Chapter 15 #3
His eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to say something. Instead he turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
The next day, Sophie and Kate walked into the village together, admiring the bonnets in the milliner’s window and the cakes in the baker’s. At the newsagents, Sophie bought Winnie the latest edition of Ackermann’s Repository, the periodical she’d mentioned wanting to read.
Later, when they returned to Overtree Hall, Sophie thanked Kate for the outing and the two parted ways in the library. Sophie went directly upstairs, eager to give Miss Whitney the longed-for magazine.
But when she reached the top of the stairs, voices gave her pause. She peeked around the corner and was stunned to see Captain Overtree coming out of a room next to Winnie’s, and the maid Flora coming out after him!
Her heart sank. The two spoke in low tones, and the captain shut the door quietly but firmly behind them. Then he pressed a coin into the housemaid’s hand.
Flora smiled and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Don’t be telling Mrs. Hill, now, or she’ll be docking my pay.”
“Mum’s the word,” he agreed.
Feeling nauseated, Sophie turned and hurried back down the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could. Her morning sickness had passed, but she felt she might be sick even so. She told herself not to jump to conclusions. There could be—must be—another explanation. But what was it?
In their bedchamber, she laid aside the periodical, removed her gloves and bonnet with unsteady hands, and plopped down on a chair to think.
A short while later, she heard the door to her dressing room open, and Libby speaking to someone.
“What were you and the captain doing up there alone together?”
Flora answered in a suggestive singsong voice, “I’ll never tell . . .”
Bile rose at the back of Sophie’s throat.
She reminded herself that she did not love Stephen Overtree.
Theirs was a marriage in name only. If either of them should feel betrayed it should be Captain Overtree, who knew his wife loved his brother.
Is this how it felt? Queasy dread, insecurity, and vulnerability all rolled into the pit of one’s stomach and pinching one’s heart? If so, poor man . . .
But she was no doubt flattering herself. He probably felt little more for her than she did for him.
Sophie avoided the captain the rest of that day and spoke little to him that evening. He looked at her in curious concern but said nothing.
The next morning, she took the magazine up to Winnie, earning a warm smile and thanks. “Your kindness shall be rewarded, my dear. Mark my words.”
Sophie then went for a solitary walk. In the afternoon, she again attempted to sketch in the privacy of the dim morning room. Captain Overtree found her there a few hours later.
“There you are,” he began. “I think it’s time I shared a secret with you.”
Sophie instantly stiffened. What secret?
“Better yet,” he said. “Come upstairs with me and I’ll show you.”
Sophie’s pulse accelerated. Good heavens. What was he going to show her?
He led her up the stairs. She thought again of seeing him climb these stairs at odd hours and wondering what drew him there.
Had it really been to see his old nurse, or had there been some other, clandestine reason?
What had he and Flora been doing up there alone together?
And what about that crate she had seen him and Edgar sneaking upstairs?
She asked, “Are we going to visit Miss Whitney again?”
“Not this time.”
Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for the exertion of the climb. She told herself she was foolish to worry. Foolish to care. She was only a duty to him, was she not? An unwanted responsibility.
“When you see, I think you will understand the reason for my secrecy.”
That didn’t bode well.
He led her past Winnie’s door and instead stopped at the next—the one she had seen him and Flora exit together.
She drew up short, bumping in to him. “Pardon me.”
He lightly touched her arm, as though to steady her, but his hand lingered.
“I tried to keep it quiet, but my valet knows, and at least one of the housemaids. Hopefully no one from the family . . .”
Worse and worse.
“I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me. I no doubt chose poorly, but not having your experience, and not wishing to ask and reveal my secret . . .”
Her ears roared. “You know what. I don’t need to know. I will just go back downstairs and you can keep your secret—whatever it is—to yourself.”
His expression fell. “No! Just look . . . I am making a muddle of this. I hope you will like it. But if you don’t, you needn’t pretend.”
Now she was well and truly confused.
He opened the door gingerly, looking both ways down the passage as if to assure himself there were no witnesses. “It’s the old schoolroom,” he said. “It was the most private place I could think of. No one comes here anymore.”
He gestured her inside and quietly closed the door behind them.
It took her mind a few moments to realize what she was seeing.
Although shelves of forgotten schoolbooks lined one wall and an old desk stacked with slates and globes had been pushed against another, the items in the center of the room were new: an easel positioned near large windows.
A high three-legged stool. A drawing box, and a set of paintbrushes arranged in a ceramic pot as though a potted plant in bloom.
Her heart pounded. “For . . . me?” she asked, voice tight.
“Yes, of course. I paid one of the housemaids to do a little cleaning in here after hours, but it may need more.” He ran a finger over a dusty shelf, murmuring, “A lot more.”
She stared at him. Stunned, stupid, remorseful.
“I am so sorry!” she blurted.
He frowned. “Sorry for what? Don’t you like it? Did I get the wrong things? I can return them and—”
“No!” She shook head vigorously. “I didn’t mean that. I . . .” How could she explain what she suspected, and foolishly feared?
Instead she walked forward and began fingering through the brushes, admiring the fine bristles, the varying thicknesses, the quality handles. “They’re wonderful.”
“Good. I asked the dealer to suggest the best, but he could have sold me a child’s playset and I doubt I’d have been the wiser.
I decided against going to the shop Wesley frequented.
I didn’t want a receipt to find its way into Father’s hand and raise questions, since I know you are keen to keep your work hidden from view. ”
“I don’t mean to be secretive . . .” Sophie murmured. “I am just self-conscious. I have no wish to give your family reason to compare my amateur attempts to Wesley’s—or anyone else’s.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
“And I think you are biased.”
He looked at her squarely. “Yes. I am.”
She looked away from his intense gaze, unsettled, then continued her perusal of the papers, canvases, cakes of watercolor paints, and an array of oil-paint pigments.
“Goodness! You must think I am going to be here for a long while. I could fill Langton’s portrait gallery all over again, figuratively speaking, of course. I shall make them last, I assure you.”
“Don’t. Use whatever you like. I have set up an account in your name. Here is the dealer’s card. Write to him and tell him what you need and he will send it. The new manager will settle the bills discreetly in my absence.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he asked.
“I cannot understand why you are so good to me.”
“Can you not?”
She shook her head once more, his warm look filling her with prickles of anticipation.
He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and began again. “I understand my family can sometimes be a trial, and I hope this gives you a retreat, a place to spend some pleasant hours during the days ahead.”
Had that been what he’d meant to say? She didn’t think so.
“Indeed it shall,” she assured him. “I shall spend many happy hours here. It was very thoughtful of you, Captain. I don’t know how to thank you.” Impulsively, she held out her hand to him.
A spark lit his blue eyes, and he took her hand in his.
Bending near, he raised her hand. He hesitated a moment, his warm breath tickling her knuckles.
Then she felt the firm pressure of his lips against her fingers.
Her heart fluttered. Why should it? After all, she had offered her hand—any gentleman knew what the gesture meant and how to respond. But it felt more significant somehow.
Her husband had kissed her. And even if it had only been her hand, she felt the sweet pleasure of it through her entire being.