“Miss Overtree. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. And are you a budding artist, like your brother? I do hope he has painted your portrait. If he hasn’t, I would be honored to do so.”
“He has,” Kate replied. “Though Sophie has painted another more recently. It’s lovely . . .”
Sophie relaxed fractionally when Maurice turned his attention to Kate, but Wesley, she noticed, seemed to grow increasingly tense.
When Maurice finally took his leave, Sophie made her escape. But not before she heard Mrs. Overtree hiss to her son, “What was that young man going on about?”
Sophie didn’t wait to hear Wesley’s reply. She hurried upstairs, all the way up to the studio. Her sanctuary. There, she was drawn to the basket in the corner, where the kittens suckled, their little paws kneading their mother’s belly, while Gulliver lay, languid and content. One little kitten popped off, asleep, and Sophie bent and picked it up. It was her favorite among them—tiny and grey with an unusual marking—a white patch that spotted its nose like cream. Cuddling it close, Sophie absorbed from the warm, soft body what comfort she could. God willing, she would soon hold her own child in similar fashion. What comfort that would be. What sweet consolation after all the strife surrounding the babe’s existence and pending arrival. Sophie stroked the soft fur and prayed for her little one. What sort of childhood would he or she have? Dear God, watch over us. Please protect my child. . . .
Wesley’d had to control himself not to rebuke O’Dell and tell him to stop staring at his sister. Stop flirting with her too. For a moment he’d heard his own voice in the young man’s flattery, and the realization sent a chill through him.
When O’Dell finally departed and Sophie left the room, his mother hissed, “What was that young man going on about?”
“Don’t mind him, Mamma. He is a jackanapes. Sophie rejected him long ago and he is still bitter.” And vengeful, he added to himself.
Her cool gaze met his. “I think it is time you showed me those paintings.”
Wesley forestalled his mother yet again, and went upstairs to find Sophie. Things were getting out of hand. If O’Dell knew about him and Sophie, wasn’t it only a matter of time until her father found out? And Wesley’s recent paintings would certainly raise suspicions among his own family.
A surge of desperation flared through Wesley. Now that Keith had gone to see if he could bring Marsh home, this might very well be his last chance. He was running out of time to make Sophie see reason.
How could he convince her to realize and admit the truth: He loved her. Marsh did not.
Wesley let himself into the attic studio and found her staring out the window, cradling one of the kittens. She turned when he entered, mouth open in surprise.
Before she could object he said, “Sophie, listen to me. If I thought he loved you, if I thought there was a chance of happiness for the two of you, then of course I would never suggest you leave the man everyone sees as your husband. But he cares more for his regiment than he does for you. And when he recovers, he will go off with them for months—years—at a time. What sort of life would that be for you or our child? But I love you. And you love me. Don’t deny yourself happiness because of my mistakes and Marsh’s rash offer of marriage.”
She gave him a dour look. “And my rash acceptance?”
“No. I don’t blame you. Marsh made you doubt me—made you think you had no other choice. I wrote to him and told him how I felt. Told him that we love each another. And that you should not have to carry on this ruse of a marriage out of duty, or to protect the Overtree name.”
She stilled, staring at him. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? He was wrong, and it isn’t right you and I should have to suffer for it.”
Sophie stepped away and returned the kitten to its mother, probably giving herself time to fashion a rebuttal.
Before she could, Wesley went on, “We could leave separately. You could say you are returning to your own family. And I . . . on one of my painting trips. Then we can meet and decide what to do next. Find a place to live here in England until the child comes and it is safe to travel. Or if you feel up to it, go somewhere now. To Italy, perhaps. Somewhere we might annul this ruse, and marry before the baby is born. We can still be happy. Live as husband and wife. Parents to our child. As it was meant to be. As it still can be.”
She shook her head. “I am already married. I have a husband. His name is Captain Stephen Overtree. And I shall not betray him.”
“But he is your husband in name only,” Wesley insisted. “The marriage has never even been consummated.”
She gaped at him, clearly stunned. “How do you know that?”
Triumph washed over him. “I was told about your sleeping arrangements, and guessed the rest. Non-consummation may not be grounds for annulment in England, but in another country . . .”
She frowned. “What sort of woman do you take me for? The captain is severely injured. And this is the news you would have await him when he returns? That his wife has run off with his brother?”
“We needn’t tell anyone our plan, if you prefer to keep it quiet. For a time, at least.”
“And you would never see your family again? Or lie to them for the rest of your days? And what about me? Am I to live as a kept woman in some isolated cottage somewhere, spurned by moral society, living for the few days a month you can get away to visit us? Never to see your parents or mine? You think a great deal too much of yourself, Wesley Overtree. That I would give up my family and yours and every last ounce of self-respect simply to be with you.”
“Sophie . . .” He was taken aback. She had never spoken so forcefully before. “What a vile picture you paint. It won’t be like that. We will have a loving home somewhere scenic with new landscapes to paint every day. Our precious, perfect child will grow up with a father and mother who love him or her. We can travel together. Paint together. Raise our son or daughter to love beauty and art.”
She raised her hands. “You are heir to Overtree Hall. Do you forget it? How long would you stay with me? Would you give up all of this for some little cottage far from here?”
“Yes, I would.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“But you love me. I know you do.”
“I did love you, Wesley. But that has changed. Everything has changed.”
Wesley bridged the gap between them and grasped her shoulders. “But I love you. I need you.”
His arms looped around her back, pulling her as close as her rounded middle allowed. He tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned her head and pushed at his chest.
“Wesley, don’t. It isn’t right.”
He kept his arms around her, trailing his lips over her cheek. “Yes, it is. It will be.”
“Good heavens. What is going on here?”
Sophie gasped and turned her head toward the door. No. The Overtrees had followed their son upstairs.
Mrs. Overtree stood there, her husband right behind her. “Let her go, Wesley.”
Sophie’s chest tightened, and she found herself suddenly dizzy. Wesley released her but remained close to her side.
Mr. Overtree’s face slackened in incredulity. “Stephen is lying injured in a military hospital and you betray him like this?”
“I feared something like this would happen.” Mrs. Overtree’s cold eyes fastened on her.
“I did not betray him,” Sophie protested.
Mrs. Overtree’s mouth twisted. “No? What do you call it?”
“This isn’t what you think, Mamma.”
“Dashed stupid, Wesley.” His father scowled. “Could you not leave her alone?”
Wesley sighed. “Capital. Mamma blames Sophie. Papa blames me, and Stephen is the poor victim, when nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Are you telling me nothing happened between you? When I find her in your arms. And you kissing her?”
“Nothing has happened. Not since she married Stephen. But w
e knew each other in Lynmouth. . . .”
Sophie pleaded, “Wesley, don’t.”
Mrs. Overtree whipped open the door with a bang. “It’s time you showed us what’s in that crate, Wesley. I’m through taking no for an answer. That O’Dell fellow was hinting at something unsavory, and it’s time to have it over and done.”
Mr. Overtree frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Wesley’s jaw clenched. “You want to see those paintings, Mamma? Very well.” He snagged Sophie’s hand and pulled her along behind him. “Follow me. All of you.”
“Wesley, no . . .” Sophie moaned.
“It’s time for the truth to come out.” He led her down the stairs and along the corridor to his rooms.
Behind them, his father called, “Wesley, release Sophie. Be gentle with her!”
“I am not hurting her.”
“Yes. You. Are,” she panted out.
Wesley threw back the door to his studio, gestured them all inside, and closed the door behind him—perhaps afraid Sophie might flee the room. She was certainly tempted to do just that.
She saw the crate in the corner and dread mounted.
He pointed to it. “Read the delivery direction, Papa.”
His father bent and squinted at it. “‘Mr. Wesley Overtree, Overtree Hall, Wickbury, Gloucestershire.’ So?”
“And where it came from?”
“Lynmouth, Devonshire.”
“This is the crate of paintings Stephen had delivered home from Devon for me. My paintings from the winter, weeks before he ever set foot in the county. I met Sophie long before he did,” Wesley said. “He should never have married her.”
“Is that what this is about—jealousy?” his father scoffed. “You’re trying to prove you set your sights on her first?”
In reply, Wesley picked up a crowbar lying nearby—as though he’d been waiting for just the right time to reveal its contents.
With a creak and a groan and a splinter, he pried up the lid and laid it aside. He pawed out the paper wrapping and began pulling forth one canvas after another and lining them up along the walls.
Sophie’s stomach wrenched, and she feared she would be ill. Her body flushed and perspired, and she could look at no one, her mortified gaze flicking from one portrait to the next and recognizing herself in more than she remembered posing for. From demure, reluctant poses, to private smiles and admiring glances, to the Grecian robes he’d insisted she don, and then slipped from one shoulder . . .
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Mr. Overtree pronounced, his voice as dry as crushed November leaves, his expression as withering. “You said you knew Sophie from Lynmouth, but I didn’t think you meant you’d known her . . . like this.”
Sophie’s face burned, and she ducked her head.
“I’m sorry, Sophie. I don’t do this to embarrass you,” Wesley said gently. “But yes. I knew Sophie first. I met her last year and spent more time with her this winter, before I left for Italy. We . . . fell in love. Don’t look at her like that, Mamma. She was an innocent, proper young lady until I came along, I assure you.”
“And the child . . . ?” his mother asked.
“Is mine, yes,” Wesley replied.
“What?” his father’s face contorted in disbelief.
“I didn’t know she was with child. I left for Italy, and when Stephen came looking for me, he met Sophie and took advantage of the situation. He didn’t even try to find me!”
Mrs. Overtree turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell Wesley you were carrying his child?”
“He left before I gathered my courage to do so. I thought he might ask. Guess.”
“Foolish girl.”
“I left without warning, and she had no idea how long I would be gone,” Wesley defended her. “She felt desperate and believed Stephen’s assessment of my character—that I would not return, and could not be counted on to do the right thing even if I did. He fed her fears.”
Mr. Overtree looked at his son in bleak disillusionment. “How could you, Wesley? How could you leave a girl whose youth and innocence you had seduced, with no help, ignorant of your address? You did what no gentleman of feeling would do.”
“I did write. But that snake, O’Dell, hid the letter. But even if he had not, it would have reached her after she had already eloped with Stephen. For he lost no time in marrying her himself.”
Mr. Overtree shook his head in disgust. “This is the noble character of the son I raised.”
“Do not blame him alone, Mr. Overtree,” his wife said. “I don’t say Wesley is innocent, but what was he to think when a young woman spends time alone with him, posing en dishabille? Painters’ models are known to be loose women.”
“I was not a model,” Sophie insisted.
Mrs. Overtree flicked a hand toward the canvas. “Evidence to the contrary.”
“Only for Wesley.”
Mrs. Overtree glowered at her. “Is it not enough that you slept with one of my sons? But then to prey on the sympathies of the other?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Sophie cried. Her throat constricted, trapping the explanation inside: “He offered to marry me. Insisted. Said it was his duty and his destiny . . .” Instead, all that emerged from her mortified body were tears.
Mr. Overtree sighed. “Poor Stephen.”
“Poor Stephen?” Wesley exclaimed. “What about me? What about Sophie?”
Mrs. Overtree gestured toward the bare-shoulder portrait. “She made her bed. Her choices.”
“Did Stephen know you were with child when he married you?” Mr. Overtree asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he know whose child you were carrying?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “What a sordid mess.”
“Does anyone else know?” Mrs. Overtree asked. “Besides Stephen and those of us in this room?”
“I haven’t told anyone,” Wesley said. “Though Mr. Keith suspects the truth. As does O’Dell.”
Sophie remembered the noise she and Stephen had heard when they were talking in the hall about her past with Wesley, thinking they were alone. And again later with Wesley, when he suggested sailing away to France or Italy together. Had Miss Blake been in the passage behind the squint, watching and listening? Or Winnie? Sophie inwardly groaned.
“It’s possible someone else here knows,” Sophie admitted, head bowed.
“Meaning Mr. Overtree and I are not the first to come upon you in such a compromising position?” Janet Overtree’s eyes blazed.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Sophie said. “But someone may have overheard Wesley and me . . . arguing.”
“What a nightmare. We must endeavor to keep this within the family. And if we can spare Katherine, let’s do. And my father! Heaven help us.”
“Wesley, you must put all thoughts of her from your mind,” his father said. “I cannot pretend to approve of what’s happened. In fact, I am shocked and appalled. But what’s done is done. Shall we add charges of adultery to your sins? Shall we invite yet more scandal to the Overtree name? No. Stephen is her husband. And you must abide by that. We all must.”
“What am I supposed to do when the child comes?” Wesley threw up his hands. “Pretend I don’t care? Give the babe a rattle and pat his head like a fond uncle and go on my way?”
“Yes. That is precisely what you must do.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
“You will. Or you will drag us all down into the mud with you. What about your impressionable young sister? Her marriage prospects? And what about our friends and neighbors? Our church family? Our vicar? What are we to tell them, hmm? Are we to be shunned from the congregation that worships on our very grounds?”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Of course it is.”
“Oh, what are we going to do?” Mrs. Overtree wailed. “We are ruined. All ruined!”
“Be calm, Mrs. Overtree. It isn’t as bad as all that. Yet.” Mr. Ov
ertree looked from one to the other. “We will pray and consider what is best to be done.” He gestured toward the paintings. “In the meantime, put those back in the crate and nail it shut. And, you two, stay away from one another. Do I make myself clear?”
At the door, Mrs. Overtree turned back with a final scathing look. “And don’t think I didn’t see those cats upstairs. Get them out of the house by day’s end—or I will do it myself.”
chapter 31
Sophie remained in her room that night, not going down to dinner. She was too mortified to face them all, and too upset to eat. Libby brought her a light supper, but Sophie only picked at it.
Her mind still reeled from that awful scene with the Overtrees and from learning that Wesley had sent a letter to Stephen, telling him she and Wesley still loved each other. What else had he written? Had he intimated she regretted marrying him? Preferred to be with his brother? Her stomach twisted at the thought.
Sophie laid a hand on her uneasy abdomen, feeling a kick in reply. “I’m so sorry, little one,” she whispered. “I have made a mess of everything.” Oh, God, please forgive me. Please bring something good out of all this bad.
The next morning Sophie wrote a letter of her own. Then she counted the days it would take to reach Lynmouth, and how many for a reply to arrive. In the meantime, she stayed to her bedchamber as much as possible—having meals sent up on a tray and venturing down only when the post arrived.
Kate came by to check on her, concerned and curious, but Sophie simply claimed fatigue. She was certainly weary. Soul sick too.
At least Kate brought with her one piece of good news. Mrs. Overtree had given in to her daughter’s pleas and relented, allowing the kittens to remain in the house until they were weaned. After that, Kate and Miss Blake would try to find homes for them all. They had asked Mr. Harrison to help them when the time came, and he’d agreed. But for now, Kate, Winnie, and even Miss Blake would enjoy Gulliver’s offspring while they could.
One morning, Kate and Angela stopped by and invited Sophie to go upstairs with them to play with the kittens, but Sophie declined. She wanted to be on hand when the post arrived.