She laid a kneeling pad on the cold floor—its needlepoint cover made by Mrs. Overtree herself. Sophie knelt, forearms on the wooden rail in front of her. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.
“Almighty God. All powerful, knowing Father. Nothing is too difficult for you. Can you work a miracle? Bring Stephen back to us? Not just for my sake, but for his parents’, and Kate’s, and the colonel’s, and Winnie’s.... But if that is not your will, help me. Help us all to accept, and heal, and live. And show me what I should do without him....” Warm tears slipped from beneath her closed eyelids and trailed down her cool cheeks. She let them flow unchecked.
A few sounds penetrated her prayer. The rumble of distant thunder. The caw of a crow. A scuff of shoe leather. The creak of the wooden pew beside her.
Sophie looked up through blurry eyes and found Mrs. Overtree laying her own kneeling pad on the floor.
“May I join you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Her mother-in-law’s gaze flickered over her face and Sophie ducked her head, sure she must be a mess of streaks and leaks. Mrs. Overtree withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and offered it to her. “Here.”
“But you might need it.”
“Indeed I shall. I go through a dozen a day it seems.” She managed a watery smile, pulled another handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed her nose.
Sophie wasn’t sure whether the woman wanted to talk or pray, but considering their surroundings, she again closed her eyes and bowed her head.
“Sophie?”
“Hmm?” She looked up at her mother-in-law once more.
“I misjudged you. And I’m sorry.” She reached over and laid her gloved hand on Sophie’s, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Somehow the comforting act sent a fresh flood of tears to Sophie’s eyes. She shook her head, struggling to speak over her tight throat. “No,” she managed, chin quivering. “You were right about me. I didn’t deserve him.”
Answering tears filled Mrs. Overtree’s eyes. “Oh, my dear girl. You really did—do—love him, don’t you?”
Sophie nodded. If only she had realized it sooner.
During the following week, Sophie avoided the studio—where Wesley might find her alone, where the ruined portrait of Stephen stood like a pitiful memorial. She would have to scrape off the portions of his face streaked with dried paint and do her best to repair the portrait—no doubt giving him another “scar” in the process. Or paint several new layers of paint over all to cover the red marks, but that would be almost like starting his face all over again. And already, she couldn’t recall the details as clearly anymore. At all events, it seemed a daunting project, beyond her current energies and her skills.
Instead she spent time with Kate, Angela, and Mrs. Overtree, far more at ease with her mother-in-law than she had been before. She drew comfort from the female companionship and found the gentle stream of conversation—from trivial topics to deep insights as only women can do—soothing. Healing. She had spent so little time with women growing up, after her mother had died. She found she enjoyed their company—so different from that of men.
The four of them spent hours together in the morning room, knitting and doing netting work. Sophie took pleasure in creating in this whole new way. Together the women talked while their needles worked, making a baby blanket, a little woolen waistcoat, booties and caps. Her child would be well shod and clothed come winter. She wondered yet again if it would be a boy or a girl, especially now that he or she was making its presence felt with frequent movements. Sophie liked the name George for a boy, especially since Stephen had indirectly suggested it. But she still had not settled on a name for a girl.
Now and again, Sophie visited Winnie, taking a lopsided cap or bootie to show the woman her efforts, and a scone or a bowl of strawberries. Usually, she found Winnie feeding the birds to her cat’s amusement, or reading on the settee, Gulliver purring on her lap. But one day, Sophie entered to find Winnie standing at the window alone.
“It’s strange,” Winnie said, turning to face her. “I haven’t seen Gulliver for a few days. I don’t suppose he’s crossed your path?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Sophie replied, holding forth a wrapped lemon scone.
“Ah, well. I’m sure he’s just roaming about the neighborhood, naughty boy. In fact, I saw him from the window last week, courting another cat in the churchyard.”
Winnie accepted the offered scone and took a crumbly bite. “You haven’t been to the schoolroom lately,” she observed.
“No.” Sophie ducked her head, embarrassed to remember the scene the woman had witnessed between her and Wesley there more than a month ago.
Winnie set aside her plate and gripped Sophie’s hand. “All is not lost, my girl. What is ruined is not ruined forever.”
Sophie blinked at the woman. Was she referring to the fact that Sophie had been ruined, or what? Her cheeks heated with shame.
“Go on.” Winnie tipped her head toward the wall shared with the schoolroom. “Go and see.”
Sophie heard a shuffling noise from the next room. She whispered, “Is Wesley in there?”
“I should imagine so. But how would I know? I may have eyes in the back of my head, but I can’t see through walls. Usually.” She winked.
