Epilogue
Stephen, Sophie, and Mary Katherine remained at Overtree Hall through Christmas and Epiphany.
Then they returned for a few months to Lynmouth where they first met.
They let a house overlooking the channel and harbor, not far from Mrs. Thrupton’s cottage and her father’s studio.
There they spent time with them both. There Sophie painted, as motherhood allowed.
Stephen, for his part, corresponded with his father and Mr. Boyle to keep abreast of affairs at Overtree Hall in his absence, walked the cliff-side paths with Sophie, learned to love the rugged landscape as she did, and simply enjoyed time alone with his two cherished females.
Sophie had become more comfortable and confident about painting openly, believing herself talented and beautiful. It was the accomplishment Stephen was most proud of.
With his grandfather’s blessing, Stephen had sold his commission to embrace a life he had never expected but was blessed to call his own: heir of Overtree Hall, husband to Sophie, and father of Mary Katherine Overtree.
On a brisk March evening, a year after they first met at that craggy precipice, Stephen and Sophie stood atop Castle Rock, watching the sun sink low and kiss the water, gilding the sky.
Stephen drew his beloved wife close, leaned down, and kissed her warmly.
The cold, buffeting wind seemed a distant whistle and suddenly almost balmy.
“Happy, Mrs. Overtree?” he asked in a contented drawl.
“Perfectly, Mr. Overtree. How could I not be?” she teased. “It is our destiny, after all—did not Winnie say so?”
“Let’s leave her out of this, shall we? A man doesn’t like to think of his childhood nanny when he’s making love to his wife.”
She grinned, took his face in both of her hands, and proceeded to kiss him with such maddening sweetness that he soon forgot everything else.
Later, they walked back hand in hand along the cliff-side path to reclaim their daughter, snug with Mrs. Thrupton, who took great pleasure in taking care of her. Then together they continued down the steep path to their winter home, Mary Katherine secure in Stephen’s arms.
Inside they built up a fire in their bedchamber. A fire sparked on the cliff side a year ago. On the wall hung two matted portraits, sharing a frame. The rescued painting of Sophie, beside her more recent portrait of him, drawn by her own hand and no longer hidden from view.
Stephen’s gaze rested on the portraits a moment longer, and he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he gathered his wife and child in his arms and kissed the painter’s daughter.