The men joined them, and Sophie’s uncomfortable interview with Mrs. Overtree ended at last.
Captain Overtree sought her out and said quietly, “You look tired.”
“I confess I am.”
“You’ve had a long, trying day. Why don’t you go up? I think I’ll stay and talk a little while longer.”
Sophie nodded gratefully. She truly was tired. But moreover, she had fretted about what it would be like if they both went upstairs at the same time. She thought of the crowded dressing room. Would the maid undress her in the bedchamber right in front of him? Or would he remain in his dressing room like a schoolboy covering his eyes? That didn’t seem like Captain Overtree. Nor could she realistically ask it of him—though she wanted to.
Even her stolen moments with Wesley had not diminished her natural modesty. And he’d had to woo her and cajole every rare inch of skin bared.
Stop it!she scolded herself, cutting off that line of thought.Stop it now.Those were memories best forgotten, and the sooner the better.
Upstairs, she rang for Libby, who came and helped her change from her evening gown, stays, and shift into a long nightdress of lawn. She brushed Sophie’s hair and braided it into a plait, tying off the end with a ribbon. “Would you like any paper curlers around your face, ma’am?”
“Oh, um. No thank you.” Sophie quailed at the thought of appearing to such disadvantage to Captain Overtree.
The girl must have guessed her thoughts.
“Not on your honeymoon, hmm?”
Sophie’s face heated, but she managed a weak grin. “Right.”
“Then I shall curl your hair with hot irons in the morning—never you fear. We’ll have you looking your best for your new husband, or my name’s not Libby Lester.”
“Thank you, Libby.”
Finally, alone in the bedchamber, Sophie slipped on a dressing gown over her thin nightdress for good measure, stepped on the needle-worked footstool to climb into the high bed, and pulled the blankets over her chest. Why was she so nervous? It was not her first night as Captain Overtree’s wife. But he had been foxed the first night, ill the next, and then the girls had been with them in Bath. Now they were here, in his home, in a big bed befitting a married couple. A newly wedded couple supposedly in their honeymoon period. She swallowed, and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Was Captain Overtree an experienced man? Had he a lover? As a religious man, perhaps he had abstained. She had been an innocent until a few months ago, but she doubted a military man in his late twenties would count himself among the uninitiated.
She covered her face with her hands. How had she gotten herself into such a predicament? Why oh why had she given in to Wesley? Why could she not have resisted him? How naïve she had been to believe he was about to ask her to marry him. Once again she pecked at the memories, rehearsing every scene, every conversation. Had she only imagined he’d mentioned the word marriage? Or like so many foolish females before her, had she heard what she wanted to hear in a man’s sweet nothings? Assumed hemeanthe loved her and would marry her, when all along he meant nothing of the kind?
And now here she was, carrying his child and married to his brother, of all people. A brother who showed little interest in becoming better acquainted with her—physically or otherwise. She should be grateful. She was, as a matter of fact. But even so, it left her with a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. The captain must really believe he did not have long to live. Either that, or he found her repugnant. Or... Did his heart belong to another? Jenny? Miss Blake? Someone else?
Footsteps sounded through the wall. Was it Captain Overtree coming to bed? Her pulse quickened.
The footsteps paused. She closed her eyes, listening, her damp hands fisting the bedclothes. The footsteps continued but sounded as if they were coming not from the corridor beyond the bedchamber door, but from off to the side. Libby, perhaps, returning through the dressing room? Or maybe the footman who served as the captain’s valet? A door creaked open somewhere nearby.
She called tentatively, “Libby...?”
No reply.
A chill passed over her. How foolish. Now she almost wished the captain would come and end her waiting. Silence resumed, except for the ticking clock on the mantel. Would she have to fetch Captain Overtree up to their room as she had on their wedding night? How mortifying.Please, God, let him not be drunk again.
Unable to sleep with wondering and nerves, she pushed back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, forgetting how high it was and stumbling. Catching herself, she crossed to the door and listened. All was quiet. She let herself into the corridor and tiptoed to the stair railing. Voices drifted up to her.
Mrs. Overtree’s clear voice rose. “Why her, Stephen? A girl of inferior birth. Little family. No connections?”
Stephen’s low voice rumbled in reply, but Sophie could not make out his words.
“Her father may be an artist,” his mother retorted. “But it sounds as if she helps him keep a sort of a shop in his studio, selling paints and brushes like a peddler. In trade!”
Her mother-in-law’s words stung. But Sophie could not refute them. Perhaps she had her answer as to why Wesley had not asked for her hand. It made her all the more surprised his brother had done so.
“I suppose she brings no dowry,” Mr. Overtree’s mild voice added.
Again Stephen’s rumble of reply was unintelligible, but she didn’t need to hear him to know the answer. She had only a very modest dowry, set aside for her by her mother. Her father had added a small sum as well, probably believing Sophie’s looks alone would not secure her an advantageous match. Sophie knew that some of his commissions paid quite well and he could have given her a larger dowry. She’d sometimes wondered if he preferred she not marry and remain his unpaid assistant.
