Sophie shook her head. “I’ll wait ’til he leaves.”
“Oh, go on. I think you’ll be safe enough. Just shout if he tries anything and my trusty broom and I will be there in two shakes.”
Sophie tentatively pushed open the old schoolroom door. Inside, things looked much as she had last seen them. Portrait on easel. Wesley standing, hands on hips. But the scene had a stillness. A peacefulness that the last encounter between them had lacked. He stood, not glaring down at anything, but with his back to her, staring out the window.
He slowly turned as she entered, his expression guarded. He glanced toward the portrait, then back at her, waiting, wary. Did he think she would rage at him for spoiling it?
She steeled herself and glanced over, telling herself to remain calm. It was only a painting. Only one of hers. She could bear one look.
Instead she turned and stared. Walked closer and studied the painting. Sunlight from the window shone gently upon Captain Overtree’s face.
His perfect face.
“You repaired it,” she breathed.
“I hope you aren’t angry. I know you told me not to, but I had to do something. I had to try.... If you don’t like it, you can paint over it. You would have had to anyway. I did my best to remain true to your style and brush work, and—”
“It’s perfect.” He had not only repaired the painting but improved it. Subtly, carefully. In a way that did not leave her feeling violated or discouraged. He had not commandeered her work or made it his. He had cleaned it up, polished it, removed extraneous or distracting bits, highlighted its strengths, and downplayed its weaknesses. It was masterfully done.
“Thank you,” she managed, her heart full.
He came and stood beside her. Close, but not touching. Not presuming.
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he began. “About the portrait. About Stephen. About leaving you in the first place. Truly, I am, and I hope you will forgive me.”
Sophie hesitated. Was she ready to forgive him? For all the upheaval, all the heartache, all the uncertainty?
When she did not reply, hurt and resignation crossed his handsome face, but he continued gently, “I love you, but I won’t pressure you. If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.”
She managed a wobbly nod, knowing she would cry again if she tried to speak.
Wesley stood memorizing every cherished feature, longing to take her in his arms but mustering the self-control to resist. Sophie looked so fragile standing there. So vulnerable with her thin hands, her wan damp face, her rounded middle—a portrait of loss and life.
“I will miss him too, Sophie. Don’t think I won’t. For all my complaints about Marsh, I depended on him. Loved him.” Tears blurred his vision.
Looking up at him, Sophie’s eyes downturned all the more, and she held out her hand to him.
He took it, and slowly drew her close. He gently, chastely, put his arms around her. She stood rigid a moment, then melted into his embrace, laying her cheek against his shoulder.
He held her trembling body, the swell of their growing child between them.
But, they had more than a child between them. They had history. Shared loss. And shared hope for the future. And he very much hoped, shared love as well. It would take time, he knew, and he would have to allow her to grieve.
He wondered again if what the maid Flora had told him was true—that Sophie and Stephen had not slept in the same bed—had perhaps not even consummated their marriage. Even if it wasn’t grounds for an annulment in England, in several other countries it would be....
But Wesley decided against raising the topic. With Marsh dead, it was a moot point. And whatever the case, Sophie’s grief was real. And he needed to, and would, respect that. But he believed—hoped—that somewhere deep beneath her grief and disappointment, she still nurtured feelings for him. Yes, he would have to be cautious. Tread carefully and not chase her away. She had loved him once, he knew, and he would earn her love again, if it was the last thing he did.
chapter 27
Sophie had avoided writing to her father, hoping she wouldn’t have to. Finally, she sent a letter with the sad news, assuring him she was well, and he needn’t worry about her.
It was mostly true. The throbbing ache of grief continued to hollow out her heart, weigh her down, sap her strength. Yet she could not deny that a part of her had warmed to Wesley. She appreciated his retreat, his quiet support and consideration, his affection for his parents and sister, his willingness to talk about Stephen in nostalgic tones, both proud and humorous in turns. She loved when he recounted journeys they had taken as a family, or boyhood exploits—riding and jumping the wall the colonel had told them to stay clear of, fishing when they were supposed to be studying, and pulling harmless pranks on Miss Blake, Kate, or even Winnie.
Mrs. Overtree’s eyes brightened with tears or took on a dreamy remembrance whenever he spoke of the past. But she smiled now and again, too, chuckled, or shook her head in maternal exasperation to learn of some boyhood mischief she’d not known about.
Sophie found this Wesley—repentant and respectful—far more appealing than resentful, passionate Wesley. And she tucked away in her injured heart that he had finally said he loved her—outright and in person.
She also took comfort in the fact that Wesley had asked her to forgive him for leaving her. Seeing him soothe and comfort his grieving parents and grandfather, how could she withhold forgiveness from him any longer?
