The Painter's Daughter Read online

  As the sun set, they walked down the switchback path and into Lynmouth.

  “Do you know . . . ” she began. “Your brother never mentioned a sibling named Stephen. Only a ‘Marsh.’ Something of an ogre, apparently.”

  Stephen pulled a face, knowing the act would only serve to pucker the scar on his cheek and make him more ogre-like yet. He explained, “My second name is Marshall. He calls me Marsh—one of several nicknames he reserves for me. Including Captain Black.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I—”

  “No matter. It’s an apt description.”

  When they arrived at the studio near the harbor, Miss Dupont used another key to open the door. She frowned at the dim, silent interior. “Maurice is supposed to keep the lights burning and the door open until five at least. Looks like he’s been gone for hours.”

  “Is this where you live?” Stephen asked.

  “We have a house in Bath, but when we’re in Lynmouth we live in the apartment upstairs. Although, with my father gone I’m staying with a neighbor, Mrs. Thrupton.”

  He read between the lines. “Is your father’s assistant a lad or a . . . married man?”

  “Neither.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, illogically relieved she cared something for her reputation.

  A man of about twenty trudged down the stairs in stocking feet. He wore trousers, rumpled shirt and waistcoat, but no coat. His dark hair stood askew, as though he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Bring me any supper?” he asked her. “I’m starved.”

  “You’re on your own, I’m afraid,” she replied, setting down her bonnet and gloves.

  “Who’s he?” The young man lifted an insolent chin.

  “This is Captain Overtree, Mr. Overtree’s brother. Captain, Maurice O’Dell. My father’s assistant.”

  “Another Overtree? It’s my lucky day,” he said sarcastically. “What does this one want?”

  “Simply to transport the belongings his brother left in the cottage. I would like you to help him.”

  “I . . . heard he left,” O’Dell said. “And good riddance, if you ask me.”

  Miss Dupont said coolly, “I didn’t.”

  Stephen sized up the young man as he would an opponent. He was barely more than Miss Dupont’s height, though stockier. His prominent dark eyes and upturned nose put Stephen in mind of an ill-behaved pug yapping at a larger dog.

  O’Dell turned to him, thick lip curled. “I am not merely an assistant. I’m family. Claude Dupont’s nephew.”

  “By marriage, yes,” she clarified. “My father married Maurice’s aunt a few years ago.”

  “I won’t be making prints forever,” O’Dell asserted. “I’m an artist in my own right. I’ll be famous one day. Just you wait.”

  “Sadly, I haven’t that much time,” Stephen said dryly. “Now, if I might trouble you for a crate and the name of the local drayage company . . . ?”

  “We have several crates in the storeroom,” Miss Dupont said. “Maurice, if you will see the largest delivered to the first cottage.”

  “Very well, but don’t expect me to help pack up that fop’s leavings.”

  “Then, please mind the shop in the morning while I do.”

  She turned to Stephen. “What time shall I meet you?”

  “I am an early riser. Shall we say eight—or nine, if you prefer.”

  “Eight is fine. I’ll see you then.”

  Stephen hesitated. “Are you . . . all right here, or shall I walk you to the neighbor’s you mentioned?”

  “I’m all right on my own. But thank you.”

  Sophia Margaretha Dupont watched the black-haired, broad-shouldered stranger stride away, barely believing he could be related to Wesley Overtree. Beautiful, heartbreaking Wesley.

  She’d had no inkling that things had changed between them—for Wesley at least. She had shown up at the cottage that morning as usual, smiling, stomach fluttering with happiness, eager to see him again, wondering how best to tell him her news. Only to find the farewell note he’d left and the cottage abandoned. Her smile had quickly fallen then. Her stomach cramped with dread. What had she done wrong?

  She knew men did not like to be pressured, so she had not pressured him. Had he simply lost interest, or had he realized she was not beautiful enough for him—either as a model or a wife?

  She read the rescued note again, and the conclusion seemed unavoidable. Wesley had not only abruptly left Lynmouth, but he had also left her. She turned the note over, struck anew that he had written it on the back of one of the dozens of likenesses he’d painted of her. A dozen too many apparently.

  Sophie sagged against the studio counter, feeling weary and low. It had been the worst day of her life, except for the long-ago day her mother died. At the thought, she gently clasped the ring she wore on a chain around her neck, close to her heart.

  Not only had Wesley left, and her last hope of happiness with him, but then she’d had to endure that mortifying interview with his own brother. The man’s hard, knowing expression left her with the sickly feeling that he’d guessed the truth—that posing was not the worst of her indiscretions.

  She remembered Wesley describing his dour and disapproving brother Marsh. And saying “Captain Black would sooner strike a man than listen to him.” She had formed an image of a foul-tempered, hardened warrior. A man who had seen terrible things. Who had probably done terrible things.

  Captain Overtree certainly looked fierce, with that jagged scar, which his bushy side-whiskers and longish dark hair did little to conceal. Had his coloring spawned the name Captain Black or had it been his brooding personality? Perhaps black described both. He was taller than Wesley—several inches over six feet—and his strong-featured face boasted none of Wesley’s fine bone structure or handsome perfection. His eyes were striking though. Blue, where Wesley’s were light brown. She would never have expected blue eyes.

  Her fleeting comparison of the brothers faded as the reality of her situation reasserted itself. This was no time to think of trivial things. Not when her life as she knew it hung in the balance and was soon to change forever.

  She had not given God a great deal of thought since her mother’s death. Church had not played a significant part of her childhood. But during these last few weeks she had prayed very hard, hoping what she feared wasn’t true.

  Now her prayer changed. She had been so certain Wesley would marry her. But now he was gone. Even if he came back, would it be in time to save her and her reputation? Oh, God, let him return in time. . . .

  chapter 2

  In the morning, Stephen arose early and breakfasted. Feeling unsettled, he asked the innkeeper to direct him to the nearest church, and then walked there to pray. As a younger man—and a younger son—he had once hoped to make the church his vocation. But his grandfather had other plans for him. In some ways, the military had brought Stephen closer to God than a career as a clergyman ever could have. Even so, he yearned to serve his fellow man in some significant way.

  In the solemn silence of the empty nave, he asked God for wisdom concerning what to do about Wesley . . . and Miss Dupont. He also prayed for the grace to accept God’s will, if his old nurse’s prediction was indeed correct. She had made the unsettling remark just as he was leaving Overtree Hall. Now the scene ran through his mind yet again. . . .

  Coming down the stairs, Stephen drew up short, taken aback to see Miss Whitney standing at the open back door. His former nurse usually remained upstairs. Had she come down to say good-bye?

  He walked toward her. “What is it, Winnie? Is everything all right?”

  “No. But there’s nothing you or I can do about it.” The woman sighed, then looked at the valise in his hand. “Heading off to bring Wesley back?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry. Kate will look after you while I’m gone. Everything will be fine.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe it will be. You won’t always be able to save him, you know.”

  She
looked out the door again, and he followed her gaze, surprised to see his childhood friend and neighbor, Miss Blake, stalking off across the garden.

  “There is a change in the wind,” Miss Whitney said. “I feel it in my bones.”

  Stephen winced in confusion. “I don’t understand, Winnie. But I’m afraid I have to go now.”

  She inhaled deeply and blew out a long breath. “It isn’t right.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “That Wesley should be heir when you do all the work.”

  He had heard the same lament before. “Don’t trouble yourself. And don’t forget I’ll have that trust from Grandfather when I’m thirty.” He chuckled and teased, “If I live that long.”

  “No. I don’t believe you will,” she replied, expression somber. “You won’t live to see your inheritance. I know things I wish I didn’t. The world’s turned topsy-turvy.”

  Stephen frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Her eyes took on a faraway, distracted look. “He shall reward every man according to his works.”

  “My reward in heaven, do you mean? Don’t rush me.” Again he tried to brush off the woman’s strange words with a joke, but the eerie light in her eyes made him uneasy.

  She grasped his arm. “Be ready, my boy. Your time is coming.”

  His sister wheeled into the hall at that moment, waving emphatically. “Stephen! Everyone is looking for you. Roberts says you must leave now or you’ll miss your coach.”

  Stephen dragged his gaze from Miss Whitney’s and called back, “Coming!”

  For a moment longer, his old nurse kept her hold on his arm.

  Stephen patted her hand. “I’ll be back soon, Winnie. And everything will be fine—as it always is.”

  “No, my dear Stephen. I don’t think things will ever be the same again. Are you prepared to meet your fate?”

  His throat constricted. Was she saying what he thought she was?

  “Yes, I am,” he whispered, and gently extracted himself from her grip.

  As he sat in the unfamiliar church, Miss Whitney’s words echoed once again through Stephen’s mind, “You won’t live to see your inheritance. . . . Are you prepared to meet your fate?”

  His former nurse had never claimed to have second sight or any special revelation from God. But he would be lying if he said her words didn’t give him pause. He recalled countless instances over the years when she had known things she logically should not. Or predicted outcomes that had later come to pass. He trusted her—and had never known her to be wrong about anything. Even so, as a man of faith Stephen knew his fate was in God’s hands. He told himself not to give credence to her words. But he was a man about to return to active duty, where life was always at risk.

  Unbidden, a verse went through his mind: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

  He did not take it as a good sign.

  A few minutes before eight, Stephen walked up the hill to the cottage. He arrived before Miss Dupont and waited outside. Near the door lay a large crate. The door, however, was locked. He checked his pocket watch, then reminded himself Miss Dupont was not one of his privates who deserved a tongue-lashing for keeping him waiting.

  Five minutes later, she came hurrying up the steep path, looking weary. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite the thing this morning. I’m not usually late.”

  She unlocked the door, entered, and began opening the shutters. But somehow the cheery morning light only served to make the abandoned belongings and wrinkled bedclothes look more forlorn.

  He carried the crate inside and said, “I’ll begin with the larger canvases if you’d like to sort through the supplies. Keep anything that belongs to your father, or any paints or oils that will spoil in the interim. I’m guessing your father or his assistant might have some use for them?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “No sense letting them go to waste.”

  Stephen gathered Wesley’s coat and a few personal items left behind, then turned toward the paintings.

  “I am surprised he didn’t take this easel with him,” he commented.

  “That is an extra one from the shop.” She wiped her hands on a cloth and suggested, “We ought to wrap the canvases first, to protect them for travel. These landscapes are quite good.”

  Stephen lifted one from the easel. “I like this one. Quite a different style for Wesley.”

  “Oh, um. That’s not one of his. It . . . was done by one of his pupils.”

  “Ah. If you would be so good as to see it returned.”

  “Of course.”

  He lifted another. “And this one of Wesley? Not a self-portrait, I take it?”

  “No. Another by . . . that same pupil. I shall see it returned as well.”

  He reached for another canvas, one Wesley had painted of Miss Dupont in Grecian robes—windblown hair escaping its pins, coppery highlights among the gold brushstrokes, her face thin but lovely, lips full, eyes large and searching. He wondered why he’d not seen any full-size paintings of Miss Dupont among the landscapes Wesley had brought home from Lynmouth the previous year. Apparently the miniature portrait Stephen had found was one of only a few small paintings and sketches Wesley had done of the painter’s daughter last year. This year, however, he seemed to have painted little else. Stephen wrapped the canvas with care, then picked up the image of her with a bared shoulder. Looking at it, he felt a stab of . . . What was it? Reluctant admiration? Resentment? Jealousy?

  She glanced over, and a frown line appeared between her blond eyebrows. “Must you take that one? Any of me, really?”

  He shoved the illogical feelings aside. “What would you suggest I do with them? Are they not Wesley’s property?”

  “I suppose. But certainly you can understand why I loathe the thought of them sitting out in plain view somewhere in your family’s home?”

  “Perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you agreed to sit for him.”

  She ducked her head, and he immediately regretted his cutting tone.

  “Of course, you’re right,” she allowed. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I certainly didn’t think it through.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  She shrugged. “I was simply helping a fellow—helping an artist with his work. I didn’t foresee finished paintings that might someday be sold or hung where his own family would see.”

  He laid the final canvas in the crate. “There, that’s the last of them.”

  She nodded. “I’ll send Maurice up with a hammer and nails to close the crate and carry down these supplies. I . . .”

  Her face suddenly paled, and her eyes shot wide. She pressed a hand over her mouth, whirled to the door, and ran outside.

  Through the window he saw her bend between two bushes and retch.

  His own stomach clenched in reply. Oh no. Did it mean what he feared it did? Enough soldiers’ wives had accompanied his regiment for him to recognize the telltale sign. He thought again of her tears, her uneasy glances at the bed, that bare shoulder . . . If he was right, what should he do? Ignore the evidence of his eyes? Or offer some money to the poor, ill-used girl? But this was no London light-skirt. This was a respected artist’s daughter. This was the woman whose likeness he had secretly carried with him for nearly a year. . . .

  Miss Dupont entered on shaky legs a few moments later, trying to look nonchalant, probably not realizing he’d seen.

  He handed her a clean handkerchief, and her eyes flew to his, then to the nearby window before her sickly green countenance reddened once more.

  “I’m sorry. I’d hoped to spare you that. Not a pleasant thing to witness.” She forced a weak smile. “Must have been something I ate.”

  He asked, “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes. Now, where were we?” She turned toward the crate.

  “Miss Dupont, wait.”

  She slowly turned back.

  “It wasn’t something you ate,
was it.”

  Her lips parted, then she said briskly, “Well, I can’t be certain, of course. But it’s nothing catching, I’m sure. Never fear.”

  “Oh, but I do fear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured toward the chairs at the table. “Please. Sit down.”

  “I don’t wish to sit down. We are here to pack up your brother’s things, and that is all. Then I shall have Bitty put the place to rights for the next lodger, if there is one. It’s not likely this early, but—”

  He pulled out a chair with a whining scrape and gave her his most imperious look. “Sit.”

  “I am not a soldier in your command, sir.”

  “Sit, please.”

  “Very well. For a moment.” She sat, fingers folded primly in her lap. “I am feeling a little queasy still, I admit. But it shall pass.”

  “Yes, in about eight or nine months, I imagine?”

  She gaped up at him, eyes wide in shock. “How dare you . . . ? It’s . . . it’s . . . none of your business.”

  He grimaced. “But it is, I’m afraid. Family business.” He ran a hand through his coarse hair. “Look. I’m sorry to be so blunt. But it’s not in my nature to speak in polite generalities when there is a specific problem to solve. Nor have I the time to mince about.”

  “It is not your problem.”

  “Is it not? I came here to find my brother. To send him home to help our father before I must return to my regiment. Instead I find he has sailed for Italy, leaving a young lady in a serious predicament. He is the man responsible, I take it?”

  Her full lips thinned to an offended line. “You, sir, are presumptuous beyond belief.”

  “No. That was Wesley. I am the one trying to help. What do you plan to do?”

  For a moment she stared at him, eyes glittering and face set. Then she released a long breath and sank back against the chair. “I don’t know. It’s early days yet. I don’t know what I can do. Please don’t tell anyone—it would kill my father.”

  “But you won’t do anything . . . dire, I hope? When I saw you on the cliff’s edge, I feared you meant to do yourself harm.”