One afternoon, she cut flowers in the garden for Winnie, arranged them in a glass vase, and carried them upstairs. However, when she reached Winnie’s room, she found it empty. She’d been told the woman rarely ventured from the top floor. Sophie had seen her downstairs only once—the night Stephen left—though she suspected Winnie had come down at least one more time to leave that book for her. Where was she now? Sophie had seen no sign of her in any of the public rooms she’d passed, nor in the gardens.
Flora came down the passage, and Sophie asked her if she had seen Miss Whitney.
The housemaid shrugged, lips pursed. “No, ma’am. Not since I brought up her breakfast tray this mornin’. The kitchen maid’s job, but she has the day off on account of her father dyin’.”
“Oh. Thank you, Flora.”
Dying... Sophie did not like that word. She reminded herself that Stephen held an unflagging belief in eternal life. Since becoming better acquainted with Captain Overtree, and with God, Sophie hoped for heaven someday too. But that didn’t mean she was ready to part with Stephen yet.
The following week, two letters arrived. An official-looking one for the colonel, and another for the Overtree family from Ensign Hornsby.
When the family had gathered, the colonel unfolded the letters. Kate gripped Sophie’s hand. Wesley stood near Carlton Keith, while Mr. and Mrs. Overtree sat together on the sofa, faces drawn.
The terse reply from the colonel’s friend, Forsythe, offered no new information.
“Checked up and down the chain of command—official and unofficial sources. Afraid answer is the same. Captain Stephen Marshall Overtree of the 28th is missing and presumed dead. My deep condolences.”
The colonel went on to read aloud Hornsby’s second letter on the family’s behalf. The ensign began by saying he had visited all the hospital wards and surgery tents and found no sign of Captain Overtree. He added the following postscript:
“I don’t say it’s a proud military tradition, but tradition it is: the auctioning off of items pillaged from dead officers. So many were killed by the French that the prices were quite low. I recognized one specific watch among those piled alongside signet rings and dress swords awaiting auction. The watch is engraved with the inscription: To Stephen, on his 21st birthday, followed by the date. I was able to buy it for six shillings. Not for myself, of course, but for you. It is too risky to send by post, but I will find a way to return it to you when I return to England. Small consolation though I know it is.”
The words struck Sophie like a fist. Mrs. Overtree let out a keening wail at the description of the watch.
Colonel Horton crumpled the letter in his gnarled hand. His face crumpled as well. “I shall never forgive myself. It’s my fault. I pushed him. Prodded him. Thunder and turf, I even made his inheritance contingent on serving! So determined to have one of my grandsons follow in my footsteps. A way to relive my glory days, I suppose. Someone to brag about to my cronies. Someone to listen to my exploits, when no one else in the family cared. Selfish. Vain and stupid and selfish.”
He turned and walked shakily out the door.
Around the room, other family members cried and embraced one another. Kate collapsed in Sophie’s arms, and over the girl’s head she was touched to see tears streaming down Wesley’s face as well, while Mr. Keith clasped his shoulder. When Kate released her to fall sobbing into Wesley’s arms instead, Sophie slipped away to find the colonel.
She found him sitting, elbows on knees, on a padded bench in the upstairs corridor, looking at the old portrait of Stephen. He glanced over as Sophie approached, and the tears in the stoic grandfather’s eyes tore at her heart.
“He wanted to go into the church. Did you know that?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “I talked him out of it. Said he’d be wasted in some country parish, delivering sermons to sleeping parishioners and praying over the sick and dying instead of living life! Now look—he is the one dead. Cut down in his prime. Barely married. Never to see the face of his child. To hold him or her. Never to see you again, my dear. I am so sorry.”
Sophie sat next to the elderly man. Though what comfort she could offer she didn’t know. Not when Miss Whitney’s prediction had been correct after all.
She took his hand in hers. “It isn’t your fault, Colonel. It isn’t. Stephen knew he might die in battle, and he accepted that. He was ready to meet his maker.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head again. “He should never have given in to doubt. Fearing death invites death. How many times have I told him...” The old man’s shoulders began to shake. Sophie wrapped her arms around his hunched figure as best she could.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “It’s all right.” She repeated the phrase, trying to soothe herself as well.
When he’d calmed, she added gently, “If therewereanything to be forgiven, you know Stephen already forgave you long ago. He loved you. Very much.”
He nodded. “He loved you too, Sophie.” He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “I gather yours was not a... love match. At least at first. But he did love you. Never doubt it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Had Stephen loved her? She wanted to believe it. But now she would never know for sure.
Before stepping outside a few days later, Sophie fastened a pelisse over her dress—chagrined to find it quite snug—and tied a bonnet under her chin. The weather was cloudy with intermittent rain. For a time the sun would shine, only for clouds to gather and release another grey drizzle. Like Sophie herself these days, never knowing when another wave of grief would wash over her.
Taking an umbrella for good measure, she crossed the drive and passed through the gate into the adjacent churchyard. She opened the creaking church door and left it open behind her to allow in more light and fresh air into the musty, lovely place.
She made her way up the aisle of the narrow nave to the front pew, sliding over to sit in a weak shaft of sunlight filtering bravely through the stained-glass windows. That’s how she felt. Weak. Wanting to be brave. She looked up and studied the stained glass more closely. A triumphant Jesus stood in the center panel—red robe, halo, staff—flanked by golden angels with wings of blue and green.
The light shone through the image of Jesus and onto her. Warmed her. Made the dreary stone chapel beautiful. He was, after all, the light of the world.
