The Painter's Daughter Read online

  Inside they saw another couple before them, a doe-eyed brunette and her attentive lover. Their adoring gazes and secret smiles made Sophie feel all the more self-conscious, standing beside this stiff, austere man who barely glanced at her and certainly wasted no smiles on her.

  They met the Reverend Mr. Partridge, who smiled enough for the rest of them, and who would conduct the wedding for a fee. His amiable wife and grown son, who also served as parish clerk, would act as witnesses.

  When their turn came, Sophie and Captain Overtree walked up the aisle to the altar. Sophie held the silk flowers Mrs. Thrupton had given her, chagrined to see them tremble in her hands.

  How awkward she felt standing with this stranger, forming vague smiles as the cheerful clergyman explained what would happen next, and asking the requisite questions: had they both come of their free will to be married, their ages, and so on.

  Tension emanated from Captain Overtree. Was he having second thoughts? She could not blame him if he were. For her part, Sophie felt oddly numb. Her decision made, she went through the motions without resistance or deep thought, as though performing a role in a play.

  With his wife and son looking on, the parson began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God . . . to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate . . . signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His Church; and therefore is not by any to be enterprised unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God . . .”

  Sophie’s heart beat hard at the parson’s words. Were they entering into holy matrimony “unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly”? A chill went up her neck at the thought.

  The parson continued, “First, it was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord . . .”

  Would she and Captain Overtree have children together? Sophie wondered. It seemed difficult to imagine when he would barely look at her, let alone touch her. But he was a man of faith, apparently. So might he help her raise the child she already carried to love and fear the Lord? She hoped so—if he lived. Even though faith had not played a role in her upbringing, she wanted it for her own child.

  “Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication . . .”

  Sophie flinched at the word. What must Captain Overtree think of her?

  “Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort . . . both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

  Sophie instinctively glanced toward the door. Captain Overtree gave her a cynical look, his mouth ruefully quirked. He no doubt guessed whom she hoped to see.

  The parson now spoke directly to them, “I require and charge you both, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. . . .”

  Last chance, Sophie thought to herself. She glanced up and found the captain watching her. She blinked and returned her gaze to the parson.

  Hearing none, Mr. Partridge continued, “Stephen Marshall Overtree, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  He lifted his chin. “I will.”

  Then the clergyman looked at her and asked her a variation of the same questions.

  Heart thudding, Sophie ran her tongue over dry lips. “I will.”

  Then the smiling parson took Sophie’s right hand and joined it with the captain’s. Would he notice her sweating palms? The captain’s fingers were cool and loose, and she might have easily slipped from his grasp.

  “Repeat after me,” Mr. Partridge said. “I, Stephen Marshall Overtree, take thee, Sophia Margaretha Dupont, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Captain Overtree repeated the words in a low monotone, then released her hand.

  Mr. Partridge turned to her. “Now take your groom by the right hand and repeat after me. . . .”

  Sophie repeated the words, a marionette on a string, her mouth opening and closing while a little voice in her mind cried out, “What are you doing? How can you vow to love, cherish and obey this man till death, when you love another?” She ignored the voice, and repeated the words by rote. Words she had heard recited at several weddings in her life—including her father’s own recent nuptials. It seemed as if she were listening from across the room, as if someone else were intoning the words, while her heart remained aloof.

  Mr. Partridge leaned forward and whispered to the captain. “The ring?”

  The captain stiffened.

  “Oh!” Sophie exclaimed. She had forgotten to give it to the captain in advance. She fished it from her bodice, unclasped it from the chain, and handed it to him, her face burning all the while.

  The clergyman smiled and accepted it, laying it atop the black book. Then he instructed Stephen to place it on her finger and repeat after him.

  “With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow . . . .”

  How unsettling and embarrassing to hear this man she barely knew pledge to her in his low voice, “ . . . with my Body I thee worship . . .”

  Sophie’s face heated anew. And he, in his turn, seemed to avoid her gaze.

  At the parson’s signal, they both knelt as he prayed over them. Then he joined their hands together again, and said, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  Finally, the man of God pronounced them man and wife, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  There. They were married. Legally, and before God.

  The parson blessed them, read from the Psalms, and closed with an additional blessing for procreation. But with her ears already burning and ringing, Sophie barely heard the words.

  After the ceremony, Mr. Partridge led them to a table at the rear where they signed the register, and he and the witnesses added their signatures.

  All smiles, he asked, “Would you like a copy of the license for a small added fee? Makes a nice keepsake.”

  “Yes,” Captain Overtree handed over the coin, and when the license was delivered, he folded it and carefully, ceremoniously, handed it to her for safekeeping. For proof.

  The clergyman’s wife closed the register and said, “Now. How about a nice room for the night, and a good dinner, hmm? We have a charming little inn up the lane. Much nicer than the crowded, dirty establishments here along the harbor.”

  Captain Overtree returned his leather purse into his pocket. “Thank you, but no. We shall leave directly.”

  “But the next ship for the mainland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning,” Mr. Partridge said. “We find most couples are, em, eager to consummate their nuptials, straightaway, you see. Eloping as so many are without a father’s blessing.” He leaned nearer the captain and suggested knowingly, “Best to do a thorough job of things, you see. Dissuades an offended father from contesting the match. All done, all in. Too late to make a fuss.”

  His wife added, “So why not share your first night in one of my clean and tidy rooms? Bed ropes recently tightened. Plump new ticking. My maid washed the bedclothes herself. And a good roast dinner with my famous fish stew for starters. Hmm? What do you say?”

  Helplessly, Sophie looked at Captain Overtree. He returned her gaze with a bemused expression. “My wife do
es not care for fish stew, I’m afraid, Mrs. Partridge. But I am amenable to the other arrangements, if . . . the missus agrees . . . ?”

  Four pair of eyes looked at her expectantly.

  She swallowed. “I . . . well. If we cannot sail ’til morning, we shall have to sleep somewhere, shan’t we?”

  “Very true, madam,” Mr. Partridge said. “We all must sleep, wedding night or no.”

  But Sophie was almost certain she saw him wink at the captain.

  An hour later, Sophie and Captain Overtree sat in the inn’s parlour. The captain sawed at his roast with relish while Sophie picked at a potato.

  He paused and surveyed her full plate. “Is the food not to your liking?”

  “Hmm? Oh no, it’s good. I am just not very hungry.”

  He set down his fork and knife with a clank. “See here. There is no need to be terrified. I have no intention of . . .” He lowered his voice. “I will not press you or expect anything from you. You needn’t sit there trembling like a cornered mouse.”

  He wiped his mouth and tossed down his table napkin. “I realize your affections lie elsewhere . . . on a ship bound for Italy. I am not a brute. No matter what you think me after that incident yesterday.”

  “Th-thank you,” she managed.

  “Yes, I thought you’d like that. Now eat something, so we can go to bed.”

  Her gaze flew up to his.

  “To sleep,” he clarified, eyes hard.

  Sophie ate a few more bites before surrendering to her nervous stomach.

  “Look,” he said. “Go up alone and I’ll ask them to send up a maid to help you undress or . . . whatever it is ladies do before bed. I’ll stay down here for a while. Give you some privacy.”

  For how long, Sophie wondered. All night? She dared not count on it. And why should he spend his wedding night alone? They were married, she reminded herself. Like it or not. For better or worse.

  Sophie went upstairs into the room they’d been given, which was as clean and tidy as Mrs. Partridge had promised. In a few minutes, someone scratched on the door and opened it. A young maid of eighteen or nineteen entered, all coy smiles.

  “Your husband sent me to help get you ready for your wedding night.”

  Sophie’s heart pounded. What happened to “I will not press you, or expect anything from you . . . ”? Did he intend to consummate the marriage tonight after all?

  Her stomach knotted at the thought.

  “Joe’s bringing up the slipper bath so you can have a nice soak. Then I’ll help you into your night things.”

  “Oh. Um, thank you.” Perhaps it didn’t mean what it seemed, she told herself. Perhaps he was only being thoughtful—realizing she’d had to basically live and sleep in the same clothes for two days of traveling and would like a bath before she changed for bed. Yes, that was probably all it meant.

  Sophie bathed and then the maid helped her into a nightdress. The cheeky girl winked, then left her waiting nervously. Sophie wrung her hands, listening to the woman’s retreating footfalls and expecting them to be replaced by a heavy tread climbing the stairs in reply to whatever saucy announcement of her readiness the maid had delivered.

  But the stairs remained quiet.

  Was he finishing his drink? No, Wesley had distinctly told her his puritanical brother did not drink—another weakness he disapproved of in others, according to Wesley.

  A quarter of an hour passed. Then half an hour. Then an hour. She was growing both exhausted and irritable at once. She was tempted to climb into bed and feign sleep, hoping it would dissuade him from touching her. But how could she sleep when her nerves were wound tight, waiting every second for him to barge through the door and demand his conjugal rights?

  Another hour passed. The rumble of voices in the taproom below diminished. Still he didn’t come. Had he paid for a second room without telling her? Found some more willing female with whom to spend the night? She grew more vexed the longer she allowed her imagination to play havoc with her peace of mind. Finally, she gave up wondering. She tied a dressing gown over her nightdress and tiptoed down the stairs.

  As she neared the archway to the taproom, she heard the crackle of a large fire and the low rise and fall of a pair of voices in quiet conversation—his voice not among them. She peeked around the threshold. The room was empty except for three men. At one end of the counter, young Mr. Partridge sat on a stool talking companionably with the barman, as the older man dried glasses. And there, slumped in an inglenook, was Captain Overtree, the dregs of a pint in one hand, peering at a small oval he held in the other.

  She crossed the few yards that separated them, trying to ignore the raised-brow look the barman gave her.

  Nearing his elbow, she hissed, “Captain, what are you doing?”

  He tucked the oval frame into his pocket before she could gather more than the faint impression of a face, then glanced up at her from beneath a fall of black hair. “Staying away from you. Trying to, at any rate.”

  “What were you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” He finished his pint.

  “I was told you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t—usually. But there’s nothing usual about tonight. It’s my wedding night.” He chuckled bitterly. “Some comfort was required.”

  “Come upstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are embarrassing yourself. And me.”

  “Because our young Mr. Pheasant, or whatever his name was, and Mr. Thompkins there might wonder why I prefer to spend the evening here than in my . . . your bedchamber?”

  “Yes.” Was he trying to hurt her feelings? Already regretting their marriage? She thought of the portrait he’d tucked away. Was he mourning the loss of the woman he would have preferred to marry—a woman he loved?

  “Come, Captain.” She took his elbow and tried to pull him to his feet. He did not budge. She turned to the barman. “Mr. Thompkins, would you please help me get my . . . husband to bed?”

  “Ma’am, if I had a wife as young and pretty as you, I wouldn’t need anyone to drag me to her.”

  “Thank you. Now, please just help me . . .” She picked up the captain’s discarded coat from a chair nearby.

  The man slung one of the captain’s arms around his shoulder and helped him off the bench and up the stairs. In their nuptial chamber, they half-dropped him, half-rolled him into bed.

  Mr. Thompkins asked, “You can undress him yourself, I take it?”

  “I . . . am sure I can manage. Thank you.”

  The man left, closing the door behind himself.

  Sophie regarded her bridegroom—eyes closed, dark hair unruly, legs askew. With a sigh, she wrestled off the captain’s boots, glad he had removed his own coat downstairs. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his waistcoat buttons, then stopped.

  Since he was sound asleep, she studied him closely by candlelight. His face was so much softer and gentler in repose. The scar he tried to hide, more vulnerable. He smelled of ale and smoke, and she wrinkled her nose.

  “You don’t deserve it,” she whispered, “but . . .” She kissed her finger and pressed it lightly to his temple. “Everyone should be kissed on their wedding night.”

  Exhausted, she lay beside him—her in her dressing gown and him in his clothes—and soon fell asleep.

  Sometime during the night, the captain moaned and turned over. He threw an arm around her, and murmured a sorrowful “Jenny . . .”

  Who was “Jenny”? It wasn’t a name she recognized. Sophie gingerly removed his heavy arm, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into, and already beginning to regret it.

  chapter 6

  In the morning, Stephen awoke with an ice pick in the back of his skull and a stomach full of bile and regret. He was swamped with remorse for his behavior of the night before. For showing weakness to his new wife. For breaking his vow to himself.

  The truth was, he was attracted to Sophie, and the very thought of her undressing and
bathing in the bedchamber they were meant to share did torturous things to him. Yet he had promised he would not press her, that he expected nothing. Why had he done so? He wished he’d never suggested a marriage in name only. In hindsight, he knew he’d done so to lower her risk in accepting him. To protect himself from rejection if she turned him down. Stupid, proud fool that he was.

  How disheartening to find himself married to a woman who loved someone else and wanted nothing to do with him. And that thought had fed a revolting combination of resentment and self-pity that no man should succumb to, especially on his wedding night. It was either have a drink, or go upstairs and make a fool of himself. So he had broken his code of the last five years and had one pint. And then another.

  Now he was surprised to find himself in bed, and partially undressed. In the sunlight that jabbed his eyes, he saw her seated at a little table in the corner, sticking pins in a coil of hair atop her head. He would have liked to see it down. Too late. And she was already dressed. He had a tantalizing memory of glimpsing her in nightclothes, so the maid must have slipped in and helped her change while he slept on. Or rather, slept it off. He cringed in regret.

  “I am sorry, Miss . . . Dash it, I don’t know what to call you.”

  “My name is Mrs. Overtree,” she pronounced without pleasure.

  “I suppose it is. Well, Mrs. Overtree. I apologize for last night and promise not to do it again.”

  “Which part?”

  He eyed her warily. “I hope I didn’t do anything . . . worse . . . than becoming stupidly drunk?”

  “Um, no. Nothing.” She stood up. “Well. Mrs. Partridge promised to lay quite a spread for breakfast this morning, and I am very hungry. I doubt you feel like eating, so I will leave you alone to wallow in your misery.”

  More miserable than you know. . . .

  After the door closed with a wince-worthy bang, Stephen glanced around for his coat, and saw it lying over the chair nearby. He dragged it close and dug in his pocket for the portrait, relieved to find it undisturbed. He lay back, looking at it, almost ruing the day he’d found it in the first place. He very much doubted he’d be in his current predicament if he’d never set eyes on it.