Chapter 22 #2
He felt his mother’s pointed look on his profile, but ignored it. He said easily, “Simply to see it, and to judge whether or not it might be a good setting in which to paint Sophie’s bridal portrait.”
“That again. You have always painted in the room adjacent to your own.”
“Yes, but there is surprisingly good light up there. Wish I had thought of it sooner.”
With a glance at Keith, Sophie said evenly, “I have been thinking. If you insist on painting my portrait, Wesley, perhaps Kate might like to sit with us while you do so. She has expressed interest in learning to paint and might find the experience valuable.”
“Oh yes. That’s an excellent notion,” Kate agreed.
Sophie added with a sheepish little laugh, “I might even try to paint her while you paint me.”
“What?” his mother asked, brows high.
“Mamma, Sophie is an accomplished painter,” Kate said. “You should see her portrait of Stephen—though it isn’t finished yet.”
“I don’t pretend that my skills are on par with your son’s,” Sophie said quickly. “Nor would I expect my efforts to ever hang on any wall. I just thought it might prove a pleasant diversion to break up the long monotony of sitting.”
“A portrait of someone painting a portrait?” Wesley asked with a smile. “What a novel idea.” Was she remembering when they had done the same at Castle Rock?
She nodded. “I saw an artist attempt it once.”
“Oh?” he asked. “And how did it turn out?”
She met his gaze. “Not well.”
“It might be an interesting exercise,” Mr. Overtree allowed.
“Sounds amusing,” Kate agreed.
“Sounds dangerous,” Keith added, although thankfully too low for everyone else to hear.
“Well,” his mother said, a wry glint in her eye. “I don’t want either of you to be disappointed, but I shan’t go removing Katherine’s current portrait from the wall just yet.”
No doubt relieved to shift the attention from herself, Sophie asked, “What will you wear, Kate?”
“Oh! Good question. What do you think, Mamma?”
“Whatever you like, my dear. Though I have always liked you in blue.” His mother turned to him. “In the meantime, when may we see your Lynmouth paintings?”
Wesley hesitated, then put her off once more, knowing his parents would not be pleased to see their new daughter-in-law in such poses. He knew he couldn’t evade them forever. But seeing the look of fear cross Sophie’s lovely face, he decided he would leave that crate nailed shut for now.
The three of them—Kate, Sophie, and Wesley—set a time to meet in the attic studio the following day.
Sophie had worked the night before, preparing her canvas and doing some preliminary sketches.
Sophie wore a simple muslin day dress for the sitting, but instead of her usual workaday apron, she wore a pretty lace apron instead.
It wasn’t as fine as Mrs. Thrupton’s shawl, but she would not risk getting paint on that.
Then she smoothed her hair, telling herself not to worry about her appearance for Wesley’s sake.
At the appointed hour, she left her bedchamber and headed for the stairs. There, she drew up short. Wesley leaned against the newel post, strikingly handsome in green frock coat and buff trousers. Seeing him waiting for her, her palms grew instantly damp.
Kate’s door opened, and she popped her head out, “I’m not ready yet. Libby is curling my hair. I want to look a picture!”
Sophie hesitated, nervous to be alone with Wesley any longer than necessary. “All right. But don’t be too long.”
“Take your time,” Wesley drawled. “We’ll get started without you.”
Kate wrinkled her face. “How will you do that?”
“Oh, I have a few ideas . . .”
Sophie said officiously, “By mixing paints and preparing our palettes, of course.”
“Ah. Right. Be up soon.”
As Sophie and Wesley ascended the stairs, she said, “I have already primed my canvas. Have you?”
“No. Thankfully I had one in my studio. I suppose it’s second nature for you. You primed your father’s canvases and painted his backgrounds for years. I am surprised he is managing without you.”
“Oh, I am sure he does well enough. After all, he has Maurice to help him.”
“That ambitious young man will steal half of your father’s commissions by year’s end if I don’t miss my guess.”
“I hope you are wrong.”
They entered the studio and began preparing, Sophie opening the shutters and moving aside the portrait of the captain to make room for the freshly primed canvas.
She noticed Wesley’s resentful gaze resting on his brother’s image. “Marsh has finally had his revenge.” He shook his head, eyes glimmering in memory.
“What do you mean?”
“There was another woman of our mutual acquaintance. She and Marsh had known one another for years, but there was no specific understanding between them, nor any promises between our families. Stephen may have expected her to marry him eventually. Assumed it a fait accomplit, I don’t know.
But somewhere along the way, this young woman began to prefer me.
I could not help it if she developed feelings for me.
I did not steal her away, whatever Marsh might think.
A woman is not like a fine watch in a shop that might be put in one’s pocket and carried away. ”
Was this the “Jenny” Captain Overtree preferred not to talk about, Sophie wondered, or someone else?
Wesley positioned his own easel, avoiding her eyes. “Whatever the case, apparently he’s never forgiven me, but bided his time. I suppose he convinced you I wouldn’t return? Cast doubt on my character?” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “Now his revenge is complete.”
Had Captain Overtree married her out of revenge?
Sophie didn’t think so. She surely hoped he had not.
She thought again of the captain’s proposal of marriage.
He had said he didn’t think Wesley would return for her.
He also told her he had reason to suspect he might die while away on duty and leave her a widow.
Might he have fabricated both for his own ends, so she wouldn’t question his motives for marrying her in the first place?
So she would accept him? She hated to even contemplate the possibility.
Kate came in, curled and powdered and pretty in a frosty blue gown, white ribbon waist and gloves, with delicate blue and white silk flowers in her hair. She beamed in anticipation of their reaction, and Sophie was quick to oblige her. “You are beautiful, Kate.”
Wesley stared at her, wide-eyed. “When did my little sister become a young woman?” he breathed.
“While you were off traveling somewhere, no doubt,” Kate said. “Or had your nose stuck in a canvas.”
Was Sophie imagining it, or did his eyes mist over? He certainly looked remorseful.
He smiled fondly at Kate and tweaked her chin. “Sophie is perfectly right, Kate. You are beautiful. If I don’t miss my guess, you shall soon have your pick of gentlemen, flattering portrait or not.”
The following week, Sophie received a brief letter from Captain Overtree, posted from Dublin, where his regiment had been garrisoned.
Dear Sophie,
Only have a moment to write. Everyone rushing to prepare for departure. We embark soon for Belgium to join Wellington. Know that the warmth of our parting remains near, and gives me great encouragement. My thoughts and prayers are with you always.
Yours,
Stephen
Her heart welled with a sweet pain, followed by guilt for her lingering memories of Wesley. Letters like these would certainly help in that regard.
She wrote back to the captain but refrained from mentioning his brother. She didn’t want to worry him.
Over the next few weeks, life continued without incident at Overtree Hall.
Every afternoon, the colonel and Mr. Overtree read the newspapers and reported on recent developments.
First, those in authority debated over whether or not to reenter the war.
Then came reports of Wellington’s struggles to amass sufficient troops.
The colonel exchanged letters and visited friends with connections to both Wellington and parliament and shared news as he could with the family.
With all the correspondence arriving, Sophie hoped for another letter from Captain Overtree, but nothing else came for her. She reminded herself that Stephen might not have even reached Belgium yet. And once there, he would probably be too busy to write letters.
But she continued to check the post anyway, just in case. And to tread carefully in Wesley’s presence in the meantime.
Early one morning, Wesley suggested Carlton Keith join him for a ride. The man struggled to mount without his left hand and was mortified to require the groom’s help, but once in the saddle he managed to ride fairly well. After a few miles, they paused at a stream to allow their horses to drink.
As they waited, Wesley looked over at Keith. “It’s strange how the tables have turned. In the past, Marsh sent you along to protect me. But now you’re trying to protect Sophie from me.”
Keith said, “Look, I have sympathy for your cause, Wes. But I promised the captain . . .”
“Once the underling, always the underling, ay, Lieutenant?” Wesley muttered.
Keith gave him a humorless smile in reply, but Wesley knew the man well enough to see his comment had stung and regretted it. “Sorry, old man,” he said. “Don’t mean to take out my anger on you.”
“I understand. I know what it’s like to pine for a woman who’s out of reach.”
Wesley wondered whom he referred to but didn’t pursue the topic.
They remounted and began trotting toward home. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride ahead,” Wesley said. “Meet you back at the stables, all right?”
Keith nodded.
Wesley spurred his horse to a gallop on the straightaway, needing to vent his frustration and put some distance between himself and Keith before he said anything else he would regret.