In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Fourteen
There was only one woman who would wear long sleeves in the stuffy heat of a crowded London assembly room.
Miss Patience Hansford.
It hadn’t only been her sleeves, but also her height and dark hair that had given away her disguise. Michael’s pulse raced as he approached the place where he knew her to be hiding. He could have been a coward and remained in the opposite corner of the room, but his honor had demanded that he seek her out. The papers had been ruthless to Miss Hansford since his painting had released, and there was no question that she had noticed. The exhibition had ended weeks before, but the people of London hadn’t yet forgotten Miss Hansford’s face.
Michael certainly hadn’t. Her face had been the start of a new life for his family. He had been able to provide his sisters with the ballgowns they had always dreamed of. They had been granted entry to many events in town because of Michael’s new fame as an artist. He had been working day and night to complete the many portraits he was now responsible for. His dreams were all coming true, but they were coming true at Miss Hansford’s expense.
He took a deep breath. How could he possibly form an apology or an explanation? And why should he? Miss Hansford had never apologized for what she had done to him. For nearly a year he had lost his studio and worked tirelessly to provide a meager living for his family. There had been many days that they had hardly eaten in order to save money for their rent.
He nearly turned around. He had nothing to apologize for. The field was level now. He had simply repaid her for the atrocity she had given him.
“Is there something you are looking for, sir?” A large woman with a tall feather in her turban lifted her nose at him. She gave a smile that seemed rather false. Michael had never attended a masquerade, but from what he had heard, events such as these tended to loosen the bands on propriety. While masked, people tended to speak their minds more freely, throwing manners aside and bypassing introductions.
Michael shifted, attempting to see around her.
The woman moved into his line of sight. Both eyebrows shot up to the curls on her forehead.
“I—well, I thought I saw an old…acquaintance of mine.” Where had Miss Hansford gone? She was taller than all of these women. Michael blinked. There were many women in front of him, all eyes fixed on his face through their masks. His stomach flipped, unsettled by the attention. What were they staring at? One woman even appeared to be glaring at him. Another stood with her hands planted on her hips.
“You will not find her here,” the woman in front said.
“I saw her just now.” Michael scrunched his brow. “She wore an ivory gown with long sleeves. She is quite tall with dark hair. Have you seen her?”
“I have not.”
“Are you certain?” Michael walked closer. “Her name is Miss Hansford. There is a very important matter I wish to discuss with her.”
Ever so slightly, the woman glanced behind her. Was that where Miss Hansford was hiding? The wall of women was far too thick. How was he to break through it? And why on earth did all these women seem as though they wished to throw him out of the building?
“Miss Hansford? The woman in your painting?”
Michael had never confirmed to anyone that Miss Hansford had been the subject of his portrait. Each time he had been asked directly, he had denied it. Not surprisingly, the papers had made a different assumption.
When Michael did not answer, the woman spoke again. “She has already rejected you many times. Surely you must realize by now that she will not marry you, especially after what you did to her reputation.”
Michael rubbed the side of his ear. Had he heard her correctly? “Miss Hansford never rejected me. I never asked her to marry me.”
The two woman in front of him exchanged a glance before setting their harsh gazes on him again. “There is no sense denying it. Not only should you stay away from Miss Hansford, but you ought to stay away from her friend as well. I am assuming the role of her chaperone and requesting that you seek a partner for your next dance elsewhere.”
Michael was fairly certain he had never been so confused in his entire life. All he had done that evening was stay close beside Emma and Isabel to ensure they were safe.
“Miss Hansford’s friend? I have not been acquainted with any friend of Miss Hansford’s.”
The woman glanced behind her again, a brief flicker of her gaze, but enough to reassure Michael that she was indeed hiding something—or someone. He gave a quick bow in departure before slipping away into the crowd. He walked quickly, concealing himself among all the other guests before circling around to the other side of the room. There, huddled behind the crowd of women, was the woman he still believed to be Miss Hansford. Her hair was the same. Her long sleeves, her height, the lower half of her face. It had been a year since he had seen the real Miss Hansford, not just the likeness, and the sight of her sent a string of a thousand emotions over his skin. What was she doing in London?
He needed to speak with her, but the crowd of matrons and glaring young ladies was surprisingly formidable.
Michael kept his eyes fixed on Miss Hansford from his place amid the crowd, momentarily forgetting Emma and Isabel. He stood in a small space between two gentlemen, where he could see Miss Hansford but she could not see him. A few minutes later, she left her refuge, walking toward another crowd of young ladies on the other side of the room.
With long strides, Michael threaded his way past the guests, cutting off Miss Hansford’s path just as she was passing the entrance to the assembly room.
She jumped back a step. With his closer view, he could see the combination of green and brown in her eyes, even behind the mask. It was her. Those eyes had been haunting him for the past year, and now here they were, blinking up at him with surprise.
“Pardon me,” she muttered, attempting to slip past him.
“Miss Hansford.” Michael moved in front of her. His heart pounded furiously. “Stop.”
She marched past with greater speed. “That is not my name. You are mistaken.”
Michael caught his breath, not bothering to glance around to see if anyone was watching as he followed her toward the doors that led outside. “I know it is you.”
She ignored him, walking even faster. He lost sight of her for a moment as she passed a tall and broad gentleman, but found her again as she slipped out the doors of the assembly room.
Forcing his way through the crowd, he pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool evening air. It was a relief to be free of the stuffiness of the room. His gaze darted in all directions as he searched for any sign of Miss Hansford’s ivory gown and black mask. Around the corner of a brick pillar, he saw the edge of her hem.
With slow, quiet steps, he approached from behind the pillar. When he was within a few paces, he ran forward, circling around the pillar until he faced her. He had moved too quickly for her to react. She jumped, pressing a hand to her heart. “Who are you and why are you following me?” she asked.
Michael removed his mask, though he was entirely certain she already knew who he was. Why else would she have been running from him? She had recognized him just as quickly as he had recognized her.
“Miss Hansford.” Michael lifted his hands in surrender. “I only followed you because I wish to speak with you.”
“I am not Miss Hansford.” She spoke with her chin raised.
Michael groaned. “Devil take it, I know it is you.”
She crossed her arms. “You have no proof.”
Michael took a step closer, gesturing at her mask. “Allow me to see your face then, in order to prove that you are not Miss Hansford.”
Behind her mask, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you so eager to see my face, Mr. Cavinder? Is it so you can paint it as an even more hideous monster this time?” Her voice was cold, sending a chill over his skin.
He fell silent. There was so much to explain. How could he do a thorough job of it? There was no way to change the result of what his painting had done. By the raging fury in her eyes, he could only imagine it had done more harm than he had originally thought.
“I take it you saw the papers?” Michael asked in a quiet voice.
“Yes, I saw the papers.” Her voice cracked. “I saw the papers that caused my betrothed, Lord Clitheroe, to break off our engagement three days before our wedding.” She walked closer, until she stood just inches in front of him. “Those papers also induced my mother to inform me that I was no longer welcome in her home. I wrote to my cousin and traveled here to London with one intention.” Her forefinger stabbed at his chest. “To ensure you regret what you have done to me.”
Guilt spiraled through Michael’s stomach. It was far worse than he could have imagined. He hadn’t anticipated that his portrait would gain the fame that it had. If he had known how it would ruin Miss Hansford, he would have never submitted it, no matter how tempting it was. He was not a vengeful person, but it was obvious that Miss Hansford was.
“Do you regret what you did to me?” Michael asked. “Or have you even considered what the consequences of your actions might have been?”
Miss Hansford’s lips pressed together, and her nostrils flared. “I do not understand how my refusal of one portrait could have made me deserving of such retaliation.”
“Do you think I anticipated this?” Michael shook his head. “I assure you, these results were not my intention. My father was dying. When I secured you as a client, I was hopeful, but when I secured Lord Clitheroe, I knew it was my best opportunity to establish a business that could provide for my mother and sisters. Because you encouraged the marquess to cancel his appointment with me, the reputation of my business suffered. For nearly a year, I struggled to feed my family. I was forced to close my father’s studio. My anger led me to alter your portrait, but only as an expression of my creativity and emotions. I never meant to publicize it, not until my father expressed his dying wish that I submit the piece to the exhibition. I didn’t expect it to be accepted, nor did I expect the fame it has garnered.” He looked straight into her eyes to ensure he was not misunderstood. “No matter how you harmed me, Miss Hansford, I never wished to see you harmed. This was not an act of revenge.”
A soft breeze passed between them, rustling the curls on Miss Hansford’s brow. She stared at him for several seconds, fists curled at her sides. “Then why did you paint me as a monster? You are the only one who has ever seen the scars on my arm.” Her voice hardened. “You cannot pretend that your actions in exploiting my weaknesses were not vengeful.”
Michael frowned, shaking his head. The memory of Miss Hansford, shaking and embarrassed, flashed through his mind. How had she managed to hide her scars from everyone but him? He had never learned how she procured them, but the subject seemed far too sensitive to breach. “I did not paint you as a monster because of your arms.” He emphasized his words.
Her glare faltered. “You didn’t?”
“No, of course not.” Michael’s heart stung. Had she really believed that he would make such a mockery of her physical ailment? He remembered that she hadn’t yet seen the portrait. All she knew from the papers was that she was painted ‘as a monster.’ In her mind, that could have meant he had displayed the scars on her arms that she was so ashamed of.
“Then why?” Her voice was weak.
“It was because of your actions.” He rubbed one side of his face. “I was hurt by what you did the day you left my studio for the last time. I was angry. I had wanted to believe you were good and kind, but after you left that day, I could no longer believe that. In that moment, you seemed very much like a monster in disguise.”
In the moonlight, Miss Hansford’s skin glowed and her eyes flashed with anger. She looked regal and beautiful and dangerous, all at once. “It seems I was once the cause of your ruin, and you were the cause of mine. Are we both monsters, then?”
The question hung heavy between them. His eyes locked with hers. He wished he could go back in time and destroy the portrait of Miss Hansford before he had ever submitted it. What had he been thinking? He had been thinking of his father and his family, but not of Miss Hansford. Perhaps he was a monster in his own right. “Either we are both monsters,” Michael began, “or we are both ordinary people who have made terrible mistakes. People who have been selfish and unkind, perhaps too unforgiving. Which would you prefer to believe?”
Miss Hansford’s posture relaxed slightly, but her eyes remained fixed on his. With her dark, dramatic brows hidden behind her mask, her expression was more difficult to read. As he watched her, he could almost see the layers of her pride unfolding, and he observed the great effort that each layer took to peel away. “I would believe the latter.” She took a deep breath. “But I would also believe that your deeds have been worse than mine. You are now successful. You have risen above your circumstances. You are famous in London for your talent and success, and I—” She looked down at the ground. “I will never recover from this.”
A fresh wave of guilt collided against his heart. “I was once certain that I would never recover. Though I do regret the actions which led me to where I am today, I am grateful that my family no longer starves. You will recover, Miss Hansford.”
“You do not understand.” Her gaze cut through him. “My family has abandoned me. They do not wish to see me or associate with me. News of my broken engagement with the marquess has already begun circulating. I am not being unreasonable when I say that my life will never be the same again.” The anger that threaded through her words was still directed at Michael. The blame was still there, and he deserved all of it.
“I know my words will not suffice, but I wish to offer my most sincere apology. I will destroy the portrait. I will do all I can to reverse the effect it has had on your reputation.”
Her head gave one concise shake. “No.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “No?”
Miss Hansford planted her hands on her hips, lifting her chin. “You will not destroy the portrait until I’ve seen it.”
