Chapter 30
Sophie now shared her studio with a cat and six kittens.
Though Kate had originally delivered the litter to Miss Whitney’s room, for some reason Gulliver wasn’t satisfied, and arduously carried each kitten one by one by the scruff of its neck to the room next door.
Giving in, Winnie had relocated a low basket filled with soft bedding to the studio.
She—as well as Kate and Miss Blake—visited often.
Wesley, in turn, seemed to avoid them all.
A few days later, Sophie sat knitting in the white parlour when Wesley came in. Finding her alone, he crossed the room and sat beside her on the sofa.
Instantly uneasy, she said, “I’m sorry—Kate is sitting there.
She has only gone to check on the kittens, but she’ll be back directly.
” She glanced toward the door, then added softly, “Please don’t say anything about the cats.
Your mother doesn’t know yet.” She managed a smile, but he did not return the gesture.
He rose. “Then come with me to the church, and see my progress on the painting over the chancel archway.”
She said, “I do want to see it—I’m sure it’s wonderful. But I will wait and see it on Sunday with everyone else.”
He crossed his arms. “You can’t keep ignoring me.”
“I am not ignoring you. I am simply treating you as a sister-in-law should.”
“Like a leper, I think you mean.” He picked up the twin to the little bootie she was knitting, and fingered the soft wool. He whispered hoarsely, “I am more than your brother-in-law, and you know it.”
How small the tiny stocking looked in his long fingers. How heartbreaking.
The butler entered and announced, “A Mr. O’Dell to see you, madam.”
Sophie’s stomach lurched, and dread swamped her.
A moment later, her father’s assistant stepped into the room, looking dapper in a new suit of clothes, his hair for once well groomed.
“Maurice! What are you doing here? Is my father all right? The children?”
“Yes, everyone is perfect well, if still reeling from recent, unexpected events.” His gaze landed on Wesley, and his head reared back. “Mr. Wesley Overtree . . . What a surprise to see you here, sir.”
“And why should it be a surprise?” Wesley said coolly. “This is my home after all.”
“Yes, but we thought you were in Italy. Didn’t we, Sophie?”
“He returned. Earlier than expected.”
“Ah! How . . . awkward for all of you.”
“Not at all,” Sophie said with a frosty smile.
“One big happy family, are you? Isn’t that nice. So . . . where is your bridegroom? Oh, that’s right. Off to war, while you two are snug here at home. How convenient.”
“Not convenient at all,” Sophie replied. “Captain Overtree has been injured. We pray for his full recovery daily.”
Maurice tsked. “War is such risky business. I see now why you took your chances.” He looked around the room and then smiled at her. “Well, are you going to invite me to sit down? Offer me tea? I don’t exaggerate when I say I could drink a whole pot. Warm and dusty on the roads today.”
“Of course.” Embarrassed at her lack of tact, and his, Sophie avoided Wesley’s gaze and rang the bell.
While they waited for tea, Kate and Mrs. Overtree came in, and Sophie’s anxiety increased. She made the introductions with all the civility she could muster, but with no pleasure.
“How do you do, Mr. O’Dell,” Mrs. Overtree said. “Any relations of Mrs. Overtree are welcome.”
Sophie considered denying the family tie, but deemed it wisest not to comment. Maurice, however, did.
“Oh, we are not so closely related, ma’am. Not as closely related as I once thought we’d be. Thanks to your son, there.”
Sophie felt her face heat. Heaven help her—Maurice had read Wesley’s letter. Would he reveal all to her mother-in-law?
Mrs. Overtree narrowed her eyes. “You must refer to my other son, Captain Stephen Overtree?”
“Ah yes. The one she married.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your call, Mr. O’Dell?” Mrs. Overtree regarded him coolly.
“Mr. Dupont and my aunt regret that they have not yet been able to visit Sophie, so I volunteered to do so in their stead. I was passing through the area, en route to fulfill a commission for Sir Cedric Fiennes. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?
So generous. Even sent his fine traveling chariot to transport me in style. ”
“Why is Father not with you?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, I thought I could manage this commission myself.”
Wesley sent her a knowing look.
Tea was delivered and Sophie began to pour, but her hand trembled. Noticing, Kate deftly took over the task, and Sophie’s heart expanded with a little more love for the girl.
Maurice glanced around at the few paintings on the parlour walls. “I must say I am surprised not to see any of your work on display, Mr. Overtree. I know you spent a prolific season among us this winter.”
“Oh? I have not yet seen his recent paintings.” Mrs. Overtree daggered a look at her son.
“You would find them interesting, I think,” Maurice said. “I suppose your son is naturally modest about showing his work?”
“Not usually, no.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps the subject itself is modest. The Devonshire coast is a fertile area for artists. You will have to take a look at them one of these days.”
“Indeed I shall.”
Maurice returned his gaze to Sophie—that gaze that always had a way of making her uncomfortable, and all the more now. “You are in . . . robust health, I see, Sophie. Being with child becomes you. Everything is . . . progressing well, I trust?”
Sophie swallowed. “Yes. Thank you for asking. We hope Captain Overtree will return in time for the birth.”
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
For a moment longer he held her gaze, and Sophie feared he would continue on with his innuendo, or simply announce what he knew, or at least suspected. But instead he smiled and turned to Kate.
“Miss Overtree. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. And are you a budding artist, like your brother? I do hope he has painted your portrait. If he hasn’t, I would be honored to do so.”
“He has,” Kate replied. “Though Sophie has painted another more recently. It’s lovely . . .”
Sophie relaxed fractionally when Maurice turned his attention to Kate, but Wesley, she noticed, seemed to grow increasingly tense.
When Maurice finally took his leave, Sophie made her escape. But not before she heard Mrs. Overtree hiss to her son, “What was that young man going on about?”
Sophie didn’t wait to hear Wesley’s reply.
She hurried upstairs, all the way up to the studio.
Her sanctuary. There, she was drawn to the basket in the corner, where the kittens suckled, their little paws kneading their mother’s belly, while Gulliver lay, languid and content.
One little kitten popped off, asleep, and Sophie bent and picked it up.
It was her favorite among them—tiny and grey with an unusual marking—a white patch that spotted its nose like cream.
Cuddling it close, Sophie absorbed from the warm, soft body what comfort she could.
God willing, she would soon hold her own child in similar fashion.
What comfort that would be. What sweet consolation after all the strife surrounding the babe’s existence and pending arrival.
Sophie stroked the soft fur and prayed for her little one.
What sort of childhood would he or she have?
Dear God, watch over us. Please protect my child. . . .
Wesley’d had to control himself not to rebuke O’Dell and tell him to stop staring at his sister. Stop flirting with her too. For a moment he’d heard his own voice in the young man’s flattery, and the realization sent a chill through him.
When O’Dell finally departed and Sophie left the room, his mother hissed, “What was that young man going on about?”
“Don’t mind him, Mamma. He is a jackanapes. Sophie rejected him long ago and he is still bitter.” And vengeful, he added to himself.
Her cool gaze met his. “I think it is time you showed me those paintings.”
Wesley forestalled his mother yet again, and went upstairs to find Sophie. Things were getting out of hand. If O’Dell knew about him and Sophie, wasn’t it only a matter of time until her father found out? And Wesley’s recent paintings would certainly raise suspicions among his own family.
A surge of desperation flared through Wesley. Now that Keith had gone to see if he could bring Marsh home, this might very well be his last chance. He was running out of time to make Sophie see reason.
How could he convince her to realize and admit the truth: He loved her. Marsh did not.
Wesley let himself into the attic studio and found her staring out the window, cradling one of the kittens. She turned when he entered, mouth open in surprise.
Before she could object he said, “Sophie, listen to me. If I thought he loved you, if I thought there was a chance of happiness for the two of you, then of course I would never suggest you leave the man everyone sees as your husband. But he cares more for his regiment than he does for you. And when he recovers, he will go off with them for months—years—at a time. What sort of life would that be for you or our child? But I love you. And you love me. Don’t deny yourself happiness because of my mistakes and Marsh’s rash offer of marriage. ”
She gave him a dour look. “And my rash acceptance?”
“No. I don’t blame you. Marsh made you doubt me—made you think you had no other choice. I wrote to him and told him how I felt. Told him that we love each another. And that you should not have to carry on this ruse of a marriage out of duty, or to protect the Overtree name.”
She stilled, staring at him. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? He was wrong, and it isn’t right you and I should have to suffer for it.”
Sophie stepped away and returned the kitten to its mother, probably giving herself time to fashion a rebuttal.