The Painter's Daughter Read online

  “No, sir. All he said was, ‘I’ll be all right on my own, CK. You go on home to Overtree Hall, and let my family know where I’m bound.’”

  “So why are you still here?”

  “Oh, I will be on my way soon, Captain. But first I aim to win back the money I lost here. My luck is about to change—I know it. Unless . . . Do you have another commission for me? I hope you don’t want to send me off to Italy now, sir. Not on my own.”

  “I suppose not.” He glanced at the empty glasses at Keith’s elbow. “Something tells me you would drink or gamble away the passage money before the next ship sails. Had we Wesley’s direction, perhaps, but as it is, no.”

  Did he really even want Wesley to hurry home now? Now that he was about to marry Sophie Dupont? For his parents’ sake, he should want his brother back in Overtree Hall. For himself? Not so much.

  Keith sipped his ale, then asked, “And what about you, sir—returning to Overtree Hall as well? Shall we travel together? You still have a few weeks leave, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, but I’m not returning directly. I have something to attend to first.”

  “Oh?”

  “I travel to Plymouth tomorrow, and from there, sail to Guernsey.”

  “Guernsey? Whatever for?”

  “A personal matter.”

  “Shall I accompany you, sir? Or do you prefer to travel alone?”

  “I shan’t be alone. Miss Dupont goes with me.”

  Keith’s eyes widened. “Miss Dupont?”

  “Yes.”

  He clucked his tongue. “My, my. I am surprised. First one brother, then the other. I can’t say I appreciated having to leave the cottage for hours at a time, while Wes ‘painted’ her, but I didn’t take her for a light-skirt.”

  Stephen clenched his jaw, stifling the urge to throttle the man. Nearby, a trio of sailors guffawed at some joke, and Stephen leaned closer. “She is not. And I will not hear a word against her, spoken in my hearing or anyone else’s. Do you understand? Miss Dupont is to be my wife.”

  Keith’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Your wife? That’s why you’re going to Guernsey?”

  “Yes. As you pointed out, I haven’t much time before I must rejoin the regiment. A wedding on Guernsey seems the most expedient option.”

  “Expediency, ay? Not the romantic quality females seem to long for in a wedding. How do you think Mr. Dupont will feel about you eloping with his daughter?”

  “I don’t imagine he will like it.”

  “And Wesley?”

  Stephen met the man’s challenging gaze directly. “What about Wesley?”

  “How do you think he will feel about you eloping with his . . . with Miss Dupont?”

  “You tell me. He isn’t here to ask.”

  Keith grimaced in thought, ending with a shrug.

  Stephen asked, “Had he any honorable intentions toward Miss Dupont?”

  Carlton Keith opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again, seeming to think the better of whatever he’d been about to say. He shrugged again. “May have done. But it seems to me he made his choice. His art came first.”

  Stephen nodded dourly. “And his own pleasure second and third and fourth.”

  Keith’s eyes twinkled. “Doing it again, are we?”

  “What?” Stephen snapped. Impertinent fool knew him all too well.

  “I told Miss Dupont how you saved my life.” Keith smirked. “I think I recognize the signs.”

  In the morning, Sophie reached the innyard a few minutes before the hour and stood alone, valise in hand, waiting for the captain. Mrs. Thrupton had offered to take her note for Maurice to the studio because she had a list for him as well—tasks he would need to take care of in her absence. Mavis jested that she would tuck Sophie’s letter somewhere Maurice was unlikely to see it for several hours—among the cleaning supplies he so rarely used. Sophie was only too glad to leave the errand to the stalwart woman and hoped she would manage to slip out before Maurice read the note.

  Instead, a few minutes later, Maurice himself wheeled into the yard, open letter in his hand, face an angry mask.

  He shook the page before her nose. “Is this a joke?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean you’re getting married? I thought that scapegrace left.”

  Sophie willed herself to remain calm. “Are you speaking of Mr. Overtree?”

  “You dashed well know I am.”

  “I am not marrying Mr. Overtree.”

  “What? Then who?”

  “I . . . don’t know if that is any of your business.”

  “Rubbish. Of course it is.” He gripped her wrist. “What are you playing at? You don’t know anyone else here. Don’t tell me that one-armed man twisted your arm.”

  “No one twisted my arm, but you.” Sophie tried to wrench herself free, but he held fast. “Let go.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are supposedly marrying.”

  “That would be me.” Captain Overtree appeared at Sophie’s side like a menacing shadow, towering over both her and Maurice. She glanced up and saw anger glinting in his eyes, his jaw clenched.

  “You? But she has just met you.” Maurice’s grip loosened, and Sophie yanked her arm away.

  “Clearly you don’t know everything,” the captain said. “Miss Dupont is under no obligation to acquaint you with her every decision. Nor is it any of your concern how or when we met. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. If I ever see you lay a rough hand on her again, I will break that hand. Is that understood?”

  Maurice’s lip curled in disdain. “Her father shall hear about this.”

  “Yes, he shall,” the captain agreed, unconcerned. “I shall tell him myself when we see him in a few days. And I shall also apprise him of your disrespectful treatment of his daughter.”

  Maurice swallowed. “I meant no disrespect. Worried about her, that’s all. And why wouldn’t I be—planning to run off with a stranger as she is?”

  Captain Overtree formed a humorless smile. A dangerous smile, it seemed to Sophie.

  “Your concern is touching, young man. But I am hardly a stranger. I am soon to be Miss Dupont’s husband. Now wish us happy and be on your way. It is time we took our leave.”

  Leave . . . The thought of setting off with this man toward an unknown future filled Sophie with trepidation. She was suddenly very glad she’d accepted Mrs. Thrupton’s offer to accompany them.

  When Maurice stalked off, the captain stepped away to speak to the coachman.

  Mrs. Thrupton hurried into the yard, huffing and puffing. “Sorry, sorry! Ran into a neighbor. She’s going to feed my cat for me. . . .” Mavis looked at Sophie’s face and frowned. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Maurice was just here.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Captain Overtree dispatched him—never fear.”

  Mavis tsked. “Sorry about that. He must have seen me leave your note.”

  Sophie looked at her wrist, relieved to see no mark there. “Oh well. It’s over now.”

  Captain Overtree finished speaking with the coachman and joined the ladies. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes,” Sophie lied and forced a smile.

  The groom opened the door for them, and the captain handed in Mrs. Thrupton, then offered his hand to Sophie. She glanced at it as though it were a coiled snake.

  Noticing her hesitation, his blue eyes grew icy again. “Afraid of me, are you? Thank heavens you have a chaperone to protect you.”

  Sophie swallowed and allowed him to help her inside. She sat beside Mrs. Thrupton on the front-facing seat, leaving the opposite bench for him.

  “Do you mind, Mrs. Thrupton?” he said. “I prefer to face forward.”

  “As do I.”

  “So you can keep your eye on me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Tell you what. Sit here straight across from me and I shan’t move a muscle without first announcing my intention to do s
o. That way I needn’t see Miss Dupont looking at me like a frightened rabbit the entire journey.”

  Mavis sniffed. “Very well. He that pays the piper calls the tune, I suppose.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” he said sardonically. “You are all goodness.”

  He sat next to Sophie, leaving as much distance between them as the narrow bench allowed. Seated on his left as she was, she could see the unmarred side of his face when she sneaked a glance at his profile. Was that his intention?

  He certainly kept his word to sit quietly and paid neither of them any attention, staring out at the passing countryside with a vague expression.

  As the journey began, Mrs. Thrupton tried a few times to engage him in conversation. He responded civilly but remained aloof. Mavis soon wearied of his terse replies and lapsed into silence.

  Hours later, they passed a mile marker and few buildings, and Captain Overtree announced they had reached the outskirts of Plymouth. Suddenly the carriage lurched violently to one side and careened to a halt. Sophie, half asleep, lost her balance and pitched forward. The captain’s arm shot out and stopped her from falling off the bench.

  “Thunder and turf!” he exclaimed.

  “Are you all right, Sophie?” Mavis asked.

  “Yes, perfectly well,” she murmured, straightening her bonnet. Though she’d likely feel the impact of the captain’s hard arm against her shoulders for days to come.

  “Must have hit quite a hole,” he said, pushing open the door. “Hopefully we did not break an axle.”

  He stepped out to survey the situation, and Sophie followed, needing to stretch her legs. The groom hopped down as well.

  While the men checked the carriage underbelly and wheels, Sophie walked a few steps away.

  “Stay close,” the captain warned. “Rough area.”

  “I won’t go far.”

  She had walked only a few yards, when she passed a wheelwright’s shop. How convenient for him to have a nasty hole in the road so near his door. Or perhaps it was no coincidence at all.

  A young man leaning against the building pushed himself upright. She had not seen him in the shadows.

  “Hello, love. Can I interest you in this fine gold watch fob?” He held up a tarnished brass chain. “A gift for your husband? Only a bob for you, pretty lady.”

  She almost replied that she had no husband but bit back the foolish words. “No, thank you.”

  A second youth leapt from an alleyway and snagged her reticule. Its ribbons around her wrist bit into her flesh as he jerked it away.

  She cried out in pain and alarm. “Stop!”

  In a flash of black coat and gleaming brass, Captain Overtree struck the young man with his sword stick, knocking him to the ground. The second youth turned to run, but the captain grasped him from behind, one arm across his throat while twisting the youth’s arm behind his back.

  “Give the lady her reticule.”

  “You’ll break my arm!”

  “I said . . . give it back.”

  The youth extended it to Sophie, who stood trembling nearby.

  The coachman jogged into the fray with his blunderbuss and held the men until the constable could be found.

  Sophie walked unsteadily back to the coach, rubbing her wrist, the captain beside her. She noticed Mavis’s face in the window, staring wide-eyed.

  Although relieved to be safe, and have her bag returned to her, Sophie was stunned by his violent strike. “You needn’t have done that,” she hissed.

  “I should have let him take your reticule?”

  “No. But they are only boys—not more than eighteen.”

  “I have killed men even younger.” The captain jerked open the carriage door. “Now, wait inside.”

  She climbed back into the carriage as bid, legs trembling.

  “Are you all right?” Mavis asked.

  “Did you see that?” Sophie whispered, feeling torn. “Of course I am grateful, but . . . such violence. What sort of man is he?”

  “He is a soldier, Sophie. A hardened one, by the looks of it.” Mavis squeezed her hand. “Were you frightened?”

  “I was more frightened by his reaction than I was of those boys.”

  Mavis bit her lip, brow furrowed. “It’s not too late, you know. If you are afraid of him, I could . . . take you to my sister’s in Bristol. You could have the child there, and then perhaps find a nice young couple to—”

  “No. I want to keep my child. Going to Bristol would not solve my problem.”

  The captain entered the carriage a few minutes later, the equipage lurching under his weight.

  He sent her a sidelong glance and asked darkly, “Having second thoughts?”

  Mrs. Thrupton spoke up, “Captain Overtree. Thank you for protecting my young friend. But I’m afraid we find your violent behavior quite shocking. It makes one wonder if you are able to control your temper. Can you give me some assurance that you will treat Miss Dupont in a gentlemanlike manner?”

  “If by ‘gentlemanlike’ you mean slow to act, servile, and soft, then no. I’m afraid I cannot oblige you. In my profession, that sort of behavior gets one killed. I haven’t the luxury of a tender conscience.”

  “Let us not mince words. I need to know that you will not ill use her.”

  “I will not ill use her. You have my word. I shall even promise not to touch her if that will chase the frightened fawn look from her eyes.”

  “Not touch her? I would not ask that. You shall be husband and wife, after all. Is that not so?”

  “That is up to Miss Dupont.”

  Sophie made no reply, and the carriage starting moving again.

  A short while later, they reached the Plymouth docks, where they would buy passage on one of the boats waiting there to carry eloping couples across the channel.

  When the carriage halted, Captain Overtree grasped the door latch and said over his shoulder, “I shall go and check with the harbormaster about a ship. That will give you five minutes to talk about me between yourselves. Please finish before I return.”

  chapter 5

  Sophie bid Mrs. Thrupton farewell at the bottom of the gangway.

  “You’re certain?” Mavis asked one last time.

  Sophie braved a smile. “Yes. Quite certain.” She embraced the woman and resisted the urge to hold on too tight or too long.

  She released her friend, avoided meeting the captain’s brooding gaze, and preceded him up the gangway.

  Together they crossed the deck, passing two other couples and half a dozen crewmen busy with ropes and baggage. He led her down a steep set of stairs toward the cabin he had purchased for the trip.

  “Be forewarned. Even the best cabins are small.” He opened the door for her, set his own kit on the floor, and surveyed the room.

  The cabin held a narrow bunk and a porthole high on the outside wall. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the space. Very close quarters indeed. Did he mean to share it with her? He would not fit in that bunk with her—unless their limbs were completely entwined. She swallowed at the thought. The ship tilted as it left its berth and moved toward open water. Her stomach roiled, and she pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  “Try to get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll go up on deck and leave you in peace. Lock the door behind me.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he left. A relief that was short-lived when the ship lurched to the side and then rose and fell. Her stomach lurched in reply. It would be a long night.

  The bedclothes looked dingy and smelled less than fresh, so Sophie laid her cloak over the bed and lay down fully clothed. Eventually she fell into an uneasy sleep.

  A few hours later, she rose, feeling ill. Bile soured the back of her throat. She quickly scanned the room, swiped up the basin, and held it in her lap.

  Someone knocked softly. “Miss Dupont? It’s me.”

  She recognized his low voice.

  “Don’t panic. I’ve only come to bring you something to e
at.”

  She rose on unsteady legs and unlocked the door. Captain Overtree stood there, candle lamp in one hand, a bowl of something in the other.

  “Thought you might be hungry . . .” He studied her face by candlelight. “Are you all right? You look unwell.”

  “Sea travel doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Ah. Sorry to hear it. Maybe eating something will help?”

  She took one whiff of the fish soup and her stomach wrung. She turned and retched into the basin. How mortifying! At least she need not worry he would find her attractive and be tempted to rush the honeymoon.

  “I’ll see if I can find some bread or something plain.” He left, taking the offending soup and the basin with him. Her ears burned in embarrassment to have him do so.

  He returned a short while later and handed her a hunk of crusty bread wrapped in brown paper.

  “Better?”

  She nodded and accepted it gratefully. “Thank you.” She nibbled a piece, then said, “I have managed a few hours of sleep, if you would like a turn.” She gestured toward the bunk with a nervous hand.

  He removed his hat. “Perhaps I’d better, or I shall not be fit for anything tomorrow.”

  He stretched out on the bunk fully clothed, crossing his hands over his chest. Eyes closed, he said, “How can I sleep with you watching me?”

  “Oh, sorry. Shall I go up and take some air while you sleep?”

  He opened his eyes. “No. Please stay. I won’t sleep if I have to worry about sailors ogling you. Or worse.”

  “Very well.”

  He closed his eyes again. She sat on a small stool in the corner and pretended not to watch him. He turned on his side—the scarred side of his face pressed into the pillow. A few minutes later, his breathing slowed and he apparently slept. Sophie leaned her head back against the wall, took deep breaths to ease her nausea, and prayed.

  The bed ropes creaked, and her eyes flew open, thinking he’d awakened. But he had only turned over in his sleep. She leaned near, looking more closely at the jagged, angry-looking scar snaking into his side-whiskers. She wondered how he’d gotten it but doubted she really wanted to know.

  When they neared St. Peter Port the following day, Sophie tidied her hair, donned her lace cap and shawl, and repacked her valise. Together they disembarked and easily found their way to the stately brown-brick Town Church overlooking the harbor—its tall steeple visible from the docks.