Chapter 20
Unable to sleep that night after Stephen’s departure, Sophie sat up late, reading in bed by candlelight.
After a time, she laid aside her novel, and pulled The Rearing and Management of Children from its hiding place.
She flipped through the pages and ran a finger down the table of contents: Infant Care, Feeding, Washing, Health, Digestion, Teething .
. . She would read it all, she decided. She had little experience with infants and wanted to take excellent care of her baby.
Be the best mother she could be. No matter who had given it to her, the book would be useful.
And she could use all the help she could get.
She read through the introduction, then abruptly stopped. Something thudded hard in the corridor beyond her room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. She heard no call for help, no padding feet of a summoned servant.
Sophie reminded herself that Overtree Hall housed many servants who kept busy about the place at all hours, answering bells, lighting fires, bringing water. Perhaps one of them had simply dropped something. It didn’t necessarily mean that anything was amiss.
She turned the page.
Then a high-pitched cry, like a cornered cat or a woman in pain, reverberated through the wall and sent shivers up Sophie’s spine.
She lay frozen, book in hand, telling herself not to be silly. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation for the sound. Perhaps Gulliver had sneaked down and become trapped somewhere on this floor. If so, she hoped Winnie found the cat before Mrs. Overtree did.
Sophie lay still a moment longer, listening.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” came a mournful moan. “That’ll be the end of you. He’s gone, and you’re next.”
Sophie laid aside her book, threw back the bedclothes, and rose. She tied her dressing gown around herself, picked up her candle lamp, and carried it to the door. Inching it open, she peered into the dim corridor.
From a distance, came the faint sound of someone playing the pianoforte downstairs. But from much nearer by, a muffled groan reached her.
Pulse pounding, Sophie crept forward, candle high to light her way. She rounded the corner and was stunned to see Miss Whitney crumpled on the floor.
Sophie gasped in alarm. “Winnie! What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“He’s gone,” she wailed. “And I’m next. I know it.”
Is that why the woman had dressed in black?
To mourn Stephen’s departure—her defender at Overtree Hall?
“Hush,” Sophie gently urged, kneeling beside the woman.
It was clear from her slurred speech and bleary eyes that she was intoxicated.
Sophie glanced at the broken drinking glass beside her, and smelled brandy.
Miss Whitney followed her gaze and her look of sorrow deepened. “Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done, Winnie old girl.” She leaned over and began sweeping at the shards of glass with bare fingers.
Sophie grasped her hands to stop her. “No, Winnie. Leave it. You’ll cut yourself. I’ll take care of it. Let’s get you to your room before Mrs. Overtree sees you like this.”
Sophie tried to help Winnie up, but in her current limp and uncooperative state, she couldn’t manage it alone. “Winnie, stay here and be quiet. I’ll get help and be back directly, all right?”
“Not coming back . . .” she moaned again. “What if he doesn’t come back . . . ?”
“He will. And so will I. Give me two minutes.”
Sophie hurried down the stairs, the sound of the pianoforte growing louder as she neared the white parlour.
Mr. Keith, she guessed. He had played as a younger man and had recently begun trying to learn how to do so with one hand.
She opened the door. There sat Mr. Keith, up late, quietly plunking away at the pianoforte to amuse himself, or perhaps to keep his hand too busy to pour a drink.
“Mr. Keith, can you help me?”
He stopped playing and looked up at her in concern.
“It’s Winnie,” she explained quietly. “She’s fallen and I need help getting her to her room.”
He rose. “Is she badly hurt?”
“No, but she is somewhat . . . incapacitated.”
His brows rose, but he didn’t press for details. “Take me to her.”
He followed her back upstairs. There, Winnie’s tart breath, swaying form, and slurred muttering rendered her condition obvious.
Keith looked from her to Sophie, brow puckered. “Sink me. Is that what I’m like when I’m foxed?”
“Worse,” Sophie said, then softened her reply with a grin.
“Very funny, Mrs. Overtree. You are beginning to sound like your husband.”
Together they helped Winnie to her feet and half-dragged her, half-carried her to the bottom of the stairs. “Now what?” Sophie asked.
Keith looked up the daunting flight. “Easier if I could carry her, but I’m not exactly sweeping women off their feet these days. Wait a minute . . .” He paused to think, then said, “Support her upright a moment.”
Sophie did so, and he bent and hefted the old woman over one shoulder like a sack of cabbages.
“Wooee . . .” Winnie squealed. “The world’s gone topsy-turvy. Ohhh . . .” she murmured. “I don’t feel well . . .”
“Don’t be sick on my shoes. Hear me, Winnie? They’re my only decent pair. Nor down my back.” He looked at Sophie and made a face. “Probably serve me right if she did.”
A wrapped sweet fell from Winnie’s inverted pocket, and Sophie bent and picked it up. Again Sophie hoped that no one would come upon them and see Winnie in this state—or in her current position! What a sight they must make.
Finally they reached the attic, Keith huffing and puffing. Sophie opened the door to Winnie’s room and helped Mr. Keith gently slide the elderly woman from his shoulder to her bed.
Keith bent over, resting his hand on his knee. “Hang me, I’m lathered. That scrawny old bird weighs more than a drunken gunner.”
Sophie smiled gratefully at the man. “Thank you, Mr. Keith. Captain Overtree would be pleased to know you helped.”
“I know he would. He asked me to look out for you and the old girl. And I plan to do my duty.”
“How good of you both. Now you go to bed and I’ll finish cleaning up. You’ve done more than your fair share of work tonight.”
“Carried my share of the load, I think you mean.” He rotated his shoulder and stretched his neck. “I’ll be sore in the morning—that’s for da . . . dashed sure. Sorry. Night.”
Sophie removed Winnie’s shoes, spread a blanket over her, and then went back downstairs. While she was cleaning up the glass, the colonel stepped from his room into the corridor, fully dressed. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh . . . um, yes, Colonel. Everything is fine. Dropped something, that’s all, and didn’t want to wake a housemaid at this hour. Nothing to worry about.”
“Well, good. I thought I heard something . . . else.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Well, if you’re sure you’re all right. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Colonel.”
In the parlour the next evening, Mr. Overtree held up a crystal decanter—nearly empty—and eyed it in disgust.
He glared across the room at Mr. Keith. “Good heavens, man. Must you drink all my brandy? I know for a fact Thurman refilled this decanter yesterday.”
“I didn’t ha—” Mr. Keith broke off with a swift glance at Sophie. “That is, I . . . don’t know what to say, sir.”
Sophie came to his defense. “Mr. Keith has been abstaining lately. I don’t think it could have been him.”
“Oh, come now,” Mrs. Overtree scoffed. “Who else in this house drinks so much of that awful stuff?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Overtree.” Keith’s eyes were on Sophie as he said it. “But perhaps I did and merely . . . forgot.”
“Forgot? Well, if you drank all this, I imagine you did.” Mr. Overtree scowled. “Probably have a thick head today as well.”
Colonel Horton winced and spoke up. “Don’t be angry with the lieutenant, Alan. Truth be told, I drank quite a bit of brandy myself last night. Rough day with Stephen leaving. Maybe Keith isn’t the only one who wanted to dull the pain.”
Keith stared at the colonel, stunned speechless.
Sophie watched the elderly man with confusion, curiosity, and growing realization. If he offered her a sweet, she would not be surprised.
To distract herself from loneliness, Sophie invited Kate up to the studio the following day, and together the two young women spent several pleasant hours—Sophie instructing while Kate attempted a still life of flowers and fruit.
For the time being the partially finished portrait of Captain Overtree stood shrouded against the wall, too poignant to look at.
Miss Blake had gone to Oxford the day after the party to visit her future sister-in-law, so Sophie had Kate’s undivided attention. Except, perhaps, for Gulliver, who lounged nearby.
Mr. Keith, Sophie knew, was restless with Miss Blake gone, sure the new sister-in-law must have six strapping brothers who would all vie for her regard.
Through the window, they heard crack over and over again as he hit cricket balls singlehandedly across the lawn, only to fetch them and begin again.
Finally silence reigned and Kate and Sophie looked at each other in relief.
But after a few minutes passed, the sound of the pianoforte being banged in a discordant racket wound its way up the stairwell.
Sophie winced, and Kate shook her head as she continued to paint.
Sophie was amazed the girl could concentrate.
Some time later, carriage wheels crunched on the drive below, and Sophie stepped to the window. “Miss Blake is here. I thought she meant to stay in Oxford longer. Shall we go down?”
“Oh . . .” Kate dabbed paint to a flower petal. “Let Mr. Keith have her to himself for a while.”
The two women shared knowing grins.
Then Sophie sobered. “Have you . . . talked to Mr. Harrison since the party?”
Kate sighed. “I tried to. But he says we must respect my parents’ wishes and not further our acquaintance. He says it’s all for the best, as he needs to focus on the book he is writing.”