Chapter 21 #3
“My nerves are perfectly well,” Mr. Overtree spoke up. “But elopement isn’t something we wish to dwell upon or share with our neighbors—for obvious reasons. Please endeavor to remember that in company, Wesley.”
Wesley nodded, chewed a bite, and then set down his fork. “I know!” he exclaimed, beaming first at his parents, then settling his smile on Sophie. “Perhaps I ought to paint a bridal portrait of my new sister.”
Sophie coughed into her goblet, then cleared her throat. “Thank you, but no. That isn’t necessary.”
“Sophie is right, Wesley,” Mrs. Overtree agreed. “If Stephen had wanted such a portrait, he would have commissioned one.”
“I doubt he had the time or even thought of it. Art is not exactly at the top of his priority list, is it?”
Mrs. Overtree looked from her son to Sophie and back again. “Well if we decide to pursue the idea, I am sure Mr. Benedict would be grateful for the commission and do a . . . commendable job.”
“Benedict? He’s a hack. I wouldn’t let him paint my pony.” Wesley spread his hands as though a great benefactor. “Come now, I insist. A wedding present. A portrait of Sophie in all her wedding finery.” He glanced at her, one brow raised. “You did wear something fine?”
She lifted her chin. “Not especially, no. What with the limited time and the sea journey and all.” She did not think Mrs. Thrupton’s silk shawl and cap would qualify as “fine” in the Overtrees’ minds.
“Ah. Well. Perhaps we might rectify that now.”
“No.” Mrs. Overtree adamantly shook her head. “Wesley, I don’t think Sophie wishes to spend hours in the company of a man she barely knows. It wouldn’t be . . . quite . . . right.”
“Oh, come my dear,” Mr. Overtree protested. “What would be improper about Wesley painting a portrait of his new sister? Why, he painted one of Kate, what, two years ago.”
“This is quite different.”
Did Mrs. Overtree suspect? Sophie wondered. Or did she simply want to discourage talk among the servants?
“Yes, but I detest that painting,” Kate pouted. “He gave me such a big nose.”
Wesley leaned toward his sister, a teasing light in his eye. “I didn’t give it to you, Kate. God did. Or perhaps Papa.”
Kate swatted his arm. “Then paint another of me, Wesley. More flattering. In fact,” she added with a mischievous air, “make me heart-stoppingly beautiful. We shall have prints made and send them to all the eligible bachelors in the land, and then I shall have my pick of handsome husbands.”
Sophie knew the girl was only joking, but Wesley shook his head.
“That is beyond my ability.”
Kate blinked, her smile falling.
Mrs. Overtree admonished, “Wesley!”
“What?” He looked in confusion from face to face.
Comprehension dawned. “I simply meant I only paint realism—ask Sophie.” He looked around the table.
“Oh, come now—you know I think Katie the most charming creature on earth. The most likeable poppet I’ve ever had the privilege of tickling to tears, or hiding a jar of noisy crickets beneath her bed. ”
“I knew that was you!” Kate exclaimed. “You tried to blame Stephen, but I always knew.”
“I am certain your brother didn’t mean that as it sounded, Kate,” Sophie said, her heart going out to the girl. “Artists can be overly critical of any slight imperfection, which we all have, of course.”
Mrs. Overtree frowned. “I am sure Wesley meant no such criticism of his own sister, Sophie. You just don’t know him well enough to understand his teasing.”
“I meant no censure, Mrs. Overtree.”
Wesley smiled fondly at his sister. “I realize Katie was only jesting, but she wouldn’t want me to paint an idealized or alluring portrait of her. She might gain the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of man.”
“Yes, she might . . .” Mr. Keith murmured, slanting a look at Sophie.
Sophie’s cheeks burned.
“Why do we not change the subject?” Mr. Overtree suggested. “I for one feel indigestion coming on, and we haven’t even had our pudding yet.”
“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Overtree exclaimed. “Is it your heart?”
“No, my love. It is not my heart. It is my stomach. Too much sour talk and rich food.”
Mrs. Overtree asked Wesley about his travels, and for several minutes the topic moved to more neutral ground. But then Mrs. Overtree asked to see his latest paintings from his winter in Lynmouth—the ones still crated up in his room.
What would his parents think to see their new daughter-in-law in such poses? Sophie wondered. The notion filled her with dread.
Wesley opened his mouth to reply, then with a swift glance at her, closed it again.
He said, “Perhaps later, Mamma. Now, acquaint me with all the parish news . . .”
Sophie released a tense breath. She prayed Wesley would leave the lid on that crate nailed shut. And the lid on their past too.
After dinner, Sophie excused herself to retire early. Mr. Keith rose and stepped to the door to open it for her, taking the opportunity to whisper an apology for his earlier rude comments.
Wesley watched them with a frown, brows raised in question, but she turned without acknowledging him. She feared he might follow her, but Mr. Keith, she noticed, clamped a hand on his arm.
Sophie had difficulty falling asleep that night, rolling one way, then the other. Sweet, lovely memories returned to torment her. Wesley’s affection. His praise of her talent and beauty. Then sour memories—his leaving, that dismissive note—wrestled with the sweet, until she felt quite nauseated.
She heard a floorboard creak and stilled.
Then she heard slow, surreptitious footsteps somewhere nearby.
Was it Wesley coming to her door? Would he dare enter her room?
Surely not. Perhaps she should have locked it, and let the servants wonder what they may.
Or perhaps she should rise and open it. . . .
With a groan, she pulled the blankets over her head and willed sleep to come. And temptation to stay away.