She bent to look closer and noticed with relief that this crate was still nailed shut. She assumed—hoped—Wesley’s parents wouldn’t open it without him present.
Sophie moved on and fingered through his brushes, remembering the long, capable fingers that had held them. Held her . . . Then she looked through the canvases propped against the walls. She recognized several Lynmouth landscapes—the harbor, the Valley of Rocks, the village itself. But nothing of her. She was relieved, yet still wondered what became of that large portrait.
She stepped to the easel to assure herself the canvas it held was not the one of her. She lifted the cloth and recognized the painting with a little jolt, though she was not its subject. Now she understood why the hall in this house had seemed familiar when she first arrived. She had seen this colorful scene before, during Wesley’s first winter in Lynmouth. . . .
One day Sophie had stopped by the hillside cottage, bringing Mr. Overtree a batch of almond biscuits. While he painted, she looked through the canvases propped against the wall, stopping to admire his painting of a masquerade ball—masked and costumed figures milling and dancing by the glow of a hundred candles.
“This is unusual for you,” Sophie observed. “So many people. You usually paint single subjects.”
“True. But it’s an image I’ve wanted to re-create for years.”
“I have never attended a masquerade ball,” Sophie confessed, moving on to the next canvas.
“Nor have I,” he said.
Sophie turned to him in surprise. “But . . . how did you paint this, then? You told me you prefer realism to mere fancy.”
“Right again. I have never attended a masquerade, but I did witness one. When I was a boy, my parents hosted a ball at Overtree Hall. I was supposed to be in bed. Instead, I sneaked behind the musicians’ gallery and looked down into the great hall from the squint there. Our old nurse caught me and whacked my backside. There went my biscuits for a week.” He popped one of her biscuits into his mouth with a grin.
Sophie chuckled to imagine the mischievous boy he had been, then looked at the painting again. “It was worth it, I assure you. Though how challenging this must have been. All these figures . . .”
“Yes, though at least most of the faces were covered in masks, so I didn’t have to paint every pair of eyes.”
“The hardest part, according to my father.”
His gaze shifted from the canvas before him to her face. “Your eyes are definitely challenging. Comprised of a dozen shades of blue, as well as green and grey and yellow. And don’t get me started on your gorgeous hair!”
She bit back a smile and felt her face heat.
He studied her closely. “Nor can I adequately capture the elegant turn of your head, the long curve of your neck, or the sweet blush that blooms on those high cheekbones of yours whenever I tell you how beautiful you are. . . . Ah, you see? There it is again.”
Sophie returned to the present, remembering with a little ache what it felt like to be admired. To be in love. Then she stepped to the open, adjoining door and looked into Wesley’s bedchamber—masculine and tidy, under the housemaids’ care in his absence.
No portrait of her hung on his wall. No miniature on his side table. She considered going in to look closer but remained in the threshold. She didn’t want to cross the line into his bedchamber. She knew from experience the trouble that could cause.
She looked back over her shoulder at the disorderly supplies and scattered papers. The studio was clearly off limits to the housemaids. Crossing the cluttered room again, she idly bent to pick up a crumbled wad of paper in the corner—probably tossed at the hearth but had missed its mark. Hoping it wasn’t a discarded sketch of her, she flattened it, and instead found a cryptic note.
We have to talk.—J.B.
Who was J.B.?
Behind her the door creaked open, and Sophie whirled in alarm. There stood Mrs. Overtree.
“Oh!” Sophie pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
Her mother-in-law’s eyes widened to see her there, then abruptly narrowed. “Sophie . . . ? I thought I heard someone skulking about in here. My boudoir is directly below this room.”
Sophie winced. Of course it is.
“I thought one of the housemaids was trespassing.”
“No. Just me. I was . . . only curious. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything.” She guiltily curled her fingers around the wadded paper.
Mrs. Overtree’s gaze swept the room, hesitating on the crate in the corner. Sophie’s pulse quickened. Did Mrs. Overtree know about the crate? Would she suggest opening it then and there?
Sophie swallowed and walked toward the door, hoping her swaying skirts blocked the woman’s view of the crate. “Your son is really quite talented, but I shouldn’t have intruded. I suppose he would not like . . . anyone . . . looking at his work without him?”
“Quite right. This room is off limits.”
“To the housemaids, or to family as well?” Sophie didn’t like having to remind the woman she was a relative now, but neither did she like being lumped in with the staff.
Mrs. Overtree glanced around the studio once more, then backed from the doorway. “Well, I don’t think he likes anyone in here. He’s very particular.” She held the door open. “After you.”
Sophie complied and forced a smile, hoping to chase away the suspicion lingering in the woman’s eyes.
chapter 15
Early the next morning, Captain Overtree knocked on the dressing room door while Sophie was still in her nightclothes.
“Just a minute!” she called. She slipped her dressing gown around her, then went to the door.
When she opened it, she saw he was already dressed in her favorite of his coats. A dark Spanish blue that brought out the color of his eyes.
He asked, “What would you say to an outing today, just you and me?”
“An outing?”
“Yes, a little respite from watchful eyes, family obligations, and . . . playacting.” A corner of his mouth quirked.
“Sounds lovely.”
“Good. Dress in something fine. We’ll go in the landau—it’s a beautiful day.” He turned back with a little smirk. “Bring that parasol you are so fond of.”
“Another picnic?” she asked.
“No. Something more . . . refined. No need to remove half boots and no rock climbing. I promise.”
“Very well.”
When Libby entered, Sophie explained the day’s plan. She chose a blue carriage dress, buff leather slippers with blue tassels, and a bonnet trimmed in lace and a tinted silk hydrangea.
“You look beautiful, madam,” Libby said, fussing with the curls peeking out from beneath the brim.
“Thank you, Libby.”
An “outing for just the two of them” was not exactly accurate, for a coachman took the reins and a groom rode on the rear of the landau.
They started off in the same direction they had taken for the picnic but continued straight for several miles once they crossed the stone bridge. The air smelled faintly of hyacinths and new grass, and birds flitted among the hedgerows. The sky above reminded her of one of her favorite pigments: a light wash of Prussian blue, and the wispy clouds like lace in shades of grey-toned lead white.
“Where are we going?” she asked, not really caring.
“We are going to Langton. Famous for its art collection. Have you heard of it?”
Her heart gave a little leap. “Yes! Is the estate nearby?”
“Not far. I am some acquainted with Lord Thorp. I wrote to him and he has graciously offered us a private tour of his collection.”
She stared at him, afraid to believe it. “You are teasing me.”
“I am not. What—are you telling me you’ve already seen it?”
“Heavens no! And I can think of very few things I would enjoy more.”
He smiled. “Then I am glad I went to the trouble.”
Anticipation singing through her,
Sophie sat back to enjoy the ride and the beautiful spring day.
Sometime later, they turned up a long gravel drive and through an iron gate. Clearing a border of oak trees, a classical red brick manor came into view, situated before a reflecting lake and flanked by large topiary houses.
Footmen in powdered wigs came out to greet their arrival and take charge of the carriage. Captain Overtree and Sophie alighted and approached the imposing pillared entrance. At the door, they were met by a black-suited butler who took Captain Overtree’s card, announced, “His lordship is expecting you,” and led them into a nearby library to wait.
“He’s very proud of his collection of books,” the captain noted. “Nearly as much as his art collection. It is why, I think, he receives visitors in this particular room.”
A few moments later, a second door opened and an impeccably dressed silver-haired man of about sixty years entered.
“Hello, Overtree. Good to see you, my boy.”
“My lord, thank you for receiving us. May I present my wife, Mrs. Sophia Overtree. Sophie, Lord Thorp.”
The nobleman bent over her hand. “A sincere pleasure, Mrs. Overtree. Welcome. I do hope your husband has not exaggerated your interest in seeing my collection?”
She smiled. “I doubt that possible, my lord.”
He beamed and gestured for her to precede him from the room. “Right this way . . .”
The Langton picture gallery stretched for a hundred feet of the ground floor. Stephen admired the original old oak woodwork, while Sophie gaped at the walls lined with portraits three high in some places, set in extravagant baroque gilded frames. “That’s a van Dyck . . .” she murmured. “And a John de Critz.”
She paused before a portrait of Charles the Second.
“Do you like this one?” Lord Thorp asked.
She grinned. “I like that it was painted by a woman.”
His eyes twinkled. “You’re right. Mary Beale.”
They continued on. Many pieces in the collection were religious paintings—depictions of the crucifixion and resurrection, or of angels ministering to the broken body of Jesus. Others were portraits of family members by Thomas Gainsborough, Joshua Reynolds, and George Romney.
Sophie admired the gracefulness and life in the figures, and a strength of coloring that struck her from one end of that gallery to the other. The collection—and its effect—were beyond anything she had ever experienced. She felt at the same time transported and quite at home.
Craning her neck to better view two portraits high on the wall, Sophie whispered, “Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller . . .”
Lord Thorp reared his head back in surprise. “You have married a gem, Overtree. Rarely have I met a lady so knowledgeable about artists. You remind me of my grandmother, my dear. Not in age or looks, of course. But she devoted her life to art, and I have collected since I was a young man because of her.”
“Have you anything by Claude Dupont?” Stephen asked.
“Dupont? That name does not ring a bell.” He lifted an index finger. “But I do have one from another name you might recognize. Follow me.” He led them through the door and out into a narrower passage. “I am nearly out of wall space, I fear. So I have resorted to hanging two of my recent acquisitions here. You may have heard of the artist, Wesley Overtree?” He grinned at Stephen. “I bought these from your brother last spring.”
Captain Overtree drew up short and stood rigidly still.
Sophie’s heart beat dully and her stomach cramped. One was a Lynton landscape. The other was the large portrait of her—looking over her shoulder, hair pinned in a round cushion at the back of her head, eyes somber, expression torn between embarrassment and a smile.
Sophie stood there, mouth dry, wishing she could disappear. She felt Lord Thorp’s focus swivel from the painting to her, hesitate, than look again.
“I say, this woman bears a remarkable resemblance to your wife, Overtree.”
For a moment, Captain Overtree said nothing. Then he said with apparent nonchalance. “Do you think so?”
The man returned his gaze to the paintings. “The landscape was painted in Devonshire, I remember Wesley telling me. His favorite escape from winters here. I have never been to that part of the country, but now I almost feel that I have been. As far as the woman, I don’t remember what he said about her, so much as how she struck me. Her expression, her modesty, her shyness. As though on the cusp of trusting. Of smiling. I confess it reminds me just slightly of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, though in my view this woman is far more attractive.”
Sophie licked dry lips. Thank goodness this was the portrait Wesley had painted last winter, before he had talked her into Grecian robes and exposed shoulders.
“I . . . did have the opportunity to meet the captain’s brother in Devonshire,” Sophie admitted. “My father enjoys retreating there during the cold months as well.”
The captain added, “I suppose Wesley may have been inspired by meeting Sophie on one of his trips there. That is where I had the good fortune of meeting her as well. She is, as I am happily aware, a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, of course,” Lord Thorp agreed politely, a little frown line lingering between his brows. Then he drew himself up and smiled at them both. “Well, I am doubly glad to own it now. I shall have to ask him about his inspiration when next I see him. When is he due home?”
“We don’t know exactly. He’s gone off to Italy again.”
Lord Thorp rubbed his palms together. “More work to anticipate! There is no place like Italy for artists. Do tell him to call when he returns.”
“Indeed we shall,” Captain Overtree agreed. “Though I will have returned to my regiment by then. But my wife can ask Wesley to call. Can you not, my dear?”
“Of course.”
They completed their tour. Sophie asked about a few more paintings she was unfamiliar with, and Lord Thorp in turn obliged her by showing her his favorite pieces in the collection.
He offered to ring for tea, but the captain politely declined, mentioning the hour and the return journey ahead. Sophie thanked their host warmly, and he in turn pressed her hand.
“You are a balm, my dear. An absolute delight. I don’t suppose you have a much older sister?”
She smiled. “I am afraid not.”
“Ah well, such is my luck. Come back and visit anytime you like. My door shall always be open to you.”
In the landau on the ride home, Stephen glanced at Sophie and said soberly, “I am sorry. I had no idea.” He’d been as stunned as she was. And had instantly recognized the painting as a larger, more detailed version of the one he carried.
“That’s all right,” she said, gloved hands clasped in her lap. “It’s not your fault. But how shocking to see it there.”
“Yes. To my knowledge, those are the first pieces of Wesley’s Lord Thorp has ever acquired. I am surprised Wes did not trumpet the news to one and all.”
Sophie nodded vaguely, and Stephen inwardly chided himself for speaking ill of his brother to her, when he’d been striving to avoid that petty temptation.
He added, “If Lord Thorp bought it, it must be quite good. He’s something of an expert, they say. You ought to show him some of your work.”
Sophie shook her head. “Heavens, no. Mine are for my eyes only.”
He challenged lightly, “And what would you say if Lord Thorp kept his collection for his eyes only?”
She shook her head again. “That argument won’t work. His august collection deserves to be displayed and admired. My little scratches are not in the same class.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Believe me, this is not false modesty. I am a painter’s daughter. I have been surrounded by art and artists my entire life. And that’s all right with me. I don’t paint for praise or fame.” She chuckled. “And certainly not for money.”
She shifted on the seat and changed the subject. “Do many people tour his collection?”
He nodd
ed. “I gather Langton is a popular destination, and the housekeeper often leads tours. As far as I know, Lord Thorp only personally shows his collection to friends.”
She gave him a shy smile. “Then how fortunate for me he counts you as a friend.”
He enjoyed the warmth of her smile, then asked, “Are you worried my parents or someone else of our acquaintance might see it?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said to reassure her, but inwardly he dreaded the prospect as well.
“It certainly raises the question of how long I have known your brother and in what capacity. Which reminds me. I had been thinking about the paintings you sent back from Lynmouth. I confess, when I saw you and Edgar carrying a crate upstairs, I thought you intended to hide them in the attic. But then I—”
“No,” he hurried to assure her. “I had that crate hauled up to Wesley’s workroom, unopened.” He was surprised to learn she’d seen him and Edgar that night. He’d thought his secret was safe.
“Yes. Well, thank you,” she said. “Do you think your parents might open it in Wesley’s absence?”
“I don’t know. And I can’t ask them not to, not without raising questions.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Is there anyone else locally who might have bought one of Wesley’s earlier paintings?”
“Not that I know of.” He was relieved she had not pressed him about the crate he’d had carried up to the top floor. Not yet.
“Good,” she said on a sigh. “Hopefully Lord Thorp has the only one of me on display.”
Stephen thought again of the miniature painting he carried with him. Considered showing it to her. Explaining . . . But the words wouldn’t come. Instead he thought back to the day he had found it last year. . . .
He had let himself into the room adjacent to Wesley’s bedchamber that his brother used as a workroom. Stephen was looking for the deed to a cottage they had recently purchased to accommodate a tenant farmer with a large family. The deed wasn’t in Humphries’ office, though Wesley had promised to deliver it there. Stephen guessed Wesley might have mislaid it among his personal papers and sketchbooks. Probably drawn something on it in the bargain.