He carefully gathered his tiny granddaughter in his arms, looked into her face, and gently swayed of long experience.
“What will you call her?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Mary Katherine, after Mamma.”
He glanced up swiftly, and she was touched to see tears brighten his eyes. “I think that an excellent notion. She would have liked that.”
They shared a look of poignant empathy.
Eventually he handed the child back and sat on the nearby chaise, simply watching them. He wore an expression she had seen so often—her father surveying a scene with his artistic eye, measuring and planning and appreciating.
But there was unusual warmth there too. And again that unexpected gleam of tears. He said, “Sitting there like that, the sunlight from the window making your hair fairer yet, the little girl in your arms...” His voice thickened. “You remind me of your mother so much. How she looked. How she looked at you...” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”
Sophie stared at him. Felt her mouth droop open. “Do you know, you’ve never told me that before.”
“Haven’t I?” He tucked his chin and shifted uneasily.
“Motherhood must agree with me,” she said with a smile to put him at his ease.
He returned the gesture. “I’m glad to hear it. I admit I have been worried about you. Sophie, I apologize for leaving you alone so often the last few years. Not looking after you as I should have. Neglecting you.”
“That’s all right, Papa. I am not a child any longer.”
“You will always be my child. And—as you will find out soon enough—Mary Katherine will always be your little girl. Your concern. If you don’t believe me now, I’ll remind you in about eighteen years.”
He grinned, then sobered. “I’ve missed you, Sophie. Your marrying and moving away made me realize how much I depended on you. Maurice is talented, but he can’t match your abilities in organization and dealing with wriggling children or unhappy patrons. Not to mention your ability to add life to the lifeless eyes I seem to paint.”
Sophie warmed at his praise.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what your plans are. I imagine you will have your hands full with Mary there for the foreseeable future. I did not expect you to leave Overtree Hall and come here in the first place, but if you decide to stay on, I hope you will consider returning to the studio. Working with me as my partner, rather than as my assistant.”
She looked at him in surprise. And delight. Not delight at the prospect of working in the studio again, but that he should acknowledge her contributions and abilities.
“That is very generous, Papa. As you say, I don’t know what my plans are at present. Captain Overtree is still recovering from his injuries in Brussels. And I am not sure if and when he will return to England or if his regiment might be sent elsewhere. Things in my life are uncertain. I don’t know if...” She couldn’t push the words over the sudden lump in her throat.I don’t know if he will even want me with him now that his parents know the truth. And if his dutykeeps him from home? I wouldn’t want to live in Overtree Hall again, not without Stephen there.
But there was no need to burden her father with her troubles and worries. Instead she finished lamely with, “I don’t know if I will have much time to paint. As you say, I will have my hands full with Mary.”
A dozen questions passed behind his eyes, and in the wrinkle of his brow Sophie saw concern. Would her husband provide for her if she chose not to live with his family while he was off with the army? If not, how would she support herself in the meantime? At least she guessed those were her father’s concerns. They were certainly some of hers.
Instead, he brightened. “Well, you have been busy working though, I see.”
He gestured toward the easel and several canvases against the wall. “May I look?”
Sophie fidgeted. “If you like.”
The first one he picked up was a new portrait she had painted of Captain Overtree, based on the preliminary drawings she had done at Overtree Hall. Her heart thudded to see his face, his blue eyes staring directly at her from beneath heavy brows.
Her father’s discerning gaze swept the red coat and epaulets, the lines of the face, the scar, the eyes. “An excellent likeness.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She had worked hard to remember every detail and to depict his features correctly. She didn’t want to forget his face. She glanced up, surprised to find her father no longer studying the portrait, but instead studying her.
“You love him, don’t you. I can see it.”
Her throat tightened. Tears warmed her eyes again. “Yes,” she breathed. Though she doubted Stephen would believe it—especially after he heard Wesley’s version of events—or his parents’.
