Chapter 21
Wesley Overtree asked the driver to let him off at the end of the lane.
He would walk from there. He wanted to stretch his legs and see the old place from a distance.
When the horse and gig stopped, Wesley gave the man a half crown and thanked him for the ride from the coaching inn.
It was a relief to walk on solid, familiar ground after the tedious sea voyage followed by hours on the dusty, pitted road.
The whole long journey had been a waste of time.
He had not even stepped foot on Italian soil.
Storms had plagued them, followed by a dead calm that delayed their progress.
And then the ship had turned back at the island of Sardinia.
The captain heard reports of Napoleon’s escape and imminent return and insisted on turning around before war broke out and made the sailing route dangerous or impassable.
Of all the bad luck . . . Or perhaps it had not been luck at all, but a sign.
Or a punishment. God telling him to quit running and go home.
A part of him had been oddly relieved. He would see Sophie even sooner than he thought. He hoped she had received the letter he’d posted, and had accepted his apology.
Reaching Plymouth about a month and a half after he’d left it, Wesley traveled overland to Lynmouth by stage coach, rehearsing what he would say to her. Imagining, anticipating her smile. Her shy lovely eyes shining with surprise and happiness to see him back so much sooner than anticipated.
When he’d alighted at the Lynmouth coaching inn at last, he claimed his bags and strode along the harbor, a spring in his step. How he’d missed her. He could not wait to take her in his arms.
He drew up short. The Duponts’ place was dark and empty.
A Closed notice sat propped in the lower window, printed with Mr. Dupont’s Bath direction, for those who wished to contact him there.
Wesley frowned and squinted through the glass.
He knew Dupont had returned to Bath. But where were Sophie and that sniveling Maurice?
He knocked, in case the lazy young man was sleeping midday.
No answer.
Wesley shifted his increasingly heavy luggage and walked up the steep hill to Mrs. Thrupton’s place, remembering Sophie had been sleeping in the woman’s spare room to avoid being alone at night with her father’s assistant. He knocked, but no one answered there either. Strange.
He went to the cottage he’d rented and where he’d left his recent paintings and the supplies he’d not taken with him on the trip.
The door was locked, as it should be. He had left his key under the planter, not knowing when he’d be back, but it was not there now.
He finally found a maid he did not recognize cleaning one of the other cottages and asked her where everyone was.
Mrs. Thrupton was gone to sit with her ailing mother, she told him.
And no, she was not acquainted with the Duponts nor knew where they were.
Only that they had gone, and she and Mrs. Thrupton were tending their cottages for them until they returned.
There was nothing in number one, she told him, but he did not believe her.
His pleading smile and a coin had persuaded her to unlock the door.
“I told you, sir. I cleaned it myself. There was nothing personal in here save some rubbish and one old stocking. You may have it if you like.”
He had been astounded and unhappy. Surely Sophie had not thrown away or burned all his belongings as some sort of revenge.
He hoped she had crated them up and stored them somewhere, probably in their studio.
No, the maid did not have a key to the Duponts’ studio and wouldn’t be opening it for a stranger even if she did.
He could wait for Mrs. Thrupton to return, if he liked, but there was no telling how long she’d be, illness adhering to no schedule.
Wesley had mustered his manners and thanked the woman.
From there he had decided to head back to Overtree Hall.
Not knowing what sort of reception he might receive—especially from Sophie’s father—he was not eager to show up in Bath unannounced.
And he was running dangerously low on funds, not to mention clean clothes.
He was also distracted and concerned about the fate of his missing paintings and wanted to discover if the Duponts had sent them to Overtree Hall.
That would have been kind of them. And they were kind people.
Once that possibility had occurred to him, he decided he would find Sophie as soon as he’d assured himself his paintings were safe.
He assumed Carlton Keith would have made his way to Overtree Hall by now, probably shorter on funds than he was and in need of a place to stay.
Not to mention access to a wine cellar. He had left Keith behind in Lynmouth, so hopefully the man would know if Sophie had received his letter, where she was now, and the whereabouts of his paintings.
Perhaps Keith had taken it upon himself to have them sent home, though he doubted the man would take his role as nursemaid that far.
Whatever the case, Wesley made up his mind to spend a few days at home, wash the travel dust from himself and his clothes, and then seek out Sophie.
Wesley now passed through the Overtree Hall gate and looked up at the house, admiring its grave lines and pleasing symmetry.
When he reached the door and let himself in, the butler stepped out from his nearby pantry, disapproval etched on his face until he saw who it was.
Wesley nodded to him. “Hello, Thurman.”
“Sir. Welcome home.” The old retainer took his coat and hat. “I believe your parents are in the white parlour. Would you like me to announce you?”
“No need. I’ll just—”
“Wesley!” Here came his mother, arms outstretched and a smile brightening her thin, weary face.
“Hello, Mamma. Miss me?”
“You know I did, impertinent boy. What a question! Worried about you too. Sailing all that way on your own. And you’re as thin as a rail, did they not feed you? I thought the Italians were known for their food.”
“I did not reach Italy, Mamma. With Napoleon back in France, the captain insisted on returning to England before war broke out again, so—”
“Wesley, my boy!” his father boomed across the hall. “How good to see you whole and hale. We didn’t expect you.”
“Hello, Papa. How are you? In good health, I trust?”
“I am well, thank you. And—”
“He is not well,” Mamma interrupted. “It’s his heart. That’s why we sent Stephen to find you and bring you home.”
Wesley frowned. “Stephen? I never saw him.”
“Yes, we know that now. He returned from Devonshire empty-handed.”
His father tucked his chin. “Not quite empty-handed, my dear. Don’t forget whom he brought with him.”
Wesley nodded. “I knew Keith would have turned up by now.”
“Yes, but that’s not who I meant.”
Perhaps hearing his name, Carlton Keith appeared in the threshold of the billiards room, stick in his hand, leaning on the doorframe. “Well, well. Hello, Wesley. Didn’t expect to see you for months.”
Wesley turned and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Are you the presumptuous person I have to thank for emptying my cottage? I couldn’t believe my paintings and things were not there. Worse yet, neither was Miss Du—”
“Yes, well, things change,” Keith interrupted. “The captain had your things crated up and sent back here since you made no arrangements to do so.”
“I would have done. I wasn’t planning to stay away forever.”
“You haven’t heard the news, then?” Keith asked.
“What news?”
“Your brother is married. Went looking for you, and came home with a bride instead.”
“What?” Incredulity washed over Wesley. “Captain Black found some poor wretch willing to marry his sour self? I don’t believe it. What sort of woman would marry Marsh? Did no one warn her?”
“I tried to.”
“Yes, it’s quite true,” his father said. “Your younger brother beat you to the altar.”
“Please remember he is serving his country, Wesley,” his mother scolded mildly. “And in his absence we must all make every effort to accept his new wife and make her feel at home here. In fact, I think you may have met.”
Wesley smirked. “That bad, is she?”
“Wes, um . . .” Keith jerked his head to the side. “Perhaps you and I could step away and have a word, before—”
His father looked toward the staircase. “Here she is now.”
From the corner of his eye, Wesley had noticed motion on the stairs. A slender figure in white floating gracefully down. He had taken in only the vaguest impressions—female. White dress. Fair hair. For some reason, he would have expected a woman as dark and broad as Marsh himself.
Carlton Keith hissed something urgently under his breath, but Wesley didn’t make out the words. He turned and gaped.
The female on the stairs stopped abruptly on the half landing, staring down at him with mouth ajar, her expression mirroring his own no doubt.
Twin waves of emotion struck him at once. Sophie was here! Sophie was . . . here? A trickle of foreboding snaked up his spine. Had she come to take him to task for his abrupt departure? He could not blame her but was astounded at her boldness.
His sister came down the stairs. She paused to glance at the statued Sophie, then looked down to see what had arrested her attention. “Wesley!” Kate’s face split into a toothy smile, and she ran down the stairs and flung herself into his arms.
“Hello, poppet,” he said, embracing her. “Don’t break me.”
“What a lovely surprise! Oh, and you must meet Sophie!”
She turned and gestured to the stairs with a wave of her hand.
As eyes turned toward her, Sophie began moving again, slowly descending the remaining stairs, looking nearly as pale as her frock.
“Sophie, come and meet my other brother.”
“Hello, W . . . Mr. Overtree,” she said woodenly.
Wesley searched her face in confusion. “Sophie, what are you doing here?”