In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Eleven
Patience stuck her finger with the needle she had been embroidering with. She pulled it back, pinching the dot of blood between her two fingers. She nearly thrust her embroidery hoop across the room in frustration. She hadn’t been able to focus, not since Hattie had arrived at Briarwood.
She had been there for two days, and she had already changed at least half of Patience’s wedding plans according to her own preference. Patience had allowed it since Mama had shared Hattie’s opinion.
She reined in her frustration. All that mattered was that Patience was marrying Lord Clitheroe; it didn’t matter how or where or when. Since her engagement, Mama had begun speaking to her differently. Her voice lacked the pity and condescension it had always carried before. Every time she spoke of Patience’s engagement, however, her voice carried a tone of surprise.
“I never thought Patience would secure such an advantageous match,” she had said earlier that very day, before Patience had entered the drawing room. Patience had stopped outside the door when she had heard her name, listening to the conversation within. Between the crack of the partially closed door, Patience had seen Hattie nod her agreement—a slow nod—the sort that is used when one cannot comprehend the possibility of something. “I must confess I was shocked to hear the news. If only I had found an opportunity to meet Lord Clitheroe before I accepted Lord Bampton’s proposal.”
Patience had hardly believed what she was heard. Was Hattie not pleased enough with her own marriage to an earl? Patience’s face had grown hot, but she had allowed it to cool before entering the room.
The rest of the afternoon had passed slowly, and Patience had spent most of it alone in the drawing room. She had been trying not to dwell on the events of the previous evening—the first of Hattie’s visit—but the memory had been weighing down on her chest like a boulder.
Hattie had whispered something to Lord Clitheroe. He had smiled. Then he had looked around the room. Hattie’s hand had lingered on his arm before she had walked away.
Patience had excused the exchange as nothing more than a friendly remark in passing, but her heart had been behaving wildly of late, inventing scenarios meant to scare her. Hattie and Lord Clitheroe would be part of the same family soon. Sister and brother-in-law. There was nothing more to what she had seen. She had to believe that.
Early the next morning, Patience draped her cloak over her shoulders, pulling it around herself and over the scars on her arm. A shudder ran over her skin as the cold air of the morning seeped through her windowsill. Her arm had been more sensitive to things both hot and cold ever since she had been injured ten years before. With her wedding approaching, Mama had instructed her to be even more diligent in keeping her arms hidden. An annulment, Mama had said, would be a far greater task than breaking off an engagement. When Lord Clitheroe saw her arm, it would have to be after they were married. At that point, he would not be able to run away.
Patience wrung her fingers together to warm them. She closed her eyes, pressing down the anxiety that rose in her chest. Even if he did not run, it was terrifying to think that he would wish to. She didn’t want anyone to feel trapped with her. She wanted to be loved.
Her heart stung.
That was all she had ever wanted. Did Mama love her now? Did Papa? Hattie?
Her gaze caught on the tree at the edge of the lawn. Pacing nearby was a creature covered in fur and a long tail. Aphrodite. She was prowling for eggs, no doubt.
Patience had forgotten to check the tree all week to ensure that the bird had not laid her eggs yet. It was still early in the spring, but Patience could not take any risks. She hurried out the door and across the lawn. With her arms outstretched, she sneaked up behind the cat, scooping it off the ground. It clawed at her exposed wrists, hissing at her.
“Oh, hush.” Patience said. “You—”
She paused when she heard a rustle behind the tree. A quiet whisper. Deep laughter.
Her head felt light, her legs heavy as she walked closer. Her heart was like a hammer against her ribs, striking pain with each beat.
She peeked between the leaves. Hattie’s back was pressed against a tree, her arms wrapped around Lord Clitheroe’s neck. He leaned down to kiss her, and she did not object, pulling him closer by the lapels.
Patience’s heart jumped to her throat. She couldn’t watch another second of the scene unfold. Emotion seared across her body, and she nearly crumbled where she stood. Patience had known Hattie was wicked in some respects, but she had never expected her to be capable of this.
There she stood, blissfully betraying Patience and her own husband, and likely not for the first time.
Patience hadn’t realized she was squeezing Aphrodite. The cat hissed again, sinking its teeth into the side of her hand. She dropped the creature, and it darted into the trees, straight toward the place where Hattie still kissed her sister’s betrothed. Shamelessly. Heartlessly.
Patience backed away, nearly tripping over the back of her cloak. What Aphrodite had done to the birds was nothing compared to this. Hattie was the true monster.
The blade of betrayal was sharpest of them all, and it cut her straight through her center. She could hardly breathe amid the sobs that shook her as she ran back to the house. No one saw her. She managed to slip into her room without being caught. She sat on the floor of her bedchamber—there seemed no more suitable place than that. Pulling her knees into her chest, she buried her face in them.
She had always considered herself skilled at keeping secrets, but this would be the most painful to keep. If she told anyone what she had seen, chaos would ensue. Hattie’s husband could challenge the marquess to a duel—even one to the death. But if she kept this secret, Lord Clitheroe might still marry her. She would still be the wife of a marquess, even if he did not love her in return. Her future would still be secure. If she didn’t marry him, would she ever receive another offer? The thought of spending her days in spinsterhood with her parents nearly broke her in two. They would resent her. They would disapprove of her far more than she could bear.
Pain spiraled through her chest. She would do all she could to forget what she had seen. It was not worth losing all that she had worked for for nearly an entire year. She hardened the walls around her heart, wiping angrily at her tears.
She would still marry the marquess, even if she had to bury her heart in order to do it.
Miss Hansford looked even more frightening by candlelight. The right side of her face at least.
Michael stood back as the crowds at the exhibition encircled the portrait, whispering to one another and gasping in what Michael hoped was delight—and a bit of surprise.
The exhibition was more grand that Michael remembered it. He had attended the exhibition once, many years before, with his father. He had come as a spectator, not as a participating artist. He could recall the day he attended and the dreams that had been circling through his heart ever since. He had promised himself that one day he would see a piece of his work displayed in those grand halls. He had never expected it would come about the way it had.
He looked up, letting his senses soak in the grandeur of his surroundings. Ornate frames lined the walls from floor to ceiling, works of all sizes laid within them. A large chandelier hung at the center of the room, casting the glow of hundreds of candles over the dried paint, making it shine and return to life. He surveyed the rest of the room. Of the many guests in attendance that evening, the vast majority had begun gathering around The Monstrous Debutante, eager to see what had drawn so many eyes.
A voice stood out from the rest, coming from a tall man with greying hair. “This looks like the daughter of Lord Ryecombe,” he said to the woman beside him. “I dined with their family once at Briarwood, and I am certain it is her.”
Michael’s stomach flopped. He had hoped she wouldn’t be recognized. Many others walked closer to the piece, pointing out the fangs and eyes and all the other monstrosities they could find. It was what people of London society did best, after all, pointing out the flaws of others. If their masks were pulled back, what would be underneath?
His deep thoughts were interrupted by a man beside him, cane in hand. “Mr. Cavinder, is it?”
“I am.” Michael bowed in greeting.
“Mr. Jones, a pleasure. Your work is extraordinary. Are you accepting clients? My family is due for new portraits. I would require half-lengths for myself, my wife, and my three sons.”
Michael’s throat went dry. Speak, you fool. He swallowed. “Yes, of course. I would be happy to provide your entire family with portraits.”
“Capital! So long as you do not paint us as a family of monsters.”
“I won’t, so long as you all hold still and behave.”
The man chuckled, pointing at the portrait on display. “Did this poor girl dare move a finger? Is that why she has earned the name of ‘The Monstrous Debutante?”
Michael looked down at his boots. “She did far more than that.”
“Ah—did she break your heart?”
“No,” Michael said under his breath. Though she had wounded it. He had dared to look for the best in her, but she had fooled him. He could not deny that he had been drawn to her, and it had hurt him to discover that she was as cruel and prideful as her father. “The story behind this piece is meant to remain a mystery,” Michael finished.
“I see.” The man rubbed his jaw before gazing at the portrait once again. “I look forward to seeing your talent at work with my family. How may I schedule our appointments?”
Michael hesitated, searching for a solution. He had traveled to London alone, renting a small apartment for the duration of the exhibition. His plan had been to attend the opening day in order to see how his work was received. He wasn’t prepared to take clients in London yet, but here was a man requesting five portraits from him. He could not turn him down.
“Call upon me in a fortnight at this address.” Michael handed the man a card from his pocket with the address of his rented apartment in London. “I am still in the process of—er—preparing my studio in town.”
The man nodded, waving the card in front of him. “I will.”
Michael smiled. “I thank you for your patience.” The moment the word patience escaped his mouth, a shiver ran over his arms. Meeting Miss Patience Hansford could have very well been the best thing that had happened to him in his life. If this man’s request was only the beginning, then he would need to make haste with his studio preparations. One fortnight was hardly enough time, but with enough determination, he could succeed.
His first step was to return to Inglesbatch to fetch his mother and two sisters. He had a feeling they would be in London for a long time.
The crowd of spectators surrounding the portrait grew as the night went on, and by the end of the evening, Michael had begun writing down names and addresses of his potential new clients as they came to speak with him.
One week later, his schedule was filled for the next five months.
And by the time a fortnight had passed, news of Miss Hansford’s portrait was printed in The Morning Chronicle, named the most admired piece of the exhibition. Gossip papers of all kinds had begun inventing stories behind the portrait, theories that Michael hoped wouldn’t be believed. He was still grateful for them, ridiculous as they were, because they were what drew more people to the exhibition to see the monstrous debutante with their own eyes.
The final gossip paper to release, however, made Michael’s skin go cold. The scandal mongers had found what they had been searching for.
The Identity of The Monstrous Debutante Discovered
Our dear friends, many sources have now indicated with great confidence that the woman depicted in the astonishing piece by Michael Cavinder is Miss Patience Hansford of Inglesbath, the second daughter of the Earl of Ryecombe. Shall we assume she is as monstrous as she appears in her portrait? Stay far away from this deceiving beauty, dear ones. She may bite if you come too close.
