The Painter's Daughter Read online

  Lyddie smiled. “Me too.”

  “Me three!”

  “Shh. Very well. They’re just little made-up ditties. But if you insist, I shall try. You all must help me. Once upon a time there was a . . .”

  “Beautiful princess!”

  Lyddie frowned. “Martha, you always say that.”

  “Then how about a plain princess instead?” Sophie suggested. “A more . . . realistic tale?”

  “Very welllll . . .” Martha pouted.

  “Once upon a time there was a plain princess. One day, while she was . . . ?”

  “Outside in the garden.”

  “One day when she was outside in the garden, she took her easel and paints with her. She painted the colorful flowers and fruits she saw there, wishing she were half as beautiful as just one of the most ordinary blooms. Suddenly, whom should she meet, but. . . .”

  “A big hungry bear!” the six-year-old cried.

  Captain Overtree gave the child a lopsided grin. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Oh, Martha. Not that again.”

  Sophie nodded. “That’s fine, Martha. She met a big hungry bear. So, thinking quickly, she picked up her magic paintbrush and painted a . . . ?”

  Lyddie stole a shy glance at him and said, “A brave soldier.”

  Sophie hesitated only a moment. “Right. Good idea. She quickly painted a brave soldier.”

  “A cap’in!” Martha insisted.

  “A brave captain. In a red coat, and a . . . ?” Sophie hesitated, encircling her head with her hands.

  “A black hat,” he supplied.

  “And a sword!” Martha added.

  Sophie bit her lip. Were they to have violence right there in the little girls’ bedchamber, in one of her princess stories? She decided to ignore the suggestion. “The brave soldier came to life, leapt from the canvas, faced the snarling bear and . . .”

  She looked nervously at the captain, hoping he would follow her lead, wincing in anticipation of a bloody stab or decapitation.

  Apparently ignoring her in favor of their captive audience, he said, “And thinking quickly, the soldier drew his sword and from the painting cut a handful of fruit, which had become real, and offered it to the bear in exchange for the lady’s life. The bear gobbled down the fruit, belched, and slunk back into the wood for a nap.”

  Martha giggled. Lyddie pressed a hand over her mouth in delight.

  “The end,” Sophie finished in relief.

  The girls clapped.

  Sophie looked at the captain. He met her gaze, eyes warm with humor.

  At dawn the next morning, Stephen was awoken by quiet footsteps. He saw Sophie tiptoe into the room, gingerly lift the bedclothes, and slip into bed with her stepsisters. He guessed she’d been down working in her father’s studio again.

  He waited until her breathing had slowed into a regular, relaxed rhythm, then rose and quickly dressed. Curious, he slipped from the room and down the stairs.

  He inched open the studio door, expecting to find the room empty. Instead Mr. Dupont stood there in dressing gown and slippers, chin propped in his hand.

  He glanced over. “Ah, Captain. Good morning.”

  “Mr. Dupont.”

  “Do you see the eyes? How alive they look? How natural?”

  Stephen crossed the room and stood beside him. “Yes,” he agreed. He could not have verbalized specifically what had been changed, but it seemed a marked improvement over the face he’d glimpsed before.

  Mr. Dupont mused aloud, “Why is it, Captain, that we only appreciate what we have after it is gone? If only the thought of losing something or someone would cause us to value it while it’s right under our nose.”

  Stephen nodded. He was already thinking about—and dreading—losing Sophie. “I understand how you feel, sir.”

  Not removing his eyes from the painting, Mr. Dupont said quietly, “Promise me you will take good care of her, Captain.”

  Stephen drew in a long breath. “I would love nothing more than to make that promise, sir, but I cannot. I will very soon have to leave her. I have rarely wished for the luxury of staying at hearth and home more than I do now. I cannot. However, I assure you that my family will take good care of her. She will have everything she needs at Overtree Hall. The best doctor in the county lives not two miles from us.”

  Mr. Dupont turned to frown at him. “Doctor? Why on earth should Sophie need a doctor?”

  Stephen inwardly cursed his undisciplined mouth. “I only meant . . . should she have some cold or trifling malady . . .”

  The man’s eyes measured his. “Ah. Well. Considering your talk of twins yesterday, I guess there may be more to the story, but I don’t think I ought to ask.”

  The man was sharper than he seemed. Stephen felt his ears heat at the implication of his father-in-law’s words, as though he had done something to be embarrassed about. He did not defend himself. He would gladly take the blame if he could.

  Along with her favorite drawing and painting supplies, Sophie packed her best clothes and two evening gowns she had not bothered to take with her to rustic Lynmouth. She imagined she would need her finest things to pass muster at Overtree Hall. She surveyed the room and her dressing chest, wondering what else she should take with her, having no idea how long it might be until she returned to visit.

  When she was ready, the captain carried her extra valise as well as his own, and together they went downstairs to the vestibule, where the Duponts had assembled to bid them farewell.

  “This Overtree Hall,” Mrs. Dupont began. “It is not some remote place far off the beaten path, is it? Not some gated castle or walled estate that we could not visit at some point to assure ourselves Sophie is well looked after?”

  Sophie felt embarrassed at the woman’s presumption. “But . . . remember I have never even been there myself. It is not my prerogative to invite others.”

  “Nonsense. You are their daughter-in-law. And if you take up residence there as Captain Overtree seems determined you shall, then we have every right to visit. We are your family. They cannot object to that.”

  Captain Overtree spoke up. “Of course not. If you wanted to visit for a few days as we have here, you would be most . . . My family would no doubt graciously receive you.”

  Augusta Dupont’s eyes flashed with knowing irritation. Though she was not a pleasant woman, no one could doubt her quick intelligence.

  She smiled thinly. “Remember, Captain. Though our acquaintance with you is of short duration, my husband has known your brother for above two years, and hosted him in Lynmouth for many weeks at a time.”

  “My brother is not often at home,” the captain said. “But as you say, Mr. Dupont would of course be more than welcome.”

  chapter 8

  They traveled north in a hired chaise and into the rolling countryside of rural Gloucestershire. Through the window, Sophie saw meadows dotted with sheep, charming villages, and stone cottages with thatched roofs. When they passed through the bustling village of Moreton-en-Marsh and into smaller Wickbury, Captain Overtree announced they were almost there. Leaving the cluster of shops behind, they rounded a bend and traveled up a tree-lined lane. Ahead stood a tall, old manor of golden-blond stone, gabled all around. Just to the right of the house, a battlemented church tower rose through the trees.

  At the end of the lane, they passed through an arched gateway of the same stone and into a courtyard. From the carriage window, the captain pointed out the stables on the left and churchyard on the right. “And this”—he pointed upward toward the imposing four stories—“is Overtree Hall.”

  Closer now, she admired the full-height bays on either side of the manor’s front door, and banks of mullioned windows. He and Wesley had grown up here? How small and ordinary he must have found their terraced house in Bath, not to mention her father’s studio in Lynmouth. She felt more out of her element than ever.

  The coach halted on the pea-gravel drive. A footman strode out to help them alight,
and the captain gestured for her to precede him up the few stairs and through the door, held open by yet another liveried footman.

  From the vestibule they passed through an ornate oak screen into a two-story hall with a musicians’ gallery high above one end. It seemed familiar to Sophie for some reason, as though she had seen it before.

  The footman took their coats and informed the captain that his parents were in the white parlour. “Shall I announce you and your guest, sir?”

  “This is my wife, Edgar. Mrs. Overtree.”

  The young man’s eyebrows rose high. “Mrs. Overtree!” He blushed and bowed.

  She smiled at the nervous young man. She knew how he felt. She was nervous too.

  “And no need to announce us, thank you,” the captain added. “I know the way.”

  The captain led her across the hall, down a corridor, and into a nearby room. For all its windows, the dark paneling throughout seemed to drain the light from the place, giving it a grim, melancholy feel. Or perhaps Sophie’s opinion was colored by her anxiety.

  Inside the small parlour, a middle-aged man and woman set aside their books and rose from matching armchairs.

  “Stephen, welcome home,” his father said. “And this must be the Miss Dupont you wrote about. Forgive me—Mrs. Overtree. How do you do.”

  “Sophie, these are my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Overtree.”

  Sophie curtsied and gripped her hands to keep them from trembling. She had imagined meeting Wesley’s parents one day, but never under these circumstances.

  Mr. Overtree was a thin man with smallish eyes and long nose set in a mild, studious face. His brown hair was shot through with silver, especially at the side-whiskers. His wife was a tall, handsome woman. Her face was gentle and attractive, though softened with age, her eyes cool and cautious.

  “Is it Sophie, or Sophia . . . ?” she asked.

  “My given name is Sophia Margaretha Dupont, but I have been Sophie for as long as I can remember.”

  “Margaretha? That is an unusual pronunciation, is it not?”

  “It’s Dutch. My mother’s family was from Holland.”

  “Interesting. And your father is . . . French?”

  “Only distantly.”

  The captain offered, “Sophie’s father is a portrait painter of some renown. Claude Dupont.”

  “Dupont. I believe I recall Wesley mentioning the name,” his father said. “So since you were not successful in finding Wesley, you found a wife instead?” The man smiled, attempting a joke, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  “You must forgive us,” Mrs. Overtree added. “We have only just received your letter and are still struggling to credit the news.”

  “It is quite true, Mamma, I assure you.”

  An older man with excellent posture came striding into the room. “Stephen, my boy. Welcome back. I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He turned to her. “Sophie, this is my grandfather, Colonel Horton. Sir, my . . . Mrs. Overtree.”

  “How do you do, my dear. How do you do.” The older man’s smile was warm and genuine. His skin was weathered, his grey hair thinning, but he was still a handsome man.

  He clapped Stephen’s shoulder. “Decided to take the plunge with this fellow, did you? Brave woman. I applaud your courage.” His eyes twinkled.

  “I am afraid you have quite shocked your mother and me,” Mr. Overtree said with an uneasy glance at his wife. “I never expected something so impetuous from you, Stephen. Sounds like something Wesley would do.”

  The captain answered coolly, “Yes, it does.”

  Colonel Horton beamed at his grandson. “I don’t find it so shocking. Passion runs in the family. When we see what we want, nothing stops us—ay, my boy?”

  “Something like that.” The captain turned to his mother. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I thought we might give Sophie one of the guest rooms. Or she could have my room, and I shall—”

  “Not a bit of it,” Colonel Horton said. “It’s all decided. You two shall have my rooms.” He turned to Sophie and explained, “I lost my dear wife, you see, these three years gone. I don’t need all that space, or two dressing rooms, just for me. It’s time.”

  “No, Grandfather, I won’t put you out of your apartment.”

  “Already done. I have moved my kit into your room. The maids are still cleaning, but all shall be in order shortly, Mrs. Hill assures me.”

  “Really, there is no need,” Captain Overtree protested. “Sophie would probably sleep more soundly in one of the guest rooms. Without me, that is. I snore terribly.”

  “Oh? Since when?” his mother asked.

  Sophie wondered if he protested more for her sake or his.

  “I am restless at night,” he went on. “All my years with the regiment, I suppose. Camping in dangerous places. I’d hate to keep her awake. . . .”

  “Nonsense! You two are newly wed,” his grandfather insisted. “Plenty of time to sleep later.”

  His mother added, “You must grow accustomed to one another eventually. Besides, Miss Blake may wish to stay, with her father gone to town so frequently. And one never knows when your Mr. Keith might turn up. So all our rooms are accounted for. Besides, your grandfather has already gone to quite a bit of effort to sort through and box up his things, and I helped with Mamma’s.”

  “It’s all right, my . . . Captain,” Sophie spoke up. “You are kind to think of me, but I am sure I shall sleep perfectly well. Besides, it shall only be—” She broke off. She had been about to say it would only be for a few days, but what sort of bride would eagerly anticipate her new husband’s imminent departure? Instead she finished lamely, “It shall only take a day or two to grow accustomed to my new surroundings.”

  The captain sent her a sidelong glance, then said to his grandfather, “I . . . don’t know what to say, sir.”

  The older man grinned. “Thank you will suffice. Your boyhood bed isn’t much wider than an army cot. You shall thank me in the morning, I don’t doubt.” He winked at his grandson and slapped his other shoulder.

  Sophie felt her neck heat at the implication. Everyone else ignored it.

  “That’s settled then,” Mrs. Overtree said, injecting a cheerful note into her voice. “You traveled without a maid, Mi . . .” She hesitated. “How strange. I don’t know what to call you. I am afraid I shall struggle to call you Mrs. Overtree, which has been my name for ages.”

  “Two Mrs. Overtrees under one roof,” the colonel said. “What a bounty of blessings.”

  “Please, call me Sophie,” she offered.

  “Very well.” Mrs. Overtree stepped to the wall and pulled a cord. In a few moments one of the footmen appeared. “James, please see that Captain and Mrs. Overtree’s baggage is carried to the blue bedchamber, if you please. And ask Libby to attend the new Mrs. Overtree. She hasn’t a maid of her own.”

  Captain Overtree glanced around the parlour. “Where is Kate?”

  “I believe she is with Miss Blake at Windmere. You must realize that not everyone will be happy about the news, Stephen.”

  Sophie bit her lip. Did she mean Stephen’s sister would not be happy about their marriage, or this neighbor, Miss Blake? She thought again of hearing the captain murmur the name “Jenny” in his sleep. Was Miss Blake’s given name Jenny? Might he have planned to marry her? Sophie hoped not. Would it be worse than learning his own sister disapproved the match? She was not sure.

  “That is unfortunate,” the captain replied. “But the opinion of others was not the primary factor in my decision to marry.”

  “No? And what was?” his mother asked.

  “Well, it will be time for dinner before we know it,” the colonel interrupted. “Perhaps we should let these two go up and get settled.”

  Mrs. Overtree sent her father a knowing glance, then drew herself up. “Quite right, Papa. No doubt they will wish to rest before changing for dinner.”

  The captain led the way up the stairs
and along the corridor. “I’m sorry about that. I had not anticipated this maneuver of Grandfather’s.”

  “It is very kind of him, really. He naturally assumes we would . . . wish to be together.”

  “I must say, you are handling this well.” He opened the door. “Remember, it will only be for a few days.”

  She reminded herself of that fact by the moment.

  The room was large and lovely but somewhat formal, with ornate oak furniture, floral draperies, and bed-curtains of primrose and green.

  Stephen looked around. “Yes, I can see why Grandfather thought you might like this room. I am surprised he left it furnished to Grandmother’s taste even after she passed away.”

  “Are you? Apparently, he was quite devoted to her.”

  “Yes, he was. He is.”

  Along with a four-poster bed, there were two armchairs, a desk, dressing table, cheval mirror, and—as the captain discreetly pointed out—a hidden commode.

  “There are his and hers dressing rooms with separate, outside entrances for valet and lady’s maid. Here is yours.”

  She followed him to the adjoining door and peeked inside. The small room had been overtaken by wardrobes, built-in gown drawers, and deep shelves for bandboxes. There was barely enough space to turn around inside, let alone change clothes. No wonder the dressing table and long mirror remained in the bedchamber itself.

  He gestured toward the opposite side of the room. “Mine is not so crammed. And it has a decent sofa. I can sleep there for the time being.”

  For the time being? Why had he phrased it like that? Did he anticipate things between them would change in future—especially when he’d said he didn’t think they had a future?

  Perhaps she should have objected, insisted he share the bed, but she did not.

  A maid scratched on the door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. “Ma’am. Sir. May I help you unpack? Or would you like to rest first?”

  “Rest. Definitely,” Sophie answered.

  “Very good, ma’am. I’ll come back in an hour to help you dress.”

  “Thank you . . . Libby, was it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”