In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Twenty-One
The leaves on the trees grew more colorful by the day, still clinging to the final months of life. October was Patience’s favorite month, even if the weather was growing colder. After giving away her blue pelisse, she had planned to purchase a new one. Since her reticule had been stolen, however, she hadn’t had enough money to afford it. Thankfully not all her money had been inside the reticule, but the funds that did remain in her room at Mary’s house were growing slim.
Patience hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but she had heard Mary and her husband speaking in the breakfast room one morning.
“How long to do suppose she plans to stay?” Mary’s husband John had asked in a quiet voice.
Mary’s reply had taken several seconds to come. “I didn’t think it would be this long.”
“Nor did I.”
“Well, we cannot turn her away. You know how the Hansfords have practically banished her. My conscience will not allow it.”
An exasperated sigh had come from John. “She cannot stay here forever.”
“I suppose you are right. Shall we try to find her a husband?”
“With her reputation? I daresay that is unlikely.”
“Well, what do you suppose we do?”
“Write to the Hansfords. See if they will allow her to come home. Nearly six months have passed since the exhibition. Perhaps their shame has been forgotten.”
The clattering of dishes had indicated that Mary was leaving the table. Patience had hurried down the hall and out of sight.
Dread had puddled in her stomach, giving rise to the uncertainty she had been trying to avoid. Mary and John had been generous in taking her in, but she now saw how it burdened them. She had once been hoping for and awaiting a letter from her parents, but she no longer expected one to come. Mary and John were right—she could not stay with them forever. Was marriage truly her only hope? She had other relatives who might take her in, but none who lived in London.
And it broke her heart to think that she might not always live so close to the Cavinders. To Michael.
The days passed far too quickly. Already three had passed since he had held her hand at the theatre. She had been so hopeful then, but now she was back in the depths of worry, wondering if she had imagined the entire thing. He seemed to have carried on as though nothing romantic had happened between them. He was cautious around her, more than he ever had been. Did he require more encouragement? The last time Patience had tried to encourage a man into matrimony had resulted in a disaster. She was too afraid to lose Michael and the friendship they shared. She had never treasured something so much.
If he did have feelings for her, which she suspected that he did, then what was he waiting for? If only he knew how readily she would accept any proposal he offered her, and not simply because she relied on marriage to secure her future.
She loved him.
Admitting it to herself had been terrifying, but she had finally accepted the truth. As Michael had said, people are not paintings. They are created to love and to be loved, to learn, grow, be happy, and experience life. What value would her life have if Michael was not in it? Without him, she would live out her years as empty and lifeless as a painting, just as she had lived the first twenty-one years of her life. The thought of going back to the loneliness of her past sent panic spiraling through her core.
She stared out the window of her bedchamber on the second floor of Mary and John’s townhouse. From her vantage point, she could see the street of Michael’s studio. She had dined with his family the night before, yet she already missed him. His flirtations had been subtle since the theatre, disguised in the amused smiles they shared across the table as Emma and Isabel swooned over the gentlemen they had seen at one event or another. They hadn’t been alone together for longer than a few seconds at a time, so she couldn’t have expected him to declare his feelings for her.
She had tried to triumph over her greatest fault, but her efforts were futile.
She had never been so impatient in her entire life.
What could she do to encourage him? She thought of the day she had ‘practiced’ her flirting with Michael in order to ensure she would be prepared to flirt with Lord Clitheroe. She never would have imagined that one day she would be planning a way to flirt with Michael in earnest.
She had never visited his shop uninvited, but at the moment, it was the best option she could think of. If she paid him an unexpected visit, he might begin to realize that she missed him while they were apart. Her heart pounded with sudden nervousness. What if he was busy with a client and turned her away? The excuses could have multiplied all afternoon. She needed to go before she could be persuaded by them.
Excitement guided her movements as she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, tying her bonnet ribbons and starting out the door. When she reached the outside of Michael’s studio, she froze.
A group of women walked down the street, pointing up at the wooden sign above his studio. The pairing of matrons leading the pack prickled in Patience’s mind with familiarity.
Could they be the women from the masquerade months before?
They had been wearing masks then, but their stature and air was what made them recognizable. The rumors Patience had started about Michael had thankfully never made it to the papers, but by the way the two older women glared at the doors of Michael’s shop, she could only assume that they still believed her.
The woman leading the group squinted, catching sight of Patience from across the street. Given her unique height, Patience was likely just as recognizable as the other women were to her. With their affinity for gossip, they were likely quite curious as to why Patience, who had acted so afraid of Michael, would be entering his studio.
“Drat,” she muttered to herself. She quickly slipped through the doors, glancing around the room for Michael. He looked up from his easel, eyes round with surprise. In an instant, he set down his brush, his expression melting into a smile. “Patience?” He turned the easel toward the corner, stepping out from behind it. He quickly tossed a sheet over the other easel nearby before stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his smock. She recalled his suspicious behavior the last time she had been in his studio when she had tried to see what he had been hiding in the corner of the room.
He strode toward her with a smile, distracting her from her suspicion. His hair had fallen over his brow, his shirtsleeves rolled in their usual way. His brown eyes appeared lighter when he faced the front window, and the spattering of freckles on his cheeks made Patience’s heart skip.
She nearly forgot about the pack of women approaching from outside.
“What has brought you here?” Michael asked. “Is something amiss?” He followed her gaze out the window, a furrow in his brow.
“The women from the masquerade,” she whispered, true panic climbing her spine. Why did she feel as though they were being pursued by a real pack of predators? “They have come for you.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “What, pray tell, does that mean?”
She laughed, letting out a small shriek as she caught sight of the women as they crossed the street behind a passing carriage. Her gaze darted around the room, settling on the open closet in the back corner.
“We must hide.” Without thinking, she clutched his wrist, pulling him along as she raced toward the closet. Michael’s laugh rustled her hair as she tugged him into the closet, surprised by her own strength. Just seconds before the chime sounded on the front door, Patience tugged the closet door closed, sealing them inside.
The space was much smaller than Patience had expected. Shelves lined each side, leaving only a narrow walkway toward the back of the closet, just a few paces long. Very little light managed to seep into the enclosed space, but Patience’s eyes had adjusted enough to see Michael’s outline.
“You nearly made me step on my painting of Orpheus,” he said, chuckling. She glanced back as he slipped the painting into a hidden compartment at the back of the closet. “This is the only place it will be safe. I keep it here every night.” He covered the opening with a sheet from the nearby shelf. His movements were far too loud.
She held a finger to her lips, instructing him to be quiet as she listened to the sounds beyond the doorway. Michael’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, making her own difficult to keep at bay.
“Mr. Cavinder?” A voice called from the front of the studio. Several feet moved over the creaking floorboards.
“Where is he?”
“How unprofessional that he is not even present at his own studio during the day.”
“Did we expect any better from him?”
“No, indeed.”
Patience was grateful that Michael was laughing, otherwise she would have felt guilty for inspiring the women to develop such a strong dislike for him.
“But where is the woman who walked in before us? I am certain I saw her enter through the front doors.”
Patience held her breath.
“You must be mistaken. There is no one here.” The creaking, clicking footfalls resumed. “Come, we have many errands to attend to.”
Patience listened carefully as the door chimed again, not daring to move until several seconds had passed after the last footfall sounded. When she was certain all the women were gone, a laugh burst out of her chest. Her stomach ached as she turned to face Michael, who laughed just as heartily.
She tried to shift back a step, but there was no room in the closet amid the boxes that had been placed on the floor between the shelves. She was trapped, pinned between the door and Michael. Her eyes had adjusted more now, enough that she could see the finer details of his face.
His smiling lips, in particular, caught her attention.
Michael’s laughter subsided. He seemed to recognize the impropriety of their situation the same moment she did. Her heart gave a thud when his gaze flickered to her mouth.
“It seems we have narrowly escaped with our lives,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Indeed.” Patience tried to smile, but she lacked the energy it required. She couldn’t think of anything witty to say, not when Michael was standing so close. His gaze lifted to hers for a short moment before flickering back to her lips again. Her heart was on fire. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for, wasn’t it? Her pulse pounded in her neck. She hadn’t anticipated being alone in a closet with Michael, but that was where her trip to his studio had brought her.
Frustration built in her chest as the seconds ticked by. Was he too noble to fill the mere inches that separated his mouth from hers? The restraint in his eyes was obvious, staring back at her like a reflection of her own heart. She wanted to feel his arms around her again, taste his lips, surrender to the pull she felt toward him.
And she was through with being patient.
She drew a breath as she pulled his head down to hers. In immediate, or perhaps simultaneous response, his hands seized her by the waist, his mouth meeting hers halfway in the space between them. Her heart was on fire. His lips parted hers, soft and gentle at first, gradually growing in intensity. But she did not want his gentle, cautious kisses, not after she had waited so long. She gripped the front of his smock in two handfuls of fabric, and suddenly he was kissing her deeper, harder, his hands racing over her back and arms and eventually settling on the sides of her face.
He kissed her with a fervent urgency that she had never felt before, backing her against the closet door. Every nerve in her body tremored with emotion. She inhaled the clean soap on his skin and the scent that reminded her of a fresh roll of canvas or the pages of a new book. Even with him pressing her against the door, kissing her mouth as though his life depended on it, she still needed him closer. She needed him to never, ever stop.
She caressed the sides of his jaw, burying her fingers in his soft hair. A low groan sounded in the back of his throat. She didn’t care that it was a dark and dust-covered closet where Michael kissed her. She didn’t care one bit. The only thing her senses could detect was him. Michael Cavinder. His mouth on hers, his taste, his scent, his hands against her face.
“Patience,” he whispered against her lips. He pulled away with another groan. Their foreheads still touched, even the bridges of their noses. It was cruel of him to stop kissing her if he was going to keep his lips so close to hers.
Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and weak. She traced her fingers over the buttons of his waistcoat, watching the quick rise and fall of his chest.
“Perhaps we should leave,” he traced his thumb over her cheek, his eyes wary. A smile tugged his mouth upward, and it took all her energy not to kiss his grinning lips again. How long had they been in that closet? Time had paused just for them. Patience’s heart felt as though it had been turned upside down and shaken before being pressed back into her chest. Opposite, but still the same, experiencing love in way it never had before.
She didn’t want to leave. Uncertainty and sorrow didn’t live inside that closet. It was Patience and Michael, Orpheus and Eurydice, and a few painting supplies.
Despite how her entire being protested, she knew Michael was right. If she stayed there much longer, they would surely kiss again, and this time they might not have been able to stop. The cramped space thrummed with unspoken feelings. Patience had been kissed by Lord Clitheroe and it had been nothing in comparison to what she had just experienced with Michael. She could only conclude that he cared for her just as much as she hoped. Perhaps even more.
He reached behind her, tugging on the door handle. The door jostled in the frame, but it didn’t open. Patience shuffled against the door until she was out of his way. He pulled on the handle again, pushing his shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge.
“Is it…stuck?” Patience helped him push.
“I’m afraid so.” His eyes met hers. “I have never closed the door behind me before. It has always been a bit difficult, but it has never stuck this firmly before.” He shook the handle, thrusting his shoulder against the center of the door again.
“Are we—are we trapped?” She was not being helpful with all her questions.
He turned to face her, laughing as he raked a hand over his hair.
“Leaving is not an option then,” Patience said.
“No.”
She could think of one way they could pass the time, but she didn’t think it wise to tempt him with the suggestion. Her heart was still on fire from their last kiss. She stepped forward, shaking the door handle again. She kicked the base of the door. The resulting click was encouraging. Michael kicked the base of the door even harder while Patience turned the handle. It swung open.
In the commotion, they must have failed to hear the chime of the front entrance. An elderly man stood near Michael’s desk, jaw dropping as he took in the scene. Patience stumbled out of the closet, squinting against the brightness of the studio with its many windows. Her lips still tingled, her legs still shaking beneath her. Could the man see that she had just been thoroughly kissed? She glanced back at Michael, who seemed to have just noticed the man.
“Did you know that closet has a secret compartment?” Patience blurted to the man, hoping to somehow explain what they had been doing in the closet together without truly explaining what they had been doing. She laughed, a shaky sound. She was still recovering, and likely would be, for a very long time. “Mr. Cavinder stored my portrait there and when I followed him inside to see it, the door stuck behind us.”
The man scratched at his long side whiskers, giving a half-hearted nod. He didn’t seem to completely believe her, but it was enough to keep his suspicions at bay. She continued her act, offering a bow to Michael as she turned her back to the gentleman with the long side whiskers. Michael’s eyes danced with amusement as she lifted her voice to speak again. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Cavinder.”
He offered a bow in return before striding toward the man at his desk. “Thank you, Miss Hansford.” He glanced back at her, casting her flirtatious smile meant just for her.
Legs still shaking, she made her way toward the front door. She only made it a few steps before a fresh grin pulled across her face. She was fairly certain she had never been so happy. Michael hadn’t spoken his feelings aloud, but he had given her every indication that he did not view her as a mere friend.
The thought made a lump form in her throat. Tears sprung to her eyes as her smile stretched even wider.
He might have even had it in his mind to marry her.
Michael greeted the man at his desk, apologizing for the delay. Patience sneaked around them, her gaze catching on the two easels Michael had been standing behind when she had first arrived. The sheet had slipped off the corner of the one closest to her.
Her stomach plummeted. She could only see half of it, but it was the only half she needed to see to recognize the piece. It was The Monstrous Debutante. She frowned. Hadn’t Michael promised to destroy it? Why did he still have it in his shop? Not only that, but it was on an easel, as if he were working on it again.
She fought the unease that spread in her veins as she continued walking, tearing her gaze away from the portrait before Michael could realize what she had seen. It must have been what he had been hiding in the corner of his studio the last time she had been there.
He had been acting so suspicious, and now she understood why.
A hint of betrayal climbed over her skin, but she shook it away. There could have been a very reasonable explanation that she was missing.
The concept of optimism was fragile and new, like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon. She tried to cling to it, but her doubts threatened to tear it down. There was a simple solution. All she had to do was ask him, and she would do just that the next day. After all that had passed between them that afternoon, she didn’t think it wise to go straight to his house for tea with his mother and sisters. She needed a little time alone to clear her head.
Without looking back, she walked out of the studio and into the autumn air, fighting the sudden sting in her heart and the question that plagued her mind.
What if Michael’s opinion of her was not as high as she hoped?
