chapter 29
Stephen lay on a cot in the makeshift military hospital. He was exhausted, but the throbbing pain in his left shoulder made it difficult to sleep. He picked up the miniature portrait from the floor beside him and looked at it again. He had received a few letters from Sophie the day before, though they were several weeks old, written before battle but delayed in reaching him in Brussels. Her sweet, warm words filled him with hope for the future. Concerned as he was about his arm, Stephen was thankful to be alive.
He again remembered coming to his senses and finding himself half-buried by mud and a dead horse. Rain pummeled down like saber slashes, rousing him from his stupor. The hint of sunlight rising in the grey sky told him it was a new day. The quiet around him was unexpected, telling him the troops had moved on without him. Left him for dead. He seemed to remember a French cavalry horse rearing, hooves flying, and a stunning blow to the head. The dried gash and a large lump on his temple confirmed that memory. His head had stopped bleeding, but his right hand and left shoulder spurted blood with every move as he tried to push away the horse or wrench himself free. He wasn’t going anywhere on his own strength. He prayed that someone would find him.
Soon footsteps and French voices approached. He’d been found all right. Perhaps he should have been more specific in his prayers.
He hadn’t the strength to put up a fight, or he’d probably be dead. His French captors levered up the carcass and pulled him free. They taunted him and delivered a few jabs for sport but seemed to lose interest when he didn’t resist. He knew enough French to understand some of what they said.Don’t bother. He’s almost deadanyway. He certainly felt that way.
He was thrown into a barn with another prisoner, who was in even worse condition than he was and died soon after capture. With a prayer for forgiveness, Stephen ripped strips of cloth from the man’s shirt. He bound his hand and shoulders as best he could, which was not good at all, not to mention blindingly painful.
A few days later, his French captors forced him to march with them to another position, tying him to a tree at sunset while they built a fire and prepared a meager supper that they didn’t share with him. Eventually their guard slackened, and Stephen was able to loosen his binds and slip free.
Trying to crawl with his bloodied, mangled arms was excruciating, so he struggled painfully to his feet and limped slowly down the road. Dizzy and disoriented, he would have given his inheritance for a glass of cool water. He didn’t know how many miles he’d walked before collapsing in exhaustion.
He’d awoken in this hospital a week or so ago, with no memory of the surgeons working on him. And that he supposed was the greatest blessing of all. He’d heard too many screams from surgery tents after past battles to underestimate the horror and pain he’d been spared.
As he lay in his cot thinking back, the corporal who’d helped him write the letter to his family soon after he awoke came by with another small bundle of delayed mail. Letters had started finding him through military channels now that his whereabouts were known. Prayers from his parents, advice from the colonel, love from Kate, and... a letter from Wesley. With a frown, he unsealed it and noted the date. This letter had also been written weeks ago, before the family would have received the false report of his death.
Marsh,
I am back at Overtree Hall. I returned as soon as I could. I realized I was wrong to leave Miss Dupont, but did you give me time to correct my mistake? No. You swept in and took charge, as you always do. And to blazes with me, and with Sophie or her feelings. She loves me, you know. She has for a long time and still does. And I love her—even if I was slow to realize it. I also know the child she carries is mine. How could you do it? How could you pressure her into a rushed marriage without even trying to contact me first? To ask how I felt about her and give me a chance to do the right thing?
Did you give her reason to doubt me? Tell her I wouldn’t marry her—convince her she had no other choice? I imagine you did, considering your resentment towards me. Whatever the case, you have ruined not only my life, but hers and our child’s, too. She, of course, does not wish to betray you. Especially now that you are in harm’s way, serving our country. And so she will be a martyr, and sacrifice her happiness for yours. To save face and the Overtree name.
Is this your revenge, Marsh? I “stole” a woman from you once and so now you are paying me back? Perhaps it is what I deserve, but Sophie doesn’t deserve any of it. She deserves better than being a pawn between us. Our child as well.
But I will think of something. I will make it right.
W.D.O.
Doubts swamped Stephen. There was just enough truth in Wesley’s letter to stab him with guilt and send him into a spiral of second-guessing.Hadhe acted in error? Acted selfishly? Hastily? He could honestly say he had not married Sophie out of revenge, but he had cast doubt on Wesley’s character—given her reason to believe his brother would not return for months and would probably not marry her if he did. And he’d been wrong. Had he married her in vain? But even if he had, what could he do about it now? Marriage was sacred and divorce nigh unto impossible even if he could countenance the thought. What was Wesley suggesting he do to rectify the situation now—die? He would not oblige him.
Unless... Did Sophie wish the same—that he had died in battle? Had she been secretly disappointed to learn he was alive?
He pulled out her miniature portrait and looked at it again. Stephen had begun to think Sophie might—or might someday—return his love. But now? If what Wesley wrote was true?
He unfolded one of Sophie’s letters and reread the sweet words. Had she written itbeforeWesley returned proclaiming he loved her and had always meant to come back for her? It seemed likely, as she made no mention of him in her letter. Unless she had another reason for failing to mention Wesley’s return? Stephen had known his brother would show up at Overtree Hall eventually. But he’d truly not thought Wes intended to marry Sophie. If his brother was simply angry, Stephen could deal with that. He was used to disagreements and discord with him. But if Sophie agreed with his brother? Regretted their marriage? Stephen was not able to brush off such doubts as easily. He felt a sickly stab of self-pity and pushed it away. No doubt blood loss or laudanum was to blame for the foreign emotion.
Did Sophie wish there was some way to be released from their marriage? If she did, could he really blame her? Especially if he ended up losing an arm. Especially now that the father of her child was on the scene, declaring his love.
Stephen thought of sending a letter to Sophie—asking her outright if she preferred to be with his brother. But he was not yet able to write, and unwilling to dictate such a personal, mortifying question to another soul.
Several days after Mr. Keith left Overtree Hall for Belgium, Sophie looked through the letters on the silver tray. She sighed. Still no letter for her from Stephen. She prayed again for his recovery and for a safe journey for Mr. Keith.
With nothing else to distract her, Sophie found herself thinking about the initials she’d seen in the priest hole. That evening, she asked Kate, “Who is J.A.B.?”
“J.A.B.?”
“Yes. I saw those initials carved on a timber in the priest hole,” she said, then added to herself,and J.B. on a note in Wesley’s room.
Kate leaned forward with interest. “Really? I never noticed that.” She considered a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose it must be Angela. She was christened Jane Angela Blake. But as Jane was her mother’s name as well, she has always gone by Angela.”
“Oh...” Then J was not “Jenny,” Sophie realized.
“Personally, I’ve never understood why so many women name their daughters after themselves,” Kate went on. “I am glad Mamma didn’t name me Janet. How confusing that would be. But why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
