Sophie bent to position her eyes in the holes, and this time felt a dizzy sense of unreality. It was as if she’d opened her eyes and found herself inside a familiar landscape she’d painted herself. She recognized the view. The vantage point. The way the great hall looked from this perspective—its windows high on the walls, the coat of arms over the immense hearth, the paneled screen dividing the great room from the entry doors. Although when she’d last seen it from this particular angle the room had not been empty and silent as it was now. But filled with brightly costumed people, dancing in Wesley’s painting of a masquerade ball—a ball he’d watched as a boy from this very spot.
Miss Blake said, “The Overtrees hosted a ball once, and the children were supposed to remain in the schoolroom with Nurse Whitney. But instead, Wesley and I sneaked down here to watch. He got caught.”
Wesley had not mentioned anyone had been with him when he’d watched the masquerade ball. Sophie wondered why.
Miss Blake added, “Sound carries very well from the hall.”
A bad feeling began worming its way through Sophie’s stomach. She glanced up at her companion, and the strange, expectant look in Miss Blake’s eyes only increased her sense of foreboding.
With a jolt, she remembered. She and Stephen had talked in the hall one day and thought they’d heard something . . . or someone nearby. And last night she and Wesley had talked as they passed through the hall together. Thinking they were all alone. Safe from listening ears.
Had Miss Blake overheard her conversation with Stephen that day? Had she been in the manor visiting Kate and slipped away to eavesdrop? Had she been here last night when she said she’d been visiting Winnie? Is this where she’d gotten the cobweb in her hair? If so, she might know the truth about her and Stephen and Wesley. Is that what she was telling her by giving her this little “tour” and showing her the squints?
Sophie was afraid to ask. Instead she whispered, “Do others know about these passages?”
“Do you mean besides Wesley and me?” Angela shrugged, “I suppose Mr. Overtree might, growing up here as he did. Though I can’t imagine him wandering about in all this dust. We didn’t tell Stephen. We liked to hide from him, as well as Winnie, when there were lessons to be done or lectures to be heard.”
Sophie asked, “What about Kate?”
Angela shook her head. “I did try to show her once, but I picked a poor time to do so—a stormy night. We’d gone no farther than the drafty priest hole when my candle blew out and she ran shrieking back out. Surprised everyone in the house did not learn about the passages then. She refused to go in after that, and I did not force her. I confess I liked having a secret with Wesley. Knowing something his own brother and sister did not.”
“Are there passages on the other floors?” Sophie asked.
Angela nodded. “The passage leads on to the old servants’ stairs I mentioned. So you can go upstairs or down. The stairs lead all the way to a hidden door in the scullery. I don’t know if there are exits on the upper floors or if they have been blocked. At least Wesley and I never found any others.”
Miss Blake’s foot kicked something and sent it skimming over the floor. She bent and picked it up, frowning at it by candle light. “That’s strange . . .”
“What is it?”
“Half a biscuit.” She handed Sophie the candle and broke it in two. “Still fresh. Someone else has been in here recently. Unless you hid a biscuit in that pocket of yours . . . ?”
“No.”
Angela looked closer. Sniffed. “Almond. Wesley’s favorite.”
But the discovery made Sophie think of another person who loved biscuits, though she decided not to mention it.
Sophie regarded Miss Blake’s profile by candlelight. Such fair skin spotted with freckles a shade lighter than her hair. Such delicate beauty. Such . . . unhappiness. Sophie wasn’t sure what had happened to her in the past, but knew the woman was troubled.
“Miss Blake, are you all right?” she asked.
“Hmm? Of course. Why should I not be all right?”
“If there is anything I can do. To help. Please let me know.”
The woman’s bow lip twisted bitterly. “How could you help me, Mrs. Overtree?”
“You’re right. There’s probably nothing I can do. But God can. So I will pray for you, if you don’t mind.”
“God? Ha! He abandoned me years ago. Five years ago, to be precise.”
“How did He?”
“He made me believe he loved me, knew I loved him, but he left me anyway.”
Were they still talking about God? Somehow Sophie doubted it.
chapter 28
Wesley was crossing the hall when Thurman brought in the post on its silver tray. Wesley paused and idly fingered through letters to his mother, a new magazine for Kate, and a letter addressed to the Overtree family. He did not recognize the handwriting, but the Brussels postmark certainly caught his attention. He carried the letter into the parlour, but no one was about. He supposed he should wait for one of his parents to open it, but he was part of the Overtree family, after all, and something about the letter sent a prickle of foreboding over him, which made him want to read it immediately—and dread doing so at the same time.
Standing near the parlour window, he unsealed the letter, unfolded it, and read.
To my family,
A few lines to let you know I am alive. I regret you were given cause to think the worst. I have taken saber wounds in both shoulders, one severe. I hope I will not lose the arm. Your prayers are appreciated. I was separated from my regiment for a time, and briefly held as a prisoner of war, but managed to escape by God’s grace. I will write with more details when I am able. For now, I will recover here in Brussels along with many of my men.
Yours,
Captain Stephen Overtree
Cpl A.K.
Exaltation rose in Wesley’s heart. To be the bearer of such news to his grieving family! A second later, his stomach cramped, as he saw his hoped-for future with Sophie fading away. A part of him wished he had pressed his advantage while he could. Sophie had warmed to him again, allowed him to hold her hand, and tentatively smiled at him when their paths crossed. He’d begun to believe it would be only a matter of time before they were together. Losing her now would rip the heart from his chest. Perhaps he should have convinced her to run away with him earlier, but with the war barely over and a child on the way it had not seemed wise. Besides, he’d thought he had all the time in the world with Marsh gone.
For one irrational moment, he considered burning or hiding the letter, to keep the news from Sophie as long as possible. It was foolish, of course.
Even he was not that selfish.
He went upstairs, found Sophie in the attic studio, and extended the letter toward her with little preamble.
“I thought you should see this first.”
“What is it?” She wiped her hands on a cloth and accepted the letter. She read. Inhaled a sharp breath and looked up at him, wide-eyed. “He’s alive!”
He nodded his head, watching her face closely.
She read the letter again, then slowly lowered it, resolutely meeting his gaze. “He’s alive.”
Again he nodded. So many words went through his mind, “It doesn’t mean the end for us . . . He doesn’t even mention you or indicate his regard for you. He doesn’t love you as I do—doesn’t even pretend to. Let’s leave now before he returns . . .” But he said none of them.
“You haven’t told anyone else yet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one was about when the post arrived.”
“They’ll be so happy.”
“Yes. Of course they will. And . . . so am I.”
“Are you?”
He forced a small smile. “I will be.” He took her hand in his, glad she did not pull away, wondering if it was the last time he would be able to do so. Please, God, no . . .
“And you?” he asked.
She nodded, letter pr
essed to her chest. “Of course I am. It’s the answer to my prayers.”
Rising, she said, “Well, let’s not keep this to ourselves another moment. You tell them. I don’t trust my voice.”
On their way past, Sophie insisted they stop at Winnie’s room and tell her the news. For once the old goat seemed taken by surprise, her “sixth sense” apparently failing her. Winnie hugged Sophie and thanked God again and again.
Downstairs, his family were at first afraid to believe their ears or their eyes. But when everyone had read the letter and read it again, joy swept through their midst. Happy tears and embraces and praising God passed from one to the next.
“But it isn’t even his handwriting,” his mother said, a vestige of doubt creasing her brow.
The colonel nodded. “See the smaller initials here? Cpl A.K.—the corporal who wrote the letter as Stephen dictated.”
Did that explain his impersonal tone? Wesley wondered. His failure to mention Sophie?
“Doesn’t have the use of his hand, apparently,” the colonel added. “Yet.”
His mother grimaced. “He must be bad indeed. Poor Stephen.”
“Prisoner of war . . .” Kate echoed, her voice tremulous. “I hope they weren’t cruel to him.”
“At least it doesn’t sound as though he was held for long,” his father said. “Though any delay in treating such severe wounds . . .” He grimly shook his head.
His mother said, “If only we could bring him home—or send Dr. Matthews to him there.”
The colonel strode to the door, a man on a mission. “I will see what I can find out about his prognosis, who’s treating him, and when he will be released.”
“Thank you, Papa.” His mother drew herself up. “In the meantime, let’s all dedicate ourselves to doing what Stephen asks of us—and pray.”
The next day they received another letter from Ensign Hornsby. Wesley waited impatiently while the family gathered and his father read it aloud.
“Dear Mrs. Overtree, Mr. and Mrs. Overtree, and family,
Hopefully by now, word has reached you that Captain Stephen Overtree is alive. Unfortunately, the bandsmen who comb the fields for wounded either did not see him, trapped beneath a horse as he was, or left him for dead in their hurry to catch up with the troops already marching north to fight Boney at Waterloo.
He suffered a head wound and sustained saber wounds to his right hand and both shoulders—one very severe. (Perhaps his epaulets deflected the blow of one strike, but that is only a guess.) The surgeons believe his right side will heal, but are not certain they will be able to save his left arm. Perhaps if they had been able to operate sooner . . .
The captain is his usual stoic self, and rarely talks about himself, and certainly never boasts. But under the influence of laudanum I was able to pry out a little of the story, knowing you his family would be eager to hear.
Apparently a French patrol found him the following day, levered the horse off him (thankfully his legs were not crushed), and took him prisoner. After the battle of Waterloo, the French guard grew lax and the captain made his escape. He says it was easily done, as the French knew they were defeated and were more interested in going home than in guarding prisoners. I doubt it was as easy as he says, but he is modest that way. Even so, by the time he walked many miles toward Brussels, and collapsed near the edge of town, he was in a bad state indeed. We can thank God he is still alive.
When he was found, bleeding and insensible, and carried to one of the military hospitals, he had been stripped of anything of value that might have identified him—purse, letters, watch. Even his coat had been taken from him. Perhaps by one of his own company, who pick the pockets of the dead for what they can get, greedy vultures, as I mentioned before. All he had of a personal nature was a miniature portrait clutched in his hand. (He had shown it to me once before, so I recognized the portrait of his wife.) How relieved I was to find him at last—and alive.
I apologize for leading you to believe the worst. Please forgive me. My letter was well meant if premature. You will understand that the captain is in no fit state to write letters, nor will he be likely to hold pen and ink for some time, but if anything new develops, I shall write again. In the meantime, he will continue to recover, God willing, here in Brussels with other men of the 28th.
Sincerely,
Hornsby”
Portrait of his wife? Wesley wondered with a frown as his father finished reading. Where did Marsh get a miniature portrait of Sophie? He had a good guess. His brother had taken the woman without asking, why not the portrait? With effort, Wesley swallowed his resentment, and thanked God again that his brother was alive.
“Can one of us not go there?” his mother implored. “Help nurse him? Heaven knows what sort of condition that hospital is in—overcrowded filthy place, no doubt, and incompetent surgeons in the bargain.”
His father soothed, “My dear, I am sure he is in good hands.”
“I wished I shared your confidence, Alan,” the colonel put in.
“I cannot go,” his mother said. “Not and leave you on your own. Your health being what it is . . .”
“Of course you should not even think about going, my dear. No place for a lady. Nor should Sophie. Especially not in her condition.”
“I shall go.” The colonel rose and drew his shoulders back as though at attention.
“Papa . . . You are too old to go traipsing off to war-torn Belgium.”
“Shall I go?” Wesley offered. “I suppose it’s only right, the way Marsh has chased after me all these years.”
Lieutenant Keith slowly shook his head. “I . . . don’t think that’s the best idea . . .” He glanced at Sophie, eyes wary.
“Why not?” Wesley challenged. Surely CK didn’t think he would harm his own brother?
“Because it is dangerous, and one of the Overtree sons needs to stay in one piece. You are the heir, after all. Shouldn’t risk it.” Carlton Keith inhaled resolutely. “I am the best man for the job,” he said. “If anyone goes, it should be me.”
“You, Flap?” Wesley chided, irrationally irritated. “And what good will you do?”
“Wesley . . .” His mother admonished. “That isn’t kind.”
“If the captain does end up losing an arm, well, I know a thing or two about that, don’t I?” Keith said. “And I am not as likely to call him disparaging names as you are.”
Wesley put his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen your nursemaid skills, don’t forget, and they leave much to be desired.”
“That’s enough, Wes,” his grandfather said. “I’ll brook no disrespect for an officer, especially one who gave so much for his country.”
Mr. Keith rose. “Thank you, Colonel. Perhaps you might advise me on the best route and supply a letter of introduction should I encounter any obstacles, and perhaps to present to the officer in charge?”
“Immediately.”
“And of course we shall fund the journey, Lieutenant,” Mr. Overtree said. “That goes without saying.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wesley bit back the retort on his lips, He wouldn’t make it far otherwise—never goes anywhere on his own shilling. Wesley knew it would reflect poorly on him to disparage the man willing to go and help the injured war hero. Was he doing it to impress Angela? He’d noticed the two spending time together. Well, there was a woman Wesley would like to impress as well.
That night, Sophie lay in bed, unable to sleep, reviewing the events of the day. She thought again of hearing the letter read. How her heart had leapt to hear her portrait had been found in Stephen’s hand! Even as she hated the thought of all he had suffered, and was suffering still, she thanked God for the confirmation that Captain Overtree was indeed alive. She was thrilled at the news. Drop-to-her-knees grateful. And a little confused.
She had begun to wonder if Wesley might be right—that God meant for them to be together. But now this. . . . She felt dizzy at this reversal of fate and feelings. Her battered
heart sore but beating a little faster at the thought of Captain Overtree’s return.
If he learned she’d briefly entertained the notion of a future with Wesley, would he think her unfaithful—in thought if not in deed? And what about Wesley’s accusation that Stephen had married her out of revenge? If he had, would he ever truly love her? Whatever the case, knowing he was alive changed everything. She hoped Wesley realized that as well.
Even so, Sophie had been touched and impressed when Wesley offered to go to Belgium. But she had seen the look Mr. Keith had given her. Did he fear Wesley would do more harm than good, perhaps even intentionally? She would never believe it of him. Whatever Mr. Keith’s motives, however, she was glad he was going to the captain’s aid. He had also agreed to carry a letter she’d written to the captain, and promised to deliver it in person.
Sophie lay awake so long, she grew hungry again. Her stomach rumbled its protest. She supposed she could call for Libby and ask her to bring her something, but she hated to wake the kind maid when she had probably just gone to bed. No use in both of them being up.
She rose and wrapped her dressing gown as far around her as it would go, the ties covering her belly if the sides did not. Taking her candle, she went all the way downstairs to the kitchen larder and cut herself a wedge of cheese and a slice of bread. She ate them right there at the worktable with as much relish as if in a Royal Crescent dining room.
On her way back through the hall, Sophie found herself looking up to see if she could spot the squint holes in the musicians’ gallery. There it was—the plaster mask on the gallery wall, its jester face grinning down at her. Sophie gasped. The eyes were glowing! A shiver scurried over her like spider legs. The eyes flickered another second, then faded. Someone walking through the secret passage with a candle?
Miss Blake would not be there at this hour. Then who was it . . . Winnie?
Sophie wasn’t sure. Was she brave enough to investigate? She would at least position herself near the priest hole and see who emerged.