“Sorry.”
The door closed again.
“Well, girls, time to settle down,” Sophie said gently.
The little girls complied, nestling in bed together with Sophie.
Stephen stretched out on the cushions on the floor. The bright moon outside the window shone on Sophie in the middle, one arm protectively over little Martha. It caused a tender ache inside of him that he did not like. Such tender feelings would not help him. They would only make it more difficult to stay detached, to leave her, to focus on the task ahead.
He awoke sometime later, the room still moonlit. He glanced at the bed. The two little girls slept peacefully, but Sophie was not there. He frowned, worried she had taken ill.
He rose, tied a dressing gown over his nightshirt, and slipped into his shoes. He let himself from the bedchamber and crept quietly downstairs and from room to room, looking for her. He did not find her in the drawing room or dining parlour and saw no light in the privy behind the house. Worry mounted. He turned the corner and saw candlelight seeping from a door left partially ajar. Her father’s studio. He should have guessed. He walked silently toward it and peeked inside.
There sat Sophie on a stool before an easel, surrounded by a half dozen candles and a wall sconce nearby. The female in the painting appeared to be the unfortunate Miss Simon with the troublesome eyes. A swath of fabric lay across a chair back, and Sophie glanced at it now and again as she painted the woman’s gown.
After a few minutes, she rose and began cleaning her brushes. Then she paused, rag and brush in hand and simply stood there, staring at the woman’s face. At her troublesome eyes, he guessed. He was no expert, but there did seem to be something unnatural about them. Would she ignore her stepmother’s edict and attempt to improve them anyway? She approached the easel, hesitated, and then turned away. Apparently not.
He inched open the door with a small creak. She gasped and whirled at the sound.
He held up a placating palm. “Sorry. I tried to be quiet and not startle you.”
She laid down the brush and rag, picked up a candlestick, and hurried to the door, forcing him to back from the threshold. She closed the door behind herself, clearly not wanting him to see her work.
“Was there something you wanted, Captain?” she asked, looking uneasy.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I was concerned when I woke to find you gone.”
“I am well, as you see. I will finish cleaning up and be back up in a few minutes. You needn’t wait.”
In the flickering candlelight, Stephen noticed a smudge of paint on her cheek. It looked oddly endearing. He resisted the urge to wipe it away, and to stroke the plait of hair draped over her shoulder while he was at it.
Keep your distance, Overtree...
“Very well.” He turned, and returned to his solitary bed.
In the morning, Stephen arose early, as was his habit, and breakfasted alone. He then donned his greatcoat and slipped from the house. He walked around Bath to see something of the city, and to inquire about hiring a private chaise to take them on to Overtree Hall in a few days. Then, as he often did, he found a place to pray. He spent a peaceful half hour in the Bath Abbey, asking God for wisdom, kindness, and self-control in his relationship with his new wife. And for patience in dealing with his in-laws.
When he returned to the house late morning, he came upon Sophie and Mrs. Dupont in tense conversation in the drawing room. His defenses immediately rose, and he stepped through the door without knocking.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Ah. Captain Overtree. I was just asking Sophie what my nephew thought of your sudden nuptials. Did you not think to ask his permission?”
“No,” he answered without hesitation.
“I realize he is young. But he was Sophie’s nearest male relation in Lynmouth. Did you honestly not even consider asking him?”
Stephen pursed his lips and peered upward as though in serious thought. “I remember that I considered throttling him at one point, but asking his permission?” He shook his head. “Not once.”
Apparently, he should have prayed harder.
Sophie glanced up and gave him a secret smile.
He guessed her stepmother would likely retaliate with more hurtful barbs later. But for the moment he relished the minor victory, and Sophie’s lovely smile.
Sophie had been embarrassed by the meager dinner their first night in Bath. A man the size of the captain was no doubt used to eating heartier meals. He’d said nothing however, though she’d thought she heard his stomach growl when he’d lain down on the cushions. How odd it had been to share her and her stepsisters’ bedchamber with a man—and a veritable stranger in the bargain.
The dinner fare their second night was thankfully more satisfying—though the same could not be said for the conversation.
