Chapter 8 #3
She waved away Sophie’s sympathy and continued her questions. “And who are your father’s people—your family? Would I have heard of them?”
“Unlikely. His father was a printmaker who married a vicar’s daughter. My mother’s parents were from Holland, as I mentioned, but I don’t know much more about them.”
“Why not?”
“They died before I was born, but I gather they didn’t approve of their daughter’s marriage and severed all ties with her.”
“I understand. Sometimes parents must take a hard line when children stray.”
Yes, Janet Horton Overtree no doubt empathized with Sophie’s disapproving ancestors. She hoped Stephen’s relationship with his parents wouldn’t suffer irreparable damage due to his marriage to her.
The men joined them, and Sophie’s uncomfortable interview with Mrs. Overtree ended at last.
Captain Overtree sought her out and said quietly, “You look tired.”
“I confess I am.”
“You’ve had a long, trying day. Why don’t you go up? I think I’ll stay and talk a little while longer.”
Sophie nodded gratefully. She truly was tired.
But moreover, she had fretted about what it would be like if they both went upstairs at the same time.
She thought of the crowded dressing room.
Would the maid undress her in the bedchamber right in front of him?
Or would he remain in his dressing room like a schoolboy covering his eyes?
That didn’t seem like Captain Overtree. Nor could she realistically ask it of him—though she wanted to.
Even her stolen moments with Wesley had not diminished her natural modesty. And he’d had to woo her and cajole every rare inch of skin bared.
Stop it! she scolded herself, cutting off that line of thought. Stop it now. Those were memories best forgotten, and the sooner the better.
Upstairs, she rang for Libby, who came and helped her change from her evening gown, stays, and shift into a long nightdress of lawn. She brushed Sophie’s hair and braided it into a plait, tying off the end with a ribbon. “Would you like any paper curlers around your face, ma’am?”
“Oh, um. No thank you.” Sophie quailed at the thought of appearing to such disadvantage to Captain Overtree.
The girl must have guessed her thoughts.
“Not on your honeymoon, hmm?”
Sophie’s face heated, but she managed a weak grin. “Right.”
“Then I shall curl your hair with hot irons in the morning—never you fear. We’ll have you looking your best for your new husband, or my name’s not Libby Lester.”
“Thank you, Libby.”
Finally, alone in the bedchamber, Sophie slipped on a dressing gown over her thin nightdress for good measure, stepped on the needle-worked footstool to climb into the high bed, and pulled the blankets over her chest. Why was she so nervous?
It was not her first night as Captain Overtree’s wife.
But he had been foxed the first night, ill the next, and then the girls had been with them in Bath.
Now they were here, in his home, in a big bed befitting a married couple.
A newly wedded couple supposedly in their honeymoon period.
She swallowed, and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Was Captain Overtree an experienced man? Had he a lover? As a religious man, perhaps he had abstained. She had been an innocent until a few months ago, but she doubted a military man in his late twenties would count himself among the uninitiated.
She covered her face with her hands. How had she gotten herself into such a predicament?
Why oh why had she given in to Wesley? Why could she not have resisted him?
How na?ve she had been to believe he was about to ask her to marry him.
Once again she pecked at the memories, rehearsing every scene, every conversation.
Had she only imagined he’d mentioned the word marriage?
Or like so many foolish females before her, had she heard what she wanted to hear in a man’s sweet nothings?
Assumed he meant he loved her and would marry her, when all along he meant nothing of the kind?
And now here she was, carrying his child and married to his brother, of all people.
A brother who showed little interest in becoming better acquainted with her—physically or otherwise.
She should be grateful. She was, as a matter of fact.
But even so, it left her with a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach.
The captain must really believe he did not have long to live.
Either that, or he found her repugnant. Or .
. . Did his heart belong to another? Jenny? Miss Blake? Someone else?
Footsteps sounded through the wall. Was it Captain Overtree coming to bed? Her pulse quickened.
The footsteps paused. She closed her eyes, listening, her damp hands fisting the bedclothes.
The footsteps continued but sounded as if they were coming not from the corridor beyond the bedchamber door, but from off to the side.
Libby, perhaps, returning through the dressing room?
Or maybe the footman who served as the captain’s valet? A door creaked open somewhere nearby.
She called tentatively, “Libby . . . ?”
No reply.
A chill passed over her. How foolish. Now she almost wished the captain would come and end her waiting.
Silence resumed, except for the ticking clock on the mantel.
Would she have to fetch Captain Overtree up to their room as she had on their wedding night?
How mortifying. Please, God, let him not be drunk again.
Unable to sleep with wondering and nerves, she pushed back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, forgetting how high it was and stumbling.
Catching herself, she crossed to the door and listened.
All was quiet. She let herself into the corridor and tiptoed to the stair railing. Voices drifted up to her.
Mrs. Overtree’s clear voice rose. “Why her, Stephen? A girl of inferior birth. Little family. No connections?”
Stephen’s low voice rumbled in reply, but Sophie could not make out his words.
“Her father may be an artist,” his mother retorted. “But it sounds as if she helps him keep a sort of a shop in his studio, selling paints and brushes like a peddler. In trade!”
Her mother-in-law’s words stung. But Sophie could not refute them. Perhaps she had her answer as to why Wesley had not asked for her hand. It made her all the more surprised his brother had done so.
“I suppose she brings no dowry,” Mr. Overtree’s mild voice added.
Again Stephen’s rumble of reply was unintelligible, but she didn’t need to hear him to know the answer.
She had only a very modest dowry, set aside for her by her mother.
Her father had added a small sum as well, probably believing Sophie’s looks alone would not secure her an advantageous match.
Sophie knew that some of his commissions paid quite well and he could have given her a larger dowry.
She’d sometimes wondered if he preferred she not marry and remain his unpaid assistant.
Mrs. Overtree said, “If she were a great beauty, I might understand, but . . .”
Sophie slunk back to her bed, torn between offense and mortification to be the object of such scathing criticism.
A short while later, the outside door to the captain’s dressing room opened and candlelight leaked under the door. Low male voices—attempting to whisper but failing—seeped through as well. Captain Overtree and his valet.
“I understand what my mother directed, but I am capable of undressing on my own,” Captain Overtree grumbled, then sighed. “Oh very well.”
A few minutes later, the door into the bedchamber creaked open.
Sophie froze, unsure whether to feign sleep or sit up and send him away. Had he not said he would sleep in the dressing room?
Although faint moonlight came in through the windows, Sophie lay half-hidden by shadows and bed-curtains. She peered at him from beneath her lashes.
Captain Overtree stepped silently into the room, wearing a dressing gown over his white nightshirt, his feet encased in soft slippers. He carried a candle lamp in one hand, and carefully closed the dressing room door behind himself, wincing as it clicked closed.
Her heart hammered. Did he mean to sneak up on her? Join her in bed?
For a moment he stayed where he was, his back against the door, his head cocked to one side, listening. She too heard the faint scuff of shoes and the scraping of drawers within.
Then he took a tentative step toward the bed. Then another. Sophie’s pulse rate accelerated.
He stopped a few feet from the bed. “Are you awake?” he whispered. Or tried to.
Sophie swallowed. Tell the truth, or remain silent? “Yes,” she whispered back, fully opening her eyes at last.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said in a hushed voice. “I am only awaiting the valet’s departure. It will start rumors belowstairs if it is obvious I am sleeping in the dressing room so soon after our wedding. To hear Father tell it, husbands usually avoid such punishment for a month at least.”
“Oh . . .” she murmured.
He stood there a moment longer, looking down at her by the light of his candle. How must she appear, hands fisted on blankets pulled to her chin, eyes wide in the shadowy cave of the canopied bed.
He shook his head, mouth twisting. “Poor little rabbit.”
He’d whispered it so softly she thought she had imagined it. He could whisper after all, she realized. When he truly wanted to.
A faint click of a shutting door reached them, and a few moments later Captain Overtree turned and disappeared—not into the dressing room, but rather out the main door. She wondered why. Where was he going at this hour, in his nightclothes?
Curiosity nipping at her, Sophie rose for the second time that night, climbed from bed without stumbling and tiptoed to the door.
She inched it open and looked out into the corridor in time to see him creep quietly up the stairs.
The furtive sight disheartened her somehow.
Since she had not invited him into her bed, was he on his way to meet up with some willing housemaid?
It was an uncharitable, baseless suspicion, and she cursed her scandalous imagination. Still, she hoped she was wrong.