Keith bent over, resting his hand on his knee. “Hang me, I’m lathered. That scrawny old bird weighs more than a drunken gunner.”
Sophie smiled gratefully at the man. “Thank you, Mr. Keith. Captain Overtree would be pleased to know you helped.”
“I know he would. He asked me to look out for you and the old girl. And I plan to do my duty.”
“How good of you both. Now you go to bed and I’ll finish cleaning up. You’ve done more than your fair share of work tonight.”
“Carried my share of the load, I think you mean.” He rotated his shoulder and stretched his neck. “I’ll be sore in the morning—that’s for da . . . dashed sure. Sorry. Night.”
Sophie removed Winnie’s shoes, spread a blanket over her, and then went back downstairs. While she was cleaning up the glass, the colonel stepped from his room into the corridor, fully dressed. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh . . . um, yes, Colonel. Everything is fine. Dropped something, that’s all, and didn’t want to wake a housemaid at this hour. Nothing to worry about.”
“Well, good. I thought I heard something . . . else.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Well, if you’re sure you’re all right. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Colonel.”
In the parlour the next evening, Mr. Overtree held up a crystal decanter—nearly empty—and eyed it in disgust.
He glared across the room at Mr. Keith. “Good heavens, man. Must you drink all my brandy? I know for a fact Thurman refilled this decanter yesterday.”
“I didn’t ha—” Mr. Keith broke off with a swift glance at Sophie. “That is, I . . . don’t know what to say, sir.”
Sophie came to his defense. “Mr. Keith has been abstaining lately. I don’t think it could have been him.”
“Oh, come now,” Mrs. Overtree scoffed. “Who else in this house drinks so much of that awful stuff?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Overtree.” Keith’s eyes were on Sophie as he said it. “But perhaps I did and merely . . . forgot.”
“Forgot? Well, if you drank all this, I imagine you did.” Mr. Overtree scowled. “Probably have a thick head today as well.”
Colonel Horton winced and spoke up. “Don’t be angry with the lieutenant, Alan. Truth be told, I drank quite a bit of brandy myself last night. Rough day with Stephen leaving. Maybe Keith isn’t the only one who wanted to dull the pain.”
Keith stared at the colonel, stunned speechless.
Sophie watched the elderly man with confusion, curiosity, and growing realization. If he offered her a sweet, she would not be surprised.
To distract herself from loneliness, Sophie invited Kate up to the studio the following day, and together the two young women spent several pleasant hours—Sophie instructing while Kate attempted a still life of flowers and fruit. For the time being the partially finished portrait of Captain Overtree stood shrouded against the wall, too poignant to look at.
Miss Blake had gone to Oxford the day after the party to visit her future sister-in-law, so Sophie had Kate’s undivided attention. Except, perhaps, for Gulliver, who lounged nearby.
Mr. Keith, Sophie knew, was restless with Miss Blake gone, sure the new sister-in-law must have six strapping brothers who would all vie for her regard. Through the window, they heard crack over and over again as he hit cricket balls singlehandedly across the lawn, only to fetch them and begin again.
Finally silence reigned and Kate and Sophie looked at each other in relief. But after a few minutes passed, the sound of the pianoforte being banged in a discordant racket wound its way up the stairwell. Sophie winced, and Kate shook her head as she continued to paint. Sophie was amazed the girl could concentrate.
Some time later, carriage wheels crunched on the drive below, and Sophie stepped to the window. “Miss Blake is here. I thought she meant to stay in Oxford longer. Shall we go down?”
“Oh . . .” Kate dabbed paint to a flower petal. “Let Mr. Keith have her to himself for a while.”
The two women shared knowing grins.
Then Sophie sobered. “Have you . . . talked to Mr. Harrison since the party?”
Kate sighed. “I tried to. But he says we must respect my parents’ wishes and not further our acquaintance. He says it’s all for the best, as he needs to focus on the book he is writing.”
“Kate, we haven’t discussed what happened with Mr. Darby-Wells. Are you all right? Anything you want to talk about?”
Kate shrugged. “I’m all right. Embarrassed that I put myself in that compromising position in the first place. I confess I thought he might try to kiss me, but I never guessed he would push for more like that. I don’t like that I’ve disappointed Mamma’s hopes for the future now that I’ve run him off.”
“You didn’t ‘run him off.’ He is the one who behaved badly. You were only trying to protect yourself.”
“Well, thankfully Stephen was there to stop him—even if Mamma didn’t approve of his methods.” Kate shrugged again. “Considering everything, it could have been worse.”
“Yes,” Sophie agreed. Much worse, as she knew too well.
The following week passed uneventfully, and Sophie settled in to a pleasant routine at Overtree Hall: painting, reading, spending time with Kate and Winnie. She wrote to her father and stepsisters, prayed for Captain Overtree, and for the most part, managed not to think about his brother.
Then Sophie received a letter from Mavis Thrupton—a thick letter. Mavis must miss her. Sophie certainly missed the dear woman, and took the letter into the morning room to read at her leisure. She sat in a comfortable chair and broke the seal. As she unfolded it, a second note fell into her lap. She read Mavis’s letter first:
My Dear Sophie,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and faring well in your new home. Has Captain Overtree returned to his regiment? I will pray for him and for you. Do write when you can and let me know how you do.
I am enclosing a letter for you that was sent to your father’s studio. I confess I hesitate to forward it on at all. As you will see, it was posted several weeks ago. I discovered it recently when I stopped by the studio in search of a missing payment a lodger assured me he’d sent. I found the place in complete disorder and searched for the payment amid an overflowing stack of bills and correspondence on the desk. And what did I find at the very bottom, half hidden beneath the blotter? A letter addressed to you in a hand I think you will recognize.
Maurice came in and demanded to know what I was doing. I berated him for the state of the studio and asked why he had not forwarded your post. He shrugged and said he must have mislaid it. I didn’t believe him. He wanted the letter back, saying he would take it with him to Bath, but I told him you were no longer there. I insisted I had your new address and would send it to you myself. (I didn’t want the letter to end up in Mrs. Dupont’s hands.) Even so, I had to all but wrest it from him. The seal, as you will see, has been broken. I fear he may have read it. The young man seems quite bitter towards you. It is well that you are away from here—and even Bath—where he would have lived under the same roof with you.
Hopefully old hurts and rumors will fade in time, my dear. In the meanwhile, remember what I told you, and make the best of your new life.
As for me, I have engaged a new woman (Mildred Dooley) to clean the cottages. Bitty has gone off with her sailor. I continue in good health, but my mother continues ill. I have left the cottages in Mildred’s care and spend all the time I can with my mum while I have that privilege. I know you, dear girl, will understand how I dread the loss to come.
All my love,
Mavis
Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes, both from the remembrances of her own mother sparked by the words, and in nostalgia for the dear woman she missed almost as much as her beloved mamma.
She wiped them away, then picked up the second letter. With a thudding heart, she recognized the loopy artistic handwriting—both from the letter of farewell he’d s
cratched on the back of her portrait, and from the bold way he signed his paintings.
Miss Sophie Dupont
Dupont Studio
Lynmouth, Devon
It had been posted from Plymouth only a few days before she, Mavis, and Stephen had traveled there. With trembling fingers she opened the folded sheet and read the lines written in that familiar, admired hand.
Dear mia Sophia,
I am imagining your lovely face as I write this. Your deep, sorrowful eyes. More sorrowful now, I fear, because of my thoughtlessness. How sorry I am that I did not say good-bye to you in person—that I left you that way. That I left you at all. I regret to think of that hasty and heartless parting note. I allowed the prospect of a trip to my beloved Italy to overwhelm my better judgment.
I hope and pray that everything is all right with you. But I know it cannot be, really. (You may remember me mentioning my younger sister. And if a man trifled with her in such a manner, I would horsewhip him.) You deserve better than that. I know I have disappointed you. The truth is, I have disappointed myself.
I did not lie to you. The feelings I expressed were true. But I confess I allowed fear a foothold when I realized you held my heart in your hands. A vulnerable, frightening prospect for this independent man, I can tell you. So when the unexpected invitation came, I acted out of self-interest and accepted it. You know I created some of my best work in Italy. And you have heard me recount (too many times, no doubt) my unforgettable experiences there several years ago. Therefore I hope you understand, at least in part, my desire to go back. How often is an artist granted such an opportunity? I justified that it would be foolish to let the opportunity pass me by.
So I made my choice, and we departed. But my spirit has been troubled ever since.
We sailed here to Plymouth and from its port will shortly board a merchant ship bound for Naples. The voyage is paid for, the plans made. But my heart is not in them. I am tempted to return to you even now. To forego the ocean journey altogether and return to L & L overland. Would you welcome me back? Forgive me? I believe you would, dear loving woman that you are. With that hope, may I ask you to wait for me? I don’t know how long you plan to remain in Lynmouth before returning to Bath. But I will come and find you as soon as I can. Will you be patient a little while longer, mia Sophia? I pray you will be, and will be there waiting for me, when I return.
Yours ardently,
W.D.O.
Sophie’s breath hitched. Her stomach knotted. Could it be true? Had Wesley realized his true feelings and regretted leaving her even before he’d departed England’s shores? Already planning to return to her? Oh no. . . .
For several minutes, Sophie stared unseeing at the letter before her, written only a few short days before she married his brother. How dare Maurice read it?
Drawing a shaky breath, Sophie refolded the letter again and again, smaller and smaller.
She had thought she had mastered her thoughts. Once she had become his brother’s wife, she had not let her mind dwell on Wesley nor remember intimate moments with him. But now, spurred by this letter, by these words she had longed to hear, she allowed the memories to come . . .
Not long after Wesley Overtree returned to Lynmouth the second year, he and Sophie stood side by side with their easels atop Castle Rock, dressed warmly against the cold. She painted the landscape, while he painted her.
The winter days were still short and the sun began setting late in the afternoon. They watched it together, she now and again feeling his gaze on her profile.
She glanced at him as well, admiring his fine features, full lower lip, and perfect nose slightly pink from the chilly wind. She could have looked upon his face for hours.
When the sun faded into the horizon, they packed up their things and began the brisk walk back.
As they navigated the rocky path, he said, “You are unique, Sophie. Any other woman would become bored within a quarter of an hour and begged to be taken shopping or to the theatre, but you and I can paint together in companionable silence for hours.”
He slid his supplies under one arm and took her hand in his. “You make me happy, Sophie. I hope you know that.”
Her heart thumped, and she smiled shyly at him. “That is quite a coincidence. For I have never been happier in my life.”
They returned to the rented cottage and set aside their things, pulling off their gloves, mufflers, and winter coats. There was no sign of Carlton Keith.
“Sit for me, will you?” Wesley asked.
She shook her head. “You must be growing tired of painting me. Let’s do something else.”
“Not at all! You are la mia musa. Besides, I have an idea for a new portrait.” He rubbed his hands together. “I am thinking of calling it mai stata baciata.”
Sophie’s mind instantly translated, Never been kissed. She ducked her head, feeling her cheeks heat. “However accurate, I don’t know that I want that fact captured in oil.”
He took her hands and warmed them between his own. “Then perhaps I shall call it il primo bacio.”
The first kiss. Her gaze flew to his. Was he teasing her?
His golden-brown eyes warm on her face, he said in a low voice, “I know you have never been kissed, mia Sophia. But I mean to change that.”
She blinked, faltering, “I . . . I don’t know that we should.”
He lit several lamps and positioned the chair where he wanted it. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to do anything, sweet girl. Just sit here and look as appealing as you are. I want to see your reaction. Try to capture it.”
Should she allow him to kiss her? Could she resist?
Heart pounding, she asked timidly, “Just . . . kiss?”
His watchful eyes grazed hers. He said softly, “If that’s what you want . . .”
“I want to be able to trust you.”
“I want that too. You know I would never hurt you, Sophie. That I care for you? Adore you?”
“I do know that.”
“Then close your eyes and focus on your mouth.”
She obeyed, closing her eyes, her pulse beginning to trip a little faster with every second of waiting.
Finally she felt his sweet breath on her cheek, her lips. Cinnamon and tea . . .
“Mia Sophia, ti adoro,” he whispered, and the warm breathy words sent shivers up her neck.
She felt the faintest whisper on her lips.
“Shhh . . . Don’t move. . . .”
She kept her eyes closed, overwhelmed by his nearness, the heady smell of his shaving tonic, the aching inches between them.
His mouth gently rested on hers, featherlight. “What do you feel, amore mio?”
She managed to breathe, “You . . .”
His lips moved softly, slowly against hers, dampening, gently pressing.
Suddenly he pulled away, and her eyes flew open in surprise. Disappointment.
“Don’t move,” he repeated, and stepped quickly to his easel, picking up palette and brush, staring at her face, her eyes, her mouth. . . .
By the end of that evening, her lips were tender, and her hair a mess. And he had long ago quit trying to capture her expression. Instead he had captured her body and soul.
Sophie knew she should resist. Wait until they were married. But she wasn’t overly worried. Wesley Overtree was a gentleman and he cared for her. He would protect her as well. And God would forgive them, she justified, once they were married. At least she hoped He would.
As the weeks together passed, she imagined a bright future for them. Creating side by side. Traveling with him. Living with him as his wife. A longed-for escape from her stepmother’s home and father’s studio. A life of being cherished by the man she loved.
He hasn’t actually said he loves you, or plans to marry you, a quiet voice whispered in the back of her mind. If he did, he would wait.
If only she had heeded it.
But he had called her amore mio—my love—and so many other endearments in both English and I
talian. And she had come to trust him, to believe he would stay with her. Marry her.
She could not blame Wesley alone. She was naïve but not completely ignorant. She had known the risk she was taking, and had taken it anyway. Certain he would catch her if she fell.
Now she realized that perhaps he would have, after all. She folded his letter even smaller. Had she misjudged him? Had Stephen? Even if she had received Wesley’s letter soon after he’d posted it, it would have been too late. She had already eloped with his brother.
Sitting there in the Overtree Hall morning room, Sophie held her head in her hands. She had realized it would be difficult when Wesley returned home at some future point after his travels and met his new sister-in-law—the woman he had left behind to search for a new la musa. She had known it would be awkward. Embarrassing. But she’d thought if Wesley had not wanted her himself, how could he complain if his brother had decided to marry her? The awkwardness would pass soon enough, she’d told herself. She’d hoped.
But if Wesley still had feelings for her, longed for—even expected—to continue their relationship where they had left off, only to find she had married another? And worse yet, his brother? She shook her head, and a groan escaped her.
Fortunately, Wesley was not expected back from Italy any time soon. Perhaps he would have found his new muse by then. Maybe he had already met a dark and vivacious Mona Lisa and was even now regretting having written this apology—this olive branch—to a quiet and pale painter’s daughter. There was a chance that had happened. A hope.
Though the thought brought little comfort.
chapter 21
Wesley Overtree asked the driver to let him off at the end of the lane. He would walk from there. He wanted to stretch his legs and see the old place from a distance. When the horse and gig stopped, Wesley gave the man a half crown and thanked him for the ride from the coaching inn. It was a relief to walk on solid, familiar ground after the tedious sea voyage followed by hours on the dusty, pitted road.