In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold

Chapter Nineteen

Patience watched the cobblestones as she walked, careful to keep her bonnet low enough to conceal her face. She shivered as a cold wind cut through the sleeves of her pelisse.

Just a few shops away from Michael’s studio, she caught sight of a woman sitting alone on the street. Her dirt-streaked dark hair had fallen partially over her eyes, and her arms were wrapped around herself. She shivered, pulling the thin, torn fabric of her shawl around her shoulders. A pang of sympathy struck Patience straight in the heart. The only thing that could have caused this woman to be out in the cold alone would be that she had no where else to go. She didn’t even have a way to keep warm.

Patience glanced left and right, noting just a few passersby on that side of the street. Her heart pounded. She knew what she had to do, but the thought terrified her. Before she could lose her nerve, she unbuttoned her pelisse, slipping her arms out of the sleeves. Panic clutched every muscle in her body as she exposed her scars to anyone who looked upon her. Her face was covered, but the puckered skin on her arm was more visible than it had ever been in public.

She hurried toward the woman on the ground. The moment she noticed Patience’s approach, she stood, eyes wide.

“Don’t be afraid,” Patience said, peeking out from under her bonnet. “This is for you.” She extended her blue pelisse. The woman’s eyes followed Patience’s movement.

“Please, ma’am, ye’re too generous.” She touched the sleeve of the pelisse, shaking her head.

“Take it,” Patience instructed it. “You must keep yourself warm.”

The woman studied Patience from head to toe, shaking her head. “Thank ye, miss.” Her face flooded with gratitude as she reached her hands out to gather the pelisse into her arms. She then placed both hands on Patience’s shoulders. He held them there for a long time. “Bless ye for yer kind heart.” Her hands slipped away, burrowing back under the fabric of the pelisse.

Patience smiled. “You are very welcome. I wish you all the best.”

The woman bowed as Patience walked away.

Patience wrapped her arms around herself. She began shivering, walking faster toward the Cavinders’ home. Her heart pounded with dread. Now she was left without anything to cover her arms with. Emma and Isabel had already seen her scars, but Mrs. Cavinder had not. What if she was as disgusted by them as Mama was?

Her legs shook as she made her way up the front steps. As soon as she was inside, she would ask to borrow a shawl from Emma or Isabel. She didn’t regret giving that woman her pelisse. She had needed it more than Patience had. The woman deserved to be kept warm and—

Patience froze, looking down at her arm. Where was her reticule?

She had draped it over her elbow after taking off the pelisse. She turned around, checking the ground behind her. She would have certainly heard it fall off her elbow. The small bag had been filled with heavy coins, nearly all the money she had brought with her to London. Panic seized her limbs. Where had it gone? She recalled the way the woman on the street had clung to her arms in gratitude, then quickly burrowed her hands back inside the pelisse.

That blasted thief had stolen her reticule.

Anger pulsed in her neck as she paced the front steps, mingling with the anxiety in her chest. The emotion that arose next nearly choked her. Betrayal.

Her heart quickened as she slipped down to the ground, burying her face in her hands as she sat on the steps. Her breath was shallow and fast, her arms and legs shaking. Her stomach twisted, threatening to dispose of its contents. She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the tears that gathered behind her eyelids. All the pain she had buried the day she had discovered Hattie and Lord Clitheroe’s betrayal was now rising to the surface. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel it for months. She had begun to believe and trust in the goodness of people again, but then that woman had stolen her reticule. She gritted her teeth, forcing her emotions back to their proper place. Out of sight. Hidden. Buried.

She took a moment to catch her breath, rising to her feet. She would have taken more time to compose herself, but she wasn’t given the chance. The front door opened at the hands of Mrs. Cavinder. The moment her gaze fell on Patience, the smile faded from her lips. “My dear, you must be so cold! Come inside at once.”

Patience obeyed, clasping her hands behind her back to hide at least part of her bare arm. Mrs. Cavinder led her to the drawing room, pulling a chair out in front of the hearth. “What were you doing out in this weather without anything to keep warm?” Mrs. Cavinder’s gaze barely skimmed over Patience’s scars before returning to her face. Not even a hint of surprise or disgust entered her expression, only deep concern.

Patience let out a shaky breath as the fire spread warmth over her skin. “I gave my pelisse to a poor woman on the street. I just realized that she stole my reticule.” Her cheeks heated. “In my generosity, she took advantage of me. She acted so grateful, so kind.” Patience shook her head. “She had no remorse in her deceit.” Just like Hattie. The memories floated closer to the surface again, and her throat tightened.

Mrs. Cavinder shook her head. “That is not fair, is it?”

Patience shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I should find her and take my pelisse back.” She groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

Mrs. Cavinder wrapped one arm around Patience’s shoulders. “There is little good that would come from that. It is often the most unkind people who require kindness the most. If this woman truly was poor, she must have needed the money in your reticule desperately. It is no excuse for thievery, mind you, but it is something to consider as you attempt to forgive her.”

Patience lifted her face away from her hands. With Mrs. Cavinder’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she felt the threat of tears overwhelm her again. Mrs. Cavinder’s eyes were soft and gentle as they looked at her. They were focused on her eyes—her soul—not on the flaws of her skin or the way her tears had likely caused her cheeks to be covered in red splotches. She gave Patience a squeeze, pulling her closer. One hand stroked her hair, guiding Patience’s head to her shoulder.

Patience closed her eyes as a tear slipped down the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t recall the last time—if ever—that she had been held like this. Comforted and understood. Growing up at Briarwood, she had been bred, reared, educated—but she had never been mothered or nurtured. Had she even been loved? She bit her lip to keep from sobbing into Mrs. Cavinder’s shoulder, because during those years of being bred, she had been advised to keep her emotions from showing.

She swallowed hard, thinking of Mrs. Cavinder’s words. Forgiveness was not as simple as it seemed. It was far easier to forgive someone who showed regret and pain over their actions. Patience hadn’t taken long to forgive Mr. Cavinder because of this. Perhaps that again showed the superiority of his character, because he had forgiven her before she had shown any remorse. She hadn’t deserved his kindness, but he had given it freely, just as Mrs. Cavinder did now.

Patience, as an unkind person, had needed kindness the most.

Her heart softened a little toward the woman in town. Patience had been just like her only a few months before. Intent only to take, not to give. When so much had been taken from her, Patience had become bitter and cruel, clinging to what little she had.

Her heart stung again as she thought of Hattie’s betrayal. Was that also something she was expected to forgive? The idea tortured Patience’s heart, and her entire body refused the idea. The bitterness and anger she felt were the only things that protected her from the pain. If those feelings were gone, she would be left raw and vulnerable, and then what would she do?

Mrs. Cavinder held her close for several minutes, stroking her hair. The turmoil in her chest had just begun to calm when the drawing room door opened again. The sound startled her. She sat upright, turning away from the hearth to see who had entered the room.

It was Michael.

Her hands shook as she looked down, remembering that her arms were uncovered. Shame heated her cheeks, and she felt a sudden, wild desperation to cover herself, to hide from his view. It had been more than a year since he had seen her scars, so she had hoped he had forgotten just how unsightly they were. She whirled back toward the hearth, heart thudding past her ears.

“I finished early today,” he said, a smile in his voice.

Michael’s footfalls were barely audible past her pulse as he walked into the room and sat in the chair adjacent to hers. She refused to look at him, though she felt his gaze burning against her skin. The room faded into silence, and Patience couldn’t bear to be there a moment longer.

“Excuse me,” she said in a choked whisper. Rising to her feet, she rushed from the room, passing Michael without looking at him. She didn’t dare look at his face for the risk of seeing disgust written upon it. The hall was cool, and it served as a balm to the shame on her cheeks. As quickly as she could, she started toward the front door. She had only made it halfway when she heard heavy footfalls coming up behind her.

“Patience—” Michael’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Where are you going?”

She clasped her hands in front of her, pulling her arms away from his view. Where was she going? It was cold outside, and she didn’t want to walk in public without long sleeves again. She hadn’t been thinking as she fled from the drawing room. All she had wanted was to avoid Michael while she was so vulnerable. “I don’t know.” She stared at the door handle, just a few paces in front of her. If she dashed forward, she could escape. But her feet kept her rooted to the floor.

Michael stepped around her until he faced her completely. Her breath hitched, her legs shaking all over again. Her anxiety and emotions had already been fragile that day, but with Michael standing in front of her, eyes kind and free of judgment like his mother’s, her composure wavered.

He searched her face. The warmth in his eyes unraveled her, thread by thread. “Patience.” He shook his head. His eyes lowered to her scars, concern knitting his brow. Ever so slowly, his fingers lifted to the puckered skin on her right arm, tracing over it. Her heart pounded. How could he bear to touch them? It wasn’t disgust in his expression. It was sorrow.

“How did this happen? What hurt you?” His voice was hoarse. “You can trust me.”

A tear slipped from her eye, then another. She licked her lips, trying to pull the lump in her throat back to its proper place, but her tears fell freely. She sniffed, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” Michael’s eyes flashed with frustration. His hands slid to her shoulders, gripping softly to keep her stable. “Anything that hurts you, anything you feel matters to me.” The sincerity of his words brought another sob out of her.

Her posture slumped, her chin dropping to her chest. She had never told anyone the truth about that day. Not even Mama. Not Papa. Hattie had begged her not to, and she had listened. “Ten years ago, my parents left my older sister Hattie and me alone for a day. As my older sister, Hattie was given authority to care for me while they were away.” Patience rubbed at her nose, staring at the buttons on Michael’s waistcoat and the streaks of dried paint on his wrists. “W-we went to the kitchen while our cook was gathering herbs in the garden. Hattie wished to steal a tray of cakes while the cook was not aware. I had always feared disappointing my parents and acting against their instruction, so I did not support Hattie’s mischief.” Patience swallowed, her words spilling out faster. “We began arguing, and we both became angry. Hattie tried to reach for the cakes, but I stopped her. She was furious that I would not listen to her. When she pushed me aside, I pushed her back. We had argued often, but we had never hurt one another.” Patience wiped at the fresh tears on her cheeks. “I never thought Hattie would hurt me, but that day she was more angry than I had ever seen her. We were both children, so she likely didn’t fully realize what the consequences of her actions would be.” Patience fell silent, the secret lodged in her throat.

“What did she do?” His voice was filled with apprehension.

Patience took a deep breath. “She lifted the pot of boiling water from behind me and poured it over my arm.” Her jaw tightened. “When she realized what she had done, she begged me not to tell our parents. I didn’t wish to cause trouble, so I told them the story Hattie invented. In her story, I was playing in the kitchen and accidentally knocked over the pot. To this day, that is what they believe. Hattie is an angel in their eyes, unable to do wrong. It took me many years to fully recognize her true nature, no matter how often she hurt me.”

“She has hurt you more than once?” Michael wiped at the tears on her cheeks, holding her face between his hands. His brow was furrowed with concern and anger, as if he wished to confront Hattie himself. She had no choice but to look at him, and it broke her composure in two. A sob shook her body as she nodded.

“The worst of it happened just before I came to London. Lord Clitheroe is just as much to blame, but my sister’s betrayal hurt far more than his.” She squeezed her eyes closed as tears slid down her face toward Michael’s fingers. “I always suspected that there was something between them. Lord Clitheroe was not secretive about his opinion of Hattie’s beauty, and she never failed to flirt with any man, eligible or not. I thought once she was married her habits would change, but I was wrong.” She choked on a sob. “One week before my wedding, I saw her kiss him.” All the emotions she had been suppressing came pouring out, all the secrets she had been holding in her heart were now on full display. Michael wiped away more of her tears before pulling her against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, tight and secure.

“I was still willing to marry him, even after what I had seen. It was the only way my parents would have loved me.” Her voice cracked. “I have always wondered if they would have loved me more if my arm had not been burned. If-if there hadn’t been a part of me my mother was always seeking to hide.”

“That is not love,” Michael said, his voice close to her ear. “If their love for you has such conditions, then it is not worth seeking. There are others who will love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

She buried her face in his chest, letting his shirt soak up what remained of her tears. She breathed deeply, the smell of him serving to relax her senses. Others? Was Michael one of these others? A surge of longing washed over her heart. He rested his chin on top of her head, rubbing reassuring circles over the space between her shoulder blades. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes as he held her. She already knew he wouldn’t let go. He would keep his arms wrapped around her until she pulled away. He would be there no matter how long she needed him. She had never felt more secure, warm, or safe.

Michael’s voice came again, slow and deliberate. “I want you to forget everything you have been taught by your mother and remember this one lesson. People are not paintings.”

Patience listened, wrapping her arms around the back of his jacket, clinging to the fabric there with as much fastness as she clung to each of his words. “What do you mean?”

“The value of a painting is determined by its appearance. They are created to be looked at. People are not paintings,” he repeated. “We are created to love and to be loved, to learn, grow, be happy, and experience life. What is the value of that life if it is lived without that understanding? Please, do not forget how inherently valuable you are. Never allow anyone to convince you otherwise.”

Patience sniffed, lifting her head from Michael’s chest. She stared up at him, suddenly embarrassed to have been clinging so tightly to his jacket. “You have come far from the man who depicted me as a vile creature.” She hadn’t felt so shy around him in a very long time. She had just poured her heart out to him, and he had listened.

He framed her shoulders with his hands, rubbing her upper arms softly as he laughed. His eyes settled on hers. “Well, you have come far from the woman who inspired me to create that piece.” He paused, a crease forming in his brow. “And now I see who the true monster has always been. I am sorry your sister has been so cruel.” His voice was edged in frustration.

Patience thought of Mrs. Cavinder’s words of advice about forgiving the woman who had stolen her reticule. Would forgiving Hattie be enough to lift the weight that had been bearing down on her back? If she thought she were capable of forgiving her sister, then she would try, but each time she thought of her, all she felt was bitterness and pain. “Do you think I need to forgive her?” Patience asked, her voice weak.

Michael studied her face, a hint of disbelief in his features. “If you are willing to try, I think that is already more than most people could manage.”

Patience’s head ached from all her crying. She closed her eyes. “I’m not certain it is possible.”

His fingers brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek, sending tendrils of warmth over her skin. “It will not happen instantly. It will take time, and that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Patience nodded, opening her eyes. “Thank you, Michael.” Her lip quivered as she was overcome with emotion again. She had turned into a watering pot. “You…” her voice faded. What had she meant to say? There were a thousand compliments that she could have given him, so many words she could have used to convey what he meant to her without being too forward, but she couldn’t grasp onto a single one.

He raised his eyebrows as he waited for her to finish her blank sentence.

“You are…” She pressed her lips together, sniffing. “You are my favorite…” Her brow scrunched as she searched for the right word. He was her favorite what exactly? Friend? Artist? Cavinder? Member of the human race? “You are my favorite.” A frustrated breath escaped her as a smile tugged on his lips. He was amused with her awkwardness once again. Before she could make a fool of herself further, she slipped away from his arms. Walking back to the drawing room, she felt his gaze on her back. She was glad he did not follow her. She needed to borrow a shawl from Mrs. Cavinder and be on her way.

When she opened the door, she found Mrs. Cavinder sitting in the same chair she had been sitting in when Patience left the room. Before she could even ask, Mrs. Cavinder pulled the shawl away from her own shoulders, standing to wrap it around Patience. “I have called for a carriage to take you home. It is far too cold for you to walk.”

The simple kindness of the gesture flooded her heart with gratitude. The two words that formed her reply would never be enough, but still, she spoke them again.

“Thank you.”