Not today.”
“He’d finally hooked one,” Kate apologized, “but it got away when we interrupted him.”
Mr. Harrison shrugged. “A small sacrifice for the pleasure of your company.”
Miss Blake patted a spot on the blanket between herself and Kate. “Do sit down.”
With a questioning look at Stephen, Mr. Harrison set aside his gear and complied. “Thank you for inviting me to join you.”
Kate motioned to the feast before them. “We have plenty to share.”
“As long as he sticks to the lemonade,” Mr. Keith muttered.
Their cook, Mrs. John, had outdone herself. There was enough food for a party twice their size: a joint of cold ham, roast chickens, veal and pigeon pies, and preserved fruit. There were also cheeses, bread, butter, lemonade, and the promised bottle of claret, which Carlton Keith helped himself to, though not as liberally as Stephen might have expected.
Looking at the overabundance of food before him, Stephen felt a stab of guilt. He ought to be with his men, drilling, living in stark conditions with them, not in the lap of luxury while they ate poorly and slept in crude tents.
The footman brought out raspberry jam tarts and ginger biscuits for dessert. He noticed Sophie wrap two biscuits in a linen table napkin, and surreptitiously slip them into her reticule. For her later enjoyment, he supposed. He had heard women in her condition were prone to food cravings at all hours.
Noticing his attention, she mouthed, “For Winnie.”
“Ah.” His heart warmed at her thoughtfulness.
Miss Blake asked, “And what are your plans for the future, Mr. Harrison? Will you follow your father into the church?”
“I don’t think so, no. I aspire to be a writer.”
“Oh? A novelist?” Kate asked.
“I’m afraid not. I am primarily interested in history.”
“Oh. Well, history is good too, I suppose.”
Mr. Harrison asked Kate about her favorite book, and Kate eagerly complied with an enthusiastic and detailed description of Sense and Sensibility.
After they had eaten their fill, Mr. Harrison thanked them and rose. “Well. If you will excuse me, I had better head home.”
Kate’s expression dimmed. “Must you go already?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ll need to stop at the fishmonger’s on the way.” He smiled sheepishly. “Mamma has her heart set on perch for dinner. Hopefully, my skill in buying fish exceeds my skill in catching them.”
Kate returned his smile. Then Mr. Harrison bowed in farewell and took his leave.
After their guest departed, Stephen relaxed. The ladies sat primly on one end of the blanket in the shade, Miss Blake and his sister talking and laughing while Sophie listened. He and Keith sprawled nearby at their leisure with legs outstretched, lulled by warm air, peaceful birdsong, and the murmuring stream.
Keith groaned with satisfaction. “I could not eat another bite—or move.”
Kate passed him the biscuit tin, and with a shrug he popped one into his mouth, earning himself a headshake from Miss Blake and an amused swat from Kate.
Keith refilled his glass of claret and offered to pour Stephen a glass. He declined, as usual.
Kate and Angela prattled on like eager schoolgirls, making Keith the frequent recipient of their good-natured teasing, which the man clearly enjoyed. Stephen, however, grew restless and rose to stretch his legs, and to put some distance between himself and the incessant chatter.
As he walked away from the group, Sophie called after him. “Captain?”
She had risen to her feet but paused to accept the parasol Miss Blake thrust toward her.
“If you must walk about in the sunshine, I insist you use this. Think of your fair complexion!”
Stephen waited where he was.
Unfurling the parasol, Sophie approached him. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course. I only wanted to stretch my legs—and rest my ears.”
She grinned up at him, and he returned the gesture, feeling his heart lighten.
They walked along the stream in silence for several moments. Then she must have felt his gaze resting on her profile, for she glanced over at him.
“I feel like an imposter,” she admitted, twirling her parasol for emphasis. “Or an actress playing a role. This dress isn’t mine, nor even this bonnet. It’s like a costume.”
“You look charming in it.”
“Thank you. But all this—” She gestured back toward the blanket and spread of food, the sweep of her arm encompassing the idyllic spring day. “It’s like a stage. Or a painting.”
He nodded. “You ought to have brought your easel.”
“I wish I had,” she agreed on a sigh. “Though I would feel too self-conscious to paint in company.”
As her words sank in, Stephen squinted up at the sun shining through the canopy of tree branches above them. He said, “And you find the role of my wife a difficult one to play, I gather?”
She sent him a worried look. “You know what I mean. Pretending that we are a normal, newly married couple.”
“What is normal? A lot of marriages begin less than romantically. Look at my parents . . . On second thought, perhaps not. Mamma was handsome and Papa a wealthy heir. They may not be the ideal to aspire to.”
He stopped walking and looked at her sharply. “Not that you are not handsome. I did not mean that. You know I think you are lovely. But I am certainly not a wealthy heir pursued by beautiful women for his money.” What an idiot he was. He should know better than to open his mouth around women—especially one he found attractive. Especially his wife.
Sophie ducked her head, and a becoming blush stained her cheeks. “Thank you for clarifying.”
Perhaps he had not botched things so badly after all.
She looked up and said, “May I ask, Captain, if you have ever been in love, or considered marriage before? Perhaps with . . . Jenny?”
Shock squeezed Stephen’s chest. He felt his mouth part. “Where on earth did you hear that name?”
“You . . . em, said it in your sleep on our wedding night.”
He winced. “I would prefer not to talk about that, if you don’t mind.” Especially not when Sophie was just beginning to warm to him, to change her earlier assessment of his “black” character. Abruptly, he said, “Shall we rejoin the others?”
She looked away and forced a smile. “Of course.”
They turned and strolled back toward the picnic blanket.
There, Miss Blake was talking to his former lieutenant. “Keith . . . Is that a Scottish surname?” she asked.
Carlton nodded. “In my case, yes. Though my family has lived in England for several generations.”
“Angela has been to Scotland,” Kate interjected.
Keith looked at Miss Blake with interest. “Oh? What took you there?”
&
nbsp; Angela sketched a little shrug. “I traveled there with my aunt once. She had always wanted to see the Highlands.”
“When was this?”
“Five years ago.”
Kate added, “She was gone for months.”
“Well, we saw more than Scotland,” Angela explained. “The north of England, the Peak, and then on to the Highlands. A bit of a grand tour, but here in old and relatively safe Britain, rather than abroad as young gentlemen do.”
“Or soldiers shipped to foreign parts. Scotland sounds better than the battlefields of Spain, ay, Captain?” Keith winked at Stephen, then returned his gaze to Miss Blake. “Did you enjoy the trip?”
Miss Blake shook her head, eyes distant. “I can’t say that I did.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Then why did you stay away so long?” Kate pouted. “I missed you terribly.”
Warm eyes focused on Miss Blake, Keith said quietly, “Yes, I can understand that. . . .”
Stephen noticed the way Keith’s gaze lingered on Angela, and felt uneasy. A woman like Angela Blake—an accomplished young lady from a leading family of gentry—was not likely to return the affections of a disabled former lieutenant with no fortune and few prospects.
Finding Mr. Keith looking at her, Angela ducked her head self-consciously. Also strange, for Angela was never shy or retiring.
She shifted and changed the subject. “And you, Mr. Keith? Did you enjoy being an officer and all it entailed?”
Keith screwed up his face. “Not in the least. I never wanted to be a soldier—wasn’t cut out for military life. I had about as much right to wield a gun as Marsh has to wield a paintbrush. Really, it was ridiculous.”
“I don’t agree,” Stephen grumbled. “I am quite effective with a paintbrush. Painted the barracks singlehandedly one year.”