“I am not. I want you to live.”
He kissed her palm, then pressed it to his heart. “Live or die my heart is yours, Sophie Dupont.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Sophie Overtree, and don’t forget it.” She tried to grin, but it wobbled away.
Oh, God, don’t let it be too late for us. Bring him home to me. Give usanother chance.
Stephen reluctantly released her and bent to pick up his kit.
His family, who had waited some distance away in patient, perhaps stunned, silence—no doubt taken aback by their public display of affection—now hurried forward to say their final farewells.
He kissed his mother’s cheek, hugged Kate, and shook his father’s hand.
His grandfather slapped his shoulder with a fond grin. “What did I tell you, my boy? A few weeks with your bride were just what you needed, ay? Want me to see if I can eke out another few days?”
“Thank you, sir. But no. Duty calls.” Hearing of Bonaparte’s return to France had struck him like a death knell that morning.
“Not having second thoughts, I hope?” the colonel asked. “Remember your thirtieth birthday will be here before you know it. You’ve done well, my boy. Just persevere for king and country a little longer. Make me proud.”
Stephen inwardly chafed at the platitudes. At his grandfather’s plans for his life. If Boney was back, it could be years before the war ended and he could return. If ever.
Mr. Keith came forward, looking both sheepish and resolved. The two men shook hands.
“Any marching orders, sir?” his former lieutenant asked.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Keith. And the cork in the bottle.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Be respectful of my wife. Do you hear me? And help her keep an eye on Winnie for me.”
“Of course, sir.”
Stephen climbed into the carriage, his heart and body rebelling at the thought of leaving Sophie.
Keith leaned in the open window. “And shall I watch over Wesley again should he return? Keep him safe?”
Stephen scowled. “Devil take Wesley. Protect my wife.”
Thoughts of Wesley cast a pall over his departure and threw cold water on his hopes for the future. He swallowed bile, and stoically lifted a hand to his family and winked at Kate. But as the carriage moved away from Overtree Hall and passed through the gate, he was filled with a sense of doom.
Sophie retreated from the others, slowly walking toward the churchyard. She thought she might have a good cry in the quiet church and pray for Stephen’s return. Seeing the warm light in his eyes had given her hope that he believed he would be coming home again. That he would survive the war, and return to her. That there might be a future for them after all.
Movement from above caught her eye, and she glanced up. There in a top-story window stood Miss Whitney, looking down and watching as Stephen’s carriage drove away. The old woman was now dressed head to toe in black—from veiled hat to bombazine gown. There was no sign of her usual white collar, and even her silvery white hair was covered. Her face was somber, her eyes squinted to watch the carriage as it disappeared. She was seemingly unaware of Sophie, or anyone else for that matter. Winnie pressed a hand to her black breast, then solemnly raised it, palm forward, and pressed it to the glass.
Sophie’s heart began to thud in a heavy, dread-filled beat to look upon the sight. And to wonder what it meant.
chapter 20
Unable to sleep that night after Stephen’s departure, Sophie sat up late, reading in bed by candlelight. After a time, she laid aside her novel, and pulledThe Rearing and Management of Childrenfrom its hiding place. She flipped through the pages and ran a finger down the table of contents: Infant Care, Feeding, Washing, Health, Digestion, Teething... She would read it all, she decided. She had little experience with infants and wanted to take excellent care of her baby. Be the best mother she could be. No matter who had given it to her, the book would be useful. And she could use all the help she could get.
She read through the introduction, then abruptly stopped. Something thudded hard in the corridor beyond her room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. She heard no call for help, no padding feet of a summoned servant.
Sophie reminded herself that Overtree Hall housed many servants who kept busy about the place at all hours, answering bells, lighting fires, bringing water. Perhaps one of them had simply dropped something. It didn’t necessarily mean that anything was amiss.
She turned the page.
Then a high-pitched cry, like a cornered cat or a woman in pain, reverberated through the wall and sent shivers up Sophie’s spine.
