In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter One
Spring, 1816
Beautiful was the sight of Briarwood in spring, with its lush green grounds, bright stone, and symmetrical wings. But even more beautiful was the sight of its owner, Lord Ryecombe, being struck squarely in the mouth by a cricket ball.
Michael Cavinder wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he watched the ordeal from afar. The field where they played their cricket match was packed with much more capable men than himself, so he didn’t feel the need to rush to Lord Ryecombe’s aid. In fact, his friend and teammate, Dr. Cooper, was already running to the man’s side, though Michael doubted the earl’s pride would allow any assistance.
As Michael surveyed the field, he found that the spectators that gathered on the side consisting of ladies and gentlemen looked on with concern, while those gathered to watch the working class team barely managed to disguise their amusement. If this were the Roman Colosseum, they might have even been cheering. It was not, however, such a riotous affair as that. Lord Ryecombe would never have allowed anything uncivilized to occur on his property, after all—unless he counted his own injustices toward those beneath his station. No, indeed, this was an organized and proper cricket match.
One that had just taken a very entertaining turn.
Walking closer, Michael adjusted his sleeve that had begun unrolling. Shielding his gaze from the sun with one hand, he watched Lord Ryecombe rock back and forth, one hand pressed against his mouth. He was sputtering various demands, his grating voice hindered by his injury.
“Continue with the match!”
Dr. Cooper continued his attempts to assist Lord Ryecombe, who was behaving quite like an angry bee. Michael had always admired doctors. They seemed to possess a patience and goodness that most others lacked. Dr. Cooper was not the only physician of Michael’s acquaintance. He had known two other men, Dr. Owen Kellaway, the physician who had treated his father during his last visit in Surrey, and his cousin, Dr. Luke Pembroke. Both men were just as noble as Dr. Cooper.
The earl shifted away from Dr. Cooper, eyes flashing dangerously. He had more hair than patience, and that was saying a great deal, considering he only had a few sprigs of hair remaining on his head.
The earl growled at Dr. Cooper, his speech hindered once again by his swollen lip. “He’ll pay for this!”
The man who had hit the ball in Lord Ryecombe’s direction was a man Michael knew to work in the post office, Reginald Sinclair. He didn’t seem distressed in the slightest. He held the sturdy bat in one hand, and Michael caught the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk before it straightened again for the sake of appearances.
It really was a shame. Being hit by a cricket ball was not an enjoyable experience, but neither was living days on end with very little to eat because a greedy earl would not pay for the portrait he had commissioned. Because the earl had delayed his payment for the portrait Michael’s father had painted—a sum their family had desperately needed—they had been unable to afford both adequate food and the rent of his father’s shop. They had chosen the rent.
Michael cleared his throat, waiting eagerly for the game to resume. He would take great pleasure in winning against Lord Ryecombe’s team. It wasn’t that Michael disliked all gentlemen—only the ones who gave themselves airs.
It didn’t take long before Lord Ryecombe removed himself from the field and the game resumed. The earl observed the game from the edge of the field with a rag held to his lip, his thick side whiskers framing his watchful expression. Each time a point was scored for his team, his triumphant bellows were enough to push Michael to play even harder. Sweat poured from Michael’s hairline as the sun beat down upon them. It had been raining for weeks—why couldn’t it have at least been cloudy that day? Painting was not often a physically taxing occupation, aside from climbing ladders and holding palettes or his own arm upright for long periods of time, yet he found himself running faster than many of the gentlemen. Michael’s team was stronger, and that showed as the game progressed.
He looked out at the crowd observing the game from Lord Ryecombe’s side. His gaze caught on one group of young ladies in particular. They giggled and whispered as they watched the match, their pastel dresses and lace parasols uniting them much like the team of gentlemen in their expensive white cricket uniforms.
One lady though, standing just to the right of the giggling group, seemed intent to set herself apart from the crowd. She wore a deep blue pelisse despite the heat. The many intricate pleats and gathers in the thick fabric seemed to be the cause of her stiff posture. Or perhaps it was just in her nature to stand like a board was against her back. The many frills from her chemisette climbed her long neck, encircling her chin. Her hat matched her pelisse, adorned with feathers. The parasol she held over her shoulder shaded her pale skin from the sunlight as she cast a keen eye about the field, her dark brows drawn together.
Michael might not have known the terms for all her feminine accessories if not for his younger sister and her dreams of wearing such finery. He was distracted by the young woman for long enough to nearly lose a point to the opposing team. It wasn’t her ridiculous clothing or even her pretty face that had him so distracted. It was the fact that she was staring at him.
Most ladies came to watch the gentlemen team play, did they not? What interest would the women on that side of the field have in his team?
He glanced at the group of giggling ladies again. They were watching Michael and his teammates with expressions he could only describe as ogling. He suspected that they were secretly cheering for them, though they would never have expressed it in the riotous cheers of the opposite side of the field.
As the game continued, Michael ignored Lord Ryecombe’s obnoxious shouting, but it was much more difficult to ignore the young woman in the blue pelisse. Each time he glanced her way, her gaze was still fixed on him. Her face showed no amusement, nor emotion. Her back remained rigid, her nose upturned. She might have been a statue if her gloved fingers hadn’t been tapping against the handle of her parasol. Were his cricket abilities truly so captivating? He was playing better than he ever had before. He was unaccustomed to attention from ladies dressed in fine fabrics and feathered hats. He scarcely knew what to make of it.
Focus. Michael turned his attention back to the game just as his teammate scored the winning point. Lord Ryecombe’s disgruntled shout of defeat was everything Michael had been hoping for. He grinned as his teammates walked humbly to their families, who cheered loud enough to make Michael’s ears ring.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, smiling broadly as his friend Edward Steele approached from the side of the field. He and Michael had been friends for years. Edward hadn’t played in the match, but as a talented woodcarver, he had carved the bats they had used during the game. The two had become friends over their shared love of the arts—painting and carving. But they also shared a special dislike of Lord Ryecombe. Who didn’t?
“Well done with the bats, Steele,” Michael said.
“Thank you,” Edward returned. “And well done on your victory.” He glanced to the disgruntled earl. Lowering his voice, he said, “Did you see who hit the ball at Lord Ryecombe?”
Michael laughed. “Does it matter who did so long as we all got to witness it?”
Edward shook his head in amusement. Michael rubbed his jaw, lowering his voice to match Edward’s. “You know, my father painted the earl’s portrait. I do wonder if he should make an adjustment to Lord Ryecombe’s likeness now that he’ll have a proper scar on his lip.”
Edward chuckled as Michael passed, tipping his head in departure. Michael needed a drink of water. Or, better yet, lemonade. It was so blasted hot. He looked back at Lord Ryecombe again, distracted by the discussion he was now having with another of Michael’s teammates, Philip Jenkins. Philip’s irritation was obvious, and not at all surprising. Any conversation with the earl was bound to end in frustration.
Michael’s jovial mood persisted as he crossed the field to the refreshment table. He hadn’t been so cheerful in a very long time. With his father being ill and the future so uncertain, he hadn’t had time or reason to be anything but serious. His father’s business would soon be in his hands. Winning the match that day wouldn’t change the fact that he still didn’t have work and he still didn’t have the slightest idea of how he was going to provide for his mother and sisters.
The smile slowly faded from his face, and he scowled down at his cup of lemonade as he drank from it. The tart drink was refreshing, so he gulped down another glass.
“Well done, Cavinder.”
He thanked the man who offered his congratulations with a nod. He was the town cordwainer, and the only man in sight who was dressed like Michael. Surrounded by ladies and gentlemen, he felt quite out of place. Taking his cup with him, he began walking back to the other side of the field. Before he could make it three steps, however, a flash of blue fabric caught his eye.
He turned just as the young lady with the stiff back and intent gaze stepped in front of him. He froze, surprised to find her directly in his path. Surprised, and slightly disturbed. How had she found him?
“Did I hear you called Cavinder?” The young woman’s voice was more commanding than he had expected, even with her elegant and intimidating appearance. Seeing her at a closer proximity, she was much taller than he had originally thought. Michael was accustomed to towering over most women, but this lady’s eyes were almost level with his own. Her arched eyebrows framed a pair of striking hazel eyes, and chestnut brown curls spilled out of her hat.
It took Michael a moment to recover from the shock of her speaking to him. “Yes,” he said. “That is my name.” He swallowed, glancing right and left. Was she here alone? It didn’t seem right that a lady as young and distinguished as she would be at a cricket match with no chaperone. Perhaps she did not need a chaperone because everyone feared her. She had a presence that could take up the entire field, so Michael was surprised that no one seemed to notice that she was addressing him.
“Do you have a relation to Richard Cavinder?” she asked.
He nodded. “He is my father.”
“And an artist?”
“Yes.” He wiped at his forehead again before adopting a more professional posture. If this seemingly wealthy lady was an interested client, he ought to take advantage of that. “May we be of service to you?”
“We?” One of her dark eyebrows lifted.
“My father is ill and unable to continue with his work. However, I—”
She stopped him by raising one hand, just a small motion of her fingers. “If your father is unable to complete my portrait, then I will seek a different artist.”
Michael bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the frustration that rose in his chest. The lady’s interest had already faded. She turned, taking one step away from him.
“Miss—” he stepped around her, returning to her line of sight. She didn’t appear surprised in the slightest. She let out an airy sigh.
“Patience,” she said.
Michael scowled. Why was she telling him to be patient? It seemed she was the impatient one, walking away before he could explain himself.
His confusion must have shown. The lady cleared her throat. “Did you only stop me to inquire after my name?”
Understanding dawned on him. Miss Patience was her name. “No, that is not all.” He shook his head. “I see that you have been impressed with my father’s work.”
“His work is suitable, I suppose. As an artist local to Inglesbatch I daresay he is the best option I have.”
Michael tried not to be offended on his father’s behalf. Women like Miss Patience were not bred to be complimentary toward those beneath their stations. If her words had not reminded him, her eyes had. As she looked at him, she seemed to be staring at a wet leaf stuck on her boot rather than a human being.
He straightened his posture. “I can assure you, I have been trained by my father my entire life. He studied at the Royal Academy of Arts and has passed his knowledge to me. If you will allow me to complete your portrait in his stead, the quality will be comparable to his work.” Michael held his breath. He had yet to take on any real clients of his own, but she did not need to know that. He was ready. He knew he was, and his father believed in him too.
Miss Patience studied him up and down, much like one might appraise horseflesh. “He has passed his knowledge to you, but has he passed his talent? If your skill in painting is comparable to how you play cricket, I would think not.”
He stood in shock for a short moment. The woman had just insulted him without a single blink of her eyes. Her face didn’t even twitch with remorse as she stared at him. He tried to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll have you know, we won the game.”
“Your teammate eliminated our best player.” She raised her chin. “I think it was done intentionally in an attempt to cheat.”
First she insulted him, then accused him of cheating? Michael scoffed. “Your best player? Lord Ryecombe? He only played because he’s hosting this event.” He laughed in his throat. “The team provided greater competition for us once he was off the field and could hinder them no longer. By no man’s opinion would Lord Ryecombe be considered the best player on the gentleman’s team. A horse with its legs strapped together would play better than he did.” It certainly wasn’t wise to speak of their host that way, especially to a lady, but Michael had forgotten his place, evidenced by the first sign of emotion he had yet seen on Miss Patience’s face.
A line formed on her forehead, right between her eyebrows. “I must disagree.”
“I must disagree with you as well, Miss Patience. Politely,” Michael added. “I must also politely assure you that my father did indeed pass his talent to me alongside his knowledge. So, would you like a half-length or three-quarter likeness? Miniature or portrait?” He cast a quick prayer through this heart. If she would allow him to paint her portrait, the payment would be at least thirty pounds—enough to rent the shop for a few months as well as provide ample food for his family.
Miss Patience stared at him for a long moment, that crease between her eyebrows deepening. Her gaze flitted to the right. Michael followed her eyes, catching sight of a lady approaching from across the field. Her chaperone, perhaps? Miss Patience’s posture seemed to stiffen even more, if that were even possible. She turned her attention back to him, her voice quicker than before. “You are still an apprentice, are you not?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes, however—”
“You must prove that your father has passed his talent to you.” Her chin lifted again. “If I do not approve of my portrait, then I will not pay you for it. You must agree to these terms.”
Michael’s blood boiled. Thirty pounds was nothing to a woman of Miss Patience’s standing. She likely carried a greater sum in her smallest reticule. Was this something that all pompous, vain, wealthy people did? Lord Ryecombe had done a similar thing to many people of Michael’s acquaintance, including his father when he had painted the earl’s portrait. Lord Ryecombe had waited to pay him until the portrait had been admired by his friends. Michael’s friend, Edward Steele, likely hadn’t even been paid for carving the bats for the cricket match that day.
“Well?” Miss Patience was being quite impatient again. “Do you agree?”
Michael let out a sigh. He was confident that he could prove himself, even if he was vexed by her utter audacity to place such terms on the agreement. “Very well, I agree.”
At the words, she took a step back, turning her body partially away from him. He caught sight of three large brass buttons on the back of her blue pelisse. Why on earth would she wear a jacket in this weather?
“I will make my appointment for Monday next at ten o’clock,” she said. “A three-quarter portrait.”
He gave a quick nod. “So you are aware, the price for such a work is thirty-five pounds.”
She smoothed a wrinkle from the edge of her sleeve, the wrinkle in her forehead fading at the same instant. “Only if you prove yourself as talented as you claim to be.” She took another step away, not offering even a nod in departure.
“You sound much like Lord Ryecombe,” he muttered, no longer worried about politeness. He thought he had spoken quietly enough to avoid being heard, but she turned back. Her hazel eyes settled on him, ripe with arrogance.
“As I should. My father has passed his knowledge and talent to me as well.”
Michael’s stomach clenched as she turned away, hurrying toward the woman who was approaching from the right. They walked across the field without looking back.
Miss Patience was Lord Ryecombe’s daughter?
And Michael had thoroughly insulted the man right in front of her. He stared at the brass buttons on the back of Miss Patience’s pelisse as she walked away. He ought to have been embarrassed or ashamed, but instead, he was amused. A grin pulled on his mouth. It was no wonder Miss Patience was such an unpleasant, pompous woman, unafraid to throw insults and demands at those she deemed beneath her status. As the daughter of an earl, she had wholeheartedly claimed those privileges.
Determination rose in his chest. He would collect her payment. He would not fail his family. He had been practicing for so many years, and there was nothing that could stop him. His father was dying, but Michael would not allow his business to die too. He would make his father proud before his life ran out and he missed what he raised Michael to be.
He glanced at the place he had last seen Lord Ryecombe. The man was lingering by the refreshment table, cringing as he tried to drink lemonade with this swollen lip. Michael tried to recall the man’s surname, finally settling on the right answer in his mind. Hansford.
Miss Patience Hansford.
That was the name of his very first client.
