Chapter 26 #2
“I misjudged you. And I’m sorry.” She reached over and laid her gloved hand on Sophie’s, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Somehow the comforting act sent a fresh flood of tears to Sophie’s eyes. She shook her head, struggling to speak over her tight throat. “No,” she managed, chin quivering. “You were right about me. I didn’t deserve him.”
Answering tears filled Mrs. Overtree’s eyes. “Oh, my dear girl. You really did—do—love him, don’t you?”
Sophie nodded. If only she had realized it sooner.
During the following week, Sophie avoided the studio—where Wesley might find her alone, where the ruined portrait of Stephen stood like a pitiful memorial.
She would have to scrape off the portions of his face streaked with dried paint and do her best to repair the portrait—no doubt giving him another “scar” in the process.
Or paint several new layers of paint over all to cover the red marks, but that would be almost like starting his face all over again.
And already, she couldn’t recall the details as clearly anymore.
At all events, it seemed a daunting project, beyond her current energies and her skills.
Instead she spent time with Kate, Angela, and Mrs. Overtree, far more at ease with her mother-in-law than she had been before.
She drew comfort from the female companionship and found the gentle stream of conversation—from trivial topics to deep insights as only women can do—soothing.
Healing. She had spent so little time with women growing up, after her mother had died.
She found she enjoyed their company—so different from that of men.
The four of them spent hours together in the morning room, knitting and doing netting work.
Sophie took pleasure in creating in this whole new way.
Together the women talked while their needles worked, making a baby blanket, a little woolen waistcoat, booties and caps.
Her child would be well shod and clothed come winter.
She wondered yet again if it would be a boy or a girl, especially now that he or she was making its presence felt with frequent movements.
Sophie liked the name George for a boy, especially since Stephen had indirectly suggested it.
But she still had not settled on a name for a girl.
Now and again, Sophie visited Winnie, taking a lopsided cap or bootie to show the woman her efforts, and a scone or a bowl of strawberries.
Usually, she found Winnie feeding the birds to her cat’s amusement, or reading on the settee, Gulliver purring on her lap.
But one day, Sophie entered to find Winnie standing at the window alone.
“It’s strange,” Winnie said, turning to face her. “I haven’t seen Gulliver for a few days. I don’t suppose he’s crossed your path?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Sophie replied, holding forth a wrapped lemon scone.
“Ah, well. I’m sure he’s just roaming about the neighborhood, naughty boy. In fact, I saw him from the window last week, courting another cat in the churchyard.”
Winnie accepted the offered scone and took a crumbly bite. “You haven’t been to the schoolroom lately,” she observed.
“No.” Sophie ducked her head, embarrassed to remember the scene the woman had witnessed between her and Wesley there more than a month ago.
Winnie set aside her plate and gripped Sophie’s hand. “All is not lost, my girl. What is ruined is not ruined forever.”
Sophie blinked at the woman. Was she referring to the fact that Sophie had been ruined, or what? Her cheeks heated with shame.
“Go on.” Winnie tipped her head toward the wall shared with the schoolroom. “Go and see.”
Sophie heard a shuffling noise from the next room. She whispered, “Is Wesley in there?”
“I should imagine so. But how would I know? I may have eyes in the back of my head, but I can’t see through walls. Usually.” She winked.
Sophie shook her head. “I’ll wait ’til he leaves.”
“Oh, go on. I think you’ll be safe enough. Just shout if he tries anything and my trusty broom and I will be there in two shakes.”
Sophie tentatively pushed open the old schoolroom door.
Inside, things looked much as she had last seen them.
Portrait on easel. Wesley standing, hands on hips.
But the scene had a stillness. A peacefulness that the last encounter between them had lacked.
He stood, not glaring down at anything, but with his back to her, staring out the window.
He slowly turned as she entered, his expression guarded. He glanced toward the portrait, then back at her, waiting, wary. Did he think she would rage at him for spoiling it?
She steeled herself and glanced over, telling herself to remain calm. It was only a painting. Only one of hers. She could bear one look.
Instead she turned and stared. Walked closer and studied the painting. Sunlight from the window shone gently upon Captain Overtree’s face.
His perfect face.
“You repaired it,” she breathed.
“I hope you aren’t angry. I know you told me not to, but I had to do something. I had to try. . . . If you don’t like it, you can paint over it. You would have had to anyway. I did my best to remain true to your style and brush work, and—”
“It’s perfect.” He had not only repaired the painting but improved it.
Subtly, carefully. In a way that did not leave her feeling violated or discouraged.
He had not commandeered her work or made it his.
He had cleaned it up, polished it, removed extraneous or distracting bits, highlighted its strengths, and downplayed its weaknesses. It was masterfully done.
“Thank you,” she managed, her heart full.
He came and stood beside her. Close, but not touching. Not presuming.
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he began. “About the portrait. About Stephen. About leaving you in the first place. Truly, I am, and I hope you will forgive me.”
Sophie hesitated. Was she ready to forgive him? For all the upheaval, all the heartache, all the uncertainty?
When she did not reply, hurt and resignation crossed his handsome face, but he continued gently, “I love you, but I won’t pressure you. If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.”
She managed a wobbly nod, knowing she would cry again if she tried to speak.
Wesley stood memorizing every cherished feature, longing to take her in his arms but mustering the self-control to resist. Sophie looked so fragile standing there. So vulnerable with her thin hands, her wan damp face, her rounded middle—a portrait of loss and life.
“I will miss him too, Sophie. Don’t think I won’t. For all my complaints about Marsh, I depended on him. Loved him.” Tears blurred his vision.
Looking up at him, Sophie’s eyes downturned all the more, and she held out her hand to him.
He took it, and slowly drew her close. He gently, chastely, put his arms around her. She stood rigid a moment, then melted into his embrace, laying her cheek against his shoulder.
He held her trembling body, the swell of their growing child between them.
But, they had more than a child between them. They had history. Shared loss. And shared hope for the future. And he very much hoped, shared love as well. It would take time, he knew, and he would have to allow her to grieve.
He wondered again if what the maid Flora had told him was true—that Sophie and Stephen had not slept in the same bed—had perhaps not even consummated their marriage. Even if it wasn’t grounds for an annulment in England, in several other countries it would be. . . .
But Wesley decided against raising the topic.
With Marsh dead, it was a moot point. And whatever the case, Sophie’s grief was real.
And he needed to, and would, respect that.
But he believed—hoped—that somewhere deep beneath her grief and disappointment, she still nurtured feelings for him.
Yes, he would have to be cautious. Tread carefully and not chase her away.
She had loved him once, he knew, and he would earn her love again, if it was the last thing he did.