Keith replied, “Only because Major Wilson wanted to put you in your place.”
But Angela ignored their little exchange, her eyes fastened on Keith. “Then . . . why choose that profession?”
“Because when my father died, every farthing of his fortune was gone, gambled away, except for the commission he’d purchased for me. He left me no choice.”
Stephen could relate. He’d been given little choice in his career either.
Keith glanced over and saw Kate and Miss Blake hanging on his words. Something flashed in his eyes as he continued.
“I know you ladies like the notion of a brave soldier. But if a woman was tempted to look at me that way—to idealize me, or romanticize this—” He lifted his empty sleeve. “Then she is certain to be disappointed. Isn’t me. Never has been, and never will be.”
Miss Blake watched him closely. “Then what will you do with your life? You have been honorably discharged, and your father isn’t here any longer to force you to do anything. Can you not choose what sort of man you want to be?”
Keith held her gaze. “I’m afraid the man I want to be seems far from reach, Miss Blake.” He poured another glass.
Sophie watched the volley of words between Mr. Keith and Miss Blake like a spectator at a shuttlecock match. So much reverberated beneath the words—those said, and those not said. Sophie had never before felt sorry for Carlton Keith, but seeing the bleak longing in his eyes when he looked at Angela Blake, she thought she just might.
Mr. Keith rose and ambled somewhat unsteadily toward the wagon.
Miss Blake watched him go—part wistful, part irritated. “My father warned me about him,” she said in a low voice. “He was some acquainted with the elder Mr. Keith—a heavy drinker and gambler. Like father like son, I suppose.”
Sophie glanced at the captain, wondering if he would contradict her, but he did not. Probably could not.
A few minutes later, Keith walked back, two fishing rods in hand. The men had packed gear in the wagon along with the hampers.
“Care to fish, Captain?”
“In a minute. You go ahead.”
Keith yanked off his boots and stockings, baring his calves, and then stepped into the shallows in knee-length pantaloons. “Hang me, that’s cold!” He lifted his knees in a little jig as he cast his line into the current.
Kate and Angela discreetly rolled off their own stockings beneath their long skirts and tucked them into their shoes at the side of the blanket. Together they giggled and walked across the stream on a series of rocks spaced apart almost like a path. Sophie could imagine them as younger girls doing the same, against the warnings of their mammas or governesses.
“Sophie, come and join us!” Kate called, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.
She waved at them. “I shall find it more diverting to watch you two.”
“Hear, hear,” Keith agreed.
“Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport,” Kate cajoled.
Sophie turned to Captain Overtree on the blanket nearby. “Is it deep?”
“Only about three or four feet, depending on recent rains.”
She glanced down at the dress she wore. “Your mother had this dress altered for me. I wouldn’t want to spoil it.”
“Sophie!” Kate called again.
“Oh, very well.” Sophie set aside the parasol and pulled off her gloves. “Just a moment!”
“Be careful,” he warned. “The rocks can be slippery.”
Remembering her shoes and stockings, Sophie hesitated.
Noticing the direction of her gaze, he patted the blanket beside him. “Come closer. I’ll help.”
Her face heated. “Thank you, but I can do it myself.”
He said in a low voice, “No one is near. And we are playing roles, remember?”
He slid nearer, grasped her half boot, and—laying one ankle onto his own outstretched leg—began untying and loosening the laces.
Embarrassed, Sophie protested, “That’s quite all right, Captain. I am perfectly capable of—”
“Shh.” He made quick work of removing one half boot, then shifted to the second. Her face burned at the thought of him reaching up her skirt to roll down her stockings. No. That would not do. Not here. Not . . . anywhere. When he set aside the second boot, she scrambled to her feet.
“Th-thank you, Captain.”
She stepped behind a stout evergreen for privacy and removed her stockings herself. Avoiding his gaze, she discreetly tucked them into her boot tops before turning toward the bank. The captain, she noticed, had yanked off his own boots as well.
By now, Kate and Angela had reached the other side of the stream and were waving her over.
Sophie stepped carefully onto the first rock, then to the next with ease. But the farther out she went, the farther apart the rocks were spaced, something she had not realized from shore. She hopped from one rock to the next, and wavered, stretching out her arms as Kate had done to balance herself. She judged the distance to the next rock—it was even farther away. How had Kate and Angela made it look so easy? She felt suddenly dizzy and off-balance. She would go back. But when she tried to turn on her narrow perch, she teetered, almost losing her balance. The rock she had just come from suddenly seemed too far away. What was wrong with her? Perspiration itched along her brow, and she tasted bile.
Splash, splash, splash. Footsteps slapped through water and suddenly Captain Overtree was there, hands on her elbows, steadying her, heedless of the water darkening his buff trousers.
“Steady. I’ve got you.”
“Oh no, your clothes. I’m sorry. I have lost my balance and my nerve. Foolish of me, I know. It’s only water.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course. I . . .” Her skin prickled, and spots dotted her vision like a lace curtain. She felt herself sway.
A moment later she found herself lifted in his arms. She uttered a little cry of protest and, fearing she might fall, wrapped her hands around his neck. His arms supported her knees and back, her side pressed to his abdomen. She was in Captain Overtree’s arms—her husband’s arms, she reminded herself—and felt off-balance for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong?” Kate called. “Is she all right?”
Sophie faltered, “I am well, just—”
“Just a ploy to get me to take her in my arms,” the captain called back in teasing tones.
Sophie looked at him askance, but inwardly applauded his tact in easing Kate’s anxiety, and her own.
Well played, Captain. Well played.
The picnic ended soon after that. The footman and groom packed up, and Mr. Keith returned to shore empty-handed, not managing a single catch—fish or female.
chapter 14
The next afternoon, the girls had another dress fitting to endure. As Sophie left her bedchamber for the appointment, she noticed Captain Overtree climbing the stairs to the attic and assumed, or at least hoped, he was going to visit Miss Whitney.
Mrs. Pannet and her assistant returned with the tacked-up dresses, which, in her estimation, were coming along nicely. Kate’s gown had remained simple, as planned, but the dressmaker had decided to embellish Sophie’s, since the new Mrs. Overtree would be an honored guest for the party. She had added chenille embroidery, and ribbon trimming at the shoulder for height and elegance. Blue rosettes adorned the bodice, and the white skirt was shot through with the same blue threads. She also planned to add a flounced hem of the same blue, if madame approved.
Both Mrs. Overtrees heartily did so.
When her fitting ended some twenty or thirty minutes later, Sophie went up to Miss Whitney’s room. She assumed Captain Overtree would still be there and decided to join them, taking the ginger biscuits she’d saved from the picnic the day before.
When she entered, Miss Whitney turned from the window. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Overtree.”
Sophie glanced around the room. “Where is the captain? I thought he would be here with you.”
“No, he hasn’t been up to see me today. But I saw him. He rode off a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Did he?” That surprised Sophie.
“Mm-hmm,” the woman said, her gaze returning to the window. “I’ve just been bird watching.”
Sophie crossed the room to see what had captured the woman’s devoted attention. Besides a very fat pigeon, she saw no birds at present. But down below across the drive she did see Kate and young Mr. Harrison talking over the churchyard wall again. Bird watching, indeed.
She decided not to comment. Instead, she held out the biscuits on the linen napkin like the friendship offering it was.
Miss Whitney’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, my dear. I adore biscuits.”
Sophie noticed an overflowing glass dish of wrapped sweets on the table. “And you like sweets, apparently.”
Miss Whitney shook her head. “Not particularly. But they are a sweet victory.”
“How so?” Sophie asked, confused.
Miss Whitney chewed her lip. “Don’t tell Stephen, but I rarely eat them. They stick to my teeth. But he’s been giving them to me for years on my birthday and at Christmas, and I hate to hurt his feelings.”
“Perhaps I might think of a tactful way to suggest another gift?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I find uses for them.”
“What else do you like, Miss Whitney? I shall keep a lookout for your favorites.”
“I like fruit, especially berries. But it’s a bit early in the year. Otherwise, I’m not particular. The only foods I cannot tolerate are turnips and shellfish. Cook knows that and sends them up often.” Winnie made a funny face and sighed. “At least my cat enjoys the fish. I have yet to find a taker for the turnips.”
Sophie grinned. “Surely Mrs. John doesn’t send fish and turnips every night.”
“No. But she is stingy, that one. Sends up the smallest portions—leavings by the looks of it. A crust of bread, a chicken leg, a dollop of pudding. I may be thin, but I need to keep up my strength. Probably thinks I sit about all day and night and don’t need to eat. But it’s not true. And what I do get, I have to share with Gulliver and the birds. She refuses to send up anything especially for them. I dare not complain to the mistress. I don’t want to give her any reason to send me packing.”
“Surely the captain and Kate wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I don’t worry when the captain is in residence, but after he leaves . . . ? And as far as Kate, I am fond of the girl, but I think if her mother or Miss Blake made a big enough fuss, she would go along with plans to put me out.”
Winnie sat down, took a bite of her biscuit, and asked eagerly, “Now. How goes married life?”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know,” Sophie faltered. “There are many adjustments to make when one finds oneself bound to a man she barely knows.”
“And not the man you thought you’d marry.”
Sophie reared her head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I . . . only meant that the person we first meet is not often the person we come to know on longer acquaintance.”
“Ah. That may be. But Captain Overtree is a good man. I see that.”
“He is indeed. The best of men. I’m glad you recognize that. So many seem to prefer Master Wesley, even though Stephen is kinder than his handsome brother. To me at least.”
Sophie thought it wisest not to delve into the subject of Wesley and which brother she might prefer.
Instead she asked the woman, “Did you never think of marrying?” Sophie thought again of having blurted out this same question to Captain Overtree. She’d been unsettled by his refusal to answer.
“I thought about it often,” Winnie replied. “There was a shoemaker I considered marrying once. Perhaps I should have. I didn’t love him, but he would have provided for me. I wouldn’t find myself living alone, all but forgotten in the only home I’ve known for the past thirty years.”
“Do you never go outside, or into society? You must become bored at times.”
Miss Whitney gave her a knowing look. “Are you bored, when you’re alone with your paints?”
Sophie blinked at her. “How did you know I paint?”
“Oh. Perhaps it’s second sight.” She winked. “Or perhaps the fact that you have paint beneath your fingernails. . . .”
Sophie looked down to check, though she’d not painted in weeks.
“Made you look!” The old woman giggled like a schoolgirl. “Sorry, my dear. I was only teasing you. Stephen told me.”
“Oh.” Sophie forced a polite little chuckle, though she was discomfited by the changeable woman. She asked, “But don’t you miss being among other people? You must get lonely up here.”
“Lonely, I can’t deny. But not bored. I like to read, although nowadays my mind wanders along with my eyes. I still like reading short stories, and news articles. Magazines are my favorite. Kate brings up hers when she has finished with them. Do you subscribe to any?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s a shame.” Winnie sighed. “Kate said she would ask Miss Blake to lend me her copies of Ackermann’s Repository, but so far she hasn’t been willing to part with them. At least not to me. She’s on Mrs. Overtree’s side where I’m concerned. The elder Mrs. Overtree, I mean.”
“I knew who you meant.”
Miss Whitney cocked her head to one side and mused, “And what about the younger Mrs. Overtree? Which side will she end up on, I wonder?” She watched Sophie, her blue eyes alight with interest and perhaps a trace of worry. “Do you mind sharing a few morsels of your husband’s time with me?”
“Not at all.” Better you than flirtatious Flora, Sophie thought, but she didn’t say so.
“Good. I lived in a poorhouse once, as a girl.” Winnie shuddered. “And it’s an experience I hope never to repeat.”
That evening, as they walked down to dinner together, Sophie asked the captain where he had gone while she had been busy with the dressmaker and later with Winnie.
An odd look filled his eyes—surprise, secrecy, guilt? “I . . . am not at liberty to tell you just yet. But it’s nothing to fear, I assure you.”
Sophie hoped that was true.
That night, the captain was late coming up for bed. Libby had come and gone and still he had not appeared, nor did she hear anything from his dressing room. Sophie climbed into bed with the first volume of Sense and Sensibility, which Kate had lent her, and tried to read.
Sometime later, Sophie paused and looked up. What had she heard? A thump and a scrape as though someone had tripped behind the bed. If there were mice in the walls, they were awfully big. She closed her eyes to listen, and heard the drone of a voice coming from somewhere nearby. From her dressing room? Her pulse accelerated at the thought.
Breathlessly, she whispered, “Who’s there?”
But silence was the only reply. She laid aside the novel, climbed from bed, and tiptoed to her dressing room. Moonlit and empty.
She returned to her book.
A short while later, she heard footsteps and muffled male voices, and again rose to investigate. Quietly opening her door, she saw the captain and Edgar carrying a crate between them, up the stairs. The corner hit the stair rail and nearly dropped. The captain let out a mild epithet. Then the men repositioned their grips and continued upward.
Sophie’s stomach clenched. Was that the crate that held Wesley’s paintings of her—those they had packed up in Lynmouth? Was he carrying them up surreptitiously, to avoid his parents asking to see them?
She tiptoed across the corridor and partway up the stairs, curious to know if they were taking the crate to Wesley’s room. She assumed they were. But the men continued up the next flight of stairs toward the top floor. Why? Was he hoping to hide them, to keep them from being discovered even after he’d gone? Was he so ashamed of them? Of her?
Or did the crate not hold paintings at all? Was it something for Winnie, or . . . someone else? She wanted to ask, but co
nsidering his evasive answer about his earlier errand, and about “Jenny,” she decided against it.
The next day, after Captain Overtree left to meet with a tenant, Sophie grew restless. She thought about that crate she had seen him and Edgar carrying. She thought about the paintings Wesley had done of her this year. She was also still curious to discover if the large painting she had posed for last year was up in his room or studio. Otherwise, what had he done with it? She knew it was risky—emotionally and otherwise—but she wanted to take a peek. Dare she? Especially now with Mr. Keith in residence?
Feeling self-conscious, Sophie walked up one flight of stairs. First, she strolled through the gallery, her heels clicking and echoing down the long room. She ran a hand over the hobbyhorse. Studied the old family portraits. And stood at the window overlooking the gardens and beyond, Miss Blake’s home, Windmere, which she could see quite clearly from there. She glimpsed Captain Overtree talking to a man in brown coat and flat cap beside a low stone wall. A female in green cloak and bonnet came by—Miss Blake, she guessed, though she could not make out her features. The man in brown tipped his hat and returned to his work on the wall, but the woman remained to talk with Stephen. Sophie wondered what the two had to talk about, and reminded herself they were childhood friends.
Gathering her courage, Sophie walked out into the corridor and paused at the door to Wesley’s studio. Venturing in there would be easier to explain than being found in his bedchamber, she decided, though she was curious to see that as well. Listening for anyone nearby and hearing no one, Sophie inched open the door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her.
For a moment she simply took it all in. Dust motes floated in shafts of sunlight from tall windows. A shrouded easel. Jumbled supplies, scattered papers and rags. The faint smell of paint and turpentine.
Then she saw a crate in the corner.
Heart thumping, she crossed to it on tiptoe, not sure whose room was below this one and not wanting to announce her presence. She scanned the direction and recognized Maurice’s handwriting. Here, after all, were the paintings she and the captain had packed away. Then what was in the crate she had seen Stephen and Edgar carrying up to the attic?