“This Overtree Hall,” Mrs. Dupont began. “It is not some remote place far off the beaten path, is it? Not some gated castle or walled estate that we could not visit at some point to assure ourselves Sophie is well looked after?”
Sophie felt embarrassed at the woman’s presumption. “But... remember I have never even been there myself. It is not my prerogative to invite others.”
“Nonsense. You are their daughter-in-law. And if you take up residence there as Captain Overtree seems determined you shall, then we have every right to visit. We are your family. They cannot object to that.”
Captain Overtree spoke up. “Of course not. If you wanted to visit for a few days as we have here, you would be most... My family would no doubt graciously receive you.”
Augusta Dupont’s eyes flashed with knowing irritation. Though she was not a pleasant woman, no one could doubt her quick intelligence.
She smiled thinly. “Remember, Captain. Though our acquaintance with you is of short duration, my husband has known your brother for above two years, and hosted him in Lynmouth for many weeks at a time.”
“My brother is not often at home,” the captain said. “But as you say, Mr. Dupont would of course be more than welcome.”
chapter 8
They traveled north in a hired chaise and into the rolling countryside of rural Gloucestershire. Through the window, Sophie saw meadows dotted with sheep, charming villages, and stone cottages with thatched roofs. When they passed through the bustling village of Moreton-en-Marsh and into smaller Wickbury, Captain Overtree announced they were almost there. Leaving the cluster of shops behind, they rounded a bend and traveled up a tree-lined lane. Ahead stood a tall, old manor of golden-blond stone, gabled all around. Just to the right of the house, a battlemented church tower rose through the trees.
At the end of the lane, they passed through an arched gateway of the same stone and into a courtyard. From the carriage window, the captain pointed out the stables on the left and churchyard on the right. “And this”—he pointed upward toward the imposing four stories—“is Overtree Hall.”
Closer now, she admired the full-height bays on either side of the manor’s front door, and banks of mullioned windows. He and Wesley had grown up here? How small and ordinary he must have found their terraced house in Bath, not to mention her father’s studio in Lynmouth. She felt more out of her element than ever.
The coach halted on the pea-gravel drive. A footman strode out to help them alight, and the captain gestured for her to precede him up the few stairs and through the door, held open by yet another liveried footman.
From the vestibule they passed through an ornate oak screen into a two-story hall with a musicians’ gallery high above one end. It seemed familiar to Sophie for some reason, as though she had seen it before.
The footman took their coats and informed the captain that his parents were in the white parlour. “Shall I announce you and your guest, sir?”
“This is mywife, Edgar. Mrs. Overtree.”
The young man’s eyebrows rose high. “Mrs. Overtree!” He blushed and bowed.
She smiled at the nervous young man. She knew how he felt. She was nervous too.
“And no need to announce us, thank you,” the captain added. “I know the way.”
The captain led her across the hall, down a corridor, and into a nearby room. For all its windows, the dark paneling throughout seemed to drain the light from the place, giving it a grim, melancholy feel. Or perhaps Sophie’s opinion was colored by her anxiety.
Inside the small parlour, a middle-aged man and woman set aside their books and rose from matching armchairs.
“Stephen, welcome home,” his father said. “And this must be the Miss Dupont you wrote about. Forgive me—Mrs. Overtree. How do you do.”
“Sophie, these are my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Overtree.”
Sophie curtsied and gripped her hands to keep them from trembling. She had imagined meeting Wesley’s parents one day, but never under these circumstances.
Mr. Overtree was a thin man with smallish eyes and long nose set in a mild, studious face. His brown hair was shot through with silver, especially at the side-whiskers. His wife was a tall, handsome woman. Her face was gentle and attractive, though softened with age, her eyes cool and cautious.
“Is it Sophie, or Sophia...?” she asked.
“My given name is Sophia Margaretha Dupont, but I have been Sophie for as long as I can remember.”
“Margaretha? That is an unusual pronunciation, is it not?”
“It’s Dutch. My mother’s family was from Holland.”
“Interesting. And your father is... French?”
“Only distantly.”
