Chapter 4
Sophie decided not to wait until morning, but to seek out Captain Overtree that very night so Mavis could meet him before the journey.
Together the women walked to the Rising Sun. There they found Captain Overtree finishing his supper in the inn’s dining parlour.
No welcoming smile broke over his somber face when he saw them, though his low voice when he greeted them was perfectly polite. “Hello, ladies. Will you join me? I am afraid I have just finished, but I would be happy to ask the innkeeper to bring you something, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” Sophie replied. “Captain, this is my friend and neighbor, Mrs. Thrupton. Mrs. Thrupton, Captain Overtree.”
“How do you do, sir.”
“Mrs. Thrupton.” He acknowledged her without warmth, then turned to Sophie. “I did not expect to see you until tomorrow morning. Have you a question, or am I to understand you have come to a decision already?”
“I have, sir.”
His stern expression threatened to steal her courage. Did he hope she would refuse him, so he could wash his hands of her and the whole sordid mess?
“And . . . ?” he prompted.
She swallowed. “I have decided to accept your offer. If you are still willing.”
“I said I was. And I am not given to changing my mind, as I believe I mentioned.”
“Yes, but I wanted to be sure.”
He nodded. “Very well. The hired chaise will be waiting in the mews at nine in the morning, if that will be convenient?”
So soon. She forced a wooden nod. What had she expected? Smiles of pleasure? Whoops of congratulations? An embrace? Glancing at his flinty expression, she knew none of the above would be forthcoming.
In her mind’s eye, Wesley’s affectionate gaze appeared. She blinked it away, along with the stab of pain that accompanied it. This was certainly not how he would have reacted.
Mavis spoke up. “I would like some assurance that you have honorable intentions toward my young friend here. How do I know you will follow through on your promise to marry her?”
His eyes glinted. “I suppose you shall have to take my word for it.”
Mavis swallowed. “Then I wish to come along as chaperone, at least as far as the coast. Plymouth, is it?”
“Yes. We will find a ship to carry us the rest of the way from there. If Miss Dupont wishes your company, I have no objection, Mrs. Thrupton.”
Sophie hoped the dear woman had not expected gratitude. After all, the time to save her reputation, or at least her virtue, was long past.
Mavis added with a timid smile, “And will not your family approve when they learn Miss Dupont traveled with a chaperone?”
He pulled a face. “Considering the circumstances, Mrs. Thrupton, I doubt they will approve of our nuptials in any case. But the gesture can’t hurt. I might ask where this urge to chaperone Miss Dupont was a few months ago, but I shan’t.”
Mavis breathed, “Well, I never . . .”
“And therein lies the problem.” He laid his table napkin beside his plate, and asked coolly, “Any other questions, ladies?”
Sophie looked at Mavis, a part of her hoping the woman would find a reason to object to their marriage, another part of her afraid she would. But the usually outspoken woman seemed as intimidated as she was and remained silent.
When the women left, Stephen sat there a few minutes longer, his heart beating dully in his chest. He could hardly believe he was soon to marry a woman he barely knew.
An attractive woman, yes, but one who loved his brother and carried his child.
His stomach knotted at the thought. Had he done the right thing?
God forgive him if not. If this not be your will, Lord, show me. . . .
He settled his bill with the innkeeper, then walked toward the stairs leading up to his chamber.
He glanced into the taproom as he passed, the long counter lined with men bent over pints or glasses of something stronger.
The smoke of cigars, pipes, and several cheerful fires hung hazy in the lamplight.
There was a time when he would have joined those men—sat too long and drank too much. But those days were over, thank God.
A familiar face caught his eye, and Stephen paused, scowling.
“Keith?”
His former lieutenant looked up, then raised his hand in surrender. “Sorry, Captain. You know how your brother is. Off on a whim without so much as a by-your-leave. He’s gone to Italy, to paint in the land of Michelangelo.”
“So I’ve heard,” Stephen said dryly. “Why didn’t you go with him?”
“I found myself with insufficient funds for the journey, and Wesley disinclined to pay my way.”
“I gave you a hefty purse. . . .”
“I know you did, sir. I know you did. But the expenses here—everything must be carted in from Barnstaple. Very costly to eat and drink and well . . . everything.”
Stephen sat on the stool next to Keith’s and waved away the barman’s offer of a pint. “Did Wesley leave an address with you, or tell you when he would return?”
“No, sir. All he said was, ‘I’ll be all right on my own, CK. You go on home to Overtree Hall, and let my family know where I’m bound.’”
“So why are you still here?”
“Oh, I will be on my way soon, Captain. But first I aim to win back the money I lost here. My luck is about to change—I know it. Unless . . . Do you have another commission for me? I hope you don’t want to send me off to Italy now, sir. Not on my own.”
“I suppose not.” He glanced at the empty glasses at Keith’s elbow. “Something tells me you would drink or gamble away the passage money before the next ship sails. Had we Wesley’s direction, perhaps, but as it is, no.”
Did he really even want Wesley to hurry home now? Now that he was about to marry Sophie Dupont? For his parents’ sake, he should want his brother back in Overtree Hall. For himself? Not so much.
Keith sipped his ale, then asked, “And what about you, sir—returning to Overtree Hall as well? Shall we travel together? You still have a few weeks leave, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, but I’m not returning directly. I have something to attend to first.”
“Oh?”
“I travel to Plymouth tomorrow, and from there, sail to Guernsey.”
“Guernsey? Whatever for?”
“A personal matter.”
“Shall I accompany you, sir? Or do you prefer to travel alone?”
“I shan’t be alone. Miss Dupont goes with me.”
Keith’s eyes widened. “Miss Dupont?”
“Yes.”
He clucked his tongue. “My, my. I am surprised. First one brother, then the other. I can’t say I appreciated having to leave the cottage for hours at a time, while Wes ‘painted’ her, but I didn’t take her for a light-skirt.”
Stephen clenched his jaw, stifling the urge to throttle the man. Nearby, a trio of sailors guffawed at some joke, and Stephen leaned closer. “She is not. And I will not hear a word against her, spoken in my hearing or anyone else’s. Do you understand? Miss Dupont is to be my wife.”
Keith’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Your wife? That’s why you’re going to Guernsey?”
“Yes. As you pointed out, I haven’t much time before I must rejoin the regiment. A wedding on Guernsey seems the most expedient option.”
“Expediency, ay? Not the romantic quality females seem to long for in a wedding. How do you think Mr. Dupont will feel about you eloping with his daughter?”
“I don’t imagine he will like it.”
“And Wesley?”
Stephen met the man’s challenging gaze directly. “What about Wesley?”
“How do you think he will feel about you eloping with his . . . with Miss Dupont?”
“You tell me. He isn’t here to ask.”
Keith grimaced in thought, ending with a shrug.
Stephen asked, “Had he any honorable intentions toward Miss Dupont?”
Carlton Keith opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again, seeming to think the better of whatever he’d been about to say. He shrugged again. “May have done. But it seems to me he made his choice. His art came first.”
Stephen nodded dourly. “And his own pleasure second and third and fourth.”
Keith’s eyes twinkled. “Doing it again, are we?”
“What?” Stephen snapped. Impertinent fool knew him all too well.
“I told Miss Dupont how you saved my life.” Keith smirked. “I think I recognize the signs.”
In the morning, Sophie reached the innyard a few minutes before the hour and stood alone, valise in hand, waiting for the captain.
Mrs. Thrupton had offered to take her note for Maurice to the studio because she had a list for him as well—tasks he would need to take care of in her absence.
Mavis jested that she would tuck Sophie’s letter somewhere Maurice was unlikely to see it for several hours—among the cleaning supplies he so rarely used.
Sophie was only too glad to leave the errand to the stalwart woman and hoped she would manage to slip out before Maurice read the note.
Instead, a few minutes later, Maurice himself wheeled into the yard, open letter in his hand, face an angry mask.
He shook the page before her nose. “Is this a joke?”
“No.”
“What do you mean you’re getting married? I thought that scapegrace left.”
Sophie willed herself to remain calm. “Are you speaking of Mr. Overtree?”
“You dashed well know I am.”
“I am not marrying Mr. Overtree.”
“What? Then who?”
“I . . . don’t know if that is any of your business.”
“Rubbish. Of course it is.” He gripped her wrist. “What are you playing at? You don’t know anyone else here. Don’t tell me that one-armed man twisted your arm.”
“No one twisted my arm, but you.” Sophie tried to wrench herself free, but he held fast. “Let go.”
“Not until you tell me who you are supposedly marrying.”
“That would be me.” Captain Overtree appeared at Sophie’s side like a menacing shadow, towering over both her and Maurice. She glanced up and saw anger glinting in his eyes, his jaw clenched.
“You? But she has just met you.” Maurice’s grip loosened, and Sophie yanked her arm away.