Chapter 14
The next afternoon, the girls had another dress fitting to endure. As Sophie left her bedchamber for the appointment, she noticed Captain Overtree climbing the stairs to the attic and assumed, or at least hoped, he was going to visit Miss Whitney.
Mrs. Pannet and her assistant returned with the tacked-up dresses, which, in her estimation, were coming along nicely.
Kate’s gown had remained simple, as planned, but the dressmaker had decided to embellish Sophie’s, since the new Mrs. Overtree would be an honored guest for the party.
She had added chenille embroidery, and ribbon trimming at the shoulder for height and elegance.
Blue rosettes adorned the bodice, and the white skirt was shot through with the same blue threads.
She also planned to add a flounced hem of the same blue, if madame approved.
Both Mrs. Overtrees heartily did so.
When her fitting ended some twenty or thirty minutes later, Sophie went up to Miss Whitney’s room. She assumed Captain Overtree would still be there and decided to join them, taking the ginger biscuits she’d saved from the picnic the day before.
When she entered, Miss Whitney turned from the window. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Overtree.”
Sophie glanced around the room. “Where is the captain? I thought he would be here with you.”
“No, he hasn’t been up to see me today. But I saw him. He rode off a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Did he?” That surprised Sophie.
“Mm-hmm,” the woman said, her gaze returning to the window. “I’ve just been bird watching.”
Sophie crossed the room to see what had captured the woman’s devoted attention. Besides a very fat pigeon, she saw no birds at present. But down below across the drive she did see Kate and young Mr. Harrison talking over the churchyard wall again. Bird watching, indeed.
She decided not to comment. Instead, she held out the biscuits on the linen napkin like the friendship offering it was.
Miss Whitney’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, my dear. I adore biscuits.”
Sophie noticed an overflowing glass dish of wrapped sweets on the table. “And you like sweets, apparently.”
Miss Whitney shook her head. “Not particularly. But they are a sweet victory.”
“How so?” Sophie asked, confused.
Miss Whitney chewed her lip. “Don’t tell Stephen, but I rarely eat them. They stick to my teeth. But he’s been giving them to me for years on my birthday and at Christmas, and I hate to hurt his feelings.”
“Perhaps I might think of a tactful way to suggest another gift?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I find uses for them.”
“What else do you like, Miss Whitney? I shall keep a lookout for your favorites.”
“I like fruit, especially berries. But it’s a bit early in the year.
Otherwise, I’m not particular. The only foods I cannot tolerate are turnips and shellfish.
Cook knows that and sends them up often.
” Winnie made a funny face and sighed. “At least my cat enjoys the fish. I have yet to find a taker for the turnips.”
Sophie grinned. “Surely Mrs. John doesn’t send fish and turnips every night.”
“No. But she is stingy, that one. Sends up the smallest portions—leavings by the looks of it. A crust of bread, a chicken leg, a dollop of pudding. I may be thin, but I need to keep up my strength. Probably thinks I sit about all day and night and don’t need to eat.
But it’s not true. And what I do get, I have to share with Gulliver and the birds.
She refuses to send up anything especially for them.
I dare not complain to the mistress. I don’t want to give her any reason to send me packing. ”
“Surely the captain and Kate wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I don’t worry when the captain is in residence, but after he leaves . . . ? And as far as Kate, I am fond of the girl, but I think if her mother or Miss Blake made a big enough fuss, she would go along with plans to put me out.”
Winnie sat down, took a bite of her biscuit, and asked eagerly, “Now. How goes married life?”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know,” Sophie faltered. “There are many adjustments to make when one finds oneself bound to a man she barely knows.”
“And not the man you thought you’d marry.”
Sophie reared her head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I . . . only meant that the person we first meet is not often the person we come to know on longer acquaintance.”
“Ah. That may be. But Captain Overtree is a good man. I see that.”
“He is indeed. The best of men. I’m glad you recognize that. So many seem to prefer Master Wesley, even though Stephen is kinder than his handsome brother. To me at least.”
Sophie thought it wisest not to delve into the subject of Wesley and which brother she might prefer.
Instead she asked the woman, “Did you never think of marrying?” Sophie thought again of having blurted out this same question to Captain Overtree. She’d been unsettled by his refusal to answer.
“I thought about it often,” Winnie replied. “There was a shoemaker I considered marrying once. Perhaps I should have. I didn’t love him, but he would have provided for me. I wouldn’t find myself living alone, all but forgotten in the only home I’ve known for the past thirty years.”
“Do you never go outside, or into society? You must become bored at times.”
Miss Whitney gave her a knowing look. “Are you bored, when you’re alone with your paints?”
Sophie blinked at her. “How did you know I paint?”
“Oh. Perhaps it’s second sight.” She winked. “Or perhaps the fact that you have paint beneath your fingernails. . . .”
Sophie looked down to check, though she’d not painted in weeks.
“Made you look!” The old woman giggled like a schoolgirl. “Sorry, my dear. I was only teasing you. Stephen told me.”
“Oh.” Sophie forced a polite little chuckle, though she was discomfited by the changeable woman. She asked, “But don’t you miss being among other people? You must get lonely up here.”
“Lonely, I can’t deny. But not bored. I like to read, although nowadays my mind wanders along with my eyes. I still like reading short stories, and news articles. Magazines are my favorite. Kate brings up hers when she has finished with them. Do you subscribe to any?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s a shame.” Winnie sighed. “Kate said she would ask Miss Blake to lend me her copies of Ackermann’s Repository, but so far she hasn’t been willing to part with them. At least not to me. She’s on Mrs. Overtree’s side where I’m concerned. The elder Mrs. Overtree, I mean.”
“I knew who you meant.”
Miss Whitney cocked her head to one side and mused, “And what about the younger Mrs. Overtree? Which side will she end up on, I wonder?” She watched Sophie, her blue eyes alight with interest and perhaps a trace of worry. “Do you mind sharing a few morsels of your husband’s time with me?”
“Not at all.” Better you than flirtatious Flora, Sophie thought, but she didn’t say so.
“Good. I lived in a poorhouse once, as a girl.” Winnie shuddered. “And it’s an experience I hope never to repeat.”
That evening, as they walked down to dinner together, Sophie asked the captain where he had gone while she had been busy with the dressmaker and later with Winnie.
An odd look filled his eyes—surprise, secrecy, guilt? “I . . . am not at liberty to tell you just yet. But it’s nothing to fear, I assure you.”
Sophie hoped that was true.
That night, the captain was late coming up for bed. Libby had come and gone and still he had not appeared, nor did she hear anything from his dressing room. Sophie climbed into bed with the first volume of Sense and Sensibility, which Kate had lent her, and tried to read.
Sometime later, Sophie paused and looked up.
What had she heard? A thump and a scrape as though someone had tripped behind the bed.
If there were mice in the walls, they were awfully big.
She closed her eyes to listen, and heard the drone of a voice coming from somewhere nearby.
From her dressing room? Her pulse accelerated at the thought.
Breathlessly, she whispered, “Who’s there?”
But silence was the only reply. She laid aside the novel, climbed from bed, and tiptoed to her dressing room. Moonlit and empty.
She returned to her book.
A short while later, she heard footsteps and muffled male voices, and again rose to investigate.
Quietly opening her door, she saw the captain and Edgar carrying a crate between them, up the stairs.
The corner hit the stair rail and nearly dropped.
The captain let out a mild epithet. Then the men repositioned their grips and continued upward.
Sophie’s stomach clenched. Was that the crate that held Wesley’s paintings of her—those they had packed up in Lynmouth? Was he carrying them up surreptitiously, to avoid his parents asking to see them?
She tiptoed across the corridor and partway up the stairs, curious to know if they were taking the crate to Wesley’s room.
She assumed they were. But the men continued up the next flight of stairs toward the top floor.
Why? Was he hoping to hide them, to keep them from being discovered even after he’d gone? Was he so ashamed of them? Of her?
Or did the crate not hold paintings at all? Was it something for Winnie, or . . . someone else? She wanted to ask, but considering his evasive answer about his earlier errand, and about “Jenny,” she decided against it.
The next day, after Captain Overtree left to meet with a tenant, Sophie grew restless.
She thought about that crate she had seen him and Edgar carrying.
She thought about the paintings Wesley had done of her this year.
She was also still curious to discover if the large painting she had posed for last year was up in his room or studio.
Otherwise, what had he done with it? She knew it was risky—emotionally and otherwise—but she wanted to take a peek.
Dare she? Especially now with Mr. Keith in residence?