Chapter 11 #2
He gave her a sidelong glance. “We are supposedly on our honeymoon, Sophie. I don’t think they’ll wonder if we slip off alone now and again. In fact, they would wonder if we didn’t. And as I am due to leave soon, I thought we should talk.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Of course.”
When they reached their bedchamber, Stephen closed the door behind them, then closed the door to each dressing room as well.
He began, “I realize you have only been here a brief time. But I hope you are, in general, comfortable here? After being with you in Bath, I confess I detest the thought of you raising your child in the same house as your stepmother, not to mention her nephew. I would like you to stay here. Our physician will help you through the birth itself. And my family will take care of you afterwards. Of course, I cannot insist you stay here after I leave. But my mind would be easier knowing you were here.” He looked at her closely. “What do you want to do?”
Sophie considered. “I am not eager to return to Bath either. Assuming your family is agreeable, I will stay, for now. Though I cannot promise for how long.”
He nodded. “I have already spoken with my parents, and they quite naturally assumed you would live here. I thought it best not to mention the child any earlier than necessary to avoid raising questions, but I can, if you would prefer me to break the news.”
“Let’s wait.” She bit her lip, then said, “And what about when Wesley returns one day . . . ?”
He crossed his arms. “That is up to you, I suppose. If I don’t come back, I shan’t be here to object either way.”
She touched his sleeve. “Stop saying that. I did not mean that I . . . that I anticipate anything with Wesley if and when he returns. I just fear how he might react to me being here. In his house.”
“In our house,” Stephen insisted. “Don’t forget. You are my wife. You have every right to be here whether he likes it or not.”
“And if he reveals our . . . past?”
“Then I shall kill him. Or would, were I here.” Stephen ran a frustrated hand over his face. “God willing, he has more sense and discretion than that.”
“Do I have to tell him the child is his?”
“He may be an artist, but I think even he can count backwards and realize the truth. Unless the baby is long overdue. But hopefully Wes will keep his suspicions to himself.”
Sophie nodded. “He’ll probably be relieved you have claimed responsibility for me and the child.”
“I can’t pretend to guess how he will react.
If Wesley asks, it is up to you to decide whether or not to confirm the facts.
I would prefer the baby to be known as mine, for my pride’s sake, perhaps, but also for the child’s, so he or she will not be viewed as illegitimate and grow up under the shadow of scandal. ”
“I agree.”
Stephen was surprised she consented so readily. “Well, good.”
She asked, “Do you have a preference about what I name the child, assuming I give birth while you are away?”
Stephen hesitated. Would it not be presumptuous of him to suggest names for her child? His brother’s child? All he knew was that he didn’t want her to name the child after Wesley. He faltered, “My . . . grandfather’s given name is George. But beyond that, I have no . . . preference.” Or rights.
Again a faint sound reached Stephen’s ears. A scuffing step. If one of the footmen was eavesdropping, so help him . . . He stalked to the door and jerked it open. The corridor was empty. He checked his dressing room, and taking his cue, she checked hers. No one in sight.
He sighed. “Sorry to be tense. I’m imagining things, no doubt.”
“If you are, then I am as well. Though I suppose an old house like this makes many odd noises.”
“True. Well.” He turned back to his dressing room. “I will excuse myself and allow you to change.”
He closed himself into the dressing room, rang for the valet, put up with the man’s meticulous help in folding his clothes, and washed and cleaned his teeth. All while thinking about Sophie and their conversation.
Then he knocked softly and entered the bedchamber to wait while the valet tidied up and went to dump the wash water. He was surprised to see Sophie sitting at the dressing table in her evening gown, hair down. His chest tightened, and he tried not to stare.
He swallowed. “Sorry. I thought I gave you enough time.”
“Libby is apparently running late this evening. After all, we did retire earlier than usual.”
His gaze ran over her golden hair, falling like a silky curtain around her face and shoulders.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I have never seen it down like that before. It’s lovely.”
“Thank you.” She dipped her head, clearly embarrassed. “I took it down straightway. The pins were giving me a headache tonight. Do you mind if I brush it while we wait?”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
But a minute or two later, he cleared his throat and turned to the door. “You know, I think I will go up and check on Winnie. Good night.”
He left the room—and the tantalizing sight of Sophie brushing her hair—hoping to quell his desire.
Time with his old nurse would certainly do that.
But when he reached Winnie’s door and knocked, no one answered.
Filled with concern, he let himself in but found the room empty.
He wondered where she was and hoped she was all right.
In the morning, Sophie awoke to murmuring voices. Libby and another housemaid were talking somewhere nearby, perhaps in her dressing room or out in the corridor.
“Hush, Flora,” Libby said, a barb of irritation in her usually cheerful tone.
Sophie had seen the maid, Flora. She was a pretty, buxom brunette with a ready if crooked smile.
Flora said, “I’m only repeating what Edgar told me. The captain sleeps in the dressing room. He’s almost sure of it.”
“And I repeat—hush.”
“All I’m saying is if she won’t let him warm her bed, he can warm mine.”
“Flora, if Mrs. Hill heard you say that, you’d be out on your ear.”
“And who’s going to tell her?”
“I will, if I hear you spreading this claptrap . . .”
The voices moved on.
Sophie felt her ears burn quite literally to be the subject of such unflattering supposition. Kind Libby probably knew or at least suspected there was truth in what Flora and Edgar had said, but how loyal of her to try to curb the gossip.
She thought of Captain Overtree saying he was going to check on Winnie last night and heading up the attic stairs in his dressing gown. Had he really been going to see Winnie? Especially when the nurse had said she didn’t want visitors at night?
If he were seeking another bed to warm, had Sophie any right to feel the resentment that curdled her stomach at the thought?
She could not blame him if he pined for or desired someone else, not when she did that very thing.
But she was not carrying on a physical relationship—nor a relationship of any kind—with another lover.
Could he say the same? She did not really think Captain Overtree would have an illicit relationship with someone in his employ.
At least she hoped not. She wanted to believe that Stephen Overtree was an honorable, moral, godly man.
But was he?
That afternoon, Stephen and his father interviewed two possible candidates to take Humphries’ place as estate manager.
One man was young but showed potential. The other had more experience but would probably follow Humphries into retirement in a few years.
Stephen wondered if it was worth the trouble to train in a new man for such a short time.
Then again, there was no guarantee a younger man would stay on longer.
He might take the experience he earned with them to another post.
He and his father debated the merits and drawbacks of each but made no decision, his father wishing to think on it some more, perhaps wait and see if anyone else applied to their advertisement first. Stephen, however, had hoped to see the matter settled before he left.
Later, Stephen went upstairs again to check on Winnie, since she had not been in her room the night before. He found her contentedly feeding her birds, her cat watching and chattering from the windowsill. He idly wondered if she fed the birds for her own amusement or the cat’s.
When he asked her where she had been last night, she paused to think. “Gracious, I don’t know. What time? Oh, yes . . . I may have gone down for some warm milk around then.” She winked at him. “Gulliver couldn’t sleep.”
“But you are well?”
“Oh yes, perfectly. Besides worried for you, of course.”
“For me? Well, yes, I suppose you would be.” He assumed she referred to his imminent return to duty. “But no need to worry. I am prepared to meet my fate, whatever it may be.”
“I believe you have already met your fate.” Winnie grinned. “And her name is Sophie.”
Confusion flickered through Stephen. Had she changed her mind about her prediction of his demise? Or was she losing her faculties as others suggested? Not that he’d ever admit the possibility, especially to his mother.
A housemaid entered, bringing in Miss Whitney’s dinner tray, which reminded Stephen it was time to dress for his own dinner. He bid Winnie farewell and went downstairs, though his former nurse remained on his mind.
After dinner, the family attended Evensong together. Everyone except for his father, as the evening wind was too cold, his mother insisted, and would be bad for his chest.
The service of hymns, prayers, and a brief sermon was not Stephen’s favorite.
He wasn’t fond of singing, and knew his low, craggy voice added nothing to the enjoyment of those near enough to hear him.
Even so, it was good to be in a candlelit church with his mother, grandfather, and sister.
And now his wife as well. How strangely pleasant to have her tucked beside him in the family box, to share a prayer book and hymnal.
She sang quietly and tentatively, not familiar with the words or tunes.
Still, her shy alto voice was like warm velvet in his ear, and he had to resist the urge to lean nearer.
After the service, he presented Sophie to the vicar and his wife.
Several neighbors also sought them out for introductions.
Even those neighbors and tenants too timid to come forward favored them with curious looks and smiles.
Had things been different—were she his wife in more than name—he would have gladly overcome his unsocial disposition and proudly introduced her to one and all.
But as things were, their reticence to intrude was welcome.
Later that night, they again went through their bedtime ritual. Stephen changing in his dressing room, then stepping into the bedchamber to wait for Edgar to tidy up and take his leave. Sophie sat at her dressing table, fully clothed. Libby was again late in coming up.
While they waited, he said, “After I leave, I would consider it a great favor if you would visit Winnie from time to time. Kate goes up fairly often, except when Miss Blake is here. Mrs. Hill sends up trays and a maid to help her, but she is busy with the household. Please check on her for me every few days, will you?”
“Of course. Happily.”
“Thank you.”
Libby rushed in, apologizing for her delay, and moaning about polishing endless rounds of silver.
To keep up the pretense that he planned to spend the night with his wife, he remained in the room, instead of ducking back into the dressing room like the interloper he felt himself to be.
Sophie swiveled on the dressing stool to face Libby, and the maid flipped back the hem of her gown and began untying the ribbons holding her stockings above her knees.
Over the maid’s bent head, Sophie sent him a shy, uncertain glance. What did she expect him to do? Turn his back like a stranger? A monk? Instead he went to stand at the window, even though he could see almost nothing of the dark gardens beyond.
But his rebellious gaze now and again shifted to the side, capturing a glimpse of bare ankle as the maid rolled down one stocking, then the other. Then a glimpse of upper arm, when she unlaced Sophie’s gown and stays, and her shift slipped from one shoulder.
When the maid pulled the shift up and over her head, Stephen forced himself to avert his eyes, fisting his hands in a wad of drapery, every muscle tense.
He forked his free hand through his hair in agitation.
Another swish of white fabric and Sophie’s nightdress was over her head, cascading over her body and rustling to the floor.
Only then did Stephen release the ragged breath he’d been holding.
When the maid disappeared into the dressing room, he whispered, “Only one more night, little rabbit. Never fear.”
Only one more night, Overtree, he added to himself. Be strong. You can do this. It was a good thing he was leaving the next day. He wasn’t sure he could resist much longer.