Wesley smiled fondly at his sister. “I realize Katie was only jesting, but she wouldn’t want me to paint an idealized or alluring portrait of her. She might gain the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of man.”
“Yes, she might...” Mr. Keith murmured, slanting a look at Sophie.
Sophie’s cheeks burned.
“Why do we not change the subject?” Mr. Overtree suggested. “I for one feel indigestion coming on, and we haven’t even had our pudding yet.”
“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Overtree exclaimed. “Is it your heart?”
“No, my love. It is not my heart. It is my stomach. Too much sour talk and rich food.”
Mrs. Overtree asked Wesley about his travels, and for several minutes the topic moved to more neutral ground. But then Mrs. Overtree asked to see his latest paintings from his winter in Lynmouth—the ones still crated up in his room.
What would his parents think to see their new daughter-in-law in such poses? Sophie wondered. The notion filled her with dread.
Wesley opened his mouth to reply, then with a swift glance at her, closed it again.
He said, “Perhaps later, Mamma. Now, acquaint me with all the parish news...”
Sophie released a tense breath. She prayed Wesley would leave the lid on that crate nailed shut. And the lid on their past too.
After dinner, Sophie excused herself to retire early. Mr. Keith rose and stepped to the door to open it for her, taking the opportunity to whisper an apology for his earlier rude comments.
Wesley watched them with a frown, brows raised in question, but she turned without acknowledging him. She feared he might follow her, but Mr. Keith, she noticed, clamped a hand on his arm.
Sophie had difficulty falling asleep that night, rolling one way, then the other. Sweet, lovely memories returned to torment her. Wesley’s affection. His praise of her talent and beauty. Then sour memories—his leaving, that dismissive note—wrestled with the sweet, until she felt quite nauseated.
She heard a floorboard creak and stilled. Then she heard slow, surreptitious footsteps somewhere nearby. Was it Wesley coming to her door? Would he dare enter her room? Surely not. Perhaps she should have locked it, and let the servants wonder what they may. Or perhaps she should rise and open it....
With a groan, she pulled the blankets over her head and willed sleep to come. And temptation to stay away.
chapter 22
Sophie did her best to avoid Wesley the next day, having her breakfast sent up on a tray and retreating to the privacy of her attic studio. The portrait she had begun of Captain Overtree was still covered in cloth, but she thought she might begin working on it again. Doing so would remind herself of the man she was married to, and keep his image always before her. She retrieved the canvas from where it waited, silent and shrouded against the wall, and carried it back to the easel in the center of the room, where the sunlight could shine on it once again.
The door opened behind her, and Sophie spun toward it.
Wesley stood in the threshold of her studio—her sanctuary, Stephen’s gift to her.
Pulse tripping, she asked, “What are you doing up here?”
He stepped inside and began to close the door behind him.
“Leave it open.”
He hesitated. “Do you think that wise?”
“I think it a wise precaution, yes.”
He met her gaze. “Are you sure you want the servants to hear what I might say to you?”
She swallowed and bit her lip, making no further protest.
He slowly closed the door with a click.
He began, “Katie mentioned your little studio up here. You cannot hide from me forever, you know. We need to talk.”
“Nothing you say will change anything,” she cautioned. “But I will listen if you want to talk.”
