“Of course, madam. Though the real beauties won’t show their faces for another month yet.” He provided shears, a flat-bottomed basket, and a tip of his hat.
She picked one showy daffodil, yellow-and-white primroses, several bright orange tulips, a branch of pink camellias, and green fronds and ferns. These she took indoors with her and up the stairs. In the schoolroom, she found an old sunny yellow vase. A crack marred one side, but if she turned it away, it would work well for the composition she had in mind.
As she set the prepared canvas on the easel, the old rhythm returned to her, and peace like a long-lost friend descended. She’d missed this.
She slipped a blue apron over her head to protect her pale yellow frock. Then she mixed the paints with the new palette knife in a wheel pattern around the wooden disk. Choosing a brush, she turned to study the still life before her. Something was missing. It was too ordinary. Too perfect. True, flowers and fruits were the accepted domain of ladies who dabbled in painting. Still lifes were deemed safe for the gentle sex, along with the occasional portrait and genre scene. But Sophie liked to give her paintings something unique. A thought or theme to express in even the simplest subject.
Then she realized what she wanted. She rose and turned the vase so that the crack faced her and rearranged the flowers once more to their best advantage. Yes, better.
First, she gave the prepared surface a dark yellow underpainting. Then she began establishing the composition. Using ochre and umber, she outlined the flowers, and quickly blocked the vase and table in thinned paint, capturing the most important shapes and dominant values. Satisfied, she left the paint to dry and went downstairs to dress for dinner.
She returned the next day and began by building up layers of color to form shadows, applying paint in thicker brushstrokes, and adding white highlights where light hit the vase. In some areas, she left the underpainting untouched, creating the illusion of depth. Then she chose a slender brush to paint the fine details of the petals and foliage. She added more Naples yellow directly to the canvas for the petals of the daffodil, knowing each time she mixed the paint, the tone would be slightly different, adding more richness to the canvas. She continued to add and blend the colors until the flowers came to life.
The door creaked open behind her and Sophie whirled, paintbrush suspended midair.
Kate stood there, peering in. Gulliver darted past her feet and trotted into the room.
Sophie released a breath. “Kate, you scared me.”
“Winnie told me flowers were blooming in the old schoolroom. I had to come and see what on earth she was talking about.” Her eyes settled on the painting—too big, too out in the open for Sophie to hide. “I thought she’d really lost her mind this time,” Kate said. “But apparently not.”
Surely Winnie’s sixth sense, or whatever it was, hadn’t picked up on something as ordinary as a humble painting of garden flowers. Perhaps Winnie had simply peeked into the schoolroom looking for Gulliver, who even now lay curled in a patch of sunshine near the window.
Sophie explained, “Your brother ordered the supplies and set all this up for me, knowing I am private about my work, or rather, pastime. So kind of him.”
“It’s clearly more than a pastime. You’re very good, Sophie. I may not be an expert, but I did grow up in the same house as Wesley, so I’m not completely ignorant.”
“Of course not. And . . . thank you. But I grew up in the same house as Claude Dupont, so I know not to esteem my little skill.”
“I think your father was too hard on you,” Captain Overtree said from the doorway.
Kate turned and greeted her brother. “Hello, Stephen. How romantic of you to set up a studio for Sophie!”
“It was nothing, Kate. Please don’t mention it to others.”
“Very well.”
The captain returned his gaze to Sophie. “Perhaps your father didn’t want you to become vain. Or wanted to push you to keep improving your skills.”
“Or perhaps he is simply a realist,” she said. “Amateur drawing and watercolors may be admired in accomplished young ladies, but art as a profession is not.”
Kate said, “But I’ve heard of several professional female artists.”
“Yes, but those women are the exceptions. In general, it is frowned upon.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
“It is thought to divert women from their prescribed roles as wives and mothers.”
Captain Overtree’s eyes glinted like glass. “Is that how you see it? Do you regret you’ve taken on the prescribed role of wife and someday mother?”
She stared at him, taken aback by his hard expression. “No. I never said that. I . . . have always hoped I would one day marry and have children.” She instinctively laid a hand over her apron-covered midsection.
Kate looked from one to the other, a wrinkle of confusion between her brows at the tension between them. She said in forced brightness, “Then all is as it should be. You are blessed, indeed. For you have a husband who supports your interest in art.”
Sophie replied to Kate, but kept her focus on the captain as she did so. “I am blessed, yes. You are perfectly right, Kate.”
He held her gaze, and his expression softened.
“Will you give me lessons, Sophie?” Kate asked. “We can have them up here, if you like. I can understand not wanting Mamma peering over your shoulder. I wouldn’t want her peering over mine either. At least not until I have improved the rudimentary skills my poor governess tried to teach me. Wesley has offered, but he’s never here long enough.”
“I don’t know, Kate,” Sophie said. “I have never taught anyone before. I am sure if your parents knew you wished to learn, they would hire a qualified instructor for you.”
“But I would be far more comfortable with you. And it would give us an excuse to spend time together and become better acquainted.”
The girl’s sweet dark eyes widened and it was difficult to refuse her appeal.
“I shall teach you if we have a suitable model to paint.” Sophie turned to Stephen. “If you, Captain, will sit for us. How fortunate that I have a husband who supports my interest in art.” She slanted him a challenging look.
He raised his hands. “Oh no. No one need paint this battered mug. Not when more pleasant alternatives abound.” He gestured toward the vase of flowers, then hesitated, looking again at the cracked vase with a frown. “I’m sure we could find you a better vase.”
“No, thank you. I like that one.”
He turned back and for a moment studied her face.
Kate implored, “Oh, please, Stephen? I painted plenty of flowers while Miss Flynn was here. But I’ve never tried a portrait. Please?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Tell you what—practice on flowers or what have you for now, and maybe later . . . We’ll see.”
“But you leave soon, Stephen.”
“Kate’s right,” Sophie said. “I would normally agree with you that it would be better to start with something easier than—”
“Than this face?”
“—than a portrait of anyone. But considering how few days you have left . . . Here, I mean. We had better start soon.”
Still he hesitated.
Then Sophie added softly, “I would like to have a portrait of you, before you leave.”
He looked at her again, emotions flashing behind his eyes. Then he waved the notion away. “There is one hanging downstairs.”
“But it is several years out of date, painted when you were young.”
He smirked. “And I am ancient now, am I?”
“No, but you were only, what, twenty at the time?”
He nodded. “Father hired an artist to paint Wesley when he came of age. Had me sit for him at the same time, since the man came from a distance.”
“It is time for a new one.”
“I prefer the way my face looks in the old one,” he grumbled. “Remember me that way.”
“How can I, when I ne
ver knew that Stephen?”
She rarely used his Christian name, and he swiftly lifted his head at the sound.
“More’s the pity,” he said, then heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well. I give in. I should have known I never stood a chance with the two of you joining forces against me.” He sent Kate a mock scowl. “But not today. I have a meeting with the new estate manager, Mr. Boyle.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Kate said. “And while you’re at it, meet with your barber as well. You could use a haircut.”
“Thank you, Kate. You do wonders for my pride.”
“Have him trim your side-whiskers too,” Sophie suggested. “We want to see your face.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes,” she insisted gently. “We do.”
At the appointed hour the next day, Captain Stephen Overtree took a deep breath and entered the schoolroom.
Sophie turned, her gaze sweeping over him and her mouth parted.
“Kate insisted I wear my dress uniform, but if you prefer, I can change.”
“No, it’s . . .” She hesitated. “I have never seen you in uniform. You look very handsome in it. And I like your hair shorter like that. Your side-whiskers too.”
His uniform was of fine scarlet with stand-up collar, gold epaulets, and yellow facings over light trousers and Hessian boots. He carried an ornamental dress sword in one hand, and a tall black hat with a plume under his arm.
“Please. Be seated.” She gestured toward a chair positioned in front of the easel.
Stephen sat. “Miss Blake came to call, so Kate is detained. She said to proceed and she will join us as soon as she is able.”
“Very well.”
She stood beside her tall stool near the easel for a moment, just looking at him. Uncomfortable under her intense scrutiny, he shifted.
“Turn your head, Captain. No, the other way.”
“But this is my good side,” he said. He’d obliged them by getting his hair and side-whiskers trimmed, but now his scar was more noticeable.
She shook her head. “Look at me straight on. I want to paint your face, not just your profile.”
He wished he could turn away, hide that part of him in the shadows. Instead she had him sit near the window, sunlight spilling over him, revealing every inch of his scar in grotesque detail, or so he feared.
“If I am to have my likeness rendered, I should not like the focus to be on my scar.”
“Is this portrait for you, or for me?” Sophie asked. “Will you be looking at it while you’re away, or shall I?”
“No one shall, if I have anything to say about it.”
She tilted her head, expression thoughtful. “Think of it this way, Captain. A portrait is like an ornamental headstone. It is not for the subject, but for those who look upon it. For those who want to remember.”
“Interesting analogy, Mrs. Overtree,” he said dryly. “Though yes, this is a grim occasion in my view, so an apt comparison.” He lifted his sword. “I salute you.”
She gave him a rueful smile. Then she tilted her head the other way, peering at him. Had he cut himself shaving? Had he food in his teeth? Or . . . ?
She rose and walked toward him. Unsure of her intention, he watched her approach, forgetting to breathe.
She lifted a hand toward him. “May I?”
He managed a nod.
She raised splayed fingers and tentatively rearranged the hair falling over his brow, brushing the stubborn lock into submission.
He tried not to enjoy the feeling of her fingers in his hair. Not to reach out and capture her hand. Or put his arms around her and draw her near for a kiss on her maddening mouth.
She stunned him by lowering to her knees before his chair, taking his free hand in both of hers, and looking up at him—earnestly. Beseechingly. She could have asked for anything at that moment and he would have been powerless to refuse her.
“I know this is difficult for you. But please believe me when I tell you that I like what I see when I look at you. Your scar is much bigger in your eyes than in mine or probably in anyone else’s. It’s a small part of a big man. It only serves to make you look more . . . masculine. Now, will you please trust me?”
His chest tightened, and his heart beat hard. “I do trust you, Sophie.” Probably more than I should for my heart’s sake, he thought.
She squeezed his hand, and smiled gently into his face.
To blazes with resolve, he thought, and leaned down to kiss her. Her eyes widened in surprise as he neared, but she did not pull away.
“Here I am!” Kate announced, bolting breathless into the room. “Thought she’d never go. And of course I could not tell her why I wanted her to—” She drew up short, looking from Stephen’s posture to Sophie on her knees. “Oh, you newly married couples!” she protested. “Shall I leave you alone? And after I have all but pushed Angela out the door so I might watch Sophie paint you!”
“Not at all, Kate.” Sophie blushed. “We were just, em . . .”
Stephen straightened. “As you can see from Sophie’s posture, she was simply begging me to go along with this little scheme of yours,” he teased. “And I have agreed, out of the goodness of my heart.”
Sophie painted for nearly an hour, quietly explaining to Kate what she was doing as she went. Then she checked her watch pin and announced they had better end for the day—the dressmaker was due soon. The captain rose in relief and made his escape.
Kate remained to help Sophie clean her brushes, and then the two women left together. They paused at Winnie’s door to greet her, but she was not there. They continued downstairs and parted ways toward their respective rooms to wash hands before the fitting. As Sophie approached her bedchamber, she was surprised to see a brown-paper-wrapped package propped against her door. She picked it up and opened it. Inside she found an old book, and angled it to look at the title: The Rearing and Management of Children.
Her breath hitched and she looked around, relieved to not see anyone nearby. Sophie went inside and closed the door behind herself, breathing a little too hard. Surely Captain Overtree would not leave such a thing out in the corridor. But who else knew she was expecting? She quickly flipped through the yellowing pages, and saw they were dog-eared and underlined.
Winnie . . . Who besides a nurse who’d had the charge and care of children for decades would possess such a well-used book? Did Winnie know she was with child? Or was she simply looking ahead to a likely eventuality? In either case, Sophie rewrapped the book and tucked it deep into her bedside table drawer for the present. She didn’t want anyone else to see it and deduce the truth. Not yet.
Mrs. Pannet arrived on schedule for the final fittings on the dresses for the dinner party. Mrs. Overtree called the girls into her boudoir, where she could sit in comfort and oversee and approve. The dressmaker’s assistant helped Kate into her pink satin gown, and did up the fastenings, while Mrs. Pannet surveyed the girl from all angles. “Well, madame?”
“Perfect,” Mrs. Overtree declared.
Then it was Sophie’s turn. The blue-and-white gown settled into place, and the assistant laced up the back, pulling tighter, and struggling to fasten the little decorative buttons at the back of the bodice.
The dressmaker frowned. “Have you put on weight since I first measured you?”
Sophie felt her face heat, flashed a look at Mrs. Overtree and faltered, “I’m afraid I may have . . .”
Mrs. Overtree said, “We eat well here at Overtree Hall. Don’t we, Sophie?”
“Yes,” Sophie agreed. “I confess I am not accustomed to sweets and puddings with every meal. I shall be plump in no time at this rate.”
“Yes, a young lady must take care with her figure. Even when newly married. Unless . . .” Mrs. Overtree let the phrase dangle, unfinished. Her eyes surveyed Sophie head to toe and lingered on her middle.
“I shall have to alter this,” the dressmaker said, long-suffering and officious. “But I will have it finished in time for the big day—
never fear.”
The dressmaker and her assistant gathered their things and took their leave, while the Overtree ladies remained on the comfortable sofa and armchair in Mrs. Overtree’s boudoir. Libby brought the ladies tea, and they sat sipping and talking.
Mrs. Overtree said, “Only a few days from now and still so much to do.”
“Mamma, you did invite Mr. Harrison, did you not?” Kate asked.
“No, I did not. Not specifically. Though of course I had to invite Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and they will probably bring him along.”
Kate nodded. “He is their son, after all.”
“No, he is not. They have only raised him out of the goodness of their hearts. Which I do admire—don’t mistake me. But why must they try to pass him off as a gentleman? I know they are fond of him, but really. It isn’t fair to put the rest of us in such an awkward position socially.”
Sophie recalled what Angela Blake had told her in confidence about the circumstances of the young man’s birth. She asked tentatively. “Is his background so bad?”
“Yes. His mother was unmarried. His father, we know not who. Our vicar and his wife, never having children of their own, took the boy in as a lad and raised him after the poor girl died. Very Christian of them, I am sure. And were he to come here seeking a post or collecting donations for the poor fund, I would look on him kindly enough. But to come here as our equal? To dress and act the gentleman and turn our Katherine’s head with his good looks and toothy grins? I think not.”
“Mamma!” Kate protested. “You are unfair. He is educated and gentlemanlike in his manner and, yes, extremely good-looking.” Kate’s dimples appeared as she said the final phrase.
“You may train and dress a man to play the part, but a gentleman is born and bred.”
Kate pouted. “Mamma, I like Mr. Harrison. And he, I think, admires me. I—”
“Of course he does, Katherine. I give him credit for taste at least. But you are above his station. He ought to know his place and keep it.”
“Mamma. You sound the shrew.”
“And you the impractical romantic. This is the real world, Katherine. You may think me shrewish all you like, but that does not change the facts. If you married him, many doors would be closed to you. Your father and I could not approve of a match between you. Not to be cruel, but because we want what is best for you. So you would do well to put it from your mind.”