Chapter 16
Sophie visited her new studio in the old schoolroom the very next morning, carrying with her the sketchbook, drawing pencils, and crayons she had brought with her from Bath.
She had never had a studio of her own—always sharing a small corner of her father’s, or drawing out of doors.
Now she felt almost frozen by the freedom, and the wealth of possibilities before her.
She placed one of the new canvases on the easel, as well as a maulstick with its soft leather head to support her hand while she painted.
Then she turned to the paints. Such expense was represented here.
How daunting to open these pristine new vials of pigment, mix them with oil, and scrape a full palette for .
. . what? A few homely flowers from the Overtree gardens?
Even watercolors would require her to unwrap all the cakes of paint, so charming in their new packages.
She felt she needed something worthy to justify the expense.
She stood there for several minutes thinking, but the canvas—that big expanse of nothingness—remained blank.
She needed to start with something more modest, and not spoil a whole canvas while she was so out of practice.
For the time being, she made do with preparing a canvas for later, and set it aside.
Then she pulled a chair nearer the window to take advantage of the sunlight and opened her sketchbook again.
Pulling out her set of crayons, she added dimension and detail to the flowers she had already sketched.
It was satisfying to see the flowers become more and more vibrant and realistic.
With a satisfied sigh, she turned the page and regarded her pencil sketch of Captain Overtree’s face.
What would it be like to paint him with the full depth and color variations presented by oil paint and canvas?
Except for the wonderful room, Sophie had not yet used anything the captain had given her. But she would. And she would think of him every time she did.
That afternoon, after sitting through Mrs. Overtree’s litany of details for the upcoming dinner party—menu, seating arrangements, and a tedious discussion of precedence among the guests—Sophie excused herself, claiming the need of fresh air and a turn around the garden.
Entering through its archway a few moments later, she saw the gardener coming out of the hothouse and asked if it would be all right if she cut a few flowers.
“Of course, madam. Though the real beauties won’t show their faces for another month yet.” He provided shears, a flat-bottomed basket, and a tip of his hat.
She picked one showy daffodil, yellow-and-white primroses, several bright orange tulips, a branch of pink camellias, and green fronds and ferns.
These she took indoors with her and up the stairs.
In the schoolroom, she found an old sunny yellow vase.
A crack marred one side, but if she turned it away, it would work well for the composition she had in mind.
As she set the prepared canvas on the easel, the old rhythm returned to her, and peace like a long-lost friend descended. She’d missed this.
She slipped a blue apron over her head to protect her pale yellow frock.
Then she mixed the paints with the new palette knife in a wheel pattern around the wooden disk.
Choosing a brush, she turned to study the still life before her.
Something was missing. It was too ordinary.
Too perfect. True, flowers and fruits were the accepted domain of ladies who dabbled in painting.
Still lifes were deemed safe for the gentle sex, along with the occasional portrait and genre scene.
But Sophie liked to give her paintings something unique.
A thought or theme to express in even the simplest subject.
Then she realized what she wanted. She rose and turned the vase so that the crack faced her and rearranged the flowers once more to their best advantage. Yes, better.
First, she gave the prepared surface a dark yellow underpainting.
Then she began establishing the composition.
Using ochre and umber, she outlined the flowers, and quickly blocked the vase and table in thinned paint, capturing the most important shapes and dominant values.
Satisfied, she left the paint to dry and went downstairs to dress for dinner.
She returned the next day and began by building up layers of color to form shadows, applying paint in thicker brushstrokes, and adding white highlights where light hit the vase.
In some areas, she left the underpainting untouched, creating the illusion of depth.
Then she chose a slender brush to paint the fine details of the petals and foliage.
She added more Naples yellow directly to the canvas for the petals of the daffodil, knowing each time she mixed the paint, the tone would be slightly different, adding more richness to the canvas.
She continued to add and blend the colors until the flowers came to life.
The door creaked open behind her and Sophie whirled, paintbrush suspended midair.
Kate stood there, peering in. Gulliver darted past her feet and trotted into the room.
Sophie released a breath. “Kate, you scared me.”
“Winnie told me flowers were blooming in the old schoolroom. I had to come and see what on earth she was talking about.” Her eyes settled on the painting—too big, too out in the open for Sophie to hide. “I thought she’d really lost her mind this time,” Kate said. “But apparently not.”
Surely Winnie’s sixth sense, or whatever it was, hadn’t picked up on something as ordinary as a humble painting of garden flowers. Perhaps Winnie had simply peeked into the schoolroom looking for Gulliver, who even now lay curled in a patch of sunshine near the window.
Sophie explained, “Your brother ordered the supplies and set all this up for me, knowing I am private about my work, or rather, pastime. So kind of him.”
“It’s clearly more than a pastime. You’re very good, Sophie. I may not be an expert, but I did grow up in the same house as Wesley, so I’m not completely ignorant.”
“Of course not. And . . . thank you. But I grew up in the same house as Claude Dupont, so I know not to esteem my little skill.”
“I think your father was too hard on you,” Captain Overtree said from the doorway.
Kate turned and greeted her brother. “Hello, Stephen. How romantic of you to set up a studio for Sophie!”
“It was nothing, Kate. Please don’t mention it to others.”
“Very well.”
The captain returned his gaze to Sophie. “Perhaps your father didn’t want you to become vain. Or wanted to push you to keep improving your skills.”
“Or perhaps he is simply a realist,” she said. “Amateur drawing and watercolors may be admired in accomplished young ladies, but art as a profession is not.”
Kate said, “But I’ve heard of several professional female artists.”
“Yes, but those women are the exceptions. In general, it is frowned upon.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
“It is thought to divert women from their prescribed roles as wives and mothers.”
Captain Overtree’s eyes glinted like glass. “Is that how you see it? Do you regret you’ve taken on the prescribed role of wife and someday mother?”
She stared at him, taken aback by his hard expression. “No. I never said that. I . . . have always hoped I would one day marry and have children.” She instinctively laid a hand over her apron-covered midsection.
Kate looked from one to the other, a wrinkle of confusion between her brows at the tension between them. She said in forced brightness, “Then all is as it should be. You are blessed, indeed. For you have a husband who supports your interest in art.”
Sophie replied to Kate, but kept her focus on the captain as she did so. “I am blessed, yes. You are perfectly right, Kate.”
He held her gaze, and his expression softened.
“Will you give me lessons, Sophie?” Kate asked.
“We can have them up here, if you like. I can understand not wanting Mamma peering over your shoulder. I wouldn’t want her peering over mine either.
At least not until I have improved the rudimentary skills my poor governess tried to teach me.
Wesley has offered, but he’s never here long enough. ”
“I don’t know, Kate,” Sophie said. “I have never taught anyone before. I am sure if your parents knew you wished to learn, they would hire a qualified instructor for you.”
“But I would be far more comfortable with you. And it would give us an excuse to spend time together and become better acquainted.”
The girl’s sweet dark eyes widened and it was difficult to refuse her appeal.
“I shall teach you if we have a suitable model to paint.” Sophie turned to Stephen. “If you, Captain, will sit for us. How fortunate that I have a husband who supports my interest in art.” She slanted him a challenging look.
He raised his hands. “Oh no. No one need paint this battered mug. Not when more pleasant alternatives abound.” He gestured toward the vase of flowers, then hesitated, looking again at the cracked vase with a frown. “I’m sure we could find you a better vase.”
“No, thank you. I like that one.”
He turned back and for a moment studied her face.
Kate implored, “Oh, please, Stephen? I painted plenty of flowers while Miss Flynn was here. But I’ve never tried a portrait. Please?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Tell you what—practice on flowers or what have you for now, and maybe later . . . We’ll see.”
“But you leave soon, Stephen.”
“Kate’s right,” Sophie said. “I would normally agree with you that it would be better to start with something easier than—”
“Than this face?”
“—than a portrait of anyone. But considering how few days you have left . . . Here, I mean. We had better start soon.”
Still he hesitated.
Then Sophie added softly, “I would like to have a portrait of you, before you leave.”