Chapter 7
On the journey to Bath, Sophie found Captain Overtree even quieter than usual and wondered if he dreaded the coming visit as much as she did.
Or perhaps he was still suffering the ill effects of drink.
The captain had insisted they call on her family before he returned to his regiment, to prove the husband she had written about was no fiction created to explain away a child as some wartime “widows” did in an attempt to establish respectability.
He wanted no one to question the validity of their marriage.
Besides, there was no point in delaying the visit, he asserted, as Bath lay between Plymouth and his family’s estate.
She appreciated the sentiment but did not look forward to explaining their rushed marriage to her father and stepmother in person—or to pretending to be a happily married couple in front of them, even for a few days.
She certainly hoped her father had received her letter, so the worst of the shock would have passed.
Beside the captain in the rocking carriage, Sophie lapsed into silence as well, concentrating on breathing deeply to keep her own nausea at bay.
Several hours later, the coachman directed the horses into the yard of the Westgate, an old coaching inn near the heart of the city. There a groom opened the door and offered his hand to help Sophie alight, her legs stiff after the long confinement.
Inhaling welcome fresh air, she looked across the courtyard to the Roman baths and Pump Room to gain her bearings.
Captain Overtree alighted beside her, bags in hand, and surveyed the busy innyard. “Shall we find a hack?”
“The house isn’t far. And I, for one, long to walk, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
She led the way north, up Lansdown Street. The tall, narrow terraced houses stood like books shelved side by side—white, with black wrought-iron gates.
She stopped before Number 6. “Here we are.”
He shifted the bags to one hand and opened the gate for her. “Anything we need to talk about before we go in?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated. Should she warn him about her stepmother? The children?
The door opened, and her two little stepsisters dashed out, launching themselves at her legs.
“Sophie! What have you brought us?” six-year-old Martha asked.
Lyddie, the eldest at eight, eyed the captain warily. “Who is this man?”
Oh dear. Perhaps they had not yet received her letter.
Her father stepped out. “Sophie. Here you are, as promised. How relieved I am to see you. We only received your letter yesterday. I could not credit it.” He looked up at the tall man beside her. “Captain Overtree, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.” The captain held out his hand, and her father hesitated only a moment before shaking it.
“You look nothing like your brother.”
“So I am often told.”
Her father turned back to her. “And my Sophie. A married woman. Can it really be true?”
“I am, Papa.” She held out her hand, showing him the ring on her finger.
He squinted at it. “Your mother’s ring?”
“Yes. I thought she would like me to wear it.”
“Yes. And so do I. Well, come in. Mrs. Dupont will wish to see you.” He said the latter dutifully but without conviction.
Inside, they left their bags in the vestibule and followed her father into the drawing room.
Augusta O’Dell Dupont sat on the sofa, her prized son, John, four years old and quite plump, beside her.
The two little girls crowded around. Mrs. Dupont wore an ornate overdress atop her plain muslin, and a fresh cap in which to receive callers.
Stiff, dark pin curls circled her forehead like a second cap.
Sophie neared as if approaching a queen about to sentence her to the tower.
“Hello. Allow me to introduce Captain Overtree. My . . . husband.”
“Well, is he or isn’t he?” her stepmother asked, her disapproving eyes snapping with questions.
“I am, madam,” the captain replied in her stead. “And we have a copy of the marriage license to prove it.”
“May I see it?”
Sophie blinked. “Why?”
In lieu of answering, the woman extended a long graceful hand.
Sophie pulled the license from her reticule, unfolded it, and handed it to her.
She skimmed it. “I cannot say I approve of your way of getting a husband,” she said. “But everything seems to be in order. Guernsey, hmm? We shall keep that to ourselves.”
She handed it back. “I would have ordered a finer dinner, had I more notice you were coming. As it is, you will have to make do with a plain family dinner of fish and vegetables. And it’s too late to send Betsy for another bream. I trust you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I’m not very hungry. Captain Overtree may have mine.”
“I suppose you will want a room to yourself. If you like, we can take Martha and Lyddie in with us for the night. How long do you plan to stay?”
Captain Overtree spoke up, the edge to his voice barely sheathed in civility. “You are all goodness, madam. But we don’t wish to put you to any trouble. We shall remove to an inn, if you prefer.”
“An inn? Good gracious, no. This is Sophie’s home. Or it was.”
Sophie said, “The girls may stay with us. We shall lay cushions and blankets on the floor. We don’t mind, do we, Captain?”
He glanced at her, his smile stiff. “Not at all.”
She turned away from his ironic gaze to address her father. “How goes the commission, Papa? Have you completed the portraits of the Miss Simons?”
He grimaced. “Not quite, my dear. I had hoped you would finish the backgrounds for me, but now . . . well. I am also struggling to capture the eldest Miss Simon. She is not as pretty as her sisters, unfortunately. I am trying to make her look as well as I can, while keeping it reasonably accurate.” He shrugged.
“Though she is plain, the shape and brightness of her eyes gave her a certain comeliness. A liveliness, rather like the eyes of Lady Acland, if you recall.”
“Yes, I do. Shall I see what I can do, Papa? If you don’t like it, you can always paint over my changes.”
He seemed about to agree, but his wife frowned and said, “My dear Mr. Dupont, this is an important commission. I hardly think you ought to let Sophie anywhere near it. The background is one thing, but the face, surely . . .”
Her father chewed his lip. “Perhaps your stepmother is right, Sophie. Let’s not worry about it now. Tell us about your journey and the latest news of Lynmouth.”
They spoke for a few minutes, and then her father showed the captain his studio and offered him a glass of something, which the captain declined. Later, they sat down together to a meager dinner in the cool, starched company of her stepmother and her quiet father.
Soon after, Mrs. Dupont announced it was the girls’ bedtime. She clapped her hands, and the girls scurried off to clean their teeth and dress for bed. Sophie supposed it was their signal to retire for the night as well.
The small room, with its single bed, seemed even smaller with Captain Overtree’s large commanding presence in one corner, arms crossed, watching her every move as she laid cushions, lap rug, and wool blanket on the floor.
“Is this for your sisters’ comfort or for mine?”
“Which would you prefer?”
The housemaid came in to help Sophie with her buttons and stays. When Sophie asked her to step into the small dressing room—little larger than a closet—to do so, the woman looked at her askance. She had not been so modest before.
A few minutes later, when she stepped out in nightdress and dressing gown tied tight, the captain’s gaze swept over her without change in expression.
He finished washing hands and face and cleaning his teeth at the washstand, then followed her example and stepped into the dressing room to change as she had.
Stephen wedged himself into the closet-sized room with his kit.
He was glad Edgar had insisted on packing a nightshirt for him.
Stephen didn’t usually bother with the long—and in his mind, effeminate—garment.
After his years in the army, he’d become accustomed to sleeping bare-chested or in an untucked shirt and clean pair of breeches—ready to leap up and throw on his uniform coat at a moment’s notice.
But considering he would be sharing the room with little girls, he would have to remember to thank the overeager footman who served as his valet.
The moments alone in the tiny room were a welcome respite.
He was relieved to be out of the evil stepmother’s company.
Poor Sophie. No wonder she went with her father to remote Devonshire whenever she could.
Mrs. Dupont’s cold dark eyes and blunt features had put him in mind of her nephew, Maurice.
The dozens of spiral curls circling her head? Of Medusa herself.
Perhaps he was being unkind. Weariness and hunger made him irritable. He was tired from the night before and still hungry after that skimpy meal. Seeing the dismissive, patronizing way that woman treated Sophie irritated him as well.
Her father seemed a mild man. Slender and handsome with fair thinning hair and a long aristocratic face, not unlike his daughter’s.
He dressed well and wore a ring on his small finger.
That affectation irritated Stephen too. He really should try to get some sleep.
But he doubted he would manage it, in such close quarters with Sophie and her stepsisters.
Three snoring officers? Not a problem. Three giggling females? Heaven help him.
He had just returned to the bedchamber when the little girls bounded inside, the eldest bouncing on her knees on the bed, and little Martha sitting atop the makeshift pallet on the floor.
“Where will you sleep, Captain?” Lyddie asked.
“Excellent question,” he replied.
“We always sleep with Sophie when she’s home. She tells the best stories. Don’t you, Sophie?”
He looked at her, brow quirked. “I should like to hear one of her stories.”
“Oh! Tell the one about the wolf and the sheep, Sophie. No! I know. The one where we are little lambs hiding in a cave.”