Now and again, Sophie visited Winnie, taking a lopsided cap or bootie to show the woman her efforts, and a scone or a bowl of strawberries. Usually, she found Winnie feeding the birds to her cat’s amusement, or reading on the settee, Gulliver purring on her lap. But one day, Sophie entered to find Winnie standing at the window alone.
“It’s strange,” Winnie said, turning to face her. “I haven’t seen Gulliver for a few days. I don’t suppose he’s crossed your path?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Sophie replied, holding forth a wrapped lemon scone.
“Ah, well. I’m sure he’s just roaming about the neighborhood, naughty boy. In fact, I saw him from the window last week, courting another cat in the churchyard.”
Winnie accepted the offered scone and took a crumbly bite. “You haven’t been to the schoolroom lately,” she observed.
“No.” Sophie ducked her head, embarrassed to remember the scene the woman had witnessed between her and Wesley there more than a month ago.
Winnie set aside her plate and gripped Sophie’s hand. “All is not lost, my girl. What is ruined is not ruined forever.”
Sophie blinked at the woman. Was she referring to the fact that Sophie had been ruined, or what? Her cheeks heated with shame.
“Go on.” Winnie tipped her head toward the wall shared with the schoolroom. “Go and see.”
Sophie heard a shuffling noise from the next room. She whispered, “Is Wesley in there?”
“I should imagine so. But how would I know? I may have eyes in the back of my head, but I can’t see through walls. Usually.” She winked.
Sophie shook her head. “I’ll wait ’til he leaves.”
“Oh, go on. I think you’ll be safe enough. Just shout if he tries anything and my trusty broom and I will be there in two shakes.”
Sophie tentatively pushed open the old schoolroom door. Inside, things looked much as she had last seen them. Portrait on easel. Wesley standing, hands on hips. But the scene had a stillness. A peacefulness that the last encounter between them had lacked. He stood, not glaring down at anything, but with his back to her, staring out the window.
He slowly turned as she entered, his expression guarded. He glanced toward the portrait, then back at her, waiting, wary. Did he think she would rage at him for spoiling it?
She steeled herself and glanced over, telling herself to remain calm. It was only a painting. Only one of hers. She could bear one look.
Instead she turned and stared. Walked closer and studied the painting. Sunlight from the window shone gently upon Captain Overtree’s face.
His perfect face.
“You repaired it,” she breathed.
“I hope you aren’t angry. I know you told me not to, but I had to do something. I had to try. . . . If you don’t like it, you can paint over it. You would have had to anyway. I did my best to remain true to your style and brush work, and—”
“It’s perfect.” He had not only repaired the painting but improved it. Subtly, carefully. In a way that did not leave her feeling violated or discouraged. He had not commandeered her work or made it his. He had cleaned it up, polished it, removed extraneous or distracting bits, highlighted its strengths, and downplayed its weaknesses. It was masterfully done.
“Thank you,” she managed, her heart full.
He came and stood beside her. Close, but not touching. Not presuming.
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he began. “About the portrait. About Stephen. About leaving you in the first place. Truly, I am, and I hope you will forgive me.”
Sophie hesitated. Was she ready to forgive him? For all the upheaval, all the heartache, all the uncertainty?
When she did not reply, hurt and resignation crossed his handsome face, but he continued gently, “I love you, but I won’t pressure you. If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.”
She managed a wobbly nod, knowing she would cry again if she tried to speak.
Wesley stood memorizing every cherished feature, longing to take her in his arms but mustering the self-control to resist. Sophie looked so fragile standing there. So vulnerable with her thin hands, her wan damp face, her rounded middle—a portrait of loss and life.
“I will miss him too, Sophie. Don’t think I won’t. For all my complaints about Marsh, I depended on him. Loved him.” Tears blurred his vision.
Looking up at him, Sophie’s eyes downturned all the more, and she held out her hand to him.
He took it, and slowly drew her close. He gently, chastely, put his arms around her. She stood rigid a moment, then melted into his embrace, laying her cheek against his shoulder.
He held her trembling body, the swell of their growing child between them.
But, they had more than a child between them. They had history. Shared loss. And shared hope for the future. And he very much hoped, shared love as well. It would take time, he knew, and he would have to allow her to grieve.
He wondered again if what the maid Flora had told him was true—that Sophie and Stephen had not slept in the same bed—had perhaps not even consummated their marriage. Even if it wasn’t grounds for an annulment in England, in several other countries it would be. . . .
But Wesley decided against raising the topic. With Marsh dead, it was a moot point. And whatever the case, Sophie’s grief was real. And he needed to, and would, respect that. But he believed—hoped—that somewhere deep beneath her grief and disappointment, she still nurtured feelings for him. Yes, he would have to be cautious. Tread carefully and not chase her away. She had loved him once, he knew, and he would earn her love again, if it was the last thing he did.
chapter 27
Sophie had avoided writing to her father, hoping she wouldn’t have to. Finally, she sent a letter with the sad news, assuring him she was well, and he needn’t worry about her.
It was mostly true. The throbbing ache of grief continued to hollow out her heart, weigh her down, sap her strength. Yet she could not deny that a part of her had warmed to Wesley. She appreciated his retreat, his quiet support and consideration, his affection for his parents and sister, his willingness to talk about Stephen in nostalgic tones, both proud and humorous in turns. She loved when he recounted journeys they had taken as a family, or boyhood exploits—riding and jumping the wall the colonel had told them to stay clear of, fishing when they were supposed to be studying, and pulling harmless pranks on Miss Blake, Kate, or even Winnie.
Mrs. Overtree’s eyes brightened with tears or took on a dreamy remembrance whenever he spoke of the past. But she smiled now and again, too, chuckled, or shook her head in maternal exasperation to learn of some boyhood mischief she’d not known about.
Sophie found this Wesley—repentant and respectful—far more appealing than resentful, passionate Wesley. And she tucked away in her injured heart that he had finally said he loved her—outright and in person.
She also took comfort in the fact that Wesley had asked her to forgive him for leaving her. Seeing him soothe and comfort his grieving parents and grandfather, how could she withhold forgiveness from him any longer?
One evening, as they walked downstairs and through the hall together on their way to dinner, Sophie said, “You asked me to forgive you, and I do. I sincerely appreciate your kindness and your change of heart.”
He quietly replied, “Thank you. It doesn’t mean I have given up hope, Sophie. I believe we are meant to be together, but I am willing to wait as long as it takes.”
“For how long?” she asked lightly. “Until England changes its laws? The law doesn’t allow a brother and sister-in-law to marry, Wesley, even had we proof Stephen is truly . . . gone.”
Wesley waved her objection away with an expressive hand. “It’s not an insurmountable obstacle. We will wait a respectful amount of time, then sail to Italy—or France once it’s safe. They don’t have such laws there.”
Napoleon was being exiled again, this time to distant St. Helena off the coast of Africa. The authorities were taking no chances this time. If
all went as planned, it would soon be safe to travel to France once again.
Even so, Sophie shook her head. “No, Wesley. I’ve had my fill of scandal, thank you. And your family has barely recovered from one elopement. I’m sorry, but no.”
They joined the others gathered in the anteroom, awaiting the butler’s signal.
Kate glanced at the long-case clock with a little frown. “Angela is late. I expected her by now.”
“Oh, is she joining us tonight?” Sophie asked.
“Yes. At least I thought so. Mamma invited her, since her father and brother are away again.”
Thurman appeared and announced dinner was served. They filed into the dining room, took their usual places, and picked up their table napkins.
Miss Blake hurried into the room, then slowed her pace, smiling around the table. “I’m sorry to be late. Do forgive me.”
“Where have you been?” Mr. Keith asked. “I thought I saw you come through the garden door an hour ago.”
Kate turned to look at her as well. “Did you?”
Angela hesitated. “Oh, I . . . ran upstairs to chat with Winnie, and lost track of the time.”
“That was kind of you,” Sophie said.
“If surprising,” Wesley added.
“It was nothing. Now, don’t let me hold up the meal.”
The green-pea soup was served, and with it crimped perch with a Dutch sauce. “For Sophie,” Mrs. Overtree said with a little smile.
Kate laid down her spoon and leaned nearer, peering at Miss Blake’s head.
“What’s wrong?” Angela whispered. “Hair out of place?”
“Looks like a cobweb. . . .” Kate reached over and extracted it for her.
Miss Blake self-consciously ran a hand over her hair. “Thank you. Probably from the attic. Always a hazard when venturing up there. Don’t you agree, Sophie?”
“Hmm? Oh, I hadn’t really noticed. But I’m sure you’re right.” Sophie smiled vaguely at the woman.
Angela went on to recount some of her brother’s plans for his wedding trip, but Sophie wasn’t really listening. Her thoughts were soon drawn back to Wesley and his unflagging belief that they were meant to be together.
Conflicting emotions needled her. She had come to admire and love Stephen, and mourned his loss. Wesley had his flaws, she knew, but he was the father of her child, and had said he loved her. Something his brother had not done. Although Stephen had said, “Live or die, my heart is yours . . .” So, perhaps the colonel was right and Stephen did love her, or might have, had he lived.
Sophie felt Miss Blake’s gaze return to her several times during the meal, and began to wonder if she had something in her own hair.
If Stephen was dead, must Sophie remain alone all her days, and her child fatherless? Would it dishonor the captain’s memory to someday entertain Wesley’s proposal? It would certainly scandalize his family.
Oh, Lord, Sophie prayed. Help me guard my tongue. My heart. My honor. Help me do what’s right. Sophie’s faith had grown over the months of attending services with the Overtrees, and praying and reading on her own. One of the proverbs she’d learned echoed through her mind at that moment: “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” She sincerely hoped God would guide her. For on her own, she did not know what to do.
The next day, Kate stayed in bed nursing a headache, so Sophie was alone in the morning room when Miss Blake arrived for her usual morning call.
Sophie looked up from her knitting. “Hello, Angela. I am afraid it’s just me today. Kate is in bed with a headache. Mrs. Overtree may join us later, but Mr. Overtree has a trifling sniffle, so for now she won’t leave his bedside.”
Miss Blake peeled off her gloves. “That’s all right. This will give you and I a chance to become better acquainted.”
Why did that notion make Sophie nervous?
“Would you like to read one of Kate’s magazines,” Sophie offered halfheartedly, “or perhaps play a game of draughts?”
“I think not, thank you. Were it not such a dreary day I would suggest a turn about the grounds.” Her green eyes lit. “I know. I will take you on a tour of the house.”
“That is very kind,” Sophie replied. “But Mrs. Overtree has already given me the complete tour and named every ancestor in every portrait, I assure you.”
“Oh, I doubt she has shown you everything.” Again the woman’s green eyes glinted in her narrow, freckled face. “Come. I think you will enjoy it.”
Sophie set aside her needles and yarn, and rose. “Very well. I would like to stretch my legs in any case.”
Miss Blake led the way across the hall, pointing out the jester mask high on the wall in the musicians’ gallery. “Have you noticed that before?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’ll see.” Together they climbed the stairs, Angela pausing to pick up a candle lamp on the landing.
Sophie asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a secret. You like secrets, don’t you?”
“Not especially.”
“Well you certainly have some.” Angela lowered her voice. “And so do I. . . .”
Miss Blake walked past the family bedchambers and around the corner. The corridor ended in a small alcove with a window seat overlooking the hedge maze below. There, as in most of the house, the paneled wainscoting rose over six feet tall, half the height of the rooms.
Miss Blake turned to her left, to a wall that looked like every other, slid her fingers behind a carved filigree, and pulled. A three-foot-by-five-foot section of wainscoting swung toward her like a small door, revealing a narrow chamber within.
Sophie inhaled a breath of surprise.
“This is an old priest hole,” Angela said. “Many old houses have a secret room or passage, to allow someone to hide if he were, say, a priest during the reign of Elizabeth the First, or someone who found himself on the wrong side between Charles the Second and Cromwell.”
Angela stepped in, gestured for Sophie to follow, and then pulled the paneled door closed behind them. Inside the room, there was no paneling, but rather exposed timbers on the walls and beams on the ceiling above. One small window high on the exterior wall added to the candle’s light, illuminating a single bed, tiny table, and a cross on the wall.
“Wesley and I used to hide in here as children and pretend his nurse was one of Cromwell’s roundheads, come to kill us.”
Sophie looked around the dim, stark room, trying to imagine hiding there for any length of time. “My goodness. That’s rather . . . frightening.”
Miss Blake nodded her agreement. “Yes, deliciously so.”
Sophie traced her fingers over one of the timbers. “Look. Someone’s carved their initials here. W.D.O. + J.A.B.”
“Very observant.”
“Wesley plus . . . Who’s J?” Sophie asked, the name “Jenny” going through her mind once again.
“Jane, I believe. One of the girls he used to admire. But never mind that now. That’s not what I brought you here to see.” Miss Blake stepped to another of the broad timbers running vertically along the interior wall. “There used to be a back passageway and stairs for the servants to use, to slip in and out of the family bedchambers without being seen,” she explained. “But the house has been altered over the years, so access became difficult and they fell out of use. But you can still get to them through here.”
She bent, grasped a nail near the bottom, and pulled. The entire long beam lifted from the floor on a hidden pivot, revealing a narrow passage about fifteen or sixteen inches wide.
“If the house was being searched, a man could escape from this room either into the corridor we came from or through this passage, depending on which direction his pursuers were coming from.”
Miss Blake eyed Sophie’s middle dubiously. “Perhaps I should have given you this tour earlier. I hope you shall fit.”
“And I hope I don’t get stuck,” Sophie mumbled, feeling uneasy. She wondered what had
prompted Angela to bring her here now.
Slender Miss Blake easily slipped through the opening, and Sophie followed suit, sucking in her midsection and making herself as small as possible. In another few weeks she doubted she would have managed it.
“Watch your head,” Miss Blake warned.
Candle lamp held high, they walked for several yards. “Shh,” Miss Blake warned. “We’re behind the family bedchambers now.”
A passage ran behind her bedchamber? Did that explain the muffled footsteps and voices she sometimes heard? Who had it been? And if she could hear them, did that mean they could hear her and Stephen talking inside? A chill went over her at the thought.
“This is the first squint, placed here so one might see who was coming up the stairs, I imagine.”
Miss Blake gestured toward two small holes, spaced apart, like eyes.
Sophie leaned close and peered out. It took her a moment to recognize the scene before her. There was the newel post at the top of the stairs, and there the Gainsborough landscape. And there came Flora carrying an armful of linens.
“Let’s keep going.” Miss Blake walked on, and Sophie hurried to catch up, not wanting to lose the light . . . or her guide. An eerie feeling crept up her neck at the thought of figures tiptoeing behind the rooms of this old house like mice crawling behind the walls, or like men fleeing for their lives.
Miss Blake whispered, “Tread quietly; we are near Mrs. Overtree’s boudoir.”
Sophie complied, dreading to be caught skulking around her mother-in-law’s private apartment.
The passage ended at a T. They turned left and walked on until Miss Blake paused before another set of holes. “And this is my favorite. The squint in the musicians’ gallery, overlooking the great hall.”