He looked at her squarely. “Yes. I am.”
She looked away from his intense gaze, unsettled, then continued her perusal of the papers, canvases, cakes of watercolor paints, and an array of oil-paint pigments. “Goodness! You must think I am going to be here for a long while. I could fill Langton’s portrait gallery all over again, figuratively speaking, of course. I shall make them last, I assure you.”
“Don’t. Use whatever you like. I have set up an account in your name. Here is the dealer’s card. Write to him and tell him what you need and he will send it. The new manager will settle the bills discreetly in my absence.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he asked.
“I cannot understand why you are so good to me.”
“Can you not?”
She shook her head once more, his warm look filling her with prickles of anticipation.
He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and began again. “I understand my family can sometimes be a trial, and I hope this gives you a retreat, a place to spend some pleasant hours during the days ahead.”
Had that been what he’d meant to say? She didn’t think so.
“Indeed it shall,” she assured him. “I shall spend many happy hours here. It was very thoughtful of you, Captain. I don’t know how to thank you.” Impulsively, she held out her hand to him.
A spark lit his blue eyes, and he took her hand in his. Bending near, he raised her hand. He hesitated a moment, his warm breath tickling her knuckles. Then she felt the firm pressure of his lips against her fingers. Her heart fluttered. Why should it? After all, she had offered her hand—any gentleman knew what the gesture meant and how to respond. But it felt more significant somehow.
Her husband had kissed her. And even if it had only been her hand, she felt the sweet pleasure of it through her entire being.
chapter 16
Sophie visited her new studio in the old schoolroom the very next morning, carrying with her the sketchbook, drawing pencils, and crayons she had brought with her from Bath. She had never had a studio of her own—always sharing a small corner of her father’s, or drawing out of doors. Now she felt almost frozen by the freedom, and the wealth of possibilities before her.
She placed one of the new canvases on the easel, as well as a maulstick with its soft leather head to support her hand while she painted. Then she turned to the paints. Such expense was represented here. How daunting to open these pristine new vials of pigment, mix them with oil, and scrape a full palette for... what? A few homely flowers from the Overtree gardens? Even watercolors would require her to unwrap all the cakes of paint, so charming in their new packages. She felt she needed something worthy to justify the expense. She stood there for several minutes thinking, but the canvas—that big expanse of nothingness—remained blank. She needed to start with something more modest, and not spoil a whole canvas while she was so out of practice. For the time being, she made do with preparing a canvas for later, and set it aside.
Then she pulled a chair nearer the window to take advantage of the sunlight and opened her sketchbook again. Pulling out her set of crayons, she added dimension and detail to the flowers she had already sketched. It was satisfying to see the flowers become more and more vibrant and realistic. With a satisfied sigh, she turned the page and regarded her pencil sketch of Captain Overtree’s face. What would it be like to paint him with the full depth and color variations presented by oil paint and canvas?
Except for the wonderful room, Sophie had not yet used anything the captain had given her. But she would. And she would think of him every time she did.
That afternoon, after sitting through Mrs. Overtree’s litany of details for the upcoming dinner party—menu, seating arrangements, and a tedious discussion of precedence among the guests—Sophie excused herself, claiming the need of fresh air and a turn around the garden. Entering through its archway a few moments later, she saw the gardener coming out of the hothouse and asked if it would be all right if she cut a few flowers.
“Of course, madam. Though the real beauties won’t show their faces for another month yet.” He provided shears, a flat-bottomed basket, and a tip of his hat.
She picked one showy daffodil, yellow-and-white primroses, several bright orange tulips, a branch of pink camellias, and green fronds and ferns. These she took indoors with her and up the stairs. In the schoolroom, she found an old sunny yellow vase. A crack marred one side, but if she turned it away, it would work well for the composition she had in mind.
As she set the prepared canvas on the easel, the old rhythm returned to her, and peace like a long-lost friend descended. She’d missed this.
She slipped a blue apron over her head to protect her pale yellow frock. Then she mixed the paints with the new palette knife in a wheel pattern around the wooden disk. Choosing a brush, she turned to study the still life before her. Something was missing. It was too ordinary. Too perfect. True, flowers and fruits were the accepted domain of ladies who dabbled in painting. Still lifes were deemed safe for the gentle sex, along with the occasional portrait and genre scene. But Sophie liked to give her paintings something unique. A thought or theme to express in even the simplest subject.
Then she realized what she wanted. She rose and turned the vase so that the crack faced her and rearranged the flowers once more to their best advantage. Yes, better.
First, she gave the prepared surface a dark yellow underpainting. Then she began establishing the composition. Using ochre and umber, she outlined the flowers, and quickly blocked the vase and table in thinned paint, capturing the most important shapes and dominant values. Satisfied, she left the paint to dry and went downstairs to dress for dinner.
She returned the next day and began by building up layers of color to form shadows, applying paint in thicker brushstrokes, and adding white highlights where light hit the vase. In some areas, she left the underpainting untouched, creating the illusion of depth. Then she chose a slender brush to paint the fine details of the petals and foliage. She added more Naples yellow directly to the canvas for the petals of the daffodil, knowing each time she mixed the paint, the tone would be slightly different, adding more richness to the canvas. She continued to add and blend the colors until the flowers came to life.
The door creaked open behind her and Sophie whirled, paintbrush suspended midair.
Kate stood there, peering in. Gulliver darted past her feet and trotted into the room.
Sophie released a breath. “Kate, you scared me.”
“Winnie told me flowers were blooming in the old schoolroom. I had to come and see what on earth she was talking about.” Her eyes settled on the painting—too big, too out in the open for Sophie to hide. “I thought she’d really lost her mind this time,” Kate said. “But apparently not.”
