The Painter’s Daughter

Chapter 1

Devonshire, England

Infuriating artists . . . Captain Stephen Marshall Overtree grumbled to himself as he walked along the harbor of the unfamiliar town, looking into each shop window.

He glanced down at the crumpled paper in his hand, and read again his brother’s hastily scrawled note.

. . . I will let a cottage as last year, though I don’t know which yet. If the need arises, you may write to me in care of Mr. Claude Dupont, Lynmouth, Devon. But no doubt you will manage capably without me, Marsh. As always.

Stephen stuffed the note back into his pocket and continued surveying the establishments he passed—public house, harbormaster’s office, tobacconist, and cider seller. Then a stylish placard caught his eye:

CLAUDE DUPONT

Painter, Royal Academy of Arts

~

Portraits by commission, also local landscapes.

Instruction and supplies for the visiting artist.

Inquire within.

Stephen tried the door latch, but it wouldn’t budge. He cupped a hand to the glass and peered inside. The dim interior held easels, framed landscapes, and shelves of supplies, but not a single person.

He bit back an epithet. How could he inquire within if the dashed door was locked? It was not yet five in the afternoon. What sort of hours did the man keep? Stephen muttered another unflattering comment about artists.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a frowsy woman step from the public house, dumping a bucket of water. He called, “I am looking for Wesley Overtree. Have you seen him?”

“That handsome Adonis, you mean? No, sir.” She winked. “Not today at any rate.”

“Know where he’s staying?”

“One of the hillside cottages, I believe, but I couldn’t tell you which one.”

“Well then, what of Mr. Dupont?” Stephen gestured toward the locked door.

“Mr. Dupont is away, sir. But I saw his daughter pass by not fifteen minutes ago. Walking out to the Valley of Rocks, I’d wager, as she does nearly every day about this time.

” She pointed to the esplanade, where a path led up the hillside before disappearing from view.

“Just follow that path as far as it goes. Can’t miss it. ”

“Thank you.”

For a moment Stephen remained where he was, looking up the hill—thatched cottages and a few grander houses clung to the wooded slope, while Lynmouth’s twin town of Lynton perched above. Perhaps he ought to have remained in the coach for the half-mile climb to Lynton. He sighed. It was too late now.

He walked along the seaside esplanade, then started inland up the path.

He was glad now he’d brought his walking stick—a thin sword cleverly concealed inside.

One never knew when one might meet highwaymen while traveling, and he preferred to be armed at all times.

His military training was well ingrained.

The steep path soon had him breathing hard.

He’d thought he was in better condition than that.

The month of soft living, away from drilling his regiment, had already taken its toll.

He would have a few choice words for Wesley when he found him.

Stephen should be with his regiment, not at home doing Wes’s duty for him, and not here.

He ascended through the trees, then out into the open as the rocky path curved westward, following the cliff side, high above the Bristol Channel—deep blue and grey.

The steep downward slope bristled with withered grass, scrubby gorse, and the occasional twisted sapling.

Little to stop a fall. If a man were to slip, he would instantly tumble four or five hundred feet into the cold sea below. His stomach lurched at the thought.

His old nurse’s recent pronouncement echoed through his mind. “You won’t live to see your inheritance. . . .” He could still feel the wiry grip of her hand, and see the somber light in her eyes.

With a shiver, Stephen backed from the edge and strode on.

The cry of a seabird drew his gaze upward. Gulls soared, borne aloft by strident wind. Black-and-white razorbills and grey-tipped kittiwakes nested among the rock outcroppings.

He walked for ten or fifteen minutes but saw no sign of the young woman ahead of him.

He hoped he hadn’t missed a turn somewhere.

As he continued on, the temperature seemed to drop.

Although spring came earlier on the southwest coast, the wind bit with icy teeth, blowing across the channel from the north, still held in the grip of winter.

He tugged his hat brim lower and turned up the collar of his greatcoat.

In less than two weeks he would again exchange civilian clothes for his uniform, return to duty, and make his grandfather proud.

But first he had to find Wesley and send him home.

With Humphries retiring, someone needed to help Papa oversee the estate.

Their father was not in good health and needed a capable spokesman to keep the tenants happy and the estate workers on task.

As a captain in the British Army, the role had come easily to Stephen.

But his leave would soon be at an end, Napoleon exiled or not.

The role of managing the estate should have fallen to his older brother. But Wesley had again gone south for the winter, in spite of their mother’s pleas. His art came first, he always insisted. And he preferred to leave practical, mundane affairs to others.

Rounding a bend, Stephen saw a craggy headland—rocks piled atop one another like castle battlements—with a sheer drop to the lashing currents below. He looked down to assure his footing, but a flash of color caught his eye and drew his gaze upward again.

He sucked in a breath. A figure in billowing skirts, wind-tossed cape, and deep straw bonnet stood atop that high precipice. Wedged between a rock on one side, and the cliff on the other, her half boot extended over the edge. What was the fool woman doing?

She fell to her knees and stretched out a gloved hand . . . trying to reach something, or about to go over? Did she mean to harm herself?

Pulse lurching, Stephen rushed forward. “Stop! Don’t!”

She did not seem to hear him over the wind. Leaping atop the summit, he saw she was trying to reach a paper entangled in the prickly gorse.

“Stay back. I’ll retrieve it for you.”

“No,” she cried. “Don’t!”

Taking her objection as concern for his safety, he extended his walking stick to reach the paper and drag it back up the slope. Bending low, he snagged a corner of the thick rectangle—a painting. His breath caught.

He turned to stare at the tear-stained face within the deep bonnet.

He looked back down at the painting, stunned to discover the image was of the very woman before him—a woman he recognized, for he had carried her portrait in his pocket during a year of drilling and fighting, and had looked at it by the light of too many campfires.

A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from her head, the ribbon ties catching against her throat, and its brim dangling against her back. Wavy strands of blond hair lifted in the wind, whipping around her thin, angular face. Sad, blue-grey eyes squinted against a dying shaft of sunlight.

“It’s . . . you,” he sputtered.

“Excuse me?” She frowned at him. “Have we met?”

He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “No. That is . . . the portrait—it’s your likeness.” He lifted it, also recognizing the style—clearly his brother’s work.

Instead of thanks, her face crumpled. “Why did you do that? I was trying to toss it to the four winds. Make it disappear.”

“Why?”

“Give it back,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

“Only if you promise not to destroy it.”

Her lips tightened. “Who are you?”

“Captain Stephen Overtree.” He handed over the paper. “And you must be Miss Dupont. You know my brother, I believe.”

She stared at him, then averted her gaze.

“That is, he let a cottage from your family. I stopped at the studio but found the place locked. Can you tell me where to look for him?”

“I should not bother if I were you,” she said. “He is gone. Sailed for Italy in search of his perfect muse. His Dulcinea or Mona Lisa . . .” She blinked away fresh tears, and turned the painting over, revealing a few scrawled lines in his brother’s hand.

He read:

My dear Miss Dupont,

That visiting Italian couple we met invited me to travel with them to their homeland. To share their villa and paint to my heart’s content. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I could not resist. You know how I love Italy! We sail within the hour.

I know I should have said good-bye in person. I tried to find you, but could not. Thankfully, as a fellow artist you understand me and realize I must follow my muse and pursue my passion. Must grasp this opportunity before it leaves with the tide.

We shared a beautiful season, you and I. And I shall always remember you fondly.

Arrivederci,

W. D. O.

Thunder and turf, Stephen inwardly raged. How was he to send his brother home now?

“He left no forwarding address?” he asked. “Or even a specific port or town?”

She shook her head. “Not with me. I believe the couple he mentioned was from Naples, but I could be mistaken.”

“Did Lieutenant Keith go with him?”

“Carlton Keith, do you mean? I assume so. They seemed to go everywhere together.”

Stephen nodded. “Do you happen to know if my brother took all his belongings with him?” He asked the question to determine if Wesley planned to return to Lynmouth.

Again she shook her head. “When I looked in this morning, I was surprised to see he’d left many of his paintings behind, as well as his winter coat.”

“Did he not tell your father he planned to leave?”

“My father has returned to Bath on a portrait commission. We thought your brother planned to stay on through the spring. That’s why I was so . . . surprised . . . to receive his note.”