She looked at him in surprise. And delight. Not delight at the prospect of working in the studio again, but that he should acknowledge her contributions and abilities.
“That is very generous, Papa. As you say, I don’t know what my plans are at present. Captain Overtree is still recovering from his injuries in Brussels. And I am not sure if and when he will return to England or if his regiment might be sent elsewhere. Things in my life are uncertain. I don’t know if . . .” She couldn’t push the words over the sudden lump in her throat. I don’t know if he will even want me with him now that his parents know the truth. And if his duty keeps him from home? I wouldn’t want to live in Overtree Hall again, not without Stephen there.
But there was no need to burden her father with her troubles and worries. Instead she finished lamely with, “I don’t know if I will have much time to paint. As you say, I will have my hands full with Mary.”
A dozen questions passed behind his eyes, and in the wrinkle of his brow Sophie saw concern. Would her husband provide for her if she chose not to live with his family while he was off with the army? If not, how would she support herself in the meantime? At least she guessed those were her father’s concerns. They were certainly some of hers.
Instead, he brightened. “Well, you have been busy working though, I see.”
He gestured toward the easel and several canvases against the wall. “May I look?”
Sophie fidgeted. “If you like.”
The first one he picked up was a new portrait she had painted of Captain Overtree, based on the preliminary drawings she had done at Overtree Hall. Her heart thudded to see his face, his blue eyes staring directly at her from beneath heavy brows.
Her father’s discerning gaze swept the red coat and epaulets, the lines of the face, the scar, the eyes. “An excellent likeness.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She had worked hard to remember every detail and to depict his features correctly. She didn’t want to forget his face. She glanced up, surprised to find her father no longer studying the portrait, but instead studying her.
“You love him, don’t you. I can see it.”
Her throat tightened. Tears warmed her eyes again. “Yes,” she breathed. Though she doubted Stephen would believe it—especially after he heard Wesley’s version of events—or his parents’.
Would he even come to see her there in Lynmouth once he returned? Perhaps she had been rash in leaving. If Mr. Keith was successful in securing his release and bringing him home, the captain would not want to travel again to see his wayward wife after a journey of such a distance. Not with his injuries. And she would not be fit to travel for at least a month. If Mavis had her way, she’d barely leave her bed in that time. Or even longer. Perhaps she should have stayed at Overtree Hall. But she quailed at the thought of being there, now that his parents knew her past and condemned her for it.
Her father set down the portrait and turned to regard the one on the easel, nearly finished.
“My goodness! Mavis Thrupton has never looked so lovely. And that’s saying a great deal, considering how many artists painted her in her younger days.”
“Thank you. That one is already sold, Papa,” she added quietly, feeling a little sprout of hopefully not improper pride.
His brow furrowed. “Sold? My dear, Mavis has already been quite generous in inviting you to lodge here, I don’t think—”
“No! Mavis didn’t buy it,” she quickly corrected him. “Of course she would be welcome to have it for nothing if she wanted. But a certain gentleman offered a very fine price, and she said I couldn’t refuse. Not when I could paint another of her whenever I liked, living with the world-famous model as I do.” Sophie grinned to recall Mavis’s saucy comment.
“Which gentleman?” her father asked.
“Sir Frederick Nevill.”
“Nevill?” Her father whistled. “He has a good eye, Sophie. That’s a great compliment.”
“Oh, I think it’s more of a compliment to Mavis. He’s come to admire her.”
“Has he indeed? Well, good for her.”
“Good for us both.”
Even if the sale was not from a completely neutral party, Sophie’s confidence and hope for the future was buoyed by her first sale—just a few days before the birth of her child. Who knew? Perhaps she would sell others, take commissions of her own, and even support herself by painting, should worse come to worst.
Her father looked at another canvas, left out in the open to dry. “And this new landscape . . . It is quite good, Sophie.”
“Thank you, Papa, but you needn’t say so.”
“It’s true! Though as your father I suppose I am not purely objective. I like this perspective of Castle Rock. Would you mind if I displayed it in the studio? I’ve decided to stay on until Christmas, since I’m here already. There are a great many tourists about, taking in the sights on these fine, autumn days.”
“Display it to sell, you mean?”
“Yes. If there is interest. If nothing else, it will draw people into the shop.”
She nodded. “Of course. If you think it might help.”
“Thank you. And I shall try not to burst my buttons when I tell people my daughter painted it.”
Sophie had put off writing a letter to the Overtrees, fearing it might spur Wesley to come there, perhaps even to demand his paternal rights. And in those tender early days of motherhood, she had not been prepared physically or emotionally to face another confrontation. But her conscience would not allow her to put it off any longer. After her father departed, Sophie borrowed Mrs. Thrupton’s lap desk, quill, and ink and wrote the promised letter to the Overtrees.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Overtree and family,
I am writing to announce the good news of the safe delivery of . . .
Sophie paused. Was it presumptuous to refer to Mary Katherine as their grandchild? The girl was their flesh and blood, whether they considered her legitimate or not. Whether they considered her Wesley’s child or Stephen’s.
Sophie took a deep breath, dipped her quill, and continued.
your grandchild. She is healthy and strong, and reminds me quite a bit of your Kate. I have decided to name her Mary Katherine, after my own beloved mother and your dear daughter. I hope that meets with everyone’s approval.
She didn’t specify whose approval she most wanted—Stephen’s.
Sophie finished her letter, and then began a similar one to Captain Overtree. She wasn’t sure it would reach him in Brussels, or if he was already on his way home. She prayed for him with every word she wrote, hoping he would believe her when she said she missed him with all her heart.
chapter 33
Stephen leaned forward to look out the post-chaise window, then leaned back against the upholstered seat.
“Almost there.”
He would be immensely relieved when they reached Overtree Hall at last. If he didn’t travel farther than the adjacent church in the next twelvemonth, that would suit him perfectly well. He was worn out from days of travel by ship and carriage. Sore too. The wounds in his right shoulder and hand had healed, but his left shoulder was still bandaged and bound in a sling to help stabilize it for travel. All the jarring and lurching over the rutted roads of Gloucestershire sent daggers of pain through his arm and shoulder with every hole and sway. He gritted his teeth and prayed for strength. Only a few minutes longer.
He felt Carlton Keith’s scrutiny on his profile and attempted to keep his expression impassive. He hoped the pain didn’t show on his face.
“All right there, Captain?”
“I will be,” he replied between clenched teeth, “as soon as we set down at home.”
Perhaps he ought not to have been so stubborn in refusing the surgeon’s offer of laudanum for the journey. But he wanted to be alert when he reached Overtree Hall. When he saw Sophie for the first time in months.
He wondered again how she and the child fared—she must have had the baby by now. No doubt letters containing the
news were even now in a sack of post somewhere en route to him in Brussels. He prayed again for her and for the child, hoping they were both in good health.
He prayed, too, for kindness, gentleness, patience, and self-control in dealing with his brother.
The hired chaise turned the corner, and there it was—tall, stately Overtree Hall, its stone façade glowing golden in the afternoon sunlight. There the church, the dovecote, and entrance gate. When the chaise passed under its archway, Stephen closed his eyes to relish the familiar, missed sound of carriage wheels on the pea gravel drive.
At last the chaise lurched to a halt. Outside the guard hopped down, opened the carriage door, and let down the step.
Keith said, “Let me go first, Captain, and lend a hand.”
“I’m all right,” Stephen insisted and pushed himself up and through the door. When his feet hit gravel, his legs wobbled and his head spun. Perhaps Keith had been right. Pride goeth before the fall, he thought, and felt about to topple.
Keith took his arm. “Steady on, Captain. You’ll get your land legs in a moment.”
Ahead, the front door opened and the footman James exited. On the man’s heels, his family, not waiting for a formal entrance, spilled out after him. There his father, his sister, his mother, her arms outstretched. But no Sophie. She might still be confined to her bed, he realized, remembering that a month of bed rest was often prescribed after birthing.
“Stephen! Thank God. Welcome home.”
His father looked the same as Stephen remembered, but he noticed how thin his mother looked, and the shadows under her eyes. He kissed her cheek. “Hello, Mamma.”
He shook his father’s hand, then turned to his grandfather as he puffed down the stairs to join them. The colonel ignored his hand and pulled him into an embrace, slapping his back and his shoulder in the bargain. Stephen winced.
“Careful there, Colonel,” Keith said.
“Oh! Forgive me. What an oaf. I completely forgot for a moment.”
The throbbing shoulder allowed Stephen no such luxuries.
Kate threw her arms around his neck. “I missed you, Stephen.”
He planted a kiss on her head. “And I you.”
She released him, her face shining. “I shall return directly,” she said. “But I promised to tell Angela the moment you arrived.” She hurried off across the drive in the direction of Windmere.
Wesley came languidly down the steps, surveying him head to toe. “You don’t look on death’s door to me. Surprised they invalided you back to England.”
“Oh, Grandfather has his ways as you know.”
Stephen glanced toward the door once more, his heart eager and reluctant at once. He told himself not to be disappointed she’d not come out to greet him.
“And . . . Sophie?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.
His mother looked at his father, then back to him, a worry line between her brows. “She is not here.”
“What do you mean she is not here?” He whirled on his brother. “What did you do?”
Wesley raised his hands. “Nothing.”
Keith said under his breath, “Doesn’t mean he didn’t try.”
Wesley lifted his chin. “I merely told Mamma and Papa the truth. After that, she chose to leave.”
Anger coursed through Stephen. “You selfish wretch . . .” Poor Sophie! How mortifying for her.
Their father said soothingly, “Come into the house, Stephen. Let’s everyone remain calm, and we will explain the situation as best we can in private.”
“Where is she? Has she had the child? Is she well?” His concerned questions tumbled out one after another as he followed his parents into the house and through to the parlour.
“I am sure she is well,” his mother asserted. “She promised to write when the child was born. Calm yourself. Unfortunately, the letter she posted to you in Brussels before she left has been returned here, undeliverable.”
“You didn’t mention a letter to me,” Wesley objected.
His mother’s expression remained flat. “No, I did not.” She turned to the hovering Thurman. “Please send for Dr. Matthews directly.”
“Very good, madam.”
She returned her gaze to Stephen. “I shall bring you the letter. But first—a bath and dinner.”
“Hear, hear,” Keith agreed.
Stephen thought about demanding to read the letter first and insisting that he didn’t need to see yet another doctor. But at the moment he was too weary to protest and allowed his Mamma to take care of everything, as much for her sake as for his.
After a bath, clean civilian clothes, and a good meal, Stephen felt a little better physically. Dr. Matthews arrived and examined him somberly, without his usual unruffled ease, but in the end, declared he thought both arms would heal in time, though the mobility of the left one would always be limited and he did not envy the aches and pains that were sure to plague Stephen every time the weather changed when he grew older.
His mother, finally satisfied all had been done, brought the letter to him in his bedchamber. Her hand lingered on his and rare tears shone in her eyes. “I am so glad you are safe.”
He squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Mamma. And thank you for praying for me.”
She nodded. “I did. Every day.” She stepped to the door, then turned back. “Sophie did as well.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, and then left him. Too weary to do anything else, Stephen stretched out on the bed that had been his grandparents’—that had been Sophie’s—and read her letter.
Dear Captain Overtree,
By the time this letter reaches you in that distant place, I will long have left Overtree Hall. I have decided to return to Lynmouth with my dear friend Mrs. Thrupton and have my child there. I think I would be more comfortable with her at such a personal, vulnerable time, than here among people I have known so briefly. Especially as you are not among them. I hope you will understand and not think the worst of me.
Regretfully, I have become a cause of strife among your family. I am sorry for that. I regret inflicting further worry and pain, especially when you are injured and far from home. What a way to repay your kindnesses to me!
Don’t mistake me—your family has been very good to me and provided well for me while I was with them. I grew quite fond of your grandfather and of Kate especially. But things deteriorated when Wesley returned and have become awkward and uncomfortable. Please believe me when I tell you I am not leaving to be with Wesley but rather to avoid him.
Your parents suspect there is something between us. And I admit that when we were told you had died, I briefly thought some future relationship with him might be God’s will. But once we learned you were alive, I knew I was wrong and resisted his entreaties. I was sincerely relieved to learn you were alive—are alive—and will someday return to England. I realize that when you hear from Wesley himself, or from your parents about me, you may wish to find some way to wash your hands of me forever. But I nurture no such wish to be freed from you. Please believe me. No matter what you may hear, I have never betrayed my marriage vows, nor will I. I wish I could promise you a happy, strife-free return to Overtree Hall, and be there to warmly welcome you home. But I fear I have tainted my chances of happiness there forever. I don’t know what the future holds. In great part, that is up to you. But for now, I feel it best for the child, and for me, to live elsewhere.
I will write to share news of the birth when the much-anticipated event occurs. I know you are a man of faith, and I would covet your prayers for a safe delivery.
Yours sincerely,
Sophie
Oh, Sophie, he thought, his heart aching for her in more ways than one. He thanked God that the letter laid to rest his doubts about her wanting to be with Wesley. And he would lay to rest her doubts about his feelings for her as soon as he could.
Stephen rested the next day at his mother’s insistence. It felt good to be coddled, to be warm in bed and well fed. But he knew himself
, and knew the idle pleasure would soon wear thin. He would travel to Devonshire as soon as he felt a little stronger. In a day or two, even though he knew his parents would protest.
And Wesley? Stephen would keep his plans to himself for now.
Miss Blake stopped by to wish him well. Mr. Keith joined them and the three talked and teased for several minutes. Then Stephen sobered and said, as much for Angela’s benefit as for Keith’s, “Well, Lieutenant, I am in your debt.”
“How’s that, Captain?”
“You coming all that way to Brussels like that to bring me home.”
“Aw. I’d say that about makes us even, sir. Almost.” He winked.
“It was very brave of you, Mr. Keith,” Miss Blake added, eyes warm with approval.
Carlton Keith held her gaze with a dreamy grin and murmured, “Definitely worth the trouble . . .”
The next day, Stephen insisted on dressing and going downstairs. He ate breakfast with his father and grandfather and then gave in to Kate’s plea for a game of draughts in the parlour. When Miss Blake arrived, he happily relinquished the game to her.
Wesley came in, followed by Mr. Keith, who played a gentle tune on the pianoforte. Stephen was impressed with his ability—disability or not.
Later, his mother entered the room, looking a little brighter than she had upon his arrival. She drew up short in the doorway, looking from face to face.
“My goodness,” she breathed. “What a blessing to have everyone together again.”
“Not quite everyone, Mamma,” Kate spoke up before Stephen could. “We’re missing Sophie.”
Yes, he was certainly missing her.
Thurman brought in the day’s post, including a letter addressed to his parents.
His mother read it first, then looked across the room at Stephen. “It’s from Sophie. She is well, never fear.”