Read The Painter's Daughter Page 23


  “That sounds ominous.”

  The maid shrugged. “Who knows with men? Always ready to declare war over some trifle or another. Now, the blue day dress or the ivory?”

  When Sophie was dressed, she asked Libby to let her know as soon as the captain finished his meeting and the callers left. In the meantime, she went to the breakfast room, selected a few things for Winnie, and carried them upstairs. She felt bad that the old retainer had been left out of all the “goings-on” the night before.

  When the old nurse replied to her knock, Sophie entered. Inside, Miss Whitney was wearing her customary blue dress with white lace collar, and a smile.

  “Good morning, Winnie. I’ve brought you some breakfast. . . . But, my goodness, it looks as if someone has already brought you a feast!”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled somewhat sheepishly at the tray overflowing with plates of roasted meats, salads, slices of cake, and an entire tower of fruit. On the floor nearby, Gulliver lapped smoked salmon from a china dish.

  “Don’t tell me Mrs. John sent up all of that?” Sophie asked in disbelief.

  “No. But I can’t tell you who did.”

  That piqued Sophie’s curiosity, but she didn’t press her. “Well, you deserve every morsel, having to stay up here alone and miss the party last night.”

  “Who said I missed it?” Winnie asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  Had the woman sneaked downstairs to watch? She thought of the squint Wesley had once used to view that long-ago masquerade ball. Might the nurse know about it as well?

  “I don’t miss much,” Winnie added. “In fact, I saw men in uniform arrive a few hours ago. Trouble’s brewing. Mark my word.”

  Her words reminded Sophie about Captain Overtree’s doubts about his future. “Miss Whitney, Captain Overtree confided in me about your . . . well, prediction. Do you really believe it? Surely you might be mistaken, right?”

  “Hmm?” the old woman asked distractedly, nibbling on a sugared date. “What prediction?”

  “Did you not tell him he would die?”

  Winnie paused, brow furrowing. “What do you mean, die? We shall all die one day, Sophie.”

  “I know, but . . . did you not tell Stephen you didn’t think he would return home this time?”

  She frowned. “I don’t recall saying that.”

  “Don’t recall? Something about he wouldn’t live to see his thirtieth year?”

  The woman shook her silvery-white head. “Good heavens. What a tragedy. For you, for me, for the entire family. Except for Wesley, perhaps.”

  “What?” Sophie asked, flummoxed.

  Winnie’s face puckered in confusion. “I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t recall saying he would die. He must be mistaken.”

  The woman rose in agitation and stepped to her window. “Have you seen my new hatchlings?”

  Sophie ignored the question. “But . . . Winnie. Don’t you . . . hear voices and predict things? Stephen told me he’s never known you to be wrong.”

  “Dear boy. How kind of him.” She picked up a bread roll and opened the latch. “Yes, I hear things, but I am no prophet, however biased the dear boy might be. I have been wrong once or twice. What a gentle memory he has.” She crumbled the roll and sprinkled the crumbs on the ledge.

  Then she closed the window and turned back, eyes alight. “Oh! Now I think on it, I may have said he wouldn’t live to see his inheritance. . . .”

  “Inheritance?” Sophie asked. “But he’s a second son.”

  “Yes, but he has an inheritance from his grandfather, held in trust until his thirtieth birthday.” Winnie inhaled and drew herself up. “And that’s more than a year from now.”

  Sophie felt befuddled. Did it not amount to the same thing? Or had Winnie changed her story for some reason? Perhaps Stephen had misunderstood her. Or were Mrs. Overtree and Miss Blake right and the old nurse was off in her attic?

  Miss Whitney went on, “Of course my memory isn’t anything to boast about these days.” She tapped her temple. “I remember things I did twenty years ago better than I recall what I ate for supper last night. Don’t get old, Sophie. Not if you can help it.”

  “I don’t think I like the alternative.”

  “True. We all must die. It’s only a question of when, how, and where we’re going afterwards.” Winnie sighed. “I pray I shall not end in the poorhouse or a pauper’s grave yet.”

  Sophie forced herself to reassure her yet again, even though she was irritated with the woman and confused in the bargain. “I am sure Captain Overtree won’t let that happen.”

  Winnie shook her head. “But he is off to fight the French soon. He cannot control everything. Only God can do that.”

  “The French? But Napoleon has been exiled. The war is over.”

  “No, my dear. I don’t believe it is. I hear Napoleon has raised his bold head again like a serpent refusing to lay low.”

  “How would you hear that? Did a voice tell you that?”

  “Oh yes,” the old nurse said, eyes strangely distant. “I hear voices almost every day.”

  Not sure what to think, Sophie started down the stairs, determined to find Stephen. She stopped first in their bedchamber, saw the dressing room had been disturbed but was otherwise empty, and then continued downstairs. In the hall, she was stunned to see Captain Overtree in full uniform, hat under his arm and bag in hand. Her heart lurched. No! They were supposed to have more time.

  She hurried forward.

  At the sound of her footsteps, he turned. “Sophie, thank heaven. I couldn’t find you.”

  “I was upstairs with Winnie. What is going on? Tell me you’re not leaving already.”

  “I’m afraid so. Napoleon has escaped exile and is back in France. Two others from my regiment are here. We are traveling together. I have to go.”

  “But we . . . I thought we had all day. If I had known, I would have come down sooner.”

  “No matter.”

  “But it does matter. How could you even think of leaving without saying good-bye?”

  “I sent a footman and housemaid to find you, but—”

  “Never mind that now.” She reached out and grasped his arm. “I asked Winnie about the prediction. She said she doesn’t remember saying you would die. Perhaps you misunderstood her.”

  His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “She denied it?”

  “Well, she didn’t deny it completely. She remembers saying something about your inheritance, but surely if she’d meant anything so dire she would remember.”

  He tilted his head to one side and gazed at her fondly. “Are you sure you are not saying this to . . . boost my confidence? To try and trick destiny?” He said it in a light, teasing tone, but she remained serious.

  “I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

  He sobered. “No, of course not. But neither would I. Winnie’s memory may be faulty, but mine is mercilessly clear. Don’t forget, I changed the course of my life—and yours—at least in small part because I believed her declaration possible.”

  “Are you sorry you did so?”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Well, I don’t believe Winnie has your future in her hands. Nor does Napoleon Bonaparte. Only God.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I believe that too.”

  He turned toward the door, but she held fast to his arm. “Don’t go.”

  “I have to. But Lord help me, I wish I could stay . . .”

  Her eyes heated. “Then you have to promise to come back.”

  “I promise to try.”

  “Good.” She smiled, causing a hot tear to spill forth and trail down her cheek. “Don’t forget me.”

  He pulled a miniature portrait from his pocket and showed it to her. “Never.”

  She was stunned to see it was one of the early likenesses Wesley had done of her. “You have that?”

  “Yes. You go with me wherever I go.” He tucked her hand beneath his arm, and they walked outside togeth
er.

  She glanced around at the family waiting to say their good-byes, the coachman and groom, and fellow officers in the carriage. She murmured, “If there were not so many people, I would—”

  He pulled her into her arms and murmured in her ear, “What other people?” He kissed her temple, then the tear from her cheek. She raised her face, and he pressed his mouth to hers in a fierce, possessive kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, and he drew her closer still.

  One of the officers hooted from the carriage and the other whistled.

  “Come on, Overtree. We’ll miss our ship at this rate.”

  “Aww, let him kiss his missus. Still on their honeymoon, after all.”

  The captain broke the kiss at last, resting his cheek atop her head. He said in a gravelly whisper, “If I do come back, that will be the end of separate beds. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, heart beating hard. “I should hope so.”

  His eyes met hers, serious. Measuring. “You’re killing me, woman. You know that, don’t you? I didn’t realize you were on Boney’s side.”

  “I am not. I want you to live.”

  He kissed her palm, then pressed it to his heart. “Live or die my heart is yours, Sophie Dupont.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Sophie Overtree, and don’t forget it.” She tried to grin, but it wobbled away.

  Oh, God, don’t let it be too late for us. Bring him home to me. Give us another chance.

  Stephen reluctantly released her and bent to pick up his kit.

  His family, who had waited some distance away in patient, perhaps stunned, silence—no doubt taken aback by their public display of affection—now hurried forward to say their final farewells.

  His kissed his mother’s cheek, hugged Kate, and shook his father’s hand.

  His grandfather slapped his shoulder with a fond grin. “What did I tell you, my boy? A few weeks with your bride were just what you needed, ay? Want me to see if I can eke out another few days?”

  “Thank you, sir. But no. Duty calls.” Hearing of Bonaparte’s return to France had struck him like a death knell that morning.

  “Not having second thoughts, I hope?” the colonel asked. “Remember your thirtieth birthday will be here before you know it. You’ve done well, my boy. Just persevere for king and country a little longer. Make me proud.”

  Stephen inwardly chafed at the platitudes. At his grandfather’s plans for his life. If Boney was back, it could be years before the war ended and he could return. If ever.

  Mr. Keith came forward, looking both sheepish and resolved. The two men shook hands.

  “Any marching orders, sir?” his former lieutenant asked.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Keith. And the cork in the bottle.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Be respectful of my wife. Do you hear me? And help her keep an eye on Winnie for me.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Stephen climbed into the carriage, his heart and body rebelling at the thought of leaving Sophie.

  Keith leaned in the open window. “And shall I watch over Wesley again should he return? Keep him safe?”

  Stephen scowled. “Devil take Wesley. Protect my wife.”

  Thoughts of Wesley cast a pall over his departure and threw cold water on his hopes for the future. He swallowed bile, and stoically lifted a hand to his family and winked at Kate. But as the carriage moved away from Overtree Hall and passed through the gate, he was filled with a sense of doom.

  Sophie retreated from the others, slowly walking toward the churchyard. She thought she might have a good cry in the quiet church and pray for Stephen’s return. Seeing the warm light in his eyes had given her hope that he believed he would be coming home again. That he would survive the war, and return to her. That there might be a future for them after all.

  Movement from above caught her eye, and she glanced up. There in a top-story window stood Miss Whitney, looking down and watching as Stephen’s carriage drove away. The old woman was now dressed head to toe in black—from veiled hat to bombazine gown. There was no sign of her usual white collar, and even her silvery white hair was covered. Her face was somber, her eyes squinted to watch the carriage as it disappeared. She was seemingly unaware of Sophie, or anyone else for that matter. Winnie pressed a hand to her black breast, then solemnly raised it, palm forward, and pressed it to the glass.

  Sophie’s heart began to thud in a heavy, dread-filled beat to look upon the sight. And to wonder what it meant.

  chapter 20

  Unable to sleep that night after Stephen’s departure, Sophie sat up late, reading in bed by candlelight. After a time, she laid aside her novel, and pulled The Rearing and Management of Children from its hiding place. She flipped through the pages and ran a finger down the table of contents: Infant Care, Feeding, Washing, Health, Digestion, Teething . . . She would read it all, she decided. She had little experience with infants and wanted to take excellent care of her baby. Be the best mother she could be. No matter who had given it to her, the book would be useful. And she could use all the help she could get.

  She read through the introduction, then abruptly stopped. Something thudded hard in the corridor beyond her room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. She heard no call for help, no padding feet of a summoned servant.

  Sophie reminded herself that Overtree Hall housed many servants who kept busy about the place at all hours, answering bells, lighting fires, bringing water. Perhaps one of them had simply dropped something. It didn’t necessarily mean that anything was amiss.

  She turned the page.

  Then a high-pitched cry, like a cornered cat or a woman in pain, reverberated through the wall and sent shivers up Sophie’s spine.

  She lay frozen, book in hand, telling herself not to be silly. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation for the sound. Perhaps Gulliver had sneaked down and become trapped somewhere on this floor. If so, she hoped Winnie found the cat before Mrs. Overtree did.

  Sophie lay still a moment longer, listening.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” came a mournful moan. “That’ll be the end of you. He’s gone, and you’re next.”

  Sophie laid aside her book, threw back the bedclothes, and rose. She tied her dressing gown around herself, picked up her candle lamp, and carried it to the door. Inching it open, she peered into the dim corridor.

  From a distance, came the faint sound of someone playing the pianoforte downstairs. But from much nearer by, a muffled groan reached her.

  Pulse pounding, Sophie crept forward, candle high to light her way. She rounded the corner and was stunned to see Miss Whitney crumpled on the floor.

  Sophie gasped in alarm. “Winnie! What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  “He’s gone,” she wailed. “And I’m next. I know it.”

  Is that why the woman had dressed in black? To mourn Stephen’s departure—her defender at Overtree Hall? “Hush,” Sophie gently urged, kneeling beside the woman. It was clear from her slurred speech and bleary eyes that she was intoxicated. Sophie glanced at the broken drinking glass beside her, and smelled brandy.

  Miss Whitney followed her gaze and her look of sorrow deepened. “Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done, Winnie old girl.” She leaned over and began sweeping at the shards of glass with bare fingers.

  Sophie grasped her hands to stop her. “No, Winnie. Leave it. You’ll cut yourself. I’ll take care of it. Let’s get you to your room before Mrs. Overtree sees you like this.”

  Sophie tried to help Winnie up, but in her current limp and uncooperative state, she couldn’t manage it alone. “Winnie, stay here and be quiet. I’ll get help and be back directly, all right?”

  “Not coming back . . .” she moaned again. “What if he doesn’t come back . . . ?”

  “He will. And so will I. Give me two minutes.”

  Sophie hurried down the stairs, the sound of the pianoforte growing louder as she neared the white
parlour. Mr. Keith, she guessed. He had played as a younger man and had recently begun trying to learn how to do so with one hand. She opened the door. There sat Mr. Keith, up late, quietly plunking away at the pianoforte to amuse himself, or perhaps to keep his hand too busy to pour a drink.

  “Mr. Keith, can you help me?”

  He stopped playing and looked up at her in concern.

  “It’s Winnie,” she explained quietly. “She’s fallen and I need help getting her to her room.”

  He rose. “Is she badly hurt?”

  “No, but she is somewhat . . . incapacitated.”

  His brows rose, but he didn’t press for details. “Take me to her.”

  He followed her back upstairs. There, Winnie’s tart breath, swaying form, and slurred muttering rendered her condition obvious.

  Keith looked from her to Sophie, brow puckered. “Sink me. Is that what I’m like when I’m foxed?”

  “Worse,” Sophie said, then softened her reply with a grin.

  “Very funny, Mrs. Overtree. You are beginning to sound like your husband.”

  Together they helped Winnie to her feet and half-dragged her, half-carried her to the bottom of the stairs. “Now what?” Sophie asked.

  Keith looked up the daunting flight. “Easier if I could carry her, but I’m not exactly sweeping women off their feet these days. Wait a minute . . .” He paused to think, then said, “Support her upright a moment.”

  Sophie did so, and he bent and hefted the old woman over one shoulder like a sack of cabbages.

  “Wooee . . .” Winnie squealed. “The world’s gone topsy-turvy. Ohhh . . .” she murmured. “I don’t feel well . . .”

  “Don’t be sick on my shoes. Hear me, Winnie? They’re my only decent pair. Nor down my back.” He looked at Sophie and made a face. “Probably serve me right if she did.”

  A wrapped sweet fell from Winnie’s inverted pocket, and Sophie bent and picked it up. Again Sophie hoped that no one would come upon them and see Winnie in this state—or in her current position! What a sight they must make.

  Finally they reached the attic, Keith huffing and puffing. Sophie opened the door to Winnie’s room and helped Mr. Keith gently slide the elderly woman from his shoulder to her bed.