Pulled in by deceit, and pulled further by uncertainty of what her future holds, Claude Dupont's daughter starts down a slippery slope. When will her gliding stop? Hopefully, before it reaches the crevices, removing the hidden aspirations she so gallantly dreamed of.
To be beguiled, whisked away with belief and dreams, so sure of the other's intent, not to be.
Julie Klassen's characters happen in real life. Virgins being drawn in, as a frog heated in water by gradualism; gradual steps increasing slowly rather than by drastic change. Believing their relationship secret and cherished, will lead to marriage. She has not told him she is with child. It is an ordinary day when the painter's daughter receives the above farewell note.
Captain Stephen Overtree has come to the last known address of his older brother, Wesley, seeking to bring him home to oversee the family estate as his own return to duty nears. Hearing Wesley is no longer there but has left his paintings behind, Captain Overtree crates up his goods to return them to their home at Overtree Hall, in rural Gloucestershire near the village of Wickbury.
Upon their retrieval, Captain Overtree finds that is not all his brother has left behind. Uncertainty of returning from war, he offers a marriage of convenience and is accepted. One thing he hasn't confessed: He has been carrying a small drawing of Sophie Dupont, the painter's daughter, on his person for over a year.
Thus begins the story of Sophia Margaretha Dupont ~ changed in an instant. There are other characters who come alongside, some encouraging ~ others threatening, that test her resolve. An adventure whether she will cave or stand. You will rally against villainy and promote those with good intent. You must decide who they are, as twists and turns thwart them as well. True heart will be revealed.
I enjoyed the "Nancy Drew-like" discovery of hidden passageways. Favorite interactions? The grandfather and the family's old nurse. Enjoyable wisdom. Through all of the happenings surrounding Overtree Hall, it is guided that youngest sibling Kate's innocence is protected. As well, I advise content not being explicit but implied within the realm of the story.
Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had:
he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present.
—Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë
The one
.
.
. who keeps an oath even when it hurts,
and does not change their mind
.
.
.
will never be shaken.
Psalm 15 NIV
chapter
1
March 1815
Devonshire, England
Infuriating
artists
.
.
.
Captain Stephen Marshall
Overtree grumbled to himself as he walked along the harbor of the unfamiliar town, looking into each shop window.
He glanced down at the crumpled paper in his hand, and read
again his brother’s hastily scrawled note.
.
.
. I will let a cottage as last year, though I don’t know which
yet. If the need arises, you may write to me in care of Mr. Claude
Dupont, Lynmouth, Devon. But no doubt you will manage
capably without me, Marsh. As always.
Stephen stuffed the note back into his pocket and continued
surveying the establishments he passed—public house, harbor
-
master’s office, tobacconist, and cider seller. Then a stylish placard caught his eye:
CLAUDE DUPONT
Painter, Royal Academy of Arts
~
Portraits by commission, also local landscapes.
Instruction and supplies for the visiting artist.
Inquire within.
Stephen tried the door latch, but it wouldn’t budge. He cupped a
hand to the glass and peered inside. The dim interior held easels,
framed landscapes, and shelves of supplies, but not a single person.
He bit back an epithet. How could he
inquire within
if the
dashed door was locked? It was not yet five in the afternoon.
What sort of hours did the man keep? Stephen muttered another
unflattering comment about artists.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a frowsy woman step from
the public house, dumping a bucket of water. He called, “I am
looking for Wesley Overtree. Have you seen him?”
“That handsome Adonis, you mean? No, sir.” She winked.
“Not today at any rate.”
“Know where he’s staying?”
“One of the hillside cottages, I believe, but I couldn’t tell
you which one.”
“Well then, what of Mr. Dupont?” Stephen gestured toward
the locked door.
“Mr. Dupont is away, sir. But I saw his daughter pass by
not fifteen minutes ago. Walking out to the Valley of Rocks,
I’d wager, as she does nearly every day about this time.” She
pointed to the esplanade, where a path led up the hillside before
disappearing from view. “Just follow that path as far as it goes.
Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment Stephen remained where he was, looking up the
hill—thatched cottages and a few grander houses clung to the
wooded slope, while Lynmouth’s twin town of Lynton perched
above. Perhaps he ought to have remained in the coach for the
half-mile climb to Lynton. He sighed. It was too late now.
He walked along the seaside esplanade, then started inland
up the path. He was glad now he’d brought his walking stick—a
thin sword cleverly concealed inside. One never knew when one
might meet highwaymen while traveling, and he preferred to
be armed at all times. His military training was well ingrained.
The steep path soon had him breathing hard. He’d thought
JULIE
KLASSEN
9
he was in better condition than that. The month of soft living,
away from drilling his regiment, had already taken its toll. He
would have a few choice words for Wesley when he found him.
Stephen should be with his regiment, not at home doing Wes’s
duty for him, and not here.
He ascended through the trees, then out into the open as the
rocky path curved westward, following the cliff side, high above
the Bristol Channel—deep blue and grey. The steep downward
slope bristled with withered grass, scrubby gorse, and the occasional twisted sapling. Little to stop a fall. If a man were to
slip, he would instantly tumble four or five hundred feet into
the cold sea below. His stomach lurched at the thought.
His old nurse’s recent pronouncement echoed through his
mind.
“You won’t live to see your inheritance.
.
.
.”
He could still feel
the wiry grip of her hand, and see the somber light in her eyes.
With a shiver, Stephen backed from the edge and strode on.
The cry of a seabird drew his gaze upward. Gulls soared,
borne aloft by strident wind. Black-and-white razorbills and
grey-tipped kittiwakes nested among the rock outcroppings.
He walked for ten or fifteen minutes but saw no sign of the
young woman ahead of him. He hoped he hadn’t missed a turn
somewhere. As he continued on, the temperature seemed to
drop. Although spring came earlier on the southwest coast, the
wind bit with icy teeth, blowing across the channel from the
north, still held in the grip of winter.
He tugged his hat brim lower and turned up the collar of
his greatcoat. In less than two weeks he would again exchange
civilian clothes for his uniform, return to duty, and make his
grandfather proud. But first he had to find Wesley and send
him home. With Humphries retiring, someone needed to help
Papa oversee the estate. Their father was not in good health and
needed a capable spokesman to keep the tenants happy and the
estate workers on task. As a captain in the British Army, the
role had come easily to Stephen. But his leave would soon be at
an end, Napoleon exiled or not.
The role of managing the estate should have fallen to his older
brother. But Wesley had again gone south for the winter, in spite
of their mother’s pleas. His art came first, he always insisted.
And he preferred to leave practical, mundane affairs to others.
Rounding a bend, Stephen saw a craggy headland—rocks
piled atop one another like castle battlements—with a sheer
drop to the lashing currents below. He looked down to assure
his footing, but a flash of color caught his eye and drew his gaze
upward again.
He sucked in a breath. A figure in billowing skirts, wind-
tossed cape, and deep straw bonnet stood atop that high precipice. Wedged between a rock on one side, and the cliff on the
other, her half boot extended over the edge. What was the fool
woman doing?
She fell to her knees and stretched out a gloved hand
.
.
.
trying to reach something, or about to go over? Did she mean
to harm herself?
Pulse lurching, Stephen rushed forward. “Stop! Don’t!”
She did not seem to hear him over the wind. Leaping atop
the summit, he saw she was trying to reach a paper entangled
in the prickly gorse.
“Stay back. I’ll retrieve it for you.”
“No,” she cried. “Don’t!”
Taking her objection as concern for his safety, he extended his
walking stick to reach the paper and drag it back up the slope.
Bending low, he snagged a corner of the thick rectangle—a
painting. His breath caught.
He turned to stare at the tear-stained face within the deep
bonnet. He looked back down at the painting, stunned to discover the image was of the very woman before him—a woman
he recognized, for he had carried her portrait in his pocket
during a year of drilling and fighting, and had looked at it by
the light of too many campfires.
A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from her head, the ribbon
ties catching against her throat, and its brim dangling against
her back. Wavy strands of blond hair lifted in the wind, whip
-
ping around her thin, angular face. Sad, blue-grey eyes squinted
against a dying shaft of sunlight.
“It’s
.
.
. you,” he sputtered.
“Excuse me?” She frowned at him. “Have we met?”
He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “No. That is
.
.
.
the portrait—it’s your likeness.” He lifted it, also recognizing
the style—clearly his brother’s work.
Instead of thanks, her face crumpled. “Why did you do that?
I was trying to toss it to the four winds. Make it disappear.”
“Why?”
“Give it back,” she demanded, holding out her hand.
“Only if you promise not to destroy it.”
Her lips tightened. “Who are you?”
“Captain Stephen Overtree.” He handed over the paper. “And
you must be Miss Dupont. You know my brother, I believe.”
She stared at him, then averted her gaze.
“That is, he let a cottage from your family. I stopped at the
studio but found the place locked. Can you tell me where to
look for him?”
“I should not bother if I were you,” she said. “He is gone.
Sailed for Italy in search of his perfect muse. His Dulcinea or
Mona Lisa
.
.
.” She blinked away fresh tears, and turned the
painting over, revealing a few scrawled lines in his brother’s
hand.
He read:
My dear Miss Dupont,
That visiting Italian couple we met invited me to travel
with them to their homeland. To share their villa and paint to
my heart’s content. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and
I could not resist. You know how I love Italy! We sail within
the hour.
I know I should have said good-bye in person. I tried to find
you, but could not. Thankfully, as a fellow artist you understand me and realize I must follow my muse and pursue my passion.
Must grasp this opportunity before it leaves with the tide.
We shared a beautiful season, you and I. And I shall always
remember you fondly.
Arrivederci,
W. D. O.
Thunder and turf, Stephen inwardly raged. How was he to
send his brother home now?
“He left no forwarding address?” he asked. “Or even a specific
port or town?”
She shook her head. “Not with me. I believe the couple he
mentioned was from Naples, but I could be mistaken.”
“Did Lieutenant Keith go with him?”
“Carlton Keith, do you mean? I assume so. They seemed to
go everywhere together.”
Stephen nodded. “Do you happen to know if my brother
took all his belongings with him?” He asked the question to
determine if Wesley planned to return to Lynmouth.
Again she shook her head. “When I looked in this morning,
I was surprised to see he’d left many of his paintings behind, as
well as his winter coat.”
“Did he not tell your father he planned to leave?”
“My father has returned to Bath on a portrait commission.
We thought your brother planned to stay on through the spring.
That’s why I was so
.
.
. surprised
.
.
. to receive his note.”
Was that why she was surprised? The only reason? Stephen
didn’t think so. Her tears and Wesley’s apologetic letter painted a
telling picture. Miss Dupont was in love with Wesley. No doubt
he had worked his legion charms on her and then left when he
grew bored. Perhaps Wesley had loved her, for a time. Or at
least admired her. How far had it gone? Had Wes done more
than break her heart? Dread rippled through him at the thought.
Stephen asked, “May I see the cottage?”
She reared her head back. “Why?”
“I’d like to look around—see if I can find any indication of
where specifically he’s gone. I’ll have to try to get word to him
in Italy somehow.”
“Oh
.
.
.” She paused in thought, then said briskly, “You might
ask the harbormaster, see if he knows where the ship was bound.”
“I shall do that. Thank you. Even so, I’d like to take a look.”
She bit her lip, then faltered. “I
.
.
. don’t think Bitty has been
in to tidy it up yet. Perhaps you—”
“No matter. I am pressed for time, so if I could see it now
.
.
.
?”
She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”
Miss Dupont clambered off the precipice, as nimble and sure-footed as a girl, though she looked to be in her early twenties. She
gestured toward a path on the other side of the headland. Not
the way he had come. “This way is more direct,” she explained.
He fell into step beside her, feeling like a brawny brute next
to her willowy figure.
She led the way into Lynton, the higher of the twin towns,
past its blacksmith, livery, and old church, and then followed a
cobbled path partway down the hill. There, three whitewashed
cottages huddled along the hillside, overlooking the Lynmouth
harbor and sparkling channel beyond. At the first cottage, she
unhooked the chatelaine pinned at her waist and sorted through
the keys until she found the correct one. She unlocked the door
and stepped inside.
Stephen was surprised at the young woman’s apparent aplomb
in entering a bachelor’s cottage, when she seemed so ladylike in
her speech and demeanor. Entering after her, he left the door
open behind them for propriety’s sake. He walked around the
single room and noticed her survey the chamber as he did, as
if looking for something. Was there something she didn’t want
him to see? He saw remnants of art supplies: an easel, used paint
pots, canvases, and sketchbooks. A table and chairs and a simple
stove huddled along one wall, an unmade bed against the other.
Her gaze flicked to it and quickly away.
She swiped a lacy glove off the arm of a chair and tried to make
it disappear up her sleeve. Noticing his look, she murmured,
“Must have dropped it when I looked in earlier
.
.
.”
He glanced at the pair of matching kid gloves she wore but
said nothing. Instead he fingered through the paintings propped
against the wall, then paged through a sketchbook on the table.
That same familiar face—her face—looked up at him wearing
different expressions. Solemn and reluctant at first, progressing
to increasing confidence, shy half smiles warming to full blown
brilliance. Her clothing varied as well—prim lace collars giving
way to round, open necklines and, eventually, one bare shoulder.
Reaching past him, Miss Dupont shut the sketchbook, her
cheeks mottled red. “Yes, I posed for him several times.” A defensive note sharpened her tone. “He was most insistent. I had
never done so before—not even for my father—and was quite
uncomfortable with it. But as you might guess in such a remote
place, his choice of models was extremely limited.”
Inwardly, Stephen groaned, his stomach sickening. Oh yes.
It had gone too far. And Wesley had done more than break
this girl’s heart. An otherwise innocent girl, if he did not miss
his guess.
He asked, “Did Lieutenant Keith lodge here as well?”
“Yes. We offered to bring in another bed, but he said he
preferred his bedroll.” She looked around the room. “I don’t
see it. He must have taken it with him.”
Sounded like Keith, Stephen thought. “I don’t suppose my
brother made arrangements to store his belongings, nor paid
sufficient rent to keep this cottage until he returns?”
“No. He paid only to the end of the month.”
Stephen mentally calculated. A sea voyage to Italy could take
two or three weeks each way, depending on weather and the
winds, not to mention whatever time Wesley planned to spend
there painting. What had Keith been thinking to let him go?
To leave without sending word? Or perhaps a letter was even
now making its way to Overtree Hall through the post.
Stephen sighed. “I will have to pack up his belongings and
somehow transport them home.”
She nodded absently. “We probably have a suitable crate in
the studio. Come. I will ask Papa’s assistant to help you make
arrangements.”
“Thank you.”
She offered him the use of the cottage overnight, since his
brother had already paid for it. He politely declined, having
secured a room at the Rising Sun, where a warm supper awaited
him.
He gestured for her to precede him. “I’ll escort you back.”
As the sun set, they walked down the switchback path and
into Lynmouth.
“Do you know
.
.
. ” she began. “Your brother never mentioned a sibling named Stephen. Only a ‘Marsh.’ Something of
an ogre, apparently.”
Stephen pulled a face, knowing the act would only serve
to pucker the scar on his cheek and make him more ogre-like
yet. He explained, “My second name is Marshall. He calls me
Marsh—one of several nicknames he reserves for me. Including
Captain Black.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I—”
“No matter. It’s an apt description.”
When they arrived at the studio near the harbor, Miss Dupont
used another key to open the door. She frowned at the dim,
silent interior. “Maurice is supposed to keep the lights burning
and the door open until five at least. Looks like he’s been gone
for hours.”
“Is this where you live?” Stephen asked.
“We have a house in Bath, but when we’re in Lynmouth we
live in the apartment upstairs. Although, with my father gone
I’m staying with a neighbor, Mrs. Thrupton.”
He read between the lines. “Is your father’s assistant a lad or
a
.
.
. married man?”
“ Neither.”
“Ah.” He nodded, illogically relieved she cared something
for her reputation.
A man of about twenty trudged down the stairs in stocking
feet. He wore trousers, rumpled shirt and waistcoat, but no coat.
His dark hair stood askew, as though he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Bring me any supper?” he asked her. “I’m starved.”
“You’re on your own, I’m afraid,” she replied, setting down
her bonnet and gloves.
“Who’s he?” The young man lifted an insolent chin.
“This is Captain Overtree, Mr. Overtree’s brother. Captain,
Maurice O’Dell. My father’s assistant.”
“Another Overtree? It’s my lucky day,” he said sarcastically.
“What does this one want?”
“Simply to transport the belongings his brother left in the
cottage. I would like you to help him.”
“I
.
.
. heard he left,” O’Dell said. “And good riddance, if
you ask me.”
Miss Dupont said coolly, “I didn’t.”
Stephen sized up the young man as he would an opponent.
He was barely more than Miss Dupont’s height, though stockier.
His prominent dark eyes and upturned nose put Stephen in mind
of an ill-behaved pug yapping at a larger dog.
O’Dell turned to him, thick lip curled. “I am not merely an
assistant. I’m family. Claude Dupont’s nephew.”
“By marriage, yes,” she clarified. “My father married Maurice’s aunt a few years ago.”
“I won’t be making prints forever,” O’Dell asserted. “I’m an
artist in my own right. I’ll be famous one day. Just you wait.”
“Sadly, I haven’t that much time,” Stephen said dryly. “Now,
if I might trouble you for a crate and the name of the local drayage company
.
.
.
?”
“We have several crates in the storeroom,” Miss Dupont said.
“Maurice, if you will see the largest delivered to the first cottage.”
“Very well, but don’t expect me to help pack up that fop’s
leavings.”
“Then, please mind the shop in the morning while I do.”
She turned to Stephen. “What time shall I meet you?”
“I am an early riser. Shall we say eight—or nine, if you prefer.”
“Eight is fine. I’ll see you then.”
Stephen hesitated. “Are you
.
.
. all right here, or shall I walk
you to the neighbor’s you mentioned?”
“I’m all right on my own. But thank you.”
Sophia Margaretha Dupont watched the black-haired, broad-
shouldered stranger stride away, barely believing he could be
related to Wesley Overtree. Beautiful, heartbreaking Wesley.
She’d had no inkling that things had changed between them—
for Wesley at least. She had shown up at the cottage that morning
as usual, smiling, stomach fluttering with happiness, eager to
see him again, wondering how best to tell him her news. Only
to find the farewell note he’d left and the cottage abandoned.
Her smile had quickly fallen then. Her stomach cramped with
dread. What had she done wrong?
She knew men did not like to be pressured, so she had not
pressured him. Had he simply lost interest, or had he realized she
was not beautiful enough for him—either as a model or a wife?
She read the rescued note again, and the conclusion seemed
unavoidable. Wesley had not only abruptly left Lynmouth, but
he had also left
her. She turned the note over, struck anew that
he had written it on the back of one of the dozens of likenesses
he’d painted of her. A dozen too many apparently.
Sophie sagged against the studio counter, feeling weary and
low. It had been the worst day of her life, except for the long-
ago day her mother died. At the thought, she gently clasped the
ring she wore on a chain around her neck, close to her heart.
Not only had Wesley left, and her last hope of happiness with
him, but then she’d had to endure that mortifying interview with
his own brother. The man’s hard, knowing expression left her
with the sickly feeling that he’d guessed the truth—that posing
was not the worst of her indiscretions.
She remembered Wesley describing his dour and disapproving brother Marsh. And saying
“Captain Black would sooner strike
a man than listen to him.”
She had formed an image of a foul-tempered, hardened warrior. A man who had seen terrible things.
Who had probably
done
terrible things.
Captain Overtree certainly looked fierce, with that jagged
scar, which his bushy side-whiskers and longish dark hair did
little to conceal. Had his coloring spawned the name Captain
Black or had it been his brooding personality? Perhaps
black
described both. He was taller than Wesley—several inches over
six feet—and his strong-featured face boasted none of Wesley’s
fine bone structure or handsome perfection. His eyes were striking though. Blue, where Wesley’s were light brown. She would
never have expected blue eyes.
Her fleeting comparison of the brothers faded as the reality of her situation reasserted itself. This was no time to think
of trivial things. Not when her life as she knew it hung in the
balance and was soon to change forever.
She had not given God a great deal of thought since her
mother’s death. Church had not played a significant part of her
childhood. But during these last few weeks she had prayed very
hard, hoping what she feared wasn’t true.
Now her prayer changed. She had been so certain Wesley
would marry her. But now he was gone. Even if he came back,
would it be in time to save her and her reputation?
Oh, God, let
him return in time. . . .
***Thank you to author Julie Klassen and to Bethany House Publishers for sending me a copy of
for review. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***
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