Chapter 23
They rested on Sunday, but the following week Sophie and Wesley returned to the studio to work on the portraits—his of her and hers of Kate.
Sophie had already captured the general outline of the girl’s pose, hair, hands, and dress, and now worked to add detail to her features.
Soon Kate grew tired of sitting still, and Sophie released her to go for a walk with Miss Blake into the village.
Sophie could continue on for a time without her model.
Wesley continued as well, now and again asking her to stop painting so he could focus on some detail of her face or hair.
“Lovelier than ever, mia Sophia.”
“Stop calling me that. I am not yours.”
“Maybe not now. But don’t you remember what we had between us?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Don’t, or won’t?”
She refused to answer. The truth was, she was trying hard not to remember what had passed between them, how she had felt about him, and sometimes still did. After all, she had only been married to Stephen for two months, but she had been in love with Wesley for more than a year.
He set aside his palette and rose, stepping behind her stool and leaning down to whisper in her ear. “You can deny it all you like, but we both know there was a time you were mine—heart, soul, mind, and body. . . .”
She lurched to her feet to put distance between them, pretending the need to adjust the light coming into the room. She stepped to the window and stretched up to reach the top shutter, her gown flattening, straining against her body as she did so.
She glanced over at him and realized he was staring at her—not at her face but at her midsection.
He frowned, strode over to her, and before she could protest or flee, clasped her around the waist, his exploring hands far more measuring than romantic.
She squirmed in his hold. “What are you doing? Release me.”
“Thunder and turf, Sophie. Are you with child?”
Her mouth parted. “What? I . . .”
“You are. I can tell. I knew something was different about you, but I didn’t think . . . Not so soon.”
“Please lower your voice, Mr. Overtree. I—”
“Are you going to deny this too? Don’t bother. Don’t forget, I once knew your body as well as my own. Every curve. Every dip. Every inch.”
Her neck heated. “Hush.”
His jaw slackened. “That’s why you married Marsh! What an imbecile I am. I knew there must be some other reason. I cannot believe I didn’t guess immediately.”
Sophie raised a hand. “Stop it. Stop it right now. If I were with child. And if I have a child, he or she will be the captain’s—Stephen’s.”
He shook his head, eyes alight. “No. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
She held her tongue, refusing to confirm or deny his guess.
He gripped her shoulders. “Did you know before I left Lynmouth? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sophie struggled inwardly. Might it not be better for everyone—the child, and Stephen, and the family—if she admitted nothing but kept up the pretense? The words she held back escaped as silent tears running down her cheeks.
Wesley’s beautiful eyes filled with tears as well. “You are carrying my child, and you married my brother? How could you? Why didn’t you wait?”
The dam broke. “Because you left me with no other choice!” She jerked away from him and fled, hurrying from the room.
Sophie retreated to her bedchamber, shaking and breathless. Now she had done it. What would Wesley do? Would he tell everyone? Heaven help them all.
She didn’t go down to dinner that night, sending Libby to let Mrs. Overtree know she didn’t feel well and wouldn’t be joining them. It was certainly true. Libby brought soup and tea on a tray to her room, and afterward Sophie went to bed early.
She was about to drift to sleep when a soft knock nudged her alert.
“Sophie? It’s me.”
Wesley’s voice. Afraid he would enter if she did not respond, Sophie snatched up her dressing gown and hurried to the door, opening it only a few inches.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Go away.”
“I might have stayed away. Or at least tried. But now that I know you are carrying my child . . .”
“I never said that!” she hissed. “It’s Stephen’s. I am Stephen’s. Now go away before a servant or your parents find you at my door. Would you ruin my life all over again?”
Looking stricken, he turned away, and she regretted her sharp words. She closed the latch and rested her back against the door. Overwhelmed with worry and regret, she slid down to the floor, leaned her head back against the wood, and let the tears come.
Finding out Sophie carried his child clarified the situation in Wesley’s mind.
He had been angry and disappointed with her, but now he understood why she had married so abruptly.
He shook his head in wonder. He and Sophie had created a child—the ultimate masterpiece.
The realization filled him with love and awe.
Suddenly the prospect of losing Sophie and their child frightened him. But what other choice did he have?
Several days passed with he and Sophie tiptoeing around one another—she avoiding him, or greeting him with cool civility whenever their paths inevitably crossed. Him being as kind to her as she would allow.
Kate returned to pose again, and then remained to watch and learn from Wesley as he painted Sophie.
“Why do you add the red first?” Kate asked. “That is not the color I would have chosen . . . Do you think umber might be better . . . ?”
“Kate, please be quiet for two minutes together,” Wesley replied. “I have answered your last thirty-seven questions with the utmost patience, you must allow. But I cannot concentrate with all your chattering.”
“Very well.” Kate shrugged and sat back down on the stool near his—but not too near—to watch him work.
Silence reigned for several minutes. Blissful silence, broken only by the occasional coo of a mourning dove in the eaves beyond the window. The melancholy sound apparently matched Sophie’s mood. He had rarely seen her expression so forlorn.
He said, “Now I am going to paint your eyes, so if I could ask you to look at me, Sophie. . . .”
She blinked, clearly struggling to hold his gaze.
“The eyes, the eyes,” he murmured. “Oh, the tales they tell.”
“Hers tell a sad tale indeed,” chirped a voice at his elbow.
Wesley jerked around. Sophie started as well.
Nurse Whitney had silently entered the room behind him and now stood there, peering over his shoulder. Irritation flashed through him. It was the first time he’d laid eyes on her in several months, which suited him perfectly. He’d never liked the meddlesome woman.
“Dash it, Winnie. Don’t skulk about and sneak up on people.”
“Me, the one to skulk and sneak? That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You wouldn’t be so skittish, if you didn’t have something to hide. But then, you do, don’t you?”
“Rubbish.” He jabbed his brush into the paint. “Save your mummery for someone who believes it.”
“Wesley . . .” Kate admonished. Then she turned and said sweetly, “Winnie, we were just going to ring for tea, if you’d like to stay and join us.”
Wesley pushed back his stool with a whining protest and rose abruptly. “If you ladies will excuse me, that’s my cue to go and find something stronger.” He stalked from the room.
Miss Whitney had always brought out the worst in him, Wesley realized. He knew she’d do anything to protect her darling Master Stephen—and now apparently his new wife as well.
Sophie watched Wesley go, wondering at his overreaction to his former nurse, then turned back to the other two ladies.
Winnie said, “Thank you, Miss Katherine. But I shan’t stay long. I only wanted to see how Mrs. Overtree fares today.”
“I am well, Winnie. Thank you,” Sophie replied.
“And why shouldn’t she be well?” Kate asked with a little frown of concern. “Sophie, have you a cold or something you’ve not mentioned?”
“No.”
“Never said she had a cold, Miss Katherine,” Winnie corrected. “But she has a child on the way, and had better take care of herself.”
“A child?” Kate swiveled to look at Sophie, mouth ajar. “Have you? Has Winnie divined a secret?”
For a moment, Sophie sat there as stunned as Kate.
But then she thought of the child-rearing book she’d received more than a month ago.
Apparently, Winnie had learned her secret one way or another.
She felt herself grow warm and self-conscious under their dual gazes.
“Um . . . yes. I am expecting. But how did you—?”
“Oh, Sophie, that’s wonderful!” Kate beamed, throwing her arms around her where she sat. “Does Stephen know?”
“Yes, the father knows,” Winnie answered for her. “Only recently found out.”
Sophie looked up at the elderly woman, startled anew. What did she mean? Did she suspect Wesley was the father?
“Do Mamma and Papa know?” Kate asked.
“I don’t believe so,” Sophie said. Not unless Wesley told them, she added to herself.
“Another little Overtree on the way!” Winnie rubbed her hands together. “How marvelous.”
Kate smiled. “I am so happy for you. When is it to be?”
Sophie hesitated. “I am not certain . . . exactly. Late this autumn, I imagine.”
“Excellent! Then I shall not be the youngest Overtree for long! What a welcome-home gift for Stephen that will be.”
Sophie managed a smile, hoping Stephen’s parents were as accepting as his sister was.
“When will you announce the news?” Kate asked.
“Well, it isn’t something one generally blurts out in mixed company.”
“May we tell Mamma at least? She will be so happy.”
“Will she?” Sophie asked softly, stomach twisting. Something told her Mrs. Overtree would ask far more questions than innocent young Kate.
That evening after dinner, the men remained behind over port, and the women withdrew to the white parlour to wait for them as usual.
Mrs. Overtree seemed little given to conversation that night, worried as she was about Stephen.
News had reached them that Wellington was preparing for battle in Belgium.
Sophie didn’t blame the woman. She was worried too.