The Painter's Daughter Page 3
“I am glad. Life is precious. A gift from God.”
“I am surprised to hear a military man say that. Are you religious, Captain?”
He shrugged. “When a soldier knows he might die at any moment, he either ignores God to ‘eat, drink, kill, and be merry,’ or becomes very aware of the brevity and blessedness of life.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I might go away and have the baby in secret, and surrender it to a foundling home. But I don’t want to give up my child.”
Her eyes rested on the top portrait lying in the open crate. “Once again, I didn’t think through the consequences in advance. I thought Wesley would marry me. I suppose I still hope he will return in time. . . .”
She probably believed Wesley would realize his mistake, beg her forgiveness, and vow his undying devotion. Stephen would like to believe that too. But he had known his brother all his life, and he doubted it. It was possible that personal resentments colored his opinion unjustly, but he didn’t think so.
He recalled his prayer in the church that morning, and the verse that had gone through his mind. Surely this wasn’t what God had been prompting him to do. Was it?
Stephen was accustomed to taking care of his brother’s responsibilities, and covering for his mistakes. But it was more than that. Foolish or not, he felt protective of this woman whose face had smiled softly at him through nearly a twelvemonth of deprivation and battles. He’d become strangely attached to her. And he wanted to do something good with his life—make some sort of recompense for what had happened with Jenny. Especially with Winnie’s morbid prediction hanging over his head.
Should he? Would Miss Dupont reject his offer outright? Be offended? She was in love with his brother, after all—golden boy Wesley, far more handsome and charming than Stephen had ever been, and all the more since the Peninsular War had left him with a long scar across one cheek.
But Wesley wasn’t there.
Hands behind his back, Stephen paced in front of Miss Dupont’s chair. He stated his case as resolutely as a general laying down battle plans.
“Wesley has gone to Italy. Who knows when he will return, or if he would do his duty by you if he did. I don’t say this to hurt you, but at this point neither of us can afford the luxury of wishful thinking. We must be realistic.”
He paused. “May I ask how far along you are?”
Again she reddened. “About two months.”
He nodded, silently estimating. Might Wesley return in time to wed her himself? Would he, even if he knew? It would be risky to wait.
He paced across the room once more. “It should be Wesley offering to marry you. But he is not likely to come back for several months, if not longer. I haven’t time to wait that long, and neither have you. I cannot offer love, of course, as we are barely acquainted. However, I can offer you marriage in name only, and moreover, it may be a short-lived marriage, as I have reason to suspect I may not be long for this world. But even if that happens, you will have born your child with benefit of marriage—and he or she will be legitimate, bear my name, and the protection of my family.”
She stared at him blankly, then her face curdled in incredulity or repugnance. “You are offering to marry me? You yourself?”
“As I said. Did I not speak clearly, madam?”
“Your words were plain but difficult to fathom. Why would you do that?”
“I hold no dishonorable motives, if that is what you fear.”
“I . . . ” She hesitated, then frowned. “What do you mean by ‘may not be long for this world’? Why do you think you won’t survive, especially now with Napoleon in exile. Are you ill?”
“No. But military service is always risky.” He decided not to expand on that topic. “So let me be plain about what I am offering and what I am not. Maybe not a long future together. Definitely not wealth—I am a second son. Although if I die you would have a widow’s pension and my family would see you and the child provided for.”
Her eyes widened. “But you cannot know you won’t come back. You aren’t God, after all. And what happens if you do? You would be saddled with a wife you don’t know or care for, and a child who isn’t your responsibility. What will you do then?”
He nodded gravely. “We shall cross that bridge if and when we come to it. But I am a man of my word. If I vow before God to love, honor, and protect ’til death do us part, then that is what I shall do.”
Could Sophie say the same? She stared at the stranger before her, mind whirling. She could not deny that she was desperate for a way of escape from her predicament. But which would be worse—to marry a stranger, or to be discovered with child without a husband? She’d not been exaggerating when she said it would kill her father. And how her stepmother would gloat and rail. Perhaps even insist her father put her out. Maurice, nearly two years her junior, might marry her. But once he found out about the child, he’d never let her forget what she’d done. He would make her life—and the life of her child—a misery. Would Captain Overtree do the same—make her live to regret marrying him?
Her heart twisted. And what if Wesley came back, realized he loved her, and asked her to marry him? It would be too late—she would be married to his brother. Would Wesley feel betrayed, or relieved that someone else had fulfilled his duty for him? Even if Captain Overtree did not live long, as his widow she could not marry Wesley. The laws of England didn’t allow in-laws to marry. Saying yes to his brother now would mean giving up Wesley forever.
She asked, “May I have some time to think about it?”
He ran a hand over his scarred face. “I am afraid I must ask you to decide quickly. I return to my regiment in less than a fortnight. Which reminds me—if we proceed, we shan’t have time to post banns in our home parishes and wait the usual interval before marrying. We shall have to elope.”
“Elope?” The word inspired thoughts more scandalous than romantic, and would spark the very rumors she wished to squelch. “All the way to Scotland?”
He shook his head. “Too far. But marriage laws are more lenient in the Channel Islands as well.”
“I didn’t realize . . .” Sophie murmured, considering. She knew her father would not approve of an elopement. But he would forgive that more readily than an illegitimate child.
She thought again of the brief parting note from Wesley. No words of love. No promises. Sophie stepped to the window, unable to meet his brother’s forthright gaze. Quietly, she said, “He isn’t coming back, is he. For me, I mean.”
She felt him focus on her profile and steeled herself for his answer.
“I don’t claim to be a prophet,” he said gently. “But knowing him as I do . . . No. I don’t believe he is.”
The captain drew himself up. “Well. I will give you until tomorrow morning to decide. Let you sleep on it.”
Sleep? Sophie doubted she would sleep all night, even after she paced the rest of the day as she was certain to do, thinking about Wesley . . . and his brother.
Wesley Dalton Overtree sat alone in the parlour of an inn overlooking the bustling port. The schooner had reached Plymouth that morning, and soon he and the Italian couple would board the larger merchant ship that would carry them on to Italy. He had two hours to kill. Two hours to remember . . . and regret.
His traveling companions seemed to sense his desire to be alone and retreated into the dining room without him. A young servant knelt before the sooty embers in the hearth nearby and coaxed a reluctant fire to life. Smoke stung Wesley’s eyes and made them water. He swiped a hand across them, wishing he could wipe away his remorse as easily.
He should have said good-bye to Sophie in person.
When the opportunity to go to Italy had first presented itself, he had been tempted to simply leave a note and slip away. A selfish part of him had thought it would be easier. Wiser. Cut all ties before anyone tied him down. But in the end, he could not do it. He was still a gentleman,
after all, no matter what Marsh said about him. And so he had gathered his courage and gone to the Dupont studio.
But only that surly assistant, O’Dell, had been there to greet him.
“She’s not here,” O’Dell said, his tone barely civil.
“Gone out to Castle Rock again, has she?”
The young man hesitated, perhaps reticent to tell him her whereabouts. Then he said, “Not this time. She’s gone with Mrs. Thrupton to Barnstaple for the day.”
“When will she be back?”
O’Dell shrugged. “Too late for you, I reckon.”
Something about the way he’d said it gave Wesley pause. Was that malice glinting in the young man’s eyes, or was it a figment of Wesley’s guilty conscience? Because a moment later, O’Dell was all smiles and well-wishes for the journey.
It turned out the man was right—it was too late. Wesley asked the schooner captain if a later departure might be possible, but the crusty salt invoked the old saying “The tide waits for no man.” And apparently neither would he.
Wesley had felt torn. The ship and his new friends were leaving with or without him. And with them went his chance to return to his beloved Italy, share their villa, and paint in the land of Michelangelo, Raphael, and Caravaggio. How he longed to see Italy again. Naples. Rome. Florence. And hopefully be inspired, and rediscover the elusive muse.
So he’d scribbled a note to Sophie after all, left it in the cottage, where he knew she’d find it, and departed without seeing her.
Sitting there in Plymouth, Wesley reviewed the words he’d written. In hindsight, his rushed few lines seemed dolefully inadequate. So cold and impersonal.
Sophie deserved better.
He imagined her reaction upon reading the letter—her smile falling into crestfallen lines, disappointment washing over her—and guilt pinched his gut. How disillusioned she must be, when she had thought so highly of him. In her sweet company, he had felt a hero, as if he could do no wrong. Now he had tumbled off that pedestal.
His eyes watered again and he winced.
Wesley knew he’d acted selfishly. He thought of all the intimate, loving things he’d said and done in the heat of passion, and another wave of remorse struck him. He had not lied to her. The feelings he’d expressed were true at the time. But then, as had happened before, the walls had begun to close in on him. He began to feel his life, his opportunities, narrowing. The visiting foreign artist and his sophisticated wife seemed to represent everything he wanted, everything he would miss—carefree living, travel, adventure, new experiences, inspiration, success. . . . He was an artist, after all, he reminded himself, and Sophie knew him well. She would understand.
Wesley had told himself all this and thought he could sail away from her with an easy conscience, or at least that the guilt would quickly fade. But even now his spirit remained troubled. His heart was not in the journey, but it was too late to turn back. The voyage was paid for, his companions expecting him. He must make the most of this opportunity while he could.
He would make it up to Sophie when he got back. They had time, had they not? She’d said nothing about the future. No coaxing. No pressure. He liked that about her. So refreshing compared to those who seemed determined to prod him into a declaration, with coy smiles and thinly veiled manipulation.
Wesley ran a hand over his face. The truth was, he’d been afraid. Afraid as he had been only once before in his life. Again a woman held his life in her hands, and the vulnerable position unnerved him. But this was different, he realized. This time, he was in love.
Wesley made a decision. He would write Sophie another letter. A better one. He would apologize. Beg her forgiveness. Ask her to wait for him.
Would she welcome him back?
She would, he believed. For she was a kind, gentle woman, and she loved him.
Warmth flowed over Wesley at the thought, and he rose to seek out the innkeeper. He borrowed pen, paper, and sealing wax and sat back down to write.
Dear mia Sophia . . .
As he composed the lines, he prayed that she would forgive him, and that she would be there waiting for him with open arms when he returned.
chapter 3
Sophie’s mind spun with questions. Could she trust Captain Overtree? Must she accept on blind faith that he was a good man? She remembered again Wesley’s descriptions of “Captain Black.” A soldier who had probably killed men with his bare hands in combat. Could she put her life in those hands? And how would he treat her child—Wesley’s child—whom the world would see as his, though they would both know better?
Having met him now, she wasn’t sure what to think. Stern and blunt, yes. But dangerous? She wasn’t sure. She’d been surprised by his gentlemanlike reserve and religious convictions. Were they genuine?
In her mind’s eye, she saw again his striking blue eyes—glinting in determination, hard and officious, icy in irritation—and a warmer look she thought she’d glimpsed once or twice but could have been mistaken. It was too early to try to form her impressions of this man, and certainly too soon to consider binding herself to him for life. If only she had more time!
She decided she would go and talk to Mrs. Thrupton. Hopefully she could help her decide what to do.
Mavis Thrupton sat in the armchair near her sitting-room window, sunlight spilling over her face, softening the lines around her eyes and across her forehead and giving her skin a golden glow. At that moment, Sophie could imagine the beautiful young woman Mavis had once been, with a fine complexion, well-shaped features, large dark eyes, and thick brown hair piled atop her head. Actually, she had seen Mavis looking very much like that once, in a portrait her father had pointed out in the home of a wealthy patron. Mavis had worked as a painter’s model in her earlier years. Several artists had vied for her attention, and the opportunity to paint the striking brunette.
Sophie felt a twinge of sadness as she now looked at the former beauty. Which was worse, she wondered, to have been beautiful once but faded, or to never have been beautiful at all?
No one had ever extolled Sophie’s beauty, pursued her, or asked her to pose for him. Until Wesley . . . But even he had acknowledged that she wasn’t the feminine ideal. Her pale skin lacked brilliancy and tended to look sallow in certain light. Her face was thin—as was the rest of her. She was not endowed with the apple cheeks and rounded arms and bosom men seemed to praise. But Wesley had admired her in spite of those flaws, which endeared him to her all the more. He liked to tease her, saying she reminded him of a sad, half-starved Madonna. She could still see his golden-brown eyes, shining warmly with humor and admiration.
Now Mavis listened as Sophie confessed her predicament and Captain Overtree’s astounding offer.
“Oh, my dear!” Mavis breathed, eyes round. “But what about Wesley? I know how you feel about him.”
Sophie nodded. “I love him. Body and soul. But . . .” She shook her head in regret. “What you must think of me. You did try to warn me, I know.”
“Never mind that now. We have all made mistakes. I would be the last to condemn you. In fact, I feel responsible. What sort of a chaperone have I been? Your father will be so disappointed in me.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“Wesley is a very handsome man, and he paid you such marked attention. I can easily understand how you might be tempted. But I thought him a gentleman, so I was not as vigilant as I should have been.” Mavis clucked her tongue. “Still I never guessed he would leave you like this, to face this alone.”
“Don’t blame him too harshly,” Sophie defended. “I didn’t . . . exactly . . . tell him.”
Mavis cringed. “Oh, Sophie.”
“I hoped he was about to ask me to marry him, and I didn’t want him to feel forced. I told myself I would wait just a little longer, and then if he did not ask, I would find the courage to tell him. I thought he loved me. I still do, in my heart of hearts. He is the one I want. Not his brother. Not a stranger I don’t know. And what I have h
eard about him does not bode well.”
“What do you mean?” Mavis’s brow furrowed.
“Wesley spoke of his foul temper, his disapproving and cold manner. His tendency to strike first and ask questions later.”
“That could be his military training—not necessarily his natural disposition. You . . . don’t think he would hurt you, do you?”
“I don’t think so, but what do I know? I have only just met him.”
“You are in an awful predicament, my dear. But what other choice do you have? Tell me you aren’t thinking of marrying Maurice.”
Sophie’s stomach soured at the thought. “Never.” Her father might think highly of the young man, but Sophie neither liked nor trusted him.
“Good. Then what will you do—wait for Wesley?”
“I don’t know. As his brother points out, unless Wesley reaches Italy and immediately takes the next ship back, I shall be well past the point of hiding my condition.”
“But . . . would that be the worst thing? If you really thought he would marry you as soon as he learned the truth?”
“I don’t know. His parents no doubt hope for a more advantageous match. But I think he would marry me if he knew.”
“Are you confident enough to risk your life on that? Your future and that of your child?”
Sophie thought again of Wesley’s blithe parting words. And his brother’s regretful conclusion that he would not be coming back, at least not for her. Captain Overtree would have no reason to mislead her, would he?
“I don’t know,” Sophie admitted.
“I’m glad you’re not considering the drastic course women sometimes take.” Mavis nibbled her lip, then tentatively continued, “I once . . . knew a woman—a former painter’s model, like me—who found herself in a similar predicament, and felt she had no other choice.”
Sophie had heard of the dangerous things desperate girls sometimes did to avoid losing their respectability, loved ones, marriage prospects, or livelihoods. She shuddered. “I could never do that. Not to an innocent babe.” And especially not to Wesley’s child, she added to herself.