The Painter's Daughter

  Grateful for her candle, she climbed the stairs, passed her own room, and peered around the corner but saw no one in the alcove. She crept to the corridor’s end, feeling self-conscious and guilty, as if the ancestors staring so somberly down at her knew what she was doing. She worried a servant would see her sneaking around and suspect her of a late-night liaison. Or worse, one of the family. She looked over her shoulder to assure herself she was alone, then approached the hidden door. Dare she?

  Gingerly, she positioned her fingers behind the filigree and pulled open the panel as she had seen Miss Blake do. The priest hole was dark, except for the dim moonlight from that high small window. She slipped inside and closed the door behind herself, heart pounding. For a moment she stood there, listening. Her candle cast flickering light and shadows around the small room—the single bed, tiny table, and cross on the wall. She waited but heard nothing save a faint whistle of wind.

  She told herself to relax. She was doing nothing wrong. No one had forbidden her to explore the hidden passages. If a neighbor was welcome to do so, would a daughter-in-law be any less so? She hoped not.

  With this justification, she stepped to the pivoted timber beam and pulled it up, feeling a little stitch in her back as she did so. She would have to be more careful. A soft whisper of air guttered the candle. She waited to make sure the flame would remain lit before squeezing into the passage and allowing the timber to close behind her. She walked forward, as Miss Blake had done, then turned left at the T. She found the first squint and looked out, but saw nothing unusual. She walked on.

  She came to another intersection of passages she didn’t recall encountering the first time. Then again, she had been focused on following Miss Blake and not on any side passages not chosen. Or had she taken a wrong turn already?

  She found herself at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. She heard a sound, something sliding open or closed, wood upon wood. A rush of air blew out her candle. Sophie’s heart lurched. She stared at the red ember of wick until it faded to black.

  Scuff. Another sound in the distance. Sophie held her breath. Scuff-scuff. Footsteps. Someone was in the passage with her. The slow footsteps were coming in her direction. . . .

  Suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth and a body pressed against her back. She opened her mouth to try to scream, but then she recognized the voice whispering in her ear. “Shh . . . Sophie, it’s me.”

  Kate. In the stairwell behind her.

  What was she doing there? And who was coming down the passage?

  Sophie stilled, and Kate removed her hand. The footsteps came closer. From where they stood, tucked into a little recess at the top of the stairs, she saw no bobbing light. Was it someone who knew the way so well, he or she needed no light? Or had his candle blown out as well?

  Would the person be able to pass without tripping over Sophie’s protruding slippers and abdomen? She tilted her feet to one side and willed herself slim.

  The shuffling footsteps passed by. Sophie could see nothing. The darkness was that complete. She sensed a moving figure. A shuffling gait. The faint smell of woodsmoke.

  She and Kate waited where they were for a minute or two until the footsteps faded away. Sophie thought she heard the quiet click of the timber falling back into place, but couldn’t be certain.

  “Who was that?” Sophie whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Kate replied. “I couldn’t see anything. My candle blew out.”

  “Mine too,” Sophie said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Gulliver. Winnie is worried about him, and I thought I heard him mewing through the wall. What about you?”

  “Your friend Miss Blake showed me the priest hole and this passage.”

  “She’s the one who showed me as well. I wondered if she’d been in here when I spied that cobweb in her hair. I asked Winnie, but she said Angela has not been up to her room in months.”

  “And Angela told me you were too scared to venture any farther than the priest hole.”

  “I’m not the frightened young girl she thinks me.” Kate stepped beside her, her shoulder pressing into Sophie’s. “Let’s follow and see who it is.”

  Sophie wasn’t sure she was brave enough to pursue the shadowy figure, but she’d rather stay with Kate than stand there in the dark alone. “Right behind you.”

  She stayed so close to Kate that she stepped on the back of her heel. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  Then Sophie asked, “Where did you come from? Where do those stairs lead?”

  “The kitchen. Shh . . .”

  As they passed behind the family bedchambers, the sound of muffled voices reached them. They paused to listen.

  “Steal me blind, will you? I shall have my revenge.”

  A second voice replied, too quiet to make out.

  The first voice added, “I warned you the last time not to take any more from me.”

  “That’s Grandfather . . .” Kate breathed, surprise and concern in her voice. “But who is he talking to? I can’t make out the second voice.”

  “I’m not sure,” Sophie whispered. “What are they talking about?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  Kate eased open the timber, slipped out easily, and held it for Sophie. She wriggled out, stumbling as she did so, and her shoes scraped the floor.

  “Shh,” Kate warned, then inched open the hidden priest hole door. From the corridor came the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps. “Uh oh,” she whispered. “Do you think they heard us coming?”

  “Probably, if we heard them.”

  Kate led the way to the colonel’s door, still ajar. She knocked once, and opened the door wider. “Grandfather?”

  Behind her, Sophie could only glimpse the top of his head over Kate’s shoulder.

  “Hello, Kate. What a surprise. What are you doing up this late?”

  “I was worried about you. I . . . heard voices. And footsteps leaving your room.”

  “Did you? That’s strange. One of the housemaids, I’d wager. Or perhaps I was talking to myself again.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “The conversation sounded . . . strange. Threatening.”

  “Threatening? No,” he chuckled. “No one’s threatening anyone, Kate. Just a little good-natured teasing. You know how I like to tease.”

  “Yes . . . Well, if you’re sure you’re all right.”

  “Perfectly sure. Good night, Kate.”

  “Good night.” She shut the door.

  Sophie whispered, “Did you see anything?”

  “Not much. He was sitting alone at his tea table. I thought I saw him hide something in his lap, but I can’t be sure.” Kate looked up at Sophie with wide eyes. “Do you think someone is extorting money from him?”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t seem upset,” Sophie pointed out, another theory forming in her mind.

  Kate countered, “Maybe he just didn’t want me to know.”

  “Well, let’s leave it for now,” Sophie said. “It’s late. And he’s a grown man—and a colonel in the bargain. I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

  “You’re probably right.” But Kate didn’t look convinced.

  The next afternoon, the family relaxed together in the white parlour. The colonel had gone out riding and Wesley to check on a tenant, for which Sophie was privately relieved. As the women knitted and Mr. Overtree perused the newspaper, Thurman appeared and announced Mr. Harrison’s arrival.

  Kate brightened immediately, and Sophie set aside her knitting, grateful for the reprieve.

  The young man entered the room and bowed in greeting.

  “Mr. Harrison,” Mrs. Overtree acknowledged stiffly. “What a surprise.”

  “A pleasant surprise,” Kate added with a smile.

  “I had an appointment with Mr. Overtree,” Mr. Harrison began. “To talk about his family history, but—”

  Mr. Overtree
rose. “Ah yes, for your history of the county. With all the excitement, I nearly forgot.”

  “I don’t wish to disturb you, sir. I know you are celebrating the wonderful news about Captain Overtree.” The young man held out a glass jug of ruby liquid. “My mother sends her good wishes and famed cherry cordial.”

  “How lovely,” Kate murmured, meeting his gaze.

  When Mrs. Overtree said nothing, her husband stepped forward, accepted the jug, and examined it approvingly. “Very much appreciated. Thank you, and thank your mother for us. Now, let’s go into my study.”

  Mrs. Overtree frowned. “Is this really a good time, my dear? Perhaps later, when you are better rested?”

  “Don’t worry. I feel perfectly well. I have been looking forward to this interview. Our family has played an important role in the county’s history, and it should be made known.” He lifted the bottle with a twinkle in his eye. “And Mrs. Nelson’s cordial should be enjoyed.” He gestured for the young man to precede him from the room.

  As the men left, Sophie dutifully reached for her half-finished baby bonnet. Noticing Kate stare after Mr. Harrison with soft eyes, Sophie hid a smile.

  Later that night, Sophie lay in bed in nightgown and shawl, reading. She intended to stay awake until eleven, suspecting someone might pay another clandestine visit to Colonel Horton’s room, since she and Kate had interrupted them the night before.

  But suddenly she jerked awake, and realized she had fallen asleep. She hoped she wouldn’t be too late. Quickly climbing from bed, she wriggled into slippers and stole into the corridor. She tiptoed around the corner to the colonel’s room. Sure enough the door was ajar again, and she heard voices.

  “Tomorrow night,” the colonel said. “Remember. Can’t let Janet find out.”

  “Janet? What about the vicar?” a female voice replied.

  “He took a pony from me last week. He won’t say a word. Our secret is safe.”

  “Very well. Good night.”

  Too late to hear more, Sophie pressed herself to the wall as the door opened. Sure enough, Winnie emerged, dressed in her usual blue frock and white collar, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  She and the colonel were of an age, Sophie supposed. But it was still somewhat shocking. No wonder he’d said he didn’t want his daughter to find out.

  Sophie was almost certain Winnie would not extort money from the colonel, but she wanted to make sure she was not somehow taking advantage of the lonely widower, or preying on his sympathies.

  “Hello, Winnie.”

  The nurse started. “Miss Sophie! What are you doing up and about this time of night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

  “Oh, em. I sometimes walk through the house at night. Take a bit of exercise, go past each of the children’s rooms to make sure everyone is settled. Old habits from the past, I suppose.”

  “And do you check on the colonel as well?” Sophie asked, surprised at her boldness but feeling oddly protective of the old gentleman. He was her grandfather by marriage, after all, and she was fond of him.

  “The colonel?” Winnie glanced toward the door she had exited as though just noticing it there. “Oh. Well. Sometimes. He is part of the family as well.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Winnie, what are you up to?”

  The elderly woman looked at her in surprise, silvery brows raised high. “Up to? Nothing diabolical, I assure you.”

  “Then why sneak around? And what doesn’t he want Janet to find out?”

  The nurse winced. “Heard that, did you? I told him we ought to shut the door all the way, but he insists on leaving it ajar for propriety’s sake. Worried about my reputation—at my age! But yes, he would prefer his daughter didn’t know of our late-night . . . conversations. You won’t tell, will you, my girl? I’ve kept your secret after all.”

  Which secret? Sophie thought but didn’t voice the question. Remembering Stephen’s assessment of the woman’s foresight and seeing her knowing look, Sophie didn’t doubt for a moment that Miss Whitney knew every last one of her secrets.

  “And I appreciate it, Winnie. But Kate is suspicious too. I can’t guarantee she won’t say something, in hopes of protecting her grandfather.”

  “Protecting her grandfather?” Winnie hooted. “It will take more than a mere slip of girl to protect the colonel from me!” She grinned like a mischievous girl herself.

  And with that unexpected pronouncement, Winnie turned and climbed the attic stairs, giggling as she went. And at that moment, Sophie thought she understood why uncharitable people sometimes questioned the woman’s mental state.

  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 dead anyway. 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. Had he 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?