The Painter's Daughter Page 7

  On the sea voyage back, Sophie realized their roles were now reversed. Captain Overtree was too ill to eat much or do more than suffer, curse every wave, and now and again to retch. She felt a modicum of pity but decided he was getting his just rewards. And, she admitted to herself, she was relieved he was too ill to make any advances.

  She brought him bread and a wet cloth to wipe his face, approaching the bunk cautiously as she did so. He reminded her of an untamed animal, temporarily subdued as though by a sedative that would soon wear off. She felt safe ministering to him now but reminded herself he was still dangerous.

  She knew she should be reasonable. It would not be realistic or fair to live as strangers, despite his assertion that theirs would be a marriage in name only. But she was in no hurry to change his mind. Memories of Wesley, his secret smiles and caresses, were too recent, too well remembered, too dear.

  Leaving the captain sleeping, she went and stood on the deck, breathing in the brisk sea air, refreshing after the dank confines of the cabin. The wind lifted her hair, just as it had so often atop Castle Rock. And on its current, memory took her back. . . .

  That day, more than a year ago, had begun like so many others. She had checked their inventory of paints, brushes, and canvases, then reviewed her father’s appointment diary, wishing for all their sakes he had more commissions scheduled. He did have two pupils coming at the end of the month. And one of their cliff-side cottages had been let by another painter due to arrive later that day, a Mr. Wesley Overtree. Probably another of the many young hopefuls who came to the area with dreams of capturing its wild beauty but without the skills to do so. It was a challenge for the most skilled artist. And certainly for her.

  She tied her smocked painting apron over her day dress and set about arranging her father’s brushes, which she had cleaned and laid out to dry the night before. She then mixed and prepared a fresh palette of paints, so he might continue his work in progress.

  Ingrid, their maid of all work, stepped in from the back kitchen, bringing her a cup of tea and another for her father, just as he descended from his room above.

  “Morning, Papa.” Sophie handed him his palette and tea.

  “Morning,” he murmured, looking bleary-eyed and in need of a shave. He’d been up late the night before with a party of artist friends visiting from London.

  He shuffled to his easel, positioned near the front window overlooking the Lynmouth harbor. There he sipped his tea and continued his portrait of Sir Thomas Acland, Baronet.

  Sophie went to her own easel at the back of the studio and set down her teacup, preparing to continue painting the gown of Sir Thomas’s wife. Flowing yards of silk in subtle tones of wine—burgundy in the shadows, to claret, to purplish-puce where sunshine had lightened the fabric. Her father had completed the fine detail work of Lady Acland’s face, enlisting Sophie’s help in adding liveliness to the woman’s bright eyes. And now it fell to her to finish the tedious dress and background, according to his specifications.

  She did not bother to pull shut the curtain that concealed her work area from the rest of the studio, as they would not open to the public for another hour. And she did not like to be shielded from her father’s eyes any longer than necessary when Maurice was near.

  Maurice O’Dell was the favored nephew of her father’s second wife. He had taken the young man under his wing at his wife’s request and had high hopes for him—saw him almost as the son he never had. Sophie could not deny the young man had talent, but he also had a quick tongue that could flatter and cut with equal skill, and had a way of looking at her that made her uneasy.

  He appeared suddenly at her side and whispered, “I’m painting Miss Roe’s hair today. But it isn’t as pretty as yours.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment she had ever received on her looks.

  “If I were painting your hair, Sophie, I would use old gold, bright gold, and copper.”

  “What’s that, Maurice?” her father interjected. “Old gold for Miss Roe’s hair? You must be joking.”

  The outside door opened and a man walked in. Sophie looked up and caught her breath.

  Before her stood the most handsome man she had ever seen. Slightly above average height and slender—his bearing graceful and confident. Wavy dark hair framed a striking face with fine features that were almost beautiful. Sophie was reminded of Guercino’s painting of David, except this man’s hair was not as long, and a day’s growth of beard made him look more masculine than the harp-carrying youth in the portrait. He was in his late twenties or perhaps thirty and was dressed in the garb of a wealthy gentleman, though he disdained to wear a cravat, his white shirt open at the neck beneath his coat and waistcoat.

  “Ah, Mr. Overtree!” Her father beamed. “You’ve arrived early. We didn’t expect you until tonight.”

  “An honor to see you again, sir.”

  Her father glanced over and gave a less-than-subtle jerk of his head, gesturing for her to close the curtain shielding her work area. He did not like to advertise the fact that she painted his backgrounds, especially to patrons or illustrious visitors.

  Sophie drew the curtain but did not miss the knowing glint in Mr. Overtree’s eyes.

  The two men exchanged greetings and pleasantries and news of mutual acquaintances in the art world.

  Then her father summoned her. “Sophie, come out here, if you please.”

  Sophie removed her apron and complied.

  “Sophie, meet Mr. Overtree. Mr. Overtree, my daughter, Sophia.” He added, “Mr. Overtree and I met in London, at a lecture of the Royal Academy of Arts.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dupont,” he said with an elegant bow, his golden-brown eyes brushing over her face.

  He was polite in his address, but his expression revealed no particular interest. Men rarely gave her a second look. They seemed universally to skim over her painfully slender figure and pale coloring in favor of curvy, dark-haired beauties, like the lushly beautiful Countess of Blessington, who epitomized the feminine ideal and had artists vying for the privilege of painting her—her father and his contemporaries among them.

  Had the visitor been less august, Mr. Dupont would probably have assigned Maurice or even Sophie the task of trudging up the steep path to their clutch of cliff-side cottages. But in this instance, her father said he would show Mr. Overtree the accommodations himself, having reserved their largest and best cottage for him.

  Nothing was too much trouble, and he announced his assistant would carry his bags. Maurice frowned darkly at this but complied.

  Her father gestured the man out the door, leaving his tea to cool and his paints to dry. Sophie sighed. She would have to begin all over again when he returned.

  Later that afternoon, Sophie donned bonnet, pelisse, and gloves for her usual walk. It was the time of day she liked best. She never tired of watching the sunset from Castle Rock, a precipice high above the Bristol Channel. The wind up there would be brisk at this time of year, but she wrapped a muffler around her neck as she left, taking her sketchbook with her.

  She walked at a steady pace up the steep, serpentine path. The Valley of Rocks lay nestled between two ridges of hills, dotted with huge stones piled atop one another like block towers left by giant children. Accustomed to the exercise, she ascended with little effort, her breathing only slightly taxed, to the headland above the valley. To the left, points of land fingered into the sea one after another. Before her, the blue sea to the horizon, and to the right, the faint line of the Welsh coast.

  It was her favorite place on earth.

  She set down her sketchbook and simply savored the view.

  “So this is what all the fuss is about.”

  Startled by the voice, she turned. She’d heard no one approach over the wind.

  It was Mr. Overtree. His gaze not on her but on the rocky fingers fading into the shimmering sunset.

  “Your father suggested I walk out here, but I have long wanted to see it anyway, b
ased on another artist’s recommendation. Don’t tell him I said so.” He sent her a grin. “Thomas Gainsborough described Lynmouth as ‘the most delightful place for a landscape painter this country can boast.’”

  “I know. Why do you think my father began coming here in the first place?”

  “Did he?”

  She nodded. “He spent his honeymoon here.”

  “Your father?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Thomas Gainsborough. And the poet Percy Shelley—I met him here a few years ago.”

  Mr. Overtree inhaled, looking over the valley, the craggy rock formations, the sea. Then he asked, “It does beg to be painted, doesn’t it?” He gestured behind her. “Is that your sketchbook lying against the rocks?”

  “Oh . . . yes. I sketch a bit for my own pleasure.”

  “When you are not painting for your father, that is?” His brown eyes shone with humor.

  “I only paint backgrounds and the like.”

  “And skillfully, by the looks of it.”

  “Thank you, but don’t mention it. He prefers to keep it quiet.”

  He shrugged. “Very well.”

  Mr. Overtree didn’t ask to see the drawings in her sketchbook, Sophie noticed. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or slightly offended.

  “He needn’t be self-conscious, you know,” he added. “Many painters have assistants. Though I thought that Maurice fellow was his.”

  “He is. Father is training him.”

  “To take over for you . . . or to marry you?”

  She gaped. “Not to marry me, I assure you!”

  “Only teasing.” He grinned at her again, his eyes lingering on her face in a way that was partly studious and perhaps slightly admiring. In general, she detested when artists looked at her closely—noticing the long slope of her nose. Her thin face. Her thin . . . everything.

  “So there is nothing going on between you and Mr. O’Dell?” Mr. Overtree asked.

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “He seems to think there is.”

  “Then he has a vivid imagination.”

  Mr. Overtree said quietly, “Yes, I fear he does.”

  She again felt his eyes lingering on her profile, but when she glanced up, he shifted his gaze.

  “Ah, the magic hour. . . .” he murmured.

  Before them, the sun sunk low, sending shafts of golden sunlight over the sea, the land, over each of them.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Why do you think I come out here almost every evening?”

  “Because the sunset becomes you?”

  She laughed and glanced at him shyly. “If it does, there are only the wild goats and gulls to notice.”

  “I hope you shan’t mind some company while I’m here.”

  She met his earnest gaze. “Not at all. It isn’t as though I own the place. I am willing to share, if you are.”

  “I am indeed.”

  She smiled at Mr. Overtree but quickly looked away. He was almost painfully handsome, not to mention charming. She would be wise to guard her heart. A man like him was unlikely to take an interest in her.

  Or so she’d thought.

  Standing on deck, Sophie shook off her reverie and returned to reality, and to the small cabin she shared with the stranger she had married.

  When their ship returned to the Plymouth docks, Stephen led the way to the nearest coaching inn and booked passage to Bath. While they waited in the parlour for their coach to be called, he wrote a few lines to his parents.

  Unlike Sophie, he had not sent a letter to his family before leaving Lynmouth. He supposed he wished to shield himself from embarrassment if she backed out of their marriage at the last minute. Now that they’d returned to Plymouth as man and wife, he hoped a letter would give his parents time to lay aside their disappointment that he had not married some well-connected woman of fortune.

  As a younger man, he had once thought he would marry someone known to them all. But after she directed her affections elsewhere—and war had wrought its changes—he’d given up the notion. Stephen thought his parents should be glad—if not shocked—that he had married at all, considering he had asserted for several years now that he had no plans to do so.

  Dear Mamma and Papa,

  I am writing to let you know that I have taken a wife, Miss Sophie Dupont, whom I met in the course of my travels to find Wesley. Unfortunately, Wesley had left for Italy before I reached Lynmouth, so I was unsuccessful in my mission to send him home.

  I know my marriage will come as a surprise to you. But hopefully not an unhappy one. Because I have little time before I must rejoin my regiment, we were married on the Island of Guernsey. Miss Dupont’s friend and neighbor, Mrs. Mavis Thrupton, acted as chaperone on the journey.

  We travel first to Bath, so I may become acquainted with her father and his family. Then I shall bring her home to you. I trust you will welcome her warmly.

  Sincerely,

  Stephen

  He blotted and sealed the letter, preparing it for the post. Would his parents welcome Sophie warmly? Somehow Stephen doubted it.

  chapter 7

  On the journey to Bath, Sophie found Captain Overtree even quieter than usual and wondered if he dreaded the coming visit as much as she did. Or perhaps he was still suffering the ill effects of drink. The captain had insisted they call on her family before he returned to his regiment, to prove the husband she had written about was no fiction created to explain away a child as some wartime “widows” did in an attempt to establish respectability. He wanted no one to question the validity of their marriage. Besides, there was no point in delaying the visit, he asserted, as Bath lay between Plymouth and his family’s estate.

  She appreciated the sentiment but did not look forward to explaining their rushed marriage to her father and stepmother in person—or to pretending to be a happily married couple in front of them, even for a few days. She certainly hoped her father had received her letter, so the worst of the shock would have passed.

  Beside the captain in the rocking carriage, Sophie lapsed into silence as well, concentrating on breathing deeply to keep her own nausea at bay.

  Several hours later, the coachman directed the horses into the yard of the Westgate, an old coaching inn near the heart of the city. There a groom opened the door and offered his hand to help Sophie alight, her legs stiff after the long confinement.

  Inhaling welcome fresh air, she looked across the courtyard to the Roman baths and Pump Room to gain her bearings.

  Captain Overtree alighted beside her, bags in hand, and surveyed the busy innyard. “Shall we find a hack?”

  “The house isn’t far. And I, for one, long to walk, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  She led the way north, up Lansdown Street. The tall, narrow terraced houses stood like books shelved side by side—white, with black wrought-iron gates.

  She stopped before Number 6. “Here we are.”

  He shifted the bags to one hand and opened the gate for her. “Anything we need to talk about before we go in?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. Should she warn him about her stepmother? The children?

  The door opened, and her two little stepsisters dashed out, launching themselves at her legs.

  “Sophie! What have you brought us?” six-year-old Martha asked.

  Lyddie, the eldest at eight, eyed the captain warily. “Who is this man?”

  Oh dear. Perhaps they had not yet received her letter.

  Her father stepped out. “Sophie. Here you are, as promised. How relieved I am to see you. We only received your letter yesterday. I could not credit it.” He looked up at the tall man beside her. “Captain Overtree, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The captain held out his hand, and her father hesitated only a moment before shaking it.

  “You look nothing like your brother.”

  “So I am often told.”

  Her father turned back to her. “And my Sophie. A married wo
man. Can it really be true?”

  “I am, Papa.” She held out her hand, showing him the ring on her finger.

  He squinted at it. “Your mother’s ring?”

  “Yes. I thought she would like me to wear it.”

  “Yes. And so do I. Well, come in. Mrs. Dupont will wish to see you.” He said the latter dutifully but without conviction.

  Inside, they left their bags in the vestibule and followed her father into the drawing room.

  Augusta O’Dell Dupont sat on the sofa, her prized son, John, four years old and quite plump, beside her. The two little girls crowded around. Mrs. Dupont wore an ornate overdress atop her plain muslin, and a fresh cap in which to receive callers. Stiff, dark pin curls circled her forehead like a second cap.

  Sophie neared as if approaching a queen about to sentence her to the tower.

  “Hello. Allow me to introduce Captain Overtree. My . . . husband.”

  “Well, is he or isn’t he?” her stepmother asked, her disapproving eyes snapping with questions.

  “I am, madam,” the captain replied in her stead. “And we have a copy of the marriage license to prove it.”

  “May I see it?”

  Sophie blinked. “Why?”

  In lieu of answering, the woman extended a long graceful hand.

  Sophie pulled the license from her reticule, unfolded it, and handed it to her.

  She skimmed it. “I cannot say I approve of your way of getting a husband,” she said. “But everything seems to be in order. Guernsey, hmm? We shall keep that to ourselves.”

  She handed it back. “I would have ordered a finer dinner, had I more notice you were coming. As it is, you will have to make do with a plain family dinner of fish and vegetables. And it’s too late to send Betsy for another bream. I trust you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I’m not very hungry. Captain Overtree may have mine.”