Chapter 28
Wesley was crossing the hall when Thurman brought in the post on its silver tray.
Wesley paused and idly fingered through letters to his mother, a new magazine for Kate, and a letter addressed to the Overtree family.
He did not recognize the handwriting, but the Brussels postmark certainly caught his attention.
He carried the letter into the parlour, but no one was about.
He supposed he should wait for one of his parents to open it, but he was part of the Overtree family, after all, and something about the letter sent a prickle of foreboding over him, which made him want to read it immediately—and dread doing so at the same time.
Standing near the parlour window, he unsealed the letter, unfolded it, and read.
To my family,
A few lines to let you know I am alive. I regret you were given cause to think the worst. I have taken saber wounds in both shoulders, one severe.
I hope I will not lose the arm. Your prayers are appreciated.
I was separated from my regiment for a time, and briefly held as a prisoner of war, but managed to escape by God’s grace.
I will write with more details when I am able.
For now, I will recover here in Brussels along with many of my men.
Yours,
Captain Stephen Overtree
Cpl A.K.
Exaltation rose in Wesley’s heart. To be the bearer of such news to his grieving family!
A second later, his stomach cramped, as he saw his hoped-for future with Sophie fading away.
A part of him wished he had pressed his advantage while he could.
Sophie had warmed to him again, allowed him to hold her hand, and tentatively smiled at him when their paths crossed.
He’d begun to believe it would be only a matter of time before they were together.
Losing her now would rip the heart from his chest. Perhaps he should have convinced her to run away with him earlier, but with the war barely over and a child on the way it had not seemed wise.
Besides, he’d thought he had all the time in the world with Marsh gone.
For one irrational moment, he considered burning or hiding the letter, to keep the news from Sophie as long as possible. It was foolish, of course.
Even he was not that selfish.
He went upstairs, found Sophie in the attic studio, and extended the letter toward her with little preamble.
“I thought you should see this first.”
“What is it?” She wiped her hands on a cloth and accepted the letter. She read. Inhaled a sharp breath and looked up at him, wide-eyed. “He’s alive!”
He nodded his head, watching her face closely.
She read the letter again, then slowly lowered it, resolutely meeting his gaze. “He’s alive.”
Again he nodded. So many words went through his mind, “It doesn’t mean the end for us . . . He doesn’t even mention you or indicate his regard for you. He doesn’t love you as I do—doesn’t even pretend to. Let’s leave now before he returns . . .” But he said none of them.
“You haven’t told anyone else yet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one was about when the post arrived.”
“They’ll be so happy.”
“Yes. Of course they will. And . . . so am I.”
“Are you?”
He forced a small smile. “I will be.” He took her hand in his, glad she did not pull away, wondering if it was the last time he would be able to do so. Please, God, no . . .
“And you?” he asked.
She nodded, letter pressed to her chest. “Of course I am. It’s the answer to my prayers.”
Rising, she said, “Well, let’s not keep this to ourselves another moment. You tell them. I don’t trust my voice.”
On their way past, Sophie insisted they stop at Winnie’s room and tell her the news. For once the old goat seemed taken by surprise, her “sixth sense” apparently failing her. Winnie hugged Sophie and thanked God again and again.
Downstairs, his family were at first afraid to believe their ears or their eyes. But when everyone had read the letter and read it again, joy swept through their midst. Happy tears and embraces and praising God passed from one to the next.
“But it isn’t even his handwriting,” his mother said, a vestige of doubt creasing her brow.
The colonel nodded. “See the smaller initials here? Cpl A.K.—the corporal who wrote the letter as Stephen dictated.”
Did that explain his impersonal tone? Wesley wondered. His failure to mention Sophie?
“Doesn’t have the use of his hand, apparently,” the colonel added. “Yet.”
His mother grimaced. “He must be bad indeed. Poor Stephen.”
“Prisoner of war . . .” Kate echoed, her voice tremulous. “I hope they weren’t cruel to him.”
“At least it doesn’t sound as though he was held for long,” his father said. “Though any delay in treating such severe wounds . . .” He grimly shook his head.
His mother said, “If only we could bring him home—or send Dr. Matthews to him there.”
The colonel strode to the door, a man on a mission. “I will see what I can find out about his prognosis, who’s treating him, and when he will be released.”
“Thank you, Papa.” His mother drew herself up. “In the meantime, let’s all dedicate ourselves to doing what Stephen asks of us—and pray.”
The next day they received another letter from Ensign Hornsby. Wesley waited impatiently while the family gathered and his father read it aloud.
“Dear Mrs. Overtree, Mr. and Mrs. Overtree, and family,
Hopefully by now, word has reached you that Captain Stephen Overtree is alive.
Unfortunately, the bandsmen who comb the fields for wounded either did not see him, trapped beneath a horse as he was, or left him for dead in their hurry to catch up with the troops already marching north to fight Boney at Waterloo.
He suffered a head wound and sustained saber wounds to his right hand and both shoulders—one very severe.
(Perhaps his epaulets deflected the blow of one strike, but that is only a guess.) The surgeons believe his right side will heal, but are not certain they will be able to save his left arm.
Perhaps if they had been able to operate sooner . . .
The captain is his usual stoic self, and rarely talks about himself, and certainly never boasts. But under the influence of laudanum I was able to pry out a little of the story, knowing you his family would be eager to hear.
Apparently a French patrol found him the following day, levered the horse off him (thankfully his legs were not crushed), and took him prisoner.
After the battle of Waterloo, the French guard grew lax and the captain made his escape.
He says it was easily done, as the French knew they were defeated and were more interested in going home than in guarding prisoners.
I doubt it was as easy as he says, but he is modest that way.
Even so, by the time he walked many miles toward Brussels, and collapsed near the edge of town, he was in a bad state indeed. We can thank God he is still alive.
When he was found, bleeding and insensible, and carried to one of the military hospitals, he had been stripped of anything of value that might have identified him—purse, letters, watch.
Even his coat had been taken from him. Perhaps by one of his own company, who pick the pockets of the dead for what they can get, greedy vultures, as I mentioned before.
All he had of a personal nature was a miniature portrait clutched in his hand.
(He had shown it to me once before, so I recognized the portrait of his wife.) How relieved I was to find him at last—and alive.
I apologize for leading you to believe the worst. Please forgive me.
My letter was well meant if premature. You will understand that the captain is in no fit state to write letters, nor will he be likely to hold pen and ink for some time, but if anything new develops, I shall write again.
In the meantime, he will continue to recover, God willing, here in Brussels with other men of the 28th.
Sincerely,
Hornsby”
Portrait of his wife? Wesley wondered with a frown as his father finished reading.
Where did Marsh get a miniature portrait of Sophie?
He had a good guess. His brother had taken the woman without asking, why not the portrait?
With effort, Wesley swallowed his resentment, and thanked God again that his brother was alive.
“Can one of us not go there?” his mother implored. “Help nurse him? Heaven knows what sort of condition that hospital is in—overcrowded filthy place, no doubt, and incompetent surgeons in the bargain.”
His father soothed, “My dear, I am sure he is in good hands.”
“I wished I shared your confidence, Alan,” the colonel put in.
“I cannot go,” his mother said. “Not and leave you on your own. Your health being what it is . . .”
“Of course you should not even think about going, my dear. No place for a lady. Nor should Sophie. Especially not in her condition.”
“I shall go.” The colonel rose and drew his shoulders back as though at attention.
“Papa . . . You are too old to go traipsing off to war-torn Belgium.”
“Shall I go?” Wesley offered. “I suppose it’s only right, the way Marsh has chased after me all these years.”
Lieutenant Keith slowly shook his head. “I . . . don’t think that’s the best idea . . .” He glanced at Sophie, eyes wary.
“Why not?” Wesley challenged. Surely CK didn’t think he would harm his own brother?
“Because it is dangerous, and one of the Overtree sons needs to stay in one piece. You are the heir, after all. Shouldn’t risk it.” Carlton Keith inhaled resolutely. “I am the best man for the job,” he said. “If anyone goes, it should be me.”
“You, Flap?” Wesley chided, irrationally irritated. “And what good will you do?”
“Wesley . . .” His mother admonished. “That isn’t kind.”
“If the captain does end up losing an arm, well, I know a thing or two about that, don’t I?” Keith said. “And I am not as likely to call him disparaging names as you are.”