I continue the grim task of searching among the bodies being interred, and among the wounded here in Brussels, where the entire city suddenly seems a vast military hospital, and will send word if I learn more.
I will close by telling you one thing I know for certain in these uncertain days. Your son saved my life, and the lives of many of my fellow soldiers. While other officers fell back safely behind the lines, Captain Overtree remained among his men, valiant and brave. He sacrificed his life for ours. And that sacrifice will never be forgotten.
May God grant you comfort as you grieve.
Ensign Brian Hornsby”
Sophie pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, stifling the cry that longed to escape. Tears filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
She felt someone’s gaze on her profile and glanced over to find Mrs. Overtree looking at her, tears in her eyes as well. She laid her hand over her husband’s in a rare display of affection.
Sophie felt more than saw Wesley’s presence in the room behind her but did not look over. She did not want to see him at that moment. Afraid of what she might see—or not see—reflected in his eyes.
Then her fleeting thoughts of Wesley vanished, and all she saw was Stephen’s face, Stephen’s eyes. Unbidden, the scene as described in the letter flickered through her mind, and she winced, trying in vain not to see the strike, not to see the shock and pain that must have shown on his face, followed, she guessed, by resignation. Oh, she hoped the pain had not been unendurable. That this young officer was right and he had not suffered long. Poor, dear Stephen!
Pain and grief for him and for herself filled and wracked her chest, and she bent over in pain. Wesley’s hand squeezed her shoulder, and she stiffened.
In a moment Kate was there. Dear Kate. She knelt and wrapped her arms around Sophie. Sophie leaned into her and cried as silently as she could, shoulders shaking.
“Now, now, my dears. We know nothing for certain,” the colonel said.
“True,” Mr. Keith spoke up. “Why, I once knew of a sergeant so badly injured that he was left for dead and buried in a shallow grave, only to revive later and crawl back to camp to rejoin his regiment.”
“Cheery thought, CK,” Wesley said dryly.
“All I am saying is, don’t give up on the captain yet.”
The colonel rose. “I will send a messenger to my old friend Forsythe and see what he can find out for us. In the meantime, Lieutenant Keith is right. Let’s not lose heart.”
Wesley found Sophie in the old schoolroom, slumped on the stool before the ruined portrait, tears flowing down her face. She glanced over when he entered, then dully turned away, as if he were no more than a midge coming in through the window.
He approached slowly, but she didn’t seem to notice, her wet eyes fastened on the image of his brother’s face.
His heart filled with compassion, for once drowning out his jealousy. He stepped around and knelt before her, looking up at her seated on her artist’s stool like a mourning dove on its lonely perch.
“You really cared for him, didn’t you,” he asked quietly, no censure in his voice or his heart.
She nodded. Another wave of tears filled her lovely grief-filled eyes and coursed down her cheeks. Tears filled his own eyes in reply.
He whispered, “You might not believe it, Sophie, but I did too.”
She blinked but did not look down at him.
He added, “I resented him, vied with him, grew irritated with him. But I always loved him. He was my brother, after all.”
Her glance flickered down and met his, apparently measuring his sincerity.
“I even admired him, though I rarely admitted it. Though I knew he thought little of me.”
“That’s not true,” she whispered. “He thought you were talented, and admired your ease with people. Your confidence. Though yes, he thought you irresponsible at times.”
“Most of the time, I’d wager. And he was probably right. But that was then. And this is now.”
“Oh? And what has changed?” She asked it mildly, with a slight humorless laugh that cut him, as though she already doubted whatever answer he would give.
“I have changed. Because now there is a woman I love, who needs me. A child I love. Our child. Who will need me too. I know I’ve made mistakes. Many mistakes . . .” He thought about the angry letter he had written to Marsh. Now, he regretted sending it. “But I want to make it right. I am not happy my brother is dead—”
“We don’t know that for certain,” she insisted, mouth tight, eyes drifting away again.
He gingerly took her hand in his. “You’re right. There is still hope. And we will pray for his safe return. Yet even if he does not, I am not without hope. Because a part of me thinks this might be my second chance. A chance to put your well-being and happiness above my own.”
“It would be quite a sacrifice to do so—is that what you are saying?”
“Of course not. Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said gently. “I know you are grieving right now. And so am I. But I think I may glimpse God’s hand in all of this.”
“I did not realize you were on close terms with God.”
“I haven’t been in the past. But these last weeks have driven me to my knees time and time again.”
“Me too,” she admitted.
Her eyes drifted back to the portrait. Her thoughts still of his brother and not of him. But she did not pull her hand from his grasp. And that was something.
After Wesley left her, Sophie blindly pushed her way into Winnie’s sitting room, not bothering to knock. The woman turned, startled, quickly shutting her bedchamber door behind her as though hiding something, but Sophie had noticed nothing embarrassing through her tears. Her throat tight and burning she said, “A letter came. It said—”
“Stephen is dead,” Winnie finished for her. “Yes, I know.”
Surprise flashed through Sophie. “But how . . . ? Did Kate or someone come up to tell you?”
Miss Whitney shook her head, faded blue eyes troubled and distant. “No, you’re the first.”
“You see? You know things, Winnie. Stephen says you’re always right. Is he really dead? Is he?”
“I don’t know.” The elderly woman shook her head again, eyes filled with worry and tears of her own. “I can’t hear his voice. I listen and listen and I can’t hear his voice.”
“You have heard Stephen’s voice in the past?” Sophie asked, incredulous and hopeful at once.
“Of course I have. He lived here, after all. I don’t expect to hear his voice when he’s gone. I meant God’s voice. I asked for Stephen’s life. I prayed. But no answer comes. I listen and listen, and I can’t hear His voice.”
chapter 26
On Sunday, the family attended church together. It was comforting to hear Mr. Nelson pray for Captain Overtree and other men from the parish whose fate was uncertain, or who had been injured or killed in the war. It was touching to receive the hopeful condolences and promises of prayer from many neighbors, tenants, and their servants.
Then followed another tense week of waiting. Mrs. Overtree went to the chapel every day to pray. Miss Blake came over often, to keep Kate company and offer what comfort and diversion she could. Mr. Keith often played the pianoforte for them, or joined them for a walk or game to pass the slowly crawling hours.
Sophie became more aware of a quickening within her body and savored those moments, those small assurances that her child was alive and well. She asked Mrs. Overtree to teach her to knit and she agreed. Mrs. Overtree confessed she did not particularly enjoy needlework but did a great deal of it as charity work. “After all,” she said, “‘it is more blessed to give than to receive.’”
The colonel retreated into himself, spending more time alone in his room, and began to look older than his years. Sophie noticed a slight bend in his back that had not been there before.
Sophie, determined to be true to her promise to watch over Winnie during the captain’s absence,
visited often, and brought her dainties saved from her own meals.
One afternoon, she cut flowers in the garden for Winnie, arranged them in a glass vase, and carried them upstairs. However, when she reached Winnie’s room, she found it empty. She’d been told the woman rarely ventured from the top floor. Sophie had seen her downstairs only once—the night Stephen left—though she suspected Winnie had come down at least one more time to leave that book for her. Where was she now? Sophie had seen no sign of her in any of the public rooms she’d passed, nor in the gardens.
Flora came down the passage, and Sophie asked her if she had seen Miss Whitney.
The housemaid shrugged, lips pursed. “No, ma’am. Not since I brought up her breakfast tray this mornin’. The kitchen maid’s job, but she has the day off on account of her father dyin’.”
“Oh. Thank you, Flora.”
Dying . . . Sophie did not like that word. She reminded herself that Stephen held an unflagging belief in eternal life. Since becoming better acquainted with Captain Overtree, and with God, Sophie hoped for heaven someday too. But that didn’t mean she was ready to part with Stephen yet.
The following week, two letters arrived. An official-looking one for the colonel, and another for the Overtree family from Ensign Hornsby.
When the family had gathered, the colonel unfolded the letters. Kate gripped Sophie’s hand. Wesley stood near Carlton Keith, while Mr. and Mrs. Overtree sat together on the sofa, faces drawn.
The terse reply from the colonel’s friend, Forsythe, offered no new information.
“Checked up and down the chain of command—official and unofficial sources. Afraid answer is the same. Captain Stephen Marshall Overtree of the 28th is missing and presumed dead. My deep condolences.”
The colonel went on to read aloud Hornsby’s second letter on the family’s behalf. The ensign began by saying he had visited all the hospital wards and surgery tents and found no sign of Captain Overtree. He added the following postscript:
“I don’t say it’s a proud military tradition, but tradition it is: the auctioning off of items pillaged from dead officers. So many were killed by the French that the prices were quite low. I recognized one specific watch among those piled alongside signet rings and dress swords awaiting auction. The watch is engraved with the inscription: To Stephen, on his 21st birthday, followed by the date. I was able to buy it for six shillings. Not for myself, of course, but for you. It is too risky to send by post, but I will find a way to return it to you when I return to England. Small consolation though I know it is.”
The words struck Sophie like a fist. Mrs. Overtree let out a keening wail at the description of the watch.
Colonel Horton crumpled the letter in his gnarled hand. His face crumpled as well. “I shall never forgive myself. It’s my fault. I pushed him. Prodded him. Thunder and turf, I even made his inheritance contingent on serving! So determined to have one of my grandsons follow in my footsteps. A way to relive my glory days, I suppose. Someone to brag about to my cronies. Someone to listen to my exploits, when no one else in the family cared. Selfish. Vain and stupid and selfish.”
He turned and walked shakily out the door.
Around the room, other family members cried and embraced one another. Kate collapsed in Sophie’s arms, and over the girl’s head she was touched to see tears streaming down Wesley’s face as well, while Mr. Keith clasped his shoulder. When Kate released her to fall sobbing into Wesley’s arms instead, Sophie slipped away to find the colonel.
She found him sitting, elbows on knees, on a padded bench in the upstairs corridor, looking at the old portrait of Stephen. He glanced over as Sophie approached, and the tears in the stoic grandfather’s eyes tore at her heart.
“He wanted to go into the church. Did you know that?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “I talked him out of it. Said he’d be wasted in some country parish, delivering sermons to sleeping parishioners and praying over the sick and dying instead of living life! Now look—he is the one dead. Cut down in his prime. Barely married. Never to see the face of his child. To hold him or her. Never to see you again, my dear. I am so sorry.”
Sophie sat next to the elderly man. Though what comfort she could offer she didn’t know. Not when Miss Whitney’s prediction had been correct after all.
She took his hand in hers. “It isn’t your fault, Colonel. It isn’t. Stephen knew he might die in battle, and he accepted that. He was ready to meet his maker.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head again. “He should never have given in to doubt. Fearing death invites death. How many times have I told him . . .” The old man’s shoulders began to shake. Sophie wrapped her arms around his hunched figure as best she could.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “It’s all right.” She repeated the phrase, trying to soothe herself as well.
When he’d calmed, she added gently, “If there were anything to be forgiven, you know Stephen already forgave you long ago. He loved you. Very much.”
He nodded. “He loved you too, Sophie.” He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “I gather yours was not a . . . love match. At least at first. But he did love you. Never doubt it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Had Stephen loved her? She wanted to believe it. But now she would never know for sure.
Before stepping outside a few days later, Sophie fastened a pelisse over her dress—chagrined to find it quite snug—and tied a bonnet under her chin. The weather was cloudy with intermittent rain. For a time the sun would shine, only for clouds to gather and release another grey drizzle. Like Sophie herself these days, never knowing when another wave of grief would wash over her.
Taking an umbrella for good measure, she crossed the drive and passed through the gate into the adjacent churchyard. She opened the creaking church door and left it open behind her to allow in more light and fresh air into the musty, lovely place.
She made her way up the aisle of the narrow nave to the front pew, sliding over to sit in a weak shaft of sunlight filtering bravely through the stained-glass windows. That’s how she felt. Weak. Wanting to be brave. She looked up and studied the stained glass more closely. A triumphant Jesus stood in the center panel—red robe, halo, staff—flanked by golden angels with wings of blue and green.
The light shone through the image of Jesus and onto her. Warmed her. Made the dreary stone chapel beautiful. He was, after all, the light of the world.
She laid a kneeling pad on the cold floor—its needlepoint cover made by Mrs. Overtree herself. Sophie knelt, forearms on the wooden rail in front of her. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.
“Almighty God. All powerful, knowing Father. Nothing is too difficult for you. Can you work a miracle? Bring Stephen back to us? Not just for my sake, but for his parents’, and Kate’s, and the colonel’s, and Winnie’s. . . . But if that is not your will, help me. Help us all to accept, and heal, and live. And show me what I should do without him. . . .” Warm tears slipped from beneath her closed eyelids and trailed down her cool cheeks. She let them flow unchecked.
A few sounds penetrated her prayer. The rumble of distant thunder. The caw of a crow. A scuff of shoe leather. The creak of the wooden pew beside her.
Sophie looked up through blurry eyes and found Mrs. Overtree laying her own kneeling pad on the floor.
“May I join you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Her mother-in-law’s gaze flickered over her face and Sophie ducked her head, sure she must be a mess of streaks and leaks. Mrs. Overtree withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and offered it to her. “Here.”
“But you might need it.”
“Indeed I shall. I go through a dozen a day it seems.” She managed a watery smile, pulled another handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed her nose.
Sophie wasn’t sure whether the woman wanted to talk or pray, but considering their surroundings, she again closed
her eyes and bowed her head.
“Sophie?”
“Hmm?” She looked up at her mother-in-law once more.
“I misjudged you. And I’m sorry.” She reached over and laid her gloved hand on Sophie’s, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Somehow the comforting act sent a fresh flood of tears to Sophie’s eyes. She shook her head, struggling to speak over her tight throat. “No,” she managed, chin quivering. “You were right about me. I didn’t deserve him.”
Answering tears filled Mrs. Overtree’s eyes. “Oh, my dear girl. You really did—do—love him, don’t you?”
Sophie nodded. If only she had realized it sooner.
During the following week, Sophie avoided the studio—where Wesley might find her alone, where the ruined portrait of Stephen stood like a pitiful memorial. She would have to scrape off the portions of his face streaked with dried paint and do her best to repair the portrait—no doubt giving him another “scar” in the process. Or paint several new layers of paint over all to cover the red marks, but that would be almost like starting his face all over again. And already, she couldn’t recall the details as clearly anymore. At all events, it seemed a daunting project, beyond her current energies and her skills.
Instead she spent time with Kate, Angela, and Mrs. Overtree, far more at ease with her mother-in-law than she had been before. She drew comfort from the female companionship and found the gentle stream of conversation—from trivial topics to deep insights as only women can do—soothing. Healing. She had spent so little time with women growing up, after her mother had died. She found she enjoyed their company—so different from that of men.
The four of them spent hours together in the morning room, knitting and doing netting work. Sophie took pleasure in creating in this whole new way. Together the women talked while their needles worked, making a baby blanket, a little woolen waistcoat, booties and caps. Her child would be well shod and clothed come winter. She wondered yet again if it would be a boy or a girl, especially now that he or she was making its presence felt with frequent movements. Sophie liked the name George for a boy, especially since Stephen had indirectly suggested it. But she still had not settled on a name for a girl.