Her father glanced over and gave a less-than-subtle jerk of his head, gesturing for her to close the curtain shielding her work area. He did not like to advertise the fact that she painted his backgrounds, especially to patrons or illustrious visitors.
Sophie drew the curtain but did not miss the knowing glint in Mr. Overtree’s eyes.
The two men exchanged greetings and pleasantries and news of mutual acquaintances in the art world.
Then her father summoned her. “Sophie, come out here, if you please.”
Sophie removed her apron and complied.
“Sophie, meet Mr. Overtree. Mr. Overtree, my daughter, Sophia.” He added, “Mr. Overtree and I met in London, at a lecture of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dupont,” he said with an elegant bow, his golden-brown eyes brushing over her face.
He was polite in his address, but his expression revealed no particular interest. Men rarely gave her a second look. They seemed universally to skim over her painfully slender figure and pale coloring in favor of curvy, dark-haired beauties, like the lushly beautiful Countess of Blessington, who epitomized the feminine ideal and had artists vying for the privilege of painting her—her father and his contemporaries among them.
Had the visitor been less august, Mr. Dupont would probably have assigned Maurice or even Sophie the task of trudging up the steep path to their clutch of cliff-side cottages. But in this instance, her father said he would show Mr. Overtree the accommodations himself, having reserved their largest and best cottage for him.
Nothing was too much trouble, and he announced his assistant would carry his bags. Maurice frowned darkly at this but complied.
Her father gestured the man out the door, leaving his tea to cool and his paints to dry. Sophie sighed. She would have to begin all over again when he returned.
Later that afternoon, Sophie donned bonnet, pelisse, and gloves for her usual walk. It was the time of day she liked best. She never tired of watching the sunset from Castle Rock, a precipice high above the Bristol Channel. The wind up there would be brisk at this time of year, but she wrapped a muffler around her neck as she left, taking her sketchbook with her.
She walked at a steady pace up the steep, serpentine path. The Valley of Rocks lay nestled between two ridges of hills, dotted with huge stones piled atop one another like block towers left by giant children. Accustomed to the exercise, she ascended with little effort, her breathing only slightly taxed, to the headland above the valley. To the left, points of land fingered into the sea one after another. Before her, the blue sea to the horizon, and to the right, the faint line of the Welsh coast.
It was her favorite place on earth.
She set down her sketchbook and simply savored the view.
“So this is what all the fuss is about.”
Startled by the voice, she turned. She’d heard no one approach over the wind.
It was Mr. Overtree. His gaze not on her but on the rocky fingers fading into the shimmering sunset.
“Your father suggested I walk out here, but I have long wanted to see it anyway, based on another artist’s recommendation. Don’t tell him I said so.” He sent her a grin. “Thomas Gainsborough described Lynmouth as ‘the most delightful place for a landscape painter this country can boast.’”
“I know. Why do you think my father began coming here in the first place?”
“Did he?”
She nodded. “He spent his honeymoon here.”
“Your father?”
“No.” She laughed. “Thomas Gainsborough. And the poet Percy Shelley—I met him here a few years ago.”
Mr. Overtree inhaled, looking over the valley, the craggy rock formations, the sea. Then he asked, “It does beg to be painted, doesn’t it?” He gestured behind her. “Is that your sketchbook lying against the rocks?”
“Oh... yes. I sketch a bit for my own pleasure.”
“When you are not painting for your father, that is?” His brown eyes shone with humor.
“I only paint backgrounds and the like.”
“And skillfully, by the looks of it.”
“Thank you, but don’t mention it. He prefers to keep it quiet.”
