Would he even come to see her there in Lynmouth once he returned? Perhaps she had been rash in leaving. If Mr. Keith was successful in securing his release and bringing him home, the captain would not want to travel again to see his wayward wife after a journey of such a distance. Not with his injuries. And she would not be fit to travel for at least a month. If Mavis had her way, she’d barely leave her bed in that time. Or even longer. Perhaps she should have stayed at Overtree Hall. But she quailed at the thought of being there, now that his parents knew her past and condemned her for it.
Her father set down the portrait and turned to regard the one on the easel, nearly finished.
“My goodness! Mavis Thrupton has never looked so lovely. And that’s saying a great deal, considering how many artists painted her in her younger days.”
“Thank you. That one is already sold, Papa,” she added quietly, feeling a little sprout of hopefully not improper pride.
His brow furrowed. “Sold? My dear, Mavis has already been quite generous in inviting you to lodge here, I don’t think—”
“No! Mavis didn’t buy it,” she quickly corrected him. “Of course she would be welcome to have it for nothing if she wanted. But a certain gentleman offered a very fine price, and she said I couldn’t refuse. Not when I could paint another of her whenever I liked, living with the world-famous model as I do.” Sophie grinned to recall Mavis’s saucy comment.
“Which gentleman?” her father asked.
“Sir Frederick Nevill.”
“Nevill?” Her father whistled. “He has a good eye, Sophie. That’s a great compliment.”
“Oh, I think it’s more of a compliment to Mavis. He’s come to admire her.”
“Has he indeed? Well, good for her.”
“Good for us both.”
Even if the sale was not from a completely neutral party, Sophie’s confidence and hope for the future was buoyed by her first sale—just a few days before the birth of her child. Who knew? Perhaps she would sell others, take commissions of her own, and even support herself by painting, should worse come to worst.
Her father looked at another canvas, left out in the open to dry. “And this new landscape... It is quite good, Sophie.”
“Thank you, Papa, but you needn’t say so.”
“It’s true! Though as your father I suppose I am not purely objective. I like this perspective of Castle Rock. Would you mind if I displayed it in the studio? I’ve decided to stay on until Christmas, since I’m here already. There are a great many tourists about, taking in the sights on these fine, autumn days.”
“Display it to sell, you mean?”
“Yes. If there is interest. If nothing else, it will draw people into the shop.”
She nodded. “Of course. If you think it might help.”
“Thank you. And I shall try not to burst my buttons when I tell people my daughter painted it.”
Sophie had put off writing a letter to the Overtrees, fearing it might spur Wesley to come there, perhaps even to demand his paternal rights. And in those tender early days of motherhood, she had not been prepared physically or emotionally to face another confrontation. But her conscience would not allow her to put it off any longer. After her father departed, Sophie borrowed Mrs. Thrupton’s lap desk, quill, and ink and wrote the promised letter to the Overtrees.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Overtree and family,
I am writing to announce the good news of the safe delivery of...
Sophie paused. Was it presumptuous to refer to Mary Katherine astheirgrandchild? The girl was their flesh and blood, whether they considered her legitimate or not. Whether they considered her Wesley’s child or Stephen’s.
Sophie took a deep breath, dipped her quill, and continued.
your grandchild. She is healthy and strong, and reminds me quite a bit of your Kate. I have decided to name her Mary Katherine, after my own beloved mother and your dear daughter. I hope that meets with everyone’s approval.
She didn’t specify whose approval she most wanted—Stephen’s.
Sophie finished her letter, and then began a similar one to Captain Overtree. She wasn’t sure it would reach him in Brussels, or if he was already on his way home. She prayed for him with every word she wrote, hoping he would believe her when she said she missed him with all her heart.
chapter 33
Stephen leaned forward to look out the post-chaise window, then leaned back against the upholstered seat.
