Chapter 17
That evening, dinner was quieter than usual. Kate was uncharacteristically subdued, probably thinking of Mr. Harrison, and Mr. Keith was not there to add his droll quips and amusing stories. He had been invited to Windmere for the evening by Angela Blake’s brother, who was at home for a few days.
Later, when Sophie and Captain Overtree walked upstairs together, she asked, “What do you think, Captain? Are the circumstances surrounding young Mr. Harrison’s birth insurmountable? Do they truly render him unsuitable for your sister or any other young lady?”
“In the eyes of my parents? Yes. They do.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. He cannot help that the gentleman who fathered him refused to marry his poor mother. He is innocent of wrongdoing.”
“I don’t say it is fair. But it is reality.”
“Can you not talk to them on his behalf? For Kate’s sake? Persuade them?”
“I have nothing against the young man personally. But do I want him to marry my sister . . . ?” He shook his head. “No.”
She stared at him, disappointed. “I did not expect you of all people to share that view. After all, you married beneath your station. And a person shadowed by scandal.”
“Do you not see the differences? They would be poor and excluded from polite society. Most of my parents’ friends among them.”
“But they would be happy.”
“Would they? I doubt it. Not with so many factors against them.”
“The vicar and his wife are not ostracized. Why would their son be?”
“Mr. Nelson is granted a certain latitude on account of his calling. People admire that he took the boy in. That doesn’t mean they want Mr. Harrison to marry their daughters.”
“Then your parents and their friends are . . .” She bit back the word pompous.
He sighed. “They are not perfect. But my parents care about their daughter and want her to be happy. Not just for a few months, but for the rest of her life. And they are thinking not only of her but of her future children as well.”
“It still isn’t fair.”
He pressed her hand. “I know. Listen, I know what you want me to say. I realize you feel this very personally, because of your own . . . recent . . . situation. But your child will not grow up under a cloud of scandal as Mr. Harrison has. Your child will be legitimate in the eyes of society and the law. He or she will be an Overtree, with all the protection and privileges that name confers.”
Sophie made no reply.
They parted ways at the dressing room door. And in a pique as she was, she turned her back on him without saying good-night.
Captain Overtree did not return to her bedchamber to await the valet’s departure as usual, forgoing the pretense that he meant to share her room.
Changed and in bed a short while later, Sophie had difficulty falling asleep.
She kept reviewing her conversation, or rather her argument, with Captain Overtree.
And what would give her no peace was not Mr. Harrison’s situation or even Kate’s daunted hopes, but the realization of all she and her child had been spared because Captain Overtree had married her.
He’d not only protected her from shame—he’d also rescued her child from a life of scandal and exclusion.
Not to mention possible poverty and deprivation.
She thought of something the vicar had said in church, about how Christ took on our sin and shame on the cross, giving his life to save his people eternally.
Oh, she knew humble and human Stephen Overtree would deny any similarities between what Christ had done and what he had done for her, but at the moment the realization burned in her chest like a hot coal.
And how had she repaid his great kindness?
By remaining aloof. By neglecting him. By idolizing another.
She had done the same to both God and Stephen Overtree. Oh, Lord, forgive me . . .
Unable to lie there any longer, she rose from bed, and walked carefully across the room, hands stretched before her and hoping not to stumble into anything in the dark.
She reached the dressing room and found the door latch.
Dare she? She didn’t know exactly what she meant to do, but she wanted to at least apologize for their argument.
And maybe thank him again. And maybe . . . kiss him. And maybe . . . more.
She quietly unlatched the door and inched it open, hearing only silence in reply.
Within, Captain Overtree lay on his makeshift bed, a book open over his chest, eyes closed.
Nearby on a ledge a candle guttered, its flame struggling to stay alight in a puddle of wax.
She tiptoed inside, knelt beside the sofa, and watched him sleep.
How would he react to wake and find her in his room?
What would he do? Might he take her in his arms and kiss her?
She longed to be held, body and soul. But by Stephen Overtree?
Yes.
Remembering the feeling of his hair beneath her fingers in the studio, she reached out and gently touched his head.
He lurched upright, grabbed her wrist painfully tight, and uttered a strangled yell.
She sucked in a startled breath. “It’s all right, Captain. It’s me. Sophie.”
His eyes were open but unseeing. A haze of violent emotion faded from them and he blinked awake. “Dreaming . . . thought you were the enemy.”
“No. Your wife.”
He loosened his grip and straightened. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No. I’m all right.”
“I scared you, didn’t I.”
“A bit.”
“Sorry, little rabbit.” He tilted his head to better see her face. “Was I talking in my sleep? Did I wake you?”
She shook her head.
Mild confusion crossed his face. “Then . . . Did you want something?”
Did she?
“I . . . just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then, “I am, thank you. Are you?”
“I . . . am sorry for our argument earlier.”
“Think nothing of it. I am sorry as well.”
She rose. “Well, good night, then, Captain.”
“Good night.”
Courage and flame sputtered and died, replaced by darkness and regret.
In the morning, Stephen sat on the edge of the sofa, hanging his head.
What began as his usual morning prayers devolved into speculation and remorse.
He’d been in a stupor last night. The vestiges of a dream—the French attacking, battle, charging—still very real in his mind, overpowering other thoughts until it was too late and he had frightened her away.
Why had she come to him in the dressing room?
He tried to recall their brief conversation.
He’d asked her if he’d talked in his sleep and woken her, but she’d said no.
But in the same breath she’d said she’d wanted to make sure he was all right.
That didn’t make sense to him, though perhaps he was misremembering.
She’d said something about their argument.
Apologized. He should have made room for her on the sofa, and offered to talk with her about it.
And relished her nearness in the bargain.
He chastised himself for not thinking of it at the time.
Surely she had not come for anything more .
. . romantic . . . in nature? He was a fool to even think it.
Rising in frustration, Stephen washed in cold water, dressed, and went downstairs. He had several last-minute details to discuss with the estate manager before his departure in a few days. How quickly this fortnight was flying by. Too quickly.
Afterward, he donned his uniform and went upstairs to sit for Sophie again. He arrived before Kate, and instantly felt the tension in the air between them.
He said, “I’m sorry about last night. Grabbing your arm like that. I did not intend to scare you off. You are, uh, . . . more than welcome in my dressing room any time.” He pressed his eyes closed. He sounded like an idiot. A desperate idiot making a desperate offer.
She ducked her head, embarrassed. “That’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything right either.”
“I should not have intruded.”
“You didn’t intrude. Sophie, you know I—”
Kate knocked and poked her head in with a mischievous look. “All clear?”
“Of course, come in,” Sophie said, clearly relieved to see her.
Inwardly he sighed, feeling as if he had made things worse.
He resumed his pose, and Sophie began painting. Kate looked on, peppering her with questions.
Finally, to stem the flow, Stephen posed a question of his own. “And where is Angela, your shadow? I saw her stalk by the house this morning on her way somewhere. Did she not stop in?”
“No. She is in a pique, apparently,” Kate said. “Wants to avoid us, or at least our houseguest.”
“Oh no. What has Keith done now?”
“Horace is home and invited Mr. Keith to dine with them at Windmere last night.”
“So I heard. Angela did not approve?”
“Actually she seemed pleased by the prospect. But apparently Mr. Keith and her brother did more drinking and gambling than dining. My maid said he arrived back here very late and very foxed. James and Edgar had to all but carry him up to his room. And now the laundry-maid has the unhappy task of scrubbing sick from his evening coat.”
“Thunder and turf . . .” Stephen breathed.
“Sit still and stop scowling,” Sophie instructed.
After one final scowl, he complied.
That afternoon, Stephen sat reading his Bible in a wing-back chair in the library, when Angela Blake strode into the room, Carlton Keith on her heels.
“Miss Blake. Wait.”
Before Stephen could react or announce his presence, she whirled on Keith. “Why do you insist on playing the part of the drunken fool? Gambling away what little money you still have. Gambling away your chance, your life . . .”
“My chance? My chance at what?”
She turned away, freckles receding beneath her blush.
He grasped her arm and turned her toward him. “Are you saying I have a chance with you? Or did have, before I acted so stupidly?”
She averted her face, refusing to answer.