Anticipation singing through her, Sophie sat back to enjoy the ride and the beautiful spring day.
Sometime later, they turned up a long gravel drive and through an iron gate. Clearing a border of oak trees, a classical red brick manor came into view, situated before a reflecting lake and flanked by large topiary houses.
Footmen in powdered wigs came out to greet their arrival and take charge of the carriage. Captain Overtree and Sophie alighted and approached the imposing pillared entrance. At the door, they were met by a black-suited butler who took Captain Overtree’s card, announced, “His lordship is expecting you,” and led them into a nearby library to wait.
“He’s very proud of his collection of books,” the captain noted. “Nearly as much as his art collection. It is why, I think, he receives visitors in this particular room.”
A few moments later, a second door opened and an impeccably dressed silver-haired man of about sixty years entered.
“Hello, Overtree. Good to see you, my boy.”
“My lord, thank you for receiving us. May I present my wife, Mrs. Sophia Overtree. Sophie, Lord Thorp.”
The nobleman bent over her hand. “A sincere pleasure, Mrs. Overtree. Welcome. I do hope your husband has not exaggerated your interest in seeing my collection?”
She smiled. “I doubt that possible, my lord.”
He beamed and gestured for her to precede him from the room. “Right this way...”
The Langton picture gallery stretched for a hundred feet of the ground floor. Stephen admired the original old oak woodwork, while Sophie gaped at the walls lined with portraits three high in some places, set in extravagant baroque gilded frames. “That’s a van Dyck...” she murmured. “And a John de Critz.”
She paused before a portrait of Charles the Second.
“Do you like this one?” Lord Thorp asked.
She grinned. “I like that it was painted by a woman.”
His eyes twinkled. “You’re right. Mary Beale.”
They continued on. Many pieces in the collection were religious paintings—depictions of the crucifixion and resurrection, or of angels ministering to the broken body of Jesus. Others were portraits of family members by Thomas Gainsborough, Joshua Reynolds, and George Romney.
Sophie admired the gracefulness and life in the figures, and a strength of coloring that struck her from one end of that gallery to the other. The collection—and its effect—were beyond anything she had ever experienced. She felt at the same time transported and quite at home.
Craning her neck to better view two portraits high on the wall, Sophie whispered, “Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller...”
Lord Thorp reared his head back in surprise. “You have married a gem, Overtree. Rarely have I met a lady so knowledgeable about artists. You remind me of my grandmother, my dear. Not in age or looks, of course. But she devoted her life to art, and I have collected since I was a young man because of her.”
“Have you anything by Claude Dupont?” Stephen asked.
“Dupont? That name does not ring a bell.” He lifted an index finger. “But I do have one from another name you might recognize. Follow me.” He led them through the door and out into a narrower passage. “I am nearly out of wall space, I fear. So I have resorted to hanging two of my recent acquisitions here. You may have heard of the artist, Wesley Overtree?” He grinned at Stephen. “I bought these from your brother last spring.”
Captain Overtree drew up short and stood rigidly still.
Sophie’s heart beat dully and her stomach cramped. One was a Lynton landscape. The other was the large portrait of her—looking over her shoulder, hair pinned in a round cushion at the back of her head, eyes somber, expression torn between embarrassment and a smile.
Sophie stood there, mouth dry, wishing she could disappear. She felt Lord Thorp’s focus swivel from the painting to her, hesitate, than look again.
“I say, this woman bears a remarkable resemblance to your wife, Overtree.”
For a moment, Captain Overtree said nothing. Then he said with apparent nonchalance. “Do you think so?”
The man returned his gaze to the paintings. “The landscape was painted in Devonshire, I remember Wesley telling me. His favorite escape from winters here. I have never been to that part of the country, but now I almost feel that I have been. As far as the woman, I don’t remember what he said about her, so much as how she struck me. Her expression, her modesty, her shyness. As though on the cusp of trusting. Of smiling. I confess it reminds me just slightly of Da Vinci’sMona Lisa, though in my view this woman is far more attractive.”
Sophie licked dry lips. Thank goodness this was the portrait Wesley had painted last winter, before he had talked her into Grecian robes and exposed shoulders.
“I... did have the opportunity tomeetthe captain’s brother in Devonshire,” Sophie admitted. “My father enjoys retreating there during the cold months as well.”
The captain added, “I suppose Wesley may have been inspired by meeting Sophie on one of his trips there. That is where I had the good fortune of meeting her as well. She is, as I am happily aware, a beautiful woman.”
