Stephen fingered through the papers on his desk, and then those scattered around his easel. He found another haphazard pile near the hearth, apparently rough sketches rejected and being used as kindling. If Wes inadvertently burnt that deed, so help him . . .
Stephen sank to his haunches and sorted through the pile. And then he’d found her . . . Those soulful eyes. That golden hair. That long graceful neck. Why was this small portrait among Wesley’s castoffs? Stephen had wondered. And he’d kept it, without one ounce of guilt.
His brother had discarded it, after all. But Stephen had saved it from the flames.
The next afternoon, inspired by all the art she had seen at Langton, Sophie slipped her drawing pad from her dressing table drawer, where she’d kept it out of sight until now. She did not presume to think she might be able to draw or paint anything fractionally as good as the masterworks she’d seen in Lord Thorp’s gallery, but still her fingers itched to hold a drawing pencil or paintbrush again. Painting was difficult to do discreetly, requiring a palette and easel. So for the present she would attempt to satisfy her craving with drawing.
She began in her own bedchamber for privacy, but when Flora came in with her housemaid’s box and carpet broom, Sophie gathered her supplies and left the room. She went quietly downstairs and slipped from the side door into the garden. There she sat on a bench with her pad, pencils, and a set of Conté drawing crayons her father had given her for Christmas. She began by sketching the ivy on the garden wall, and the daffodils and another flower she was unfamiliar with—but then a plop of rain landed on her paper, quickly followed by another. She picked up her things and hurried back inside. She went into the morning room, which was rarely used in the afternoons, when Mrs. Overtree entertained callers in the white parlour.
Without flowers as a convenient subject, Sophie fell to sketching a face without any definite plan about whose face it was to be. She took a soft pencil, gave it a broad point, and began working away. Soon she had traced on paper a rectangular face with a broad forehead and a square jaw with a decided cleft down the middle of it. The contours pleased her, and her fingers continued to fill the outline with features: dark, strongly defined eyebrows, a long nose with a straight ridge and full nostrils, and a broad mouth with pleasingly shaped lips downturned in stern lines. She tufted in thick, bristling side-whiskers and black hair falling over the forehead. She left the eyes for last, because eyes were always a challenge and required the most careful working. And because to render them would render futile her willful denial of whose face it was. Finally, she drew prominent eyes and shaped them with a somber slant at the outer edges. She lightly shaded the irises and framed them in dark lashes.
She held the drawing pad away from her and regarded the whole. Something was missing. She darkened the shading, so that the resulting highlights flashed more brilliantly. Yes, he had a decided glint in his eye, though whether of anger or frustration or something else she was never certain.
She held it away once more. Much better. But still there was something missing. Dared she? Why not. The drawing was simply for her own amusement. An exercise for her languishing skills. No one but her would see it.
She took up her pencil again and added in the scar, snaking out from the bristly side-whiskers and across his cheek, the skin there darker, and pulling slightly at the side of his mouth, giving one corner an ironic lift.
There. She had Captain Overtree’s face under her gaze; at least a decent likeness. She knew she could do better with a model and in paint, but she was content with her first attempt.
So absorbed was she, that she did not hear anyone enter the room until a voice nearby broke the stillness like a cymbal. She jumped.
“Sophie? What are you doing?” Kate asked, a little frown of surprise creasing her face. Carlton Keith stepped in behind her, a drink in hand, though early in the afternoon.
Sophie quickly closed the sketchbook. “Oh, just . . . passing the time.”
“Why are you hiding in here all alone?”
“I’m not hiding. I just wanted . . .” It would be rude to say she had wanted to be left alone. Instead she said, “Some quiet place to wait while the maid is working in my . . . our room.”
“What are we drawing?” Mr. Keith snatched the sketchbook from her hand, and opened it to—thankfully—a page of flowers.
She pulled the book away from him. “Just some flowers and ivy I saw in the garden, before it began to rain.”
“Very pretty,” he drawled.
She detected a patronizing tone in his voice and wasn’t surprised. She knew Mr. Keith had idealized Wesley and stood in awe of his talent.
“May I see?” Kate asked.
Knowing it would only raise suspicions if she refused, she angled the page of flowers for Kate to see before once more closing the sketchbook and tucking it under her arm.
“Lovely,” Kate breathed. “I wish I could draw like that.”
“That’s right . . .” Keith mused, a speculative glint in his eye reminding her of Captain Overtree. “You are a budding artist yourself. Not surprising, I suppose, given you are a painter’s daughter. Wesley claims to have tutored you.” He lowered his voice and leaned nearer. “But I confess I doubt that’s what you two were doing alone together all those hours.”
“What?” Kate asked. “What are you talking about? Wesley and Sophie were friends? I did not realize.”
Sophie ignored her burning cheeks and said as nonchalantly as she could, “Oh yes, I met your brother last year in Lynmouth. My father keeps a studio there and I often accompanied him. I have met several artists there. Poets, too.”
Keith gave her an indulgent grin.
She coolly held his gaze. “In fact, I met Mr. Keith there as well. Though at the time I did not know about his love of mischief. In fact, I didn’t even know he had been a lieutenant in the army, until Captain Overtree referred to him by that title.”
“And how did you think I lost this arm?” Keith smirked. “Cut myself shaving?”
The captain passed by the morning room door, stopped abruptly, and backed up a step, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His eyes shifted from Kate and Sophie to Keith in wary concern. “And what are you three on about?” he asked. “Is Keith scorching your ears with tales of his exploits in Spain?”
Keith said, “Hardly. We have discovered your wife’s secret.”
Captain Overtree stiffened. “Oh?”
“Don’t be so gothic, Mr. Keith,” Kate chided, then explained to her brother, “We came upon Sophie with her sketchbook, making the loveliest drawings, which she clearly prefers to keep to herself. That’s all.”
“Ah.” Captain Overtree nodded. “Then why not be courteous and grant her the privacy she obviously wishes?” He sent his former lieutenant a challenging look.
“Right,” Keith drew himself up and stepped past him through the door, a sheepish Kate behind.
“Thank you, Captain,” Sophie said quietly. “But it’s all right. The morning room is not my private domain.”
His eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to say something. Instead he turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
The next day, Sophie and Kate walked into the village together, admiring the bonnets in the milliner’s window and the cakes in the baker’s. At the newsagents, Sophie bought Winnie the latest edition of Ackermann’s Repository, the periodical she’d mentioned wanting to read.
Later, when they returned to Overtree Hall, Sophie thanked Kate for the outing and the two parted ways in the library. Sophie went directly upstairs, eager to give Miss Whitney the longed-for magazine.
But when she reached the top of the stairs, voices gave her pause. She peeked around the corner and was stunned to see Captain Overtree coming out of a room next to Winnie’s, and the maid Flora coming out after him!
Her heart sank. The two spoke in low tones, and the captain shut the door quietly but firmly behind them. Then he pressed a coin into the housemaid’s hand.
Flora smiled and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Don’t be telling Mrs. Hill, now, or she’ll be docking my pay.”
“Mum’s the word,” he agreed.
Feeling nauseated, Sophie turned and hurried back down the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could. Her morning sickness had passed, but she felt she might be sick even so. She told herself not to jump to conclusions. There could be—must be—another explanation. But what was it?
In their bedchamber, she laid aside the periodical, removed her gloves and bonnet with unsteady hands, and plopped down on a chair to think.
A short while later, she heard the door to her dressing room open, and Libby speaking to someone.
“What were you and the captain doing up there alone together?”
Flora answered in a suggestive singsong voice, “I’ll never tell . . .”
Bile rose at the back of Sophie’s throat. She reminded herself that she did not love Stephen Overtree. Theirs was a marriage in name only. If either of them should feel betrayed it should be Captain Overtree, who knew his wife loved his brother. Is this how it felt? Queasy dread, insecurity, and vulnerability all rolled into the pit of one’s stomach and pinching one’s heart? If so, poor man . . .
But she was no doubt flattering herself. He probably felt little more for her than she did for him.
Sophie avoided the captain the rest of that day and spoke little to him that evening. He looked at her in curious concern but said nothing.
The next morning, she took the magazine up to Winnie, earning a warm smile and thanks. “Your kindness shall be rewarded, my dear. Mark my words.”
Sophie then went for a solitary walk. In the afternoon, she again attempted to sketch in the privacy of the dim morning room. Captain Overtree found her there a few hours later.
“There you are,” he began. “I think it’s time I shared a secret with you.”
Sophie instantly stiffened. What secret?
“Better yet,” he said. “Come upstairs with me and I’ll show you.”
Sophie’s pulse accelerated. Good heavens. What was he going to show her?
He led her up the stairs. She thought again of seeing him climb these stairs at odd hours and wondering what drew him there. Had it really been to see his old nurse, or had there been some other, clandestine reason? What had he and Flora been doing up there alone together? And what about that crate she had seen him and Edgar sneaking upstairs?
She asked, “Are we going to visit Miss Whitney again?”
“Not this time.”
Her heart beat a little harder than it should have for the exertion of the climb. She told herself she was foolish to worry. Foolish to care. She was only a duty to him, was she not? An unwanted responsibility.
“When you see, I think you will understand the reason for my secrecy.”
That didn’t bode well.
He led her past Winnie’s door and instead stopped at the next—the one she had seen him and Flora exit together.
She drew up short, bumping in to him. “Pardon me.”
He lightly touched her arm, as though to steady her, but his hand lingered.
“I tried to keep it quiet, but my valet knows, and at least one of the housemaids. Hopefully no one from the family . . .”
Worse and worse.
“I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me. I no doubt chose poorly, but not having your experience, and not wishing to ask and reveal my secret . . .”
Her ears roared. “You know what. I don’t need to know. I will just go back downstairs and you can keep your secret—whatever it is—to yourself.”
His expression fell. “No! Just look . . . I am making a muddle of this. I hope you will like it. But if you don’t, you needn’t pretend.”
Now she was well and truly confused.
He opened the door gingerly, looking both ways down the passage as if to assure himself there were no witnesses. “It’s the old schoolroom,” he said. “It was the most private place I could think of. No one comes here anymore.”
He gestured her inside and quietly closed the door behind them.
It took her mind a few moments to realize what she was seeing. Although shelves of forgotten schoolbooks lined one wall and an old desk stacked with slates and globes had been pushed against another, the items in the center of the room were new: an easel positioned near large windows. A high three-legged stool. A drawing box, and a set of paintbrushes arranged in a ceramic pot as though a potted plant in bloom.
Her heart pounded. “For . . . me?” she asked, voice tight.
“Yes, of course. I paid one of the housemaids to do a little cleaning in here after hours, but it may need more.” He ran a finger over a dusty shelf, murmuring, “A lot more.”
She stared at him. Stunned, stupid, remorseful.
“I am so sorry!” she blurted.
He frowned. “Sorry for what? Don’t you like it? Did I get the wrong things? I can return them and—”
“No!” She shook head vigorously. “I didn’t mean that. I . . .” How could she explain what she suspected, and foolishly feared?
Instead she walked forward and began fingering through the brushes, admiring the fine bristles, the varying thicknesses, the quality handles. “They’re wonderful.”
“Good. I asked the dealer to suggest the best, but he could have sold me a child’s playset and I doubt I’d have been the wiser. I decided against going to the shop Wesley frequented. I didn’t want a receipt to find its way into Father’s hand and raise questions, since I know you are keen to keep your work hidden from view.”
“I don’t mean to be secretive . . .” Sophie murmured. “I am just self-conscious. I have no wish to give your family reason to compare my amateur attempts to Wesley’s—or anyone else’s.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
“And I think you are biased.”
He looked at her squarely. “Yes. I am.”
She looked away from his intense gaze, unsettled, then continued her perusal of the papers, canvases, cakes of watercolor paints, and an array of oil-paint pigments. “Goodness! You must think I am going to be here for a long while. I could fill Langton’s portrait gallery all over again, figuratively speaking, of course. I shall make them last, I assure you.”
“Don’t. Use whatever you like. I have set up an account in your name. Here is the dealer’s card. Write to him and tell him what you need and he will send it. The new manager will settle the bills discreetly in my absence.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he asked.
“I cannot understand why you are so good to me.”
“Can you not?”
She shook her head once more, his warm look filling her with prickles of anticipation.
He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and began again. “I understand my family can sometimes be a trial, and I hope this gives you a retreat, a place to spend some pleasant hours during the days ahead.”
Had that been what he’d meant to say? She didn’t think so.
“Indeed it shall,” she assured him. “I shall spend many happy hours here. It was very thoughtful of you, Captain. I don’t know how to thank you.” Impulsively, she held out her hand to him.
A spark lit his blue eyes, and he took her hand in his. Bending near, he raised her hand. He hesitated a moment, his warm breath tickling her knuckles. Then she felt the firm pressure of his lips against her fingers. Her heart fluttered. Why should it? After all, she had offered her hand—any gentleman knew what the gesture meant and how to respond. But it felt more significant somehow.
Her husband had kissed her. And even if it had only been her hand, she felt the sweet pleasure of it through her entire being.
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 corne
r 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.