“Did I? Sorry. Just stretching my legs.”
Mr. Keith recanted, “I only meant that Mrs. Thrupton was always so busy overseeing her neighbor’s business as well as her own. I am surprised she could get away.”
Sophie pretended interest in the next course of boiled tongue and croquettes of chicken, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “It was very kind of her, yes.”
Wesley sawed at his piece of tongue. “An elopement, hmm? I am surprised monkish Marsh would countenance a scandal.”
“Wesley,” his mother admonished, “please have some consideration for your father’s poor nerves.”
“My nerves are perfectly well,” Mr. Overtree spoke up. “But elopement isn’t something we wish to dwell upon or share with our neighbors—for obvious reasons. Please endeavor to remember that in company, Wesley.”
Wesley nodded, chewed a bite, and then set down his fork. “I know!” he exclaimed, beaming first at his parents, then settling his smile on Sophie. “Perhaps I ought to paint a bridal portrait of my new sister.”
Sophie coughed into her goblet, then cleared her throat. “Thank you, but no. That isn’t necessary.”
“Sophie is right, Wesley,” Mrs. Overtree agreed. “If Stephen had wanted such a portrait, he would have commissioned one.”
“I doubt he had the time or even thought of it. Art is not exactly at the top of his priority list, is it?”
Mrs. Overtree looked from her son to Sophie and back again. “Wellifwe decide to pursue the idea, I am sure Mr. Benedict would be grateful for the commission and do a... commendable job.”
“Benedict? He’s a hack. I wouldn’t let him paint my pony.” Wesley spread his hands as though a great benefactor. “Come now, I insist. A wedding present. A portrait of Sophie in all her wedding finery.” He glanced at her, one brow raised. “Youdidwear something fine?”
She lifted her chin. “Not especially, no. What with the limited time and the sea journey and all.” She did not think Mrs. Thrupton’s silk shawl and cap would qualify as “fine” in the Overtrees’ minds.
“Ah. Well. Perhaps we might rectify that now.”
“No.” Mrs. Overtree adamantly shook her head. “Wesley, I don’t think Sophie wishes to spend hours in the company of a man she barely knows. It wouldn’t be... quite... right.”
“Oh, come my dear,” Mr. Overtree protested. “What would be improper about Wesley painting a portrait of his new sister? Why, he painted one of Kate, what, two years ago.”
“This is quite different.”
Did Mrs. Overtree suspect? Sophie wondered. Or did she simply want to discourage talk among the servants?
“Yes, but I detest that painting,” Kate pouted. “He gave me such a big nose.”
Wesley leaned toward his sister, a teasing light in his eye. “I didn’t give it to you, Kate. God did. Or perhaps Papa.”
Kate swatted his arm. “Then paint another of me, Wesley. More flattering. In fact,” she added with a mischievous air, “make me heart-stoppingly beautiful. We shall have prints made and send them to all the eligible bachelors in the land, and then I shall have my pick of handsome husbands.”
Sophie knew the girl was only joking, but Wesley shook his head.
“That is beyond my ability.”
Kate blinked, her smile falling.
Mrs. Overtree admonished, “Wesley!”
“What?” He looked in confusion from face to face. Comprehension dawned. “I simply meant I only paint realism—ask Sophie.” He looked around the table. “Oh, come now—you know I think Katie the most charming creature on earth. The most likeable poppet I’ve ever had the privilege of tickling to tears, or hiding a jar of noisy crickets beneath her bed.”
“I knew that was you!” Kate exclaimed. “You tried to blame Stephen, but I always knew.”
“I am certain your brother didn’t mean that as it sounded, Kate,” Sophie said, her heart going out to the girl. “Artists can be overly critical of any slight imperfection, which we all have, of course.”
Mrs. Overtree frowned. “I am sure Wesley meant no such criticism of his own sister, Sophie. You just don’t know him well enough to understand his teasing.”
“I meant no censure, Mrs. Overtree.”
