Chapter 8 #2
Along with a four-poster bed, there were two armchairs, a desk, dressing table, cheval mirror, and—as the captain discreetly pointed out—a hidden commode.
“There are his and hers dressing rooms with separate, outside entrances for valet and lady’s maid. Here is yours.”
She followed him to the adjoining door and peeked inside.
The small room had been overtaken by wardrobes, built-in gown drawers, and deep shelves for bandboxes.
There was barely enough space to turn around inside, let alone change clothes.
No wonder the dressing table and long mirror remained in the bedchamber itself.
He gestured toward the opposite side of the room. “Mine is not so crammed. And it has a decent sofa. I can sleep there for the time being.”
For the time being? Why had he phrased it like that? Did he anticipate things between them would change in future—especially when he’d said he didn’t think they had a future?
Perhaps she should have objected, insisted he share the bed, but she did not.
A maid scratched on the door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. “Ma’am. Sir. May I help you unpack? Or would you like to rest first?”
“Rest. Definitely,” Sophie answered.
“Very good, ma’am. I’ll come back in an hour to help you dress.”
“Thank you . . . Libby, was it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When she had gone, the captain went into the other dressing room and Sophie lay down atop the bed. She thought she would be too nervous to sleep but soon nodded off. Lately, it seemed, she was always sleepy.
Libby returned as promised and helped her change for dinner. Sophie chose the less wrinkled of the evening gowns she had brought from Bath, hoping it was not terribly out of style.
As Libby laced her into it, Sophie thanked heaven for the current fashion of high waistlines that came in under the bosom before belling out wide and nearly shapeless past the ankles. Oh, the many indulgences that could be hidden under such frocks.
Then she sat at the dressing stool, while Libby brushed out and repinned her hair. Sophie wondered what Stephen and Wesley’s sister would be like. She imagined her tall and imposing like Captain Overtree and his mother, and beautiful like Wesley. She felt intimidated at the thought.
A soft knock sounded, and the dressing room door inched open. There stood Captain Overtree, looking masculine and almost handsome in evening dress. If only he would let someone cut his hair and tame those unruly side-whiskers.
“Ah. Still getting ready, I see. Unfortunately, this is as good as I get, so I will head down, unless you prefer I wait for you?”
“I would like to go down with you,” she said. “I am nearly ready. Right, Libby?”
“Last pin, ma’am. There you are.”
Sophie rose and turned to him. “I hope I don’t embarrass you.”
“Impossible. You look . . . terrified.”
A burst of nervous laughter escaped her. “Not very gallant of you.”
He offered her his arm. His strong, steady arm. And she decided she appreciated that more than a dozen flowery words.
Drawing strength from his calm confidence, she walked beside him down the stairs and into the anteroom where his family gathered before dinner.
Mr. Overtree and Colonel Horton, also in dark evening attire, stood together near the hearth, heads bent in low conversation. Mrs. Overtree stood near the door, looking elegant in deep claret silk and a lovely ruby necklace. Her cool gaze swept Sophie head to toe.
The woman formed a vague little smile, which left little doubt in Sophie’s mind that she found her daughter-in-law’s gown lacking. Or perhaps her daughter-in-law in general.
A young dark-haired woman rose from the sofa, eyes lighting up, a smile breaking over her dainty face.
“Stephen!” She hurried across the room and threw her arms around her much taller brother.
He stooped to receive her embrace with comfortable familiarity. “Hello, Kate. How are you? Allow me to introduce—”
Ignoring his formal opening, the young woman turned to her, all smiles. “And you must be Sophie. I am so happy to meet you! You can’t imagine. Stephen has long professed himself a bachelor, but I knew better. And here you are!”
She pressed a kiss to Sophie’s cheek, and Sophie was stunned to feel tears sting her eyes. Her warm greeting was sweet relief after the reserved reception from Stephen’s parents.
“Welcome, welcome, a hundred times welcome. How jolly it will be to have another young lady about the place. Miss Blake comes often, of course, but . . . Oh, you don’t know Miss Blake yet. I shall have to bring her round tomorrow.”
“Give Sophie time to grow accustomed to the rest of us first, Kate,” the captain said. “We don’t want to scare her away.”
“Scare her away? As if we could, silly. She is your wife. And I can’t wait to hear all about how you two met and your whirlwind courtship.”
“Kate, I don’t think—”
The butler opened the dining room door and announced, “Dinner is served.”
Relief. Saved by the butler.
The meal passed more smoothly than Stephen would have guessed.
He’d been worried his mother would begin interrogating Sophie on her background and family connections before the fish course.
Instead, the conversation remained innocuous, with Kate monopolizing Sophie’s attention, taking it upon herself to tell her all about the parish and their neighbors—whom they dined with and whom they did not, and the vicar, and the church, and so on.
Stephen felt his heart surge with affection—and gratitude—for his much younger sister.
At one point, their mother reprimanded, “Katherine, do pause in your chatter long enough to eat your dinner.”
“And to breathe . . .” their father added wryly.
Kate dutifully nibbled a bite and then dove right in again.
Her cheerful chatter left Stephen free to converse with his father and grandfather, and to hear the parish news and what he had missed on the estate.
Lambing was coming on soon, and they’d hired an extra few lads to keep watch over the flocks.
Jenson was busy repairing the crumbled stone fence on the west boundary, and the farrier was concerned about Grandfather’s old horse, Valiant.
He glanced across the table at Sophie, who ate absently while smiling in apparent pleasure at his sister, now and again asking a clarifying question or laughing softly at something the girl said.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all. . . .
Sophie breathed a sigh of relief as dinner drew to a close—too soon, she realized, when Mrs. Overtree asked her and Kate to join her in the white parlour while the men smoked and drank port.
Stephen partook of neither, she knew, except for his one lapse on their wedding night.
And she found herself wishing he would excuse himself from the men and stay with her.
She was surprised at her reticence to leave his company.
Odd that the man who still intimidated her seemed safer than his mother.
The old saying went through her mind, Better the devil you know than the one you don’t. . . .
Kate plopped down onto the sofa beside her. “I want to hear every detail of his proposal, but I’ll wait until he’s here, so I can see him turn bright red.”
“Does he blush? I would not have guessed it.”
“You’re right. He probably won’t. Still, it will be amusing to see him squirm a bit.”
Mrs. Overtree rubbed a finger over her brow. “Katherine, that is enough foolishness for now. You have monopolized Sophie’s attention quite long enough. Now, please play something quiet and soothing and give my poor nerves a rest.”
“Very well, Mamma.” Kate rose. “But don’t tell any secrets while I’m out of earshot.” She dutifully went to the pianoforte and began playing a sweet, simple melody.
Mrs. Overtree sighed. “Much better. Now, Sophie, do tell me more about yourself. Your mother is . . . ?”
“She passed away. Seven . . . no, nearly eight years ago now. It’s hard to believe it has been so long.”
“And your father remarried? I heard you mention young sisters.”
“Yes. My father married a widow with three children. I have a four-year-old stepbrother and two stepsisters, aged six and eight.”
The woman’s brows rose. “Such young children—at their ages?”
“Yes, well, my stepmother is some ten years younger than my father.”
“I see. And your father is an artist. Would I have seen any of his work?”
Interesting way to probe into his prominence. “I could not say, Mrs. Overtree. He has painted several distinguished people in London, Bath, and elsewhere. Sir Thomas Acland, for example. And he teaches and mentors younger painters, like your eldest son.”
“Wesley is beyond needing teachers now. Quite a natural talent, that one. But yes, we paid for the best masters and academies in his youth. And now he journeys to Italy again, no doubt to increase his skill. He studied there, you know. Several years ago.”
“Ah,” Sophie said noncommittally, though Wesley had told her a great deal about his time there.
“Your father is successful, then?”
“I would say so. He isn’t wealthy, but the commissions keep arriving and he even on occasion must turn down requests. So yes, he does as well as any painter without a court appointment can expect.”
“I am surprised he thinks it wise to turn down commissions, if he is, as you say, not wealthy.”
Sophie forced a smile. “He has taken on an assistant—a promising young painter, related to his wife. So he hopes to increase his capacity soon.”
Mrs. Overtree nodded her understanding, then raised a dismissive hand. “Well, enough of that. We don’t want to talk about business, do we?”
She had been the one to bring it up, but Sophie did not remind her of that.
“Have you been to London?” Mrs. Overtree asked.
“With my father, yes. Several times.” But not to participate in the season, Sophie thought, though she did not clarify. Instead she asked, “You have been there, I imagine?”
“Yes, but not in years. Mr. Overtree’s health prohibits us.”
“Ah. I am sorry to hear it.”