Chapter 7 #3
He led her from the dining parlour and started toward their bedchamber, but Sophie tugged his hand in the opposite direction, down a quiet passage. She paused before a painting of her mother from when she was young, with fair hair, a broad forehead, button nose, and blue-green eyes.
“I wanted you to see this. My mother, right before she married Papa.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“You look like her. Did your father paint this?”
“No. Look at her eyes . . . A Dutch painter you would not have heard of.”
He looked at her instead. “How do you stand to hear your stepmother belittle your contributions and abilities?”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing really. She’s right. My help is trivial. I am a dabbler—that’s all. Papa is the real artist.”
He shook his head. “Your father takes you for granted.”
“Please don’t speak poorly of Papa. I love my stepsiblings, of course, but really . . . Papa is the only family I have.”
He held her gaze and pressed her hand. “Not anymore.”
Sophie’s heart warmed, but she looked away from his earnest gaze. “Come. The girls will be up soon and want their story.”
Reaching the bedchamber, Sophie saw the girls had not yet arrived.
She rang for the maid and ducked into the dressing closet, taking down her hair and plaiting it herself while she waited.
The housemaid appeared and helped her undress, then stayed to tidy up the tiny room and hang up Sophie’s things.
Sophie stepped out alone and saw Captain Overtree’s bare back as he pulled his shirt over his head.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled as he did so, and his back was smooth and taut.
He turned at the sound of the door, and her gaze was drawn to his chest—masculine muscles, coarse hair, and a scar running shoulder to chest.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I had time to change before you returned.”
Sophie swallowed. “No, I’m sorry. That is . . . I . . . finished early.”
She averted her eyes, and he quickly pulled his nightshirt over his head. She wanted to ask about the scar but feared raising a painful subject.
The door banged open and the girls flew in, jumping into bed as usual. “Tell us one of your magic paintbrush stories, Sophie.”
“Oh yes, do!”
Captain Overtree raised his brows. “What, pray, is a magic paintbrush story?”
Lyddie supplied, “We tell Sophie what to paint with her magic paintbrush, and whatever we say comes to life, and she tells us a story about it.”
“Sophie makes them up as she goes,” Sophie said modestly. “And some of them are very poor indeed.”
“Not poor. We like them. Don’t we, Martha?”
Martha nodded vigorously, curls bouncing.
“I don’t know that I should. Your Mamma wants us to be quiet.”
“We’ll be quiet. Please!”
“Mrs. Overtree,” the captain said, sitting cross-legged on the cushions. “I for one would enjoy hearing such a story.”
Sophie felt her cheeks warm to hear him call her by that title.
Lyddie smiled. “Me too.”
“Me three!”
“Shh. Very well. They’re just little made-up ditties. But if you insist, I shall try. You all must help me. Once upon a time there was a . . .”
“Beautiful princess!”
Lyddie frowned. “Martha, you always say that.”
“Then how about a plain princess instead?” Sophie suggested. “A more . . . realistic tale?”
“Very welllll . . .” Martha pouted.
“Once upon a time there was a plain princess. One day, while she was . . . ?”
“Outside in the garden.”
“One day when she was outside in the garden, she took her easel and paints with her. She painted the colorful flowers and fruits she saw there, wishing she were half as beautiful as just one of the most ordinary blooms. Suddenly, whom should she meet, but. . . .”
“A big hungry bear!” the six-year-old cried.
Captain Overtree gave the child a lopsided grin. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Oh, Martha. Not that again.”
Sophie nodded. “That’s fine, Martha. She met a big hungry bear. So, thinking quickly, she picked up her magic paintbrush and painted a . . . ?”
Lyddie stole a shy glance at him and said, “A brave soldier.”
Sophie hesitated only a moment. “Right. Good idea. She quickly painted a brave soldier.”
“A cap’in!” Martha insisted.
“A brave captain. In a red coat, and a . . . ?” Sophie hesitated, encircling her head with her hands.
“A black hat,” he supplied.
“And a sword!” Martha added.
Sophie bit her lip. Were they to have violence right there in the little girls’ bedchamber, in one of her princess stories? She decided to ignore the suggestion. “The brave soldier came to life, leapt from the canvas, faced the snarling bear and . . .”
She looked nervously at the captain, hoping he would follow her lead, wincing in anticipation of a bloody stab or decapitation.
Apparently ignoring her in favor of their captive audience, he said, “And thinking quickly, the soldier drew his sword and from the painting cut a handful of fruit, which had become real, and offered it to the bear in exchange for the lady’s life.
The bear gobbled down the fruit, belched, and slunk back into the wood for a nap. ”
Martha giggled. Lyddie pressed a hand over her mouth in delight.
“The end,” Sophie finished in relief.
The girls clapped.
Sophie looked at the captain. He met her gaze, eyes warm with humor.
At dawn the next morning, Stephen was awoken by quiet footsteps. He saw Sophie tiptoe into the room, gingerly lift the bedclothes, and slip into bed with her stepsisters. He guessed she’d been down working in her father’s studio again.
He waited until her breathing had slowed into a regular, relaxed rhythm, then rose and quickly dressed. Curious, he slipped from the room and down the stairs.
He inched open the studio door, expecting to find the room empty. Instead Mr. Dupont stood there in dressing gown and slippers, chin propped in his hand.
He glanced over. “Ah, Captain. Good morning.”
“Mr. Dupont.”
“Do you see the eyes? How alive they look? How natural?”
Stephen crossed the room and stood beside him. “Yes,” he agreed. He could not have verbalized specifically what had been changed, but it seemed a marked improvement over the face he’d glimpsed before.
Mr. Dupont mused aloud, “Why is it, Captain, that we only appreciate what we have after it is gone? If only the thought of losing something or someone would cause us to value it while it’s right under our nose.”
Stephen nodded. He was already thinking about—and dreading—losing Sophie. “I understand how you feel, sir.”
Not removing his eyes from the painting, Mr. Dupont said quietly, “Promise me you will take good care of her, Captain.”
Stephen drew in a long breath. “I would love nothing more than to make that promise, sir, but I cannot. I will very soon have to leave her. I have rarely wished for the luxury of staying at hearth and home more than I do now. I cannot. However, I assure you that my family will take good care of her. She will have everything she needs at Overtree Hall. The best doctor in the county lives not two miles from us.”
Mr. Dupont turned to frown at him. “Doctor? Why on earth should Sophie need a doctor?”
Stephen inwardly cursed his undisciplined mouth. “I only meant . . . should she have some cold or trifling malady . . .”
The man’s eyes measured his. “Ah. Well. Considering your talk of twins yesterday, I guess there may be more to the story, but I don’t think I ought to ask.”
The man was sharper than he seemed. Stephen felt his ears heat at the implication of his father-in-law’s words, as though he had done something to be embarrassed about. He did not defend himself. He would gladly take the blame if he could.
Along with her favorite drawing and painting supplies, Sophie packed her best clothes and two evening gowns she had not bothered to take with her to rustic Lynmouth.
She imagined she would need her finest things to pass muster at Overtree Hall.
She surveyed the room and her dressing chest, wondering what else she should take with her, having no idea how long it might be until she returned to visit.
When she was ready, the captain carried her extra valise as well as his own, and together they went downstairs to the vestibule, where the Duponts had assembled to bid them farewell.
“This Overtree Hall,” Mrs. Dupont began. “It is not some remote place far off the beaten path, is it? Not some gated castle or walled estate that we could not visit at some point to assure ourselves Sophie is well looked after?”
Sophie felt embarrassed at the woman’s presumption. “But . . . remember I have never even been there myself. It is not my prerogative to invite others.”
“Nonsense. You are their daughter-in-law. And if you take up residence there as Captain Overtree seems determined you shall, then we have every right to visit. We are your family. They cannot object to that.”
Captain Overtree spoke up. “Of course not. If you wanted to visit for a few days as we have here, you would be most . . . My family would no doubt graciously receive you.”
Augusta Dupont’s eyes flashed with knowing irritation. Though she was not a pleasant woman, no one could doubt her quick intelligence.
She smiled thinly. “Remember, Captain. Though our acquaintance with you is of short duration, my husband has known your brother for above two years, and hosted him in Lynmouth for many weeks at a time.”
“My brother is not often at home,” the captain said. “But as you say, Mr. Dupont would of course be more than welcome.”