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Sophia almost had her paintbrush skittering across the painting. What was her father doing outside the door? He had never come to her room before. Confused, she put her paintbrush in her jar of water and reached for her cloth to wipe her hands.
“The door’s open, Father.”
The door opened, and Westbury came in, looking around as if he was entering a strange new world. Sophia felt a little self-conscious. Her father had never asked about her art, nor had he ever seen anything she had painted. He just let her have a room to keep it away from everyone else. It was probably the only thing he had done for her since she was a little girl.
Sophia felt a stab of resentment that she had been ignored for so long. For a long time, she had wanted her father’s approval for something. Just for him to say he was proud of her. And he wouldn’t even do that. Sophia had given up some time ago. She wanted some acknowledgement, even if she told herself she didn’t care.
Was this a time to get that acknowledgement?
“So, this is what you do when you’re holed up in here,” Westbury commented, looking at the paintings leaning up against the wall. He turned his head to get a look at one properly. “I thought you’d be just passing the time.”
“How do you want me to respond to that, Father?”
“What? Oh, forgive me.” Westbury straightened up and cleared his throat. “I guess I didn’t know what to expect. Your sister said it was a mess in here, and your paintings were terrible.”
Sophia snorted.
“Of course, she would. She doesn’t appreciate art. None of my sisters do.”
“We take them to art galleries all the time.”
“You take them, but do you actually listen to them?” Sophia gestured at her paintings. “This may not be ideal for an art gallery, but they’re ideal for me. I find it soothing.”
“I can see why.” Westbury picked up one of the canvases and looked at it. Something flickered across his face. Approval, maybe? “These are good.”
Sophia blinked.
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m impressed, Sophia.”
For a moment, Sophia allowed the compliment to wrap around her. She felt warm and happy that her father was acknowledging her for the first time in years. But she couldn’t hold onto it for too long; it felt like Westbury was setting her up for something.
“Why are you in here, Father? You never come in here. I didn’t know you were aware of where I was.”
“Mrs Ripley said she didn’t know where you were but suggested I look for you here.” Westbury put the painting down, looking through the other canvases. “You have a visitor this morning, and I wanted to be sure you were aware of it.”
“A visitor?”
“Mister Pierce Shore. Baron Beauchamp’s son?”
Sophia stared.
“Mister Shore? But … I only saw him last night. He can’t have got up at this time to bring his calling card.”
“He gave it to me last night just as he was leaving, asking permission to call on you this morning. I gave my approval.” Westbury picked out another canvas, which was a portrait. “Is this Grandfather?”
“Yes. I did a copy of the painting in the hall, so I could learn how to draw portraits.”
“This is very good. I think Grandfather would be really pleased with this.”
Sophia gulped.
“I hope so. It’s not my best piece; it was just practise …”
“It’s still impressive.”
Westbury seemed to be distracted by the paintings. Sophia cleared her throat.
