chapter 11
Later that afternoon, Captain Overtree left to attend a village council meeting. Alone and lonely, Sophie found herself thinking of Wesley. She supposed it was only natural, surrounded as she was by reminders of him—his paintings everywhere, his portrait, his family, his very home.
She remembered Mrs. Overtree pointing out the closed doors of Wesley’s bedchamber and studio during her tour of the house, and was curious to see them. She was also curious to see if the full-size portrait he’d painted of her last year might be inside. Apparently it was not on display anywhere in the house, as no one had mentioned it, nor having seen her somewhere before. What had he done with it?
But she knew she probably shouldn’t venture up there. What excuse could she give if caught?
Instead, she went and stood in front of the portrait of Wesley again, unable it seemed, to help herself. Gazing up at his likeness, she found her thoughts returning to the first year he’d come to Lynmouth....
The week after she had first met Wesley Overtree, the two again stood on the summit of Castle Rock as the sun began to sink in the sky.
She sensed his gaze on her profile and felt self-conscious, knowing her nose was not flattered by a side view.
He said, “Ah. My first impression was correct—the sunset indeed becomes you. You are quite beautiful. But I suppose you know that, Miss Dupont?”
She shook her head, too stunned to speak.
“Surely you have been told that before?”
Again she shook her head.
“I assume many of your father’s students and colleagues have asked to paint you. I don’t want to be tiresomely redundant, but—”
“No one has asked.”
“You must be joking.” His eyes widened. “Incredible. Blind fools... Then may I be the first?”
The first...
She shook her head. “How self-conscious I would feel. Father says it is beneath me. You know the reputation painters’ models have.”
“I would never think that of you, Miss Dupont. You are clearly a modest young lady of excellent character as well as beauty and talent.”
“You needn’t offer to be kind. I know I am not the feminine ideal.”
“No? Just leave that to me.”
Eventually she agreed.
He began on a small scale, sketching her however she happened to be dressed or wearing her hair. First, he painted only her head and shoulders, testing different hues to bring out the many colors of her hair and eyes. Then, he painted her full-length but in miniature, situating her in different poses—all very modest—to best capture her features.
And he had been right. She had been surprised the first time she saw her likeness. If beauty was in the eye of the beholder, Wesley Overtree certainly saw her as beautiful. In his rendering, her eyes seemed larger, more soulful, more arresting. The long slope of her nose proportionate to her oval face. Her cheekbones high, shadowed by a delicate blush. Looking at those first sketches, the woman gazing back at Sophie seemed almost afraid. Those large eyes pensive. Worried. But gradually they warmed, softened. Believed themselves as beautiful as he said they were.
Finally, he hit upon the pose, the composition he wanted to commit to a large canvas. And after that she had had to sit in that pose for several more days—looking at him over her shoulder. How her neck had ached.
He gave her time to rest and treated her with gentlemanlike respect throughout those days. He did not try to touch her but patiently gained her trust as though taming a wild fawn, until he had her eating from the palm of his hand.
When he departed that first spring, he left her quite in love with him. How she hoped he would return the following year. Maurice told her she was making a cake of herself, saying a wealthy, pretty boy like Wesley Overtree would never take a respectable interest in her. He, on the other hand, would. But Sophie continued to rebuff the impertinent fellow as gently and soundly as she could. Her thoughts, her hopes, were pinned on Wesley Overtree. The first man to tell her she was beautiful.
Sophie returned to the present with a sigh. There was no doubt in her mind that Wesley Overtree had found her beautiful. How special, how desirable she had felt in his presence. But what, she wondered, did Captain Stephen Overtree see when he looked at her? Apparently nothing irresistible.
She retreated to her bedchamber, stunned anew to think she was sharing it with Wesley’s brother. God, have mercy on us all.
That evening, Libby again helped her dress for dinner. Sophie didn’t know where the captain was, and the dressing room was silent, so she decided to go downstairs on her own. In the anteroom, she drew up short at the sight of a familiar figure slouched in an armchair, a newspaper spread on his lap, a glass of something in one hand, the other sleeve of his evening coat hanging limp. Carlton Keith.
He looked up at her, and a lazy smile lifted his face. “Ah, Miss Dupont. No, sorry. It’s Mrs. Overtree now. How could I forget.”
He set aside the paper and belatedly rose, performing a perfunctory bow and nearly spilling his brandy in the process.
