Then she saw a crate in the corner.
Heart thumping, she crossed to it on tiptoe, not sure whose room was below this one and not wanting to announce her presence. She scanned the direction and recognized Maurice’s handwriting. Here, after all, were the paintings she and the captain had packed away. Then what was in the crate she had seen Stephen and Edgar carrying up to the attic?
She bent to look closer and noticed with relief that this crate was still nailed shut. She assumed—hoped—Wesley’s parents wouldn’t open it without him present.
Sophie moved on and fingered through his brushes, remembering the long, capable fingers that had held them. Held her... Then she looked through the canvases propped against the walls. She recognized several Lynmouth landscapes—the harbor, the Valley of Rocks, the village itself. But nothing of her. She was relieved, yet still wondered what became of that large portrait.
She stepped to the easel to assure herself the canvas it held was not the one of her. She lifted the cloth and recognized the painting with a little jolt, though she was not its subject. Now she understood why the hall in this house had seemed familiar when she first arrived. She had seen this colorful scene before, during Wesley’s first winter in Lynmouth....
One day Sophie had stopped by the hillside cottage, bringing Mr. Overtree a batch of almond biscuits. While he painted, she looked through the canvases propped against the wall, stopping to admire his painting of a masquerade ball—masked and costumed figures milling and dancing by the glow of a hundred candles.
“This is unusual for you,” Sophie observed. “So many people. You usually paint single subjects.”
“True. But it’s an image I’ve wanted to re-create for years.”
“I have never attended a masquerade ball,” Sophie confessed, moving on to the next canvas.
“Nor have I,” he said.
Sophie turned to him in surprise. “But... how did you paint this, then? You told me you prefer realism to mere fancy.”
“Right again. I have never attended a masquerade, but I did witness one. When I was a boy, my parents hosted a ball at Overtree Hall. I was supposed to be in bed. Instead, I sneaked behind the musicians’ gallery and looked down into the great hall from the squint there. Our old nurse caught me and whacked my backside. There went my biscuits for a week.” He popped one of her biscuits into his mouth with a grin.
Sophie chuckled to imagine the mischievous boy he had been, then looked at the painting again. “It was worth it, I assure you. Though how challenging this must have been. All these figures...”
“Yes, though at least most of the faces were covered in masks, so I didn’t have to paint every pair of eyes.”
“The hardest part, according to my father.”
His gaze shifted from the canvas before him to her face. “Youreyes are definitely challenging. Comprised of a dozen shades of blue, as well as green and grey and yellow. And don’t get me started on your gorgeous hair!”
She bit back a smile and felt her face heat.
He studied her closely. “Nor can I adequately capture the elegant turn of your head, the long curve of your neck, or the sweet blush that blooms on those high cheekbones of yours whenever I tell you how beautiful you are.... Ah, you see? There it is again.”
Sophie returned to the present, remembering with a little ache what it felt like to be admired. To be in love. Then she stepped to the open, adjoining door and looked into Wesley’s bedchamber—masculine and tidy, under the housemaids’ care in his absence.
No portrait of her hung on his wall. No miniature on his side table. She considered going in to look closer but remained in the threshold. She didn’t want to cross the line into his bedchamber. She knew from experience the trouble that could cause.
She looked back over her shoulder at the disorderly supplies and scattered papers. The studio was clearly off limits to the housemaids. Crossing the cluttered room again, she idly bent to pick up a crumbled wad of paper in the corner—probably tossed at the hearth but had missed its mark. Hoping it wasn’t a discarded sketch of her, she flattened it, and instead found a cryptic note.
We have to talk.—J.B.
Who was J.B.?
Behind her the door creaked open, and Sophie whirled in alarm. There stood Mrs. Overtree.
“Oh!” Sophie pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
Her mother-in-law’s eyes widened to see her there, then abruptly narrowed. “Sophie...? I thought I heard someone skulking about in here. My boudoir is directly below this room.”
Sophie winced.Of course it is.
“I thought one of the housemaids was trespassing.”
“No. Just me. I was... only curious. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything.” She guiltily curled her fingers around the wadded paper.
Mrs. Overtree’s gaze swept the room, hesitating on the crate in the corner. Sophie’s pulse quickened. Did Mrs. Overtree know about the crate? Would she suggest opening it then and there?
