Miss Blake followed him from the room. “You’re not thinking of going after her?” she hissed, eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps.”
Her freckled face puckered most unattractively. “Oh, just leave her alone,” she snapped. “As you did me.”
Wesley had no time for Angela’s complaints, to listen to her dredge up all those past accusations and disappointments. He could hardly believe the woman still suffered from unrequited love after all these years. But there was nothing he could do about it now. His thoughts were consumed with Sophie.
Wesley went upstairs to his room, rang for the valet to bring down a valise from the attic storeroom, and then began gathering a few things for the journey. He could have waited for the valet to assist him, but he was in no mood to deal with the obsequious fellow.
When half an hour had passed, and Edgar had not returned, Wesley stalked from his room, determined to fetch the thing down himself. What the devil was taking the man so long?
Wesley rounded the first landing and began up the narrower attic stairs. Movement caught his eye from above, and he glanced up. He paused where he was, taken aback to see the old nurse standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at him. A valise—his valise—in her hands.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked, an eerie gleam in her eye.
“Yes. How did you . . . ?”
“I told Edgar I would bring it down to you, but you have saved me a trip.”
Wesley frowned and continued up the stairs, irritated at the interfering old woman.
“Thank you,” he murmured disingenuously, and reached for the valise.
She held it tight. “Going after your brother’s wife? That’s a dangerous game, Master Wesley. One that can only end badly. Stay away from her, or it will not go well with you.”
He scowled. “Is this another of your false prophecies?”
“No. Just a feeling in my bones. Something bad is going to happen.”
Wesley shook his head in disgust. “You old croaker. You don’t scare me. You’re off in your attic—everyone knows it. Except your pet, Marsh. I hear you told him he would die in battle, but he didn’t. And I don’t believe this little warning of yours either.”
“I never said he would die. Only that he wouldn’t live to receive his inheritance. But if something happens to you”—she shrugged, eyes glinting—“who inherits then?”
Despite himself, a chill went down Wesley’s spine. He pulled his gaze from hers and yanked at the valise, just as she released it. The momentum nearly knocked him backward down the stairs. His heart clenched and he grasped for the railing, catching himself just in time.
The nurse did not blink. “Be careful, Master Wesley. We all make mistakes, but some falls are more deadly than others.”
When Wesley trudged back downstairs, his parents were standing outside his bedchamber. Eyeing the valise he carried, his father slowly shook his head, and his mother’s lips pinched tight. Excellent, Wesley thought. So much for a stealthy departure . . .
They followed him into his room and shut the door behind them.
His father began, “I take it you’ve heard that Sophie has left Overtree Hall?”
“I have. She wrote to me as well.”
“I cannot say I approve of her sneaking off like this,” his mother said, “but perhaps it is for the best that she is absent for a time—put some distance between you.”
His father gestured to the valise. “I can guess what you are planning, but I beseech you not to interfere.”
“Don’t follow her and make a bigger mess than we already have to deal with as it is,” his mother pleaded. “Like it or not, Sophie is married to Stephen.”
“As I am painfully aware.” Wesley forked a hand through his hair.
“But don’t you see?” his mother asked. “You have been given a second chance. You are free to marry anyone you like. A fine lady of excellent character from the best family.”
“Your mother is right,” his father said. “Perhaps it is time to find a wife of your own.” His voice gentled. “If you married, your wife would help you forget Sophie. And the children the two of you bring into the world would comfort you in the loss of Sophie’s child. You have your own heir to think of. The heir to Overtree Hall.”
Traditionally, heirs were firstborn sons, but since the estate was not entailed, Wesley knew he would be able to choose his own heir someday, once he was master of Overtree Hall. However, there was no need to worry about who would inherit what for several decades to come.
His mother added, “Did you not once admire Miss Blake?”
He puckered his face. “A hundred years ago, maybe. When I was young.”
“Why not now? She is very pretty, in her way.”
Wesley shook his head. “I don’t know that I agree. She has a pleasantly shaped faced, I grant you. But all those freckles . . .”
“Wesley, be serious. I cannot believe you would object to a perfectly suitable marriage partner for so superficial a reason.”
“It is more than that, Mamma, I assure you. Her sharp tongue does her no favors either.”
His father wrinkled his face in disgust. “I would not be as fastidious as you for a kingdom, Wesley.”
“He cannot help his sensibilities, my dear,” his mother said. “Though I trust he is overstating his case to vex us, because he doesn’t like us interfering.” She turned back to him. “But do be reasonable, Wesley. Miss Blake would make you an excellent wife. I am sure she would have you, if you asked. She has long wished to marry an Overtree, I believe.”
“Has she?” his father asked. “I thought she had seemed a little cool towards Wesley lately.”
“Yes, she has,” Wesley agreed. Though he didn’t explain why.
His father gripped his shoulder—a surprisingly strong grip.
“Be that as it may be. Please honor us in this by not going after Sophie. Stay here.”
The nurse’s warning echoed through Wesley’s mind once again: “Stay away from her, or it will not go well with you. . . . Some falls are more deadly than others.”
Wesley swallowed. “I shall . . . think about it,” he allowed. “But I make no promises.”
In the hospital ward, Carlton Keith sat on a rickety chair near Stephen’s cot, drinking lukewarm tea and watching him with an expectant look. “Come on, Captain. I grow tired of this place. Why not finish your recovery within the comforts of Overtree Hall?”
Stephen huffed. “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”
“It’s time you went home before Wesley gets into mischief—or convinces Sophie to do something she doesn’t want to do.”
But what if she did? Stephen asked himself. What if she still wanted Wesley? Did he even want Sophie to stay with him out of guilt or sense of obligation?
Yes, God help me. He wanted her no matter what.
But would he always wonder if she was thinking of Wesley, missing him, wishing it were him kissing her . . . ?
“All you have to do is go to the C.O. with the colonel’s letter and I’m sure he will approve an early release.”
“Stop pushing me, Keith. You’re not my commanding officer.” He immediately regretted his sharp tone, and added evenly, “I’ll . . . think about it.”
Later that night, Stephen climbed from his cot, gritting his teeth against the pain. He slipped from the ward and into the makeshift chapel at one end of the hospital corridor. There, he knelt before the little altar the chaplain had erected.
He began to pray for Sophie, and for God to help him accept losing her if Wesley had his way. As distasteful as the scandal would be, he would not want her to be unhappy her entire life.
“Thy will be done, Lord. . . .”
But he soon found his mind wandering to memories of Sophie’s increasing warmth toward him. Her sweet parting words and encouraging letters. She had been fond of him, at least, he thought. Had it been more than that? Or merely gratitude?
Knowing Sophie must be near h
er time, Stephen prayed for her safety in childbirth, for the lives of both mother and child. Let her live, Lord, whomever she chooses.
Stephen prayed for nearly an hour, asking God for wisdom. For direction. He was surprised at the peace that descended over him, not a martyr-like “woe is me, she’d be better off without me.” Not a “let her go and let God comfort” kind of peace, but a conviction to pursue his wife all over again. That it was right—his right—to fight for his wife.
Was he not a commander of men? Had he not faced enemy after enemy in hand-to-hand combat and lived to tell the tale? Surely he could muster the courage to admit the truth to himself and to her: He loved Sophie body and soul and knew he would love and respect her and her alone far better than Wes ever could.
Stephen rose. He was determined to gather Sophie close, declare his love, and ask her to marry him all over again.
And as for his old nurse’s prediction?
None of us knows the number of our days, Stephen thought, but I have wasted enough of them.
He returned to the ward, where Keith sat slumped in a chair, softly snoring. He tapped his shoulder. “You’re right, Lieutenant,” he said, picking up his grandfather’s letter. “Let’s go home.”
chapter 32
Three weeks after she left Overtree Hall, Sophie stood atop her beloved Castle Rock overlooking the valley on one side and the Bristol Channel on the other. The sun hung low in the sky, sending golden light over the water, over the rocks, over her canvas as she painted. It wouldn’t be much longer until Mavis would forbid her to walk this far. As it was, she insisted on accompanying her. Just in case.
Mavis sat on a blanket, protected from the wind by a large gorse bush on one side and a rocky outcropping on the other. She had a flask of tea, a tin of biscuits, and her needlework, and sat contentedly enjoying all three. Now and again the wind would abate and a few bars of the tune she hummed would reach Sophie’s ears. Mavis must have felt Sophie’s gaze, for she looked up and smiled at her before resuming her work.
For the first several days after her return, Sophie had been too tense to relax and enjoy her favorite place—worrying Wesley might show up at any time. But he had not. And Sophie found herself not disappointed, as she might once have guessed, but relieved.
As the sun sank lower, Sophie wiped her brushes and hands and stowed away her palette. She straightened, and a sharp twinge struck low in her back. She winced and pressed a hand there, massaging the spot. The backache that had begun the previous night was now revisiting her with a vengeance.
Then a belt of pain seized her underbelly. Sophie groaned and bent over, waiting, hoping for the pain to pass.
This was no mere backache.
“Sophie?” Mavis hefted herself to her feet and hurried to her side. Looking into her face, she asked, “Have your pains begun?”
Sophie nodded.
Mavis put her hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the path. “Come, let’s get you home.”
Sophie leaned on Mavis as they went, praying, Lord, please help me.
Even as she prayed, she felt a subtle assurance that someone, somewhere, was praying for her at that very moment. And she had a good idea of who it was.
The following day, Sophie sat propped up in bed in nightdress and shawl, knowing the midwife would return soon as promised to check on her and her child. While she waited, Sophie reclined peacefully, exhausted but content. She could hardly keep her eyes from the bundled babe asleep in her arms. A little girl. Her little girl. With skin so pale, blue veins showed through, and a head nearly bald save for the softest downy fuzz. Sophie savored the sight of her, touching every one of her ten wee toes and ten delicate fingers with nails as thin as waxed paper. Her eyebrows and the shape of her eyes were like her own, while her nose and mouth reminded her of Kate. She was perfect, except for one thing. A minor thing, she told herself. Merely superficial.
The child had a strawberry birthmark on her neck.
In olden times, the suspicious thought such marks were the sign of a witch. The benevolent, simply that the mother had eaten too many strawberries. But presently, common wisdom said the mark was evidence of some unmet craving in the mother during her pregnancy.
After the birth the previous night, the old midwife had wiped the child clean and Sophie had noticed her focusing on one spot with special care, bending to peer closer as though at a stubborn stain clinging to the babe’s skin. The infant chafed and squeaked in disapproval.
“What is it?” Sophie asked anxiously.
“Well, my dear. Your daughter is a beauty, and has a beauty mark. At least that is what I choose to call it.”
“What do you mean?”
Widow Paisley angled the child toward Mrs. Thrupton for a second opinion. “See that? I thought it was blood, but it’s not going anywhere.”
Mavis ran a gentle finger over the spot. Sophie did not miss the shadow of concern cross her face before she smiled brightly. “Looks like a rose to me.”
“A rose?” Widow Paisley repeated. “I’d say it looks more like a heart—wouldn’t you, Sophie?”
Sophie peered closer. It did indeed.
“You know what that means, I suppose?” the midwife asked, a glimmer of humor in her old eyes.
Sophie shook her head.
“It means you craved love while you carried this wee girl— that’s what.”
Sophie felt warmth stinging her eyes and unexpected tears blur her vision. She could not deny the charge.
“And no wonder with her husband gone to war and recovering from his wounds in Brussels. But he’ll no doubt return soon and make up for lost time.” Mavis said it as though to explain things to the midwife, but Sophie knew she said it to reassure her as well.
“It’s only a wee mark,” the midwife said. “A cupid’s kiss. A trifle. Why, I once delivered a young widow of a child with half his face a deep mulberry stain. Poor lad. Folks said it was because she mourned her slain husband.” The midwife shrugged and traced the dainty red mark again. “This is nothing.”
Sophie forced a smile. It didn’t bother her personally. She thought every inch of her daughter perfect and perfectly beautiful. But with a mother’s protectiveness, she hoped and prayed others would not taunt her little girl about it.
She wished she could talk to Stephen again—ask his opinion about names for a daughter. But with things as they were, she doubted he would express a preference one way or the other.
She decided to name her Mary Katherine. After her dear departed mother, Maria, and after Kate Overtree. She hoped Stephen would approve. And Wesley? She hoped he wouldn’t object. Or insist he had the right to do so.
She dashed off a few lines to her father, but otherwise Sophie and Mary Katherine spent the majority of that first week sleeping, nursing, crying, and staring into each other’s faces. Sophie had never felt so drained and weary, filled and fulfilled at the same time.
The following week, Mavis knocked on the door of the spare bedchamber Sophie occupied. “You have a visitor, if you feel up to it.”
“Who is it?” Sophie breathed, hopeful and fearful all at once.
“Your father.”
“Oh!” Pleasure washed over her. “Ask him in.” She glanced around the room that had become hers, glad to see it tidy—easel near the sunny window and chaise longue and dressing chest against the wall.
Claude Dupont stepped inside and stood there, hat in hand, looking like an awkward schoolboy. “Hello, Sophie. I set out as soon as I received your letter. Are you well?”
Sophie nodded. “Come and see your grandchild, Papa.” She angled the bundled babe toward him.
He stepped toward the bed, bent near, and studied the little pink face. “She’s beautiful.” He set aside his hat and held out his hands. “May I?”
“Of course,” Sophie agreed, pleased he would want to hold her.
He carefully gathered his tiny granddaughter in his arms, looked into her face, and gently swayed of long experience.
r /> “What will you call her?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Mary Katherine, after Mamma.”
He glanced up swiftly, and she was touched to see tears brighten his eyes. “I think that an excellent notion. She would have liked that.”
They shared a look of poignant empathy.
Eventually he handed the child back and sat on the nearby chaise, simply watching them. He wore an expression she had seen so often—her father surveying a scene with his artistic eye, measuring and planning and appreciating.
But there was unusual warmth there too. And again that unexpected gleam of tears. He said, “Sitting there like that, the sunlight from the window making your hair fairer yet, the little girl in your arms . . .” His voice thickened. “You remind me of your mother so much. How she looked. How she looked at you . . .” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”
Sophie stared at him. Felt her mouth droop open. “Do you know, you’ve never told me that before.”
“Haven’t I?” He tucked his chin and shifted uneasily.
“Motherhood must agree with me,” she said with a smile to put him at his ease.
He returned the gesture. “I’m glad to hear it. I admit I have been worried about you. Sophie, I apologize for leaving you alone so often the last few years. Not looking after you as I should have. Neglecting you.”
“That’s all right, Papa. I am not a child any longer.”
“You will always be my child. And—as you will find out soon enough—Mary Katherine will always be your little girl. Your concern. If you don’t believe me now, I’ll remind you in about eighteen years.”
He grinned, then sobered. “I’ve missed you, Sophie. Your marrying and moving away made me realize how much I depended on you. Maurice is talented, but he can’t match your abilities in organization and dealing with wriggling children or unhappy patrons. Not to mention your ability to add life to the lifeless eyes I seem to paint.”
Sophie warmed at his praise.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what your plans are. I imagine you will have your hands full with Mary there for the foreseeable future. I did not expect you to leave Overtree Hall and come here in the first place, but if you decide to stay on, I hope you will consider returning to the studio. Working with me as my partner, rather than as my assistant.”