Would Captain Black have put up with that? Wesley wanted to believe the girl and exalted at the thought that maybe Sophie had refused Marsh for his sake. If so, was it possible they had never consummated the marriage...? It seemed too good to be true. Even though non-consummation alone was not grounds for annulment in England, the thought gave him hope.
He drew himself up. “Good night, Flora. There’s a good girl. Work hard and don’t gossip and you’ll no doubt have a long and successful career here at Overtree Hall.”
Her smile fell. Her confidence with it. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As the girl disappeared around the corner, Wesley stood staring at the mask of the singing jester.
Then, thinking the better of tempting fate—or remaining in tempting proximity to a flirtatious housemaid, Wesley changed his mind about painting and went downstairs, retreating into his own room.
He had no specific plan, but he saw his retreat as a minor victory. A first step in becoming a better man. To earning Sophie’s trust all over again.
In the morning after breakfast, he went back upstairs, ready to deliver a setdown to his old, critical foe.
He tapped on Winnie’s door, and when she called “Yes?” he opened the latch and stepped inside the dreaded room. Bad memories of noses in corners and scoldings surrounded him.
Miss Whitney looked up at him from her breakfast tray, dressed in one of the same blue dresses with a white collar she’d worn as long as he could remember.
“You were wrong, Winnie,” he announced.
“Was I?” she mused. “I said you would betemptedto betray her and you were. Beyond that, I am glad to be wrong.”
His triumph deflated. How had she guessed?
She tilted her head, giving him that knowing look that had so often struck irritation—or fear of consequences—in his young heart.
“Well, Master Wesley, perhaps you are growing up at last.”
After that, Wesley began meeting with the new estate manager, Mr. Boyle, and their tenants and estate workers, doing his best to fill Marsh’s big boots. He was heir to Overtree Hall, after all, so perhaps it was time to assume the duties that role entailed. It would prove to his family and to Sophie that he was responsible. And hopefully he would prove it to himself as well.
He also began planning a painting ofThe Last Supperto be placed over the chancel archway, at the church warden’s request. Though he found out soon enough that his mother had instigated the idea and was acting as his patron, probably hoping to keep him busy. And perhaps away from his new sister-in-law.
chapter 24
News of Napoleon Bonaparte’s return from exile had caused an urgent recall of the 28th North Gloucestershire regiment. Stephen had rejoined his men in Ireland where they were garrisoned. As soon as the men assembled, they’d boarded transports and sailed for Ostend, Belgium, to join Wellington’s troops and fight Napoleon’s rebuilt army. Stephen had dashed off a few lines to Sophie before embarking, but there had not been time to write again. Their warm parting had given him hope for the future, but for now he needed to focus on the task at hand.
The Duke of Wellington decided to try to stop the French advance at a crossroads called Quatre Bras—four arms—some twenty-five miles south of Brussels. If Boney’s men succeeded in taking the crossroads, the path of the Prussians would be cut off. The allies would then be unable to join forces against Napoleon, who was doing all he could to divide and conquer.
Wellington was determined to defend that crossroads and defeat Napoleon.
To that end, the 28th marched south in company with the 1st Royal Scots, only stopping to sleep for a few hours before starting again.
On June the 15th, Stephen forced himself awake at dawn. Around him men slept on, snored, or grumbled, a few already at work at small fires and cooking pots. Very soon, all would rise in a bustle of activity. They would march within the hour.
Taking advantage of the few quiet moments, Stephen read from his worn copy of the New Testament and drank a cup of bitter smouch—a cheap tea rumored to be made from ash leaves steeped in sheep’s dung. It tasted even worse than it sounded, but any warm liquid was welcome on that damp morning.
Ensign Hornsby came and sat by him, asking bluntly, “Are you a Methodist, sir?”
Stephen chuckled, guessing who had put him up to the question. “No.”
“Then why are you always reading that Bible of yours? The sergeant says only chaplains and dashed Methodists do so, outside of Sundays.”
With a wry grin, Stephen shook his head. “He’s wrong about that. The sergeant’s a crusty old bird, but he says his prayers every morning just as I do, make no mistake.” Stephen shifted to face the young man, whom he had known through several campaigns now. He supposed Hornsby wasn’t so young any longer. But his auburn hair and freckles made him look young, and reminded him of Angela Blake.
Stephen said, “We are marching into battle, Hornsby. And while I have every confidence in the 28th, and in Wellington, and our eventual victory, not all of us will live to see it.” He didn’t mention his lingering doubts about surviving this campaign. He didn’t want to worry him. “Whatever happens, I’ll be all right, because my soul is square with God.”
“How do you know, sir? If you’ll excuse my asking. It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good man, but...”
“I am not a good man, not by any measure,” Stephen replied. “And thank God I don’t have to rely on my own merit. I’d never be good enough to deserve to live forever with a holy God. But Christ is, and He already died to cover my sins. He sacrificed His earthly life for my eternal one. And for yours, and for everyone willing to accept Him.”
