Chapter 32
Three weeks after she left Overtree Hall, Sophie stood atop her beloved Castle Rock overlooking the valley on one side and the Bristol Channel on the other.
The sun hung low in the sky, sending golden light over the water, over the rocks, over her canvas as she painted.
It wouldn’t be much longer until Mavis would forbid her to walk this far.
As it was, she insisted on accompanying her. Just in case.
Mavis sat on a blanket, protected from the wind by a large gorse bush on one side and a rocky outcropping on the other.
She had a flask of tea, a tin of biscuits, and her needlework, and sat contentedly enjoying all three.
Now and again the wind would abate and a few bars of the tune she hummed would reach Sophie’s ears.
Mavis must have felt Sophie’s gaze, for she looked up and smiled at her before resuming her work.
For the first several days after her return, Sophie had been too tense to relax and enjoy her favorite place—worrying Wesley might show up at any time. But he had not. And Sophie found herself not disappointed, as she might once have guessed, but relieved.
As the sun sank lower, Sophie wiped her brushes and hands and stowed away her palette. She straightened, and a sharp twinge struck low in her back. She winced and pressed a hand there, massaging the spot. The backache that had begun the previous night was now revisiting her with a vengeance.
Then a belt of pain seized her underbelly. Sophie groaned and bent over, waiting, hoping for the pain to pass.
This was no mere backache.
“Sophie?” Mavis hefted herself to her feet and hurried to her side. Looking into her face, she asked, “Have your pains begun?”
Sophie nodded.
Mavis put her hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the path. “Come, let’s get you home.”
Sophie leaned on Mavis as they went, praying, Lord, please help me.
Even as she prayed, she felt a subtle assurance that someone, somewhere, was praying for her at that very moment. And she had a good idea of who it was.
The following day, Sophie sat propped up in bed in nightdress and shawl, knowing the midwife would return soon as promised to check on her and her child.
While she waited, Sophie reclined peacefully, exhausted but content.
She could hardly keep her eyes from the bundled babe asleep in her arms. A little girl.
Her little girl. With skin so pale, blue veins showed through, and a head nearly bald save for the softest downy fuzz.
Sophie savored the sight of her, touching every one of her ten wee toes and ten delicate fingers with nails as thin as waxed paper.
Her eyebrows and the shape of her eyes were like her own, while her nose and mouth reminded her of Kate.
She was perfect, except for one thing. A minor thing, she told herself. Merely superficial.
The child had a strawberry birthmark on her neck.
In olden times, the suspicious thought such marks were the sign of a witch. The benevolent, simply that the mother had eaten too many strawberries. But presently, common wisdom said the mark was evidence of some unmet craving in the mother during her pregnancy.
After the birth the previous night, the old midwife had wiped the child clean and Sophie had noticed her focusing on one spot with special care, bending to peer closer as though at a stubborn stain clinging to the babe’s skin. The infant chafed and squeaked in disapproval.
“What is it?” Sophie asked anxiously.
“Well, my dear. Your daughter is a beauty, and has a beauty mark. At least that is what I choose to call it.”
“What do you mean?”
Widow Paisley angled the child toward Mrs. Thrupton for a second opinion. “See that? I thought it was blood, but it’s not going anywhere.”
Mavis ran a gentle finger over the spot. Sophie did not miss the shadow of concern cross her face before she smiled brightly. “Looks like a rose to me.”
“A rose?” Widow Paisley repeated. “I’d say it looks more like a heart—wouldn’t you, Sophie?”
Sophie peered closer. It did indeed.
“You know what that means, I suppose?” the midwife asked, a glimmer of humor in her old eyes.
Sophie shook her head.
“It means you craved love while you carried this wee girl— that’s what.”
Sophie felt warmth stinging her eyes and unexpected tears blur her vision. She could not deny the charge.
“And no wonder with her husband gone to war and recovering from his wounds in Brussels. But he’ll no doubt return soon and make up for lost time.” Mavis said it as though to explain things to the midwife, but Sophie knew she said it to reassure her as well.
“It’s only a wee mark,” the midwife said.
“A cupid’s kiss. A trifle. Why, I once delivered a young widow of a child with half his face a deep mulberry stain.
Poor lad. Folks said it was because she mourned her slain husband.
” The midwife shrugged and traced the dainty red mark again. “This is nothing.”
Sophie forced a smile. It didn’t bother her personally. She thought every inch of her daughter perfect and perfectly beautiful. But with a mother’s protectiveness, she hoped and prayed others would not taunt her little girl about it.
She wished she could talk to Stephen again—ask his opinion about names for a daughter. But with things as they were, she doubted he would express a preference one way or the other.
She decided to name her Mary Katherine. After her dear departed mother, Maria, and after Kate Overtree. She hoped Stephen would approve. And Wesley? She hoped he wouldn’t object. Or insist he had the right to do so.
She dashed off a few lines to her father, but otherwise Sophie and Mary Katherine spent the majority of that first week sleeping, nursing, crying, and staring into each other’s faces. Sophie had never felt so drained and weary, filled and fulfilled at the same time.
The following week, Mavis knocked on the door of the spare bedchamber Sophie occupied. “You have a visitor, if you feel up to it.”
“Who is it?” Sophie breathed, hopeful and fearful all at once.
“Your father.”
“Oh!” Pleasure washed over her. “Ask him in.” She glanced around the room that had become hers, glad to see it tidy—easel near the sunny window and chaise longue and dressing chest against the wall.
Claude Dupont stepped inside and stood there, hat in hand, looking like an awkward schoolboy. “Hello, Sophie. I set out as soon as I received your letter. Are you well?”
Sophie nodded. “Come and see your grandchild, Papa.” She angled the bundled babe toward him.
He stepped toward the bed, bent near, and studied the little pink face. “She’s beautiful.” He set aside his hat and held out his hands. “May I?”
“Of course,” Sophie agreed, pleased he would want to hold her.
He carefully gathered his tiny granddaughter in his arms, looked into her face, and gently swayed of long experience.
“What will you call her?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Mary Katherine, after Mamma.”
He glanced up swiftly, and she was touched to see tears brighten his eyes. “I think that an excellent notion. She would have liked that.”
They shared a look of poignant empathy.
Eventually he handed the child back and sat on the nearby chaise, simply watching them. He wore an expression she had seen so often—her father surveying a scene with his artistic eye, measuring and planning and appreciating.
But there was unusual warmth there too. And again that unexpected gleam of tears.
He said, “Sitting there like that, the sunlight from the window making your hair fairer yet, the little girl in your arms . . .” His voice thickened.
“You remind me of your mother so much. How she looked. How she looked at you . . .” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”
Sophie stared at him. Felt her mouth droop open. “Do you know, you’ve never told me that before.”
“Haven’t I?” He tucked his chin and shifted uneasily.
“Motherhood must agree with me,” she said with a smile to put him at his ease.
He returned the gesture. “I’m glad to hear it. I admit I have been worried about you. Sophie, I apologize for leaving you alone so often the last few years. Not looking after you as I should have. Neglecting you.”
“That’s all right, Papa. I am not a child any longer.”
“You will always be my child. And—as you will find out soon enough—Mary Katherine will always be your little girl. Your concern. If you don’t believe me now, I’ll remind you in about eighteen years.”
He grinned, then sobered. “I’ve missed you, Sophie.
Your marrying and moving away made me realize how much I depended on you.
Maurice is talented, but he can’t match your abilities in organization and dealing with wriggling children or unhappy patrons.
Not to mention your ability to add life to the lifeless eyes I seem to paint. ”
Sophie warmed at his praise.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what your plans are.
I imagine you will have your hands full with Mary there for the foreseeable future.
I did not expect you to leave Overtree Hall and come here in the first place, but if you decide to stay on, I hope you will consider returning to the studio.
Working with me as my partner, rather than as my assistant. ”
She looked at him in surprise. And delight. Not delight at the prospect of working in the studio again, but that he should acknowledge her contributions and abilities.