“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.
