“That again. You have always painted in the room adjacent to your own.”
“Yes, but there is surprisingly good light up there. Wish I had thought of it sooner.”
With a glance at Keith, Sophie said evenly, “I have been thinking. If you insist on painting my portrait, Wesley, perhaps Kate might like to sit with us while you do so. She has expressed interest in learning to paint and might find the experience valuable.”
“Oh yes. That’s an excellent notion,” Kate agreed.
Sophie added with a sheepish little laugh, “I might even try to paint her while you paint me.”
“What?” his mother asked, brows high.
“Mamma, Sophie is an accomplished painter,” Kate said. “You should see her portrait of Stephen—though it isn’t finished yet.”
“I don’t pretend that my skills are on par with your son’s,” Sophie said quickly. “Nor would I expect my efforts to ever hang on any wall. I just thought it might prove a pleasant diversion to break up the long monotony of sitting.”
“A portrait of someone painting a portrait?” Wesley asked with a smile. “What a novel idea.” Was she remembering when they had done the same at Castle Rock?
She nodded. “I saw an artist attempt it once.”
“Oh?” he asked. “And how did it turn out?”
She met his gaze. “Not well.”
“It might be an interesting exercise,” Mr. Overtree allowed.
“Sounds amusing,” Kate agreed.
“Sounds dangerous,” Keith added, although thankfully too low for everyone else to hear.
“Well,” his mother said, a wry glint in her eye. “I don’t want either of you to be disappointed, but I shan’t go removing Katherine’s current portrait from the wall just yet.”
No doubt relieved to shift the attention from herself, Sophie asked, “What will you wear, Kate?”
“Oh! Good question. What do you think, Mamma?”
“Whatever you like, my dear. Though I have always liked you in blue.” His mother turned to him. “In the meantime, when may we see your Lynmouth paintings?”
Wesley hesitated, then put her off once more, knowing his parents would not be pleased to see their new daughter-in-law in such poses. He knew he couldn’t evade them forever. But seeing the look of fear cross Sophie’s lovely face, he decided he would leave that crate nailed shut for now.
The three of them—Kate, Sophie, and Wesley—set a time to meet in the attic studio the following day. Sophie had worked the night before, preparing her canvas and doing some preliminary sketches. Sophie wore a simple muslin day dress for the sitting, but instead of her usual workaday apron, she wore a pretty lace apron instead. It wasn’t as fine as Mrs. Thrupton’s shawl, but she would not risk getting paint on that. Then she smoothed her hair, telling herself not to worry about her appearance for Wesley’s sake.
At the appointed hour, she left her bedchamber and headed for the stairs. There, she drew up short. Wesley leaned against the newel post, strikingly handsome in green frock coat and buff trousers. Seeing him waiting for her, her palms grew instantly damp.
Kate’s door opened, and she popped her head out, “I’m not ready yet. Libby is curling my hair. I want to look a picture!”
Sophie hesitated, nervous to be alone with Wesley any longer than necessary. “All right. But don’t be too long.”
“Take your time,” Wesley drawled. “We’ll get started without you.”
Kate wrinkled her face. “How will you do that?”
“Oh, I have a few ideas . . .”
Sophie said officiously, “By mixing paints and preparing our palettes, of course.”
“Ah. Right. Be up soon.”
As Sophie and Wesley ascended the stairs, she said, “I have already primed my canvas. Have you?”
“No. Thankfully I had one in my studio. I suppose it’s second nature for you. You primed your father’s canvases and painted his backgrounds for years. I am surprised he is managing without you.”
“Oh, I am sure he does well enough. After all, he has Maurice to help him.”
“That ambitious young man will steal half of your father’s commissions by year’s end if I don’t miss my guess.”
“I hope you are wrong.”
They entered the studio and began preparing, Sophie opening the shutters and moving aside the portrait of the captain to make room for the freshly primed canvas.
She noticed Wesley’s resentful gaze resting on his brother’s image. “Marsh has finally had his revenge.” He shook his head, eyes glimmering in memory.
“What do you mean?”
“There was another woman of our mutual acquaintance. She and Marsh had known one another for years, but there was no specific understanding between them, nor any promises between our families. Stephen may have expected her to marry him eventually. Assumed it a fait accomplit, I don’t know. But somewhere along the way, this young woman began to prefer me. I could not help it if she developed feelings for me. I did not steal her away, whatever Marsh might think. A woman is not like a fine watch in a shop that might be put in one’s pocket and carried away.”
Was this the “Jenny” Captain Overtree preferred not to talk about, Sophie wondered, or someone else?
Wesley positioned his own easel, avoiding her eyes. “Whatever the case, apparently he’s never forgiven me, but bided his time. I suppose he convinced you I wouldn’t return? Cast doubt on my character?” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “Now his revenge is complete.”
Had Captain Overtree married her out of revenge? Sophie didn’t think so. She surely hoped he had not. She thought again of the captain’s proposal of marriage. He had said he didn’t think Wesley would return for her. He also told her he had reason to suspect he might die while away on duty and leave her a widow. Might he have fabricated both for his own ends, so she wouldn’t question his motives for marrying her in the first place? So she would accept him? She hated to even contemplate the possibility.
Kate came in, curled and powdered and pretty in a frosty blue gown, white ribbon waist and gloves, with delicate blue and white silk flowers in her hair. She beamed in anticipation of their reaction, and Sophie was quick to oblige her. “You are beautiful, Kate.”
Wesley stared at her, wide-eyed. “When did my little sister become a young woman?” he breathed.
“While you were off traveling somewhere, no doubt,” Kate said. “Or had your nose stuck in a canvas.”
Was Sophie imagining it, or did his eyes mist over? He certainly looked remorseful.
He smiled fondly at Kate and tweaked her chin. “Sophie is perfectly right, Kate. You are beautiful. If I don’t miss my guess, you shall soon have your pick of gentlemen, flattering portrait or not.”
The following week, Sophie received a brief letter from Captain Overtree, posted from Dublin, where his regiment had been garrisoned.
Dear Sophie,
Only have a moment to write. Everyone rushing to prepare for departure. We embark soon for Belgium to join Wellington. Know that the warmth of our parting remains near, and gives me great encouragement. My thoughts and prayers are with you always.
Yours,
Stephen
Her heart welled with a sweet pain, followed by guilt for her lingering memories of Wesley. Letters like these would certainly help in that regard.
She wrote back to the captain but refrained from mentioning his brother. She didn’t want to worry him.
Over the next few weeks, life continued without incident at Overtree Hall. Every afternoon, the colonel and Mr. Overtree read the newspapers and reported on recent developments. First, those in authority debated over whether or not to reenter the war. Then came reports of Wellington’s struggles to amass sufficient troops. The colonel exchanged letters and visited friends with connections to both Wellington and parliament and shared news as he could with the family.
With all the correspondence arriving, Sophie hoped for another letter from Capta
in Overtree, but nothing else came for her. She reminded herself that Stephen might not have even reached Belgium yet. And once there, he would probably be too busy to write letters.
But she continued to check the post anyway, just in case. And to tread carefully in Wesley’s presence in the meantime.
Early one morning, Wesley suggested Carlton Keith join him for a ride. The man struggled to mount without his left hand and was mortified to require the groom’s help, but once in the saddle he managed to ride fairly well. After a few miles, they paused at a stream to allow their horses to drink.
As they waited, Wesley looked over at Keith. “It’s strange how the tables have turned. In the past, Marsh sent you along to protect me. But now you’re trying to protect Sophie from me.”
Keith said, “Look, I have sympathy for your cause, Wes. But I promised the captain . . .”
“Once the underling, always the underling, ay, Lieutenant?” Wesley muttered.
Keith gave him a humorless smile in reply, but Wesley knew the man well enough to see his comment had stung and regretted it. “Sorry, old man,” he said. “Don’t mean to take out my anger on you.”
“I understand. I know what it’s like to pine for a woman who’s out of reach.”
Wesley wondered whom he referred to but didn’t pursue the topic.
They remounted and began trotting toward home. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride ahead,” Wesley said. “Meet you back at the stables, all right?”
Keith nodded.
Wesley spurred his horse to a gallop on the straightaway, needing to vent his frustration and put some distance between himself and Keith before he said anything else he would regret.
Afterward, as the two men walked from the stables toward the house, they came upon Miss Blake and Kate playing battledore and shuttlecock in the garden. Sophie, he noticed, sat nearby on a garden bench, a large-brimmed bonnet shielding her face.
It was the first he’d seen of their neighbor since arriving home. He inwardly groaned. And in Sophie’s company yet. He hoped Angela would behave herself and play fair.
Kate glanced up. “There’s Wesley. He’ll play.”
Miss Blake turned her ginger head in his direction, her green eyes watchful and wary as he approached. They had known one another so long, he could read every expression on her long, freckled face, every quirk of her mouth with its heavily bowed upper lip. It saddened him that they’d lost their former camaraderie and knew he was partly to blame. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Ah . . . the prodigal son returns,” she said with a little smirk. “Hello, Wesley.”
“Angela.” He acknowledged her with a dip of his head, determined to be polite.
Kate bent to pick up two spare racquets and thrust one toward him. “Do say you’ll play, Wesley.”
“How about a game of doubles?” Miss Blake suggested.
Kate regarded Mr. Keith and bit her lip. “That is . . . if you think you can—might want to play?”
Keith grinned. “Thank you, Miss Katherine. I believe I am equal to the task.” He accepted the second racquet and looked at Miss Blake. “Shall we join forces, Miss Blake? Though I suppose you’d rather have Wesley as your partner . . .”
“Not at all, Mr. Keith. I have seen Wesley play.”
Wesley gave her a sour smile. “Be forewarned, Keith. Angela’s a crack shot and will knock you down to reach the shuttlecock before you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Wesley wondered how the man would serve with one hand, but he needn’t have worried. Keith gripped the handle with three fingers, and pinched the shuttlecock feathers between index finger and thumb. He released the shuttlecock with a little loft, repositioned his hand fully around the racquet and whacked the shuttlecock in a high arc to Kate.
“Well done, Mr. Keith,” Miss Blake praised.
Kate swung hard, sending the shuttlecock high. Too high. The wind caught it and carried it behind her. “Sorry!”
While Kate hurried off to retrieve it, Wesley asked Miss Blake, “How’s the family?”
“Oh, Father is his usual absent self. And if you have not heard, Horace is engaged to be married.”
“Horsey . . . engaged? He can’t be, what, eighteen or nineteen . . . ?
“One and twenty.”
“Good night. I feel quite ancient.”
Kate returned and prepared to serve. Miss Blake adopted a ready stance, bouncing lightly from foot to foot. She looked just as she had when she was twelve years old.
He asked her, “Who’s the lucky girl? Would I know her?”
“Probably, knowing you.” She returned Kate’s serve with a hard smack that bulleted the shuttlecock right at Wesley’s face.
Wesley leapt back to get his racquet under it, but the feathers fell to the ground.
Kate said, “I don’t think Wesley ever met the Fullerton family. Horace met them when they were here on Boxing Day, but Wesley had already left for Devonshire.”
“Yes, it seems Wesley is always leaving.”
“Not always.” He served again, hoping Sophie wasn’t listening to their exchange.
The shuttlecock flew, and Keith ran forward and tapped it lightly to Kate. She hit it back, hard, and Keith had to quickly run backward. Wesley thought he might miss it, but the man had an impressive wingspan—even if only one wing. He reached back, back, and whacked it high overhead.
“Excellent arm, Mr. Keith,” said Angela approvingly.
“Why, thank you, fair lady.”
Miss Blake addressed Wesley across from her once again. “And how long are we to have the pleasure of your company this time?”
“I have not yet decided.” He tapped the shuttlecock, then glanced at Sophie. When he returned his gaze to Angela, he was chagrined to realize she had noticed the look.
Angela stepped backward, raised her racquet, and . . . missed. She never missed.
“Sorry.” She gave her partner an embarrassed half smile.
“No problem,” Mr. Keith assured her.
Angela picked up the fallen shuttlecock and served to Wesley again. “And were you as surprised as the rest of us to meet Stephen’s wife?”
“More so, I imagine.”
Kate spoke up. “And here I thought both my brothers were confirmed old bachelors.”
“Speaking of which, any word from Stephen?” Angela turned toward spectator-Sophie as she said it.
“Not lately,” Sophie replied.
Angela added kindly, “We all pray for a quick end to this renewed threat, and his safe return.”
Sophie nodded. “Thank you.”
Miss Blake sent Wesley a sidelong glance. “We do all pray for Stephen’s safe return, do we not?”
“Hmm?” Wesley murmured, taken aback. He noticed Keith and Sophie both watching them, and said, “Oh, yes, of course.”
Unfortunately, Angela could read him as accurately as he could read her. He hoped her good breeding would guard her tongue.
chapter 23
They rested on Sunday, but the following week Sophie and Wesley returned to the studio to work on the portraits—his of her and hers of Kate.
Sophie had already captured the general outline of the girl’s pose, hair, hands, and dress, and now worked to add detail to her features. Soon Kate grew tired of sitting still, and Sophie released her to go for a walk with Miss Blake into the village. Sophie could continue on for a time without her model.
Wesley continued as well, now and again asking her to stop painting so he could focus on some detail of her face or hair.
“Lovelier than ever, mia Sophia.”
“Stop calling me that. I am not yours.”
“Maybe not now. But don’t you remember what we had between us?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Don’t, or won’t?”
She refused to answer. The truth was, she was trying hard not to remember what had passed between them, how she had felt about him, and sometimes still did. A
fter all, she had only been married to Stephen for two months, but she had been in love with Wesley for more than a year.
He set aside his palette and rose, stepping behind her stool and leaning down to whisper in her ear. “You can deny it all you like, but we both know there was a time you were mine—heart, soul, mind, and body. . . .”
She lurched to her feet to put distance between them, pretending the need to adjust the light coming into the room. She stepped to the window and stretched up to reach the top shutter, her gown flattening, straining against her body as she did so.
She glanced over at him and realized he was staring at her—not at her face but at her midsection.
He frowned, strode over to her, and before she could protest or flee, clasped her around the waist, his exploring hands far more measuring than romantic.
She squirmed in his hold. “What are you doing? Release me.”
“Thunder and turf, Sophie. Are you with child?”
Her mouth parted. “What? I . . .”
“You are. I can tell. I knew something was different about you, but I didn’t think . . . Not so soon.”
“Please lower your voice, Mr. Overtree. I—”
“Are you going to deny this too? Don’t bother. Don’t forget, I once knew your body as well as my own. Every curve. Every dip. Every inch.”
Her neck heated. “Hush.”
His jaw slackened. “That’s why you married Marsh! What an imbecile I am. I knew there must be some other reason. I cannot believe I didn’t guess immediately.”
Sophie raised a hand. “Stop it. Stop it right now. If I were with child. And if I have a child, he or she will be the captain’s—Stephen’s.”
He shook his head, eyes alight. “No. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
She held her tongue, refusing to confirm or deny his guess.
He gripped her shoulders. “Did you know before I left Lynmouth? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sophie struggled inwardly. Might it not be better for everyone—the child, and Stephen, and the family—if she admitted nothing but kept up the pretense? The words she held back escaped as silent tears running down her cheeks.