In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aletter sat on Patience’s writing desk when she walked back to her bedchamber. The folded square looked unfamiliar to her, forlorn and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time she had received a letter.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, biting her lip to keep from sobbing again. Michael’s words in the drawing room still sent pain radiating through her chest with every movement she made. She approached the letter with careful steps. It had come from Briarwood.
Her fingers shook as she unfolded the foolscap. Written in her father’s hand was a brief message. She could practically hear his unyielding voice in the back of her mind as she read the words.
Patience,
Mary has written to me to inquire after how long you will be staying in London. She has requested that you be returned to Briarwood at our earliest convenience. Thankfully, it happens that I planned to write to you of a different matter that should call you back to Inglesbatch as soon as possible. The Viscount of Fordwich has expressed his interest in you. He happened upon your portrait at the Royal Academy and it met his attentions with a surprising fascination. He is already aware of your broken engagement with Lord Clitheroe, yet he still wishes to meet you. I believe it is his eccentric nature which causes him to find something greater than disgust in these dreadful circumstances which surround your reputation. A connection with him would benefit our family greatly. We expect your arrival soon.
He signed the letter as he would any business correspondence, without any mention of the fact that he was her father. Without any indication of affection. Patience stared at the words written in his narrow, tilted hand. Mary and John didn’t want her. Michael didn’t want her. And her family only wanted her when she could be of service to them.
She thrust the letter down to her desk with disgust, but her eyes remained fixed on it.
She couldn’t take it lightly. An offer from a viscount, after all that her reputation had suffered, would be unheard of. To marry this man, whoever he was, would at least secure a future of comfort for herself. She knew in her bones she would not be happy with him, but she could at least know that she wouldn’t end up abandoned and alone. Her heart ached as she thought again of Michael. If she rushed away now, it would only affirm his suspicions of her. But what choice did she have? Mary and John were eager to have her leave, and she had no where else to go.
She slid the letter to the corner of her desk, hardly able to look at it. Her vision blurred with fresh tears. Michael had made his opinion of her clear. Betrayal and hurt clutched her chest so hard she couldn’t breathe. If she left, it would come as a relief to him. He wouldn’t even miss her.
But she would miss him. She would miss his reassuring smiles and contagious laughter, the feeling of his arms around her and the endless expressions of his eyebrows. She would miss his kindness, his deep thoughts and creative words. She would miss Mrs. Cavinder and her gentle goodness, Emma and Isabel with their infectious love for life and new experiences.
Among it all, she would miss her heart. Because that broken, bitter thing they had all helped her heal would remain here in London with them.
Michael listened to the clock ticking in the drawing room of his house. His face was in his hands. Mother sat beside him on the settee, patiently waiting for him to explain what had made him so distraught. There was only one person who understood him better than he understood himself, and that was Mother. She would know what to say to comfort him. Perhaps she could stop the pain and unease from festering in his heart.
He wanted to believe Patience. With every fiber of his being he wanted to believe her. Was it weakness that made him so eager to trust her? If he kept her close, how many more times would she trick him? The confusion in her eyes that day still haunted him, even as he sat in his drawing room hours later. Either he was mistaken, and somehow the two witnesses were wrong, or she was an incredible actress.
He groaned, sitting up to face Mother’s concerned glance. His throat tightened with emotion as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Her brow knit together in worry. “What has happened?”
He had likely appeared just as distressed the year before when he had been preparing to tell her that they could no longer afford his father’s studio. Mother seemed prepared to hear similar news again.
“The painting I have been working on for months…the one I planned to display at the next exhibition was stolen this morning.”
Mother gave a quiet gasp, shaking her head. “Were you harmed?” Her eyes flitted over him with concern.
Harm had been done, but it wasn’t anything she would be able to see. The pain he felt was like a knife deep in his chest, stabbing and twisting without mercy.
“Who would do such a thing?” Mother asked. “Oh, Michael. I know how much time you spent on that painting.”
He shook his head, closing his eyes against the ache in his forehead. “That is not what troubles me the most. Yes, having another painting displayed at the exhibition would have benefitted us greatly, but you haven’t heard the worst of it.”
Mother’s eyes rounded, and she sat back against the cushions. “Tell me.” She braced herself on the armrest of the couch, her hand curving over the edge to grip the upholstery.
“Two witnesses who were passing by my studio this morning described the thief. Their descriptions matched Patience.” A fresh pang of grief struck him. “It made sense. She came to London to seek revenge on me, but I was foolish enough to think she had changed. I was even foolish enough to fall in love with her.” His voice broke and he bit the inside of his cheek.
Mother was shaking her head. “No, Michael, you must be mistaken. Patience would never do something so wicked. She has changed, and you know it. It is obvious to me that she loves you too.”
He turned toward his mother, heart thudding. She was much wiser than him. She always had been. If she thought Patience truly loved him, then how could it not be true? Frustration mingled with his confusion. But how could the other evidence be explained? “Patience was the only person who knew where I kept that painting hidden,” Michael said.
“That is not enough to condemn her,” Mother said. “Your shop has many windows. Any person passing by undetected could have peered inside and watched you hide the painting at the end of any given day.”
Michael nodded. “That is true. But what of the witnesses? I spoke to both individually,” he said. “Both said that they saw a dark-haired woman wearing a blue pelisse. The blue pelisse was described to be exquisitely detailed, with three brass buttons down the back, symmetrical pleating, and a tall collar. Patience has worn that very thing more times than I can recall.”
Mother threw a hand over her mouth. She leapt from the settee, turning to face him.
He jerked back against the cushions, shocked by Mother’s sudden movements. She paced in front of him, shaking her head. “I hope you have not already accused Patience of stealing the painting.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“Michael.” Mother stopped, jaw hanging loose. She was usually the picture of composure, but something in his last words had unraveled her. “Did you?” She scolded him with her gaze.
“I wanted an explanation,” he said. “So I did speak with her, but she denied that she stole the painting.”
Mother closed her eyes with a sigh. “She denied it because she did not steal it.”
He frowned as his pulse picked up speed. “How do you know?”
With slow steps, Mother returned to her seat beside him on the settee. She placed one hand on his knee. “Do you remember the day you returned home and she sat near the fire with me? She ran from the room because she was ashamed of the scars on her arm.”
Michael nodded.
“Did you ever wonder why her arms were uncovered that day?”
As he thought back to that moment, he realized he had never questioned it. He had been too concerned with Patience’s tears to wonder why.
He shook his head.
“I found her on the front steps, arms bare, shivering, but she hesitated to come inside. She was distressed about something. She told me that she had given her pelisse to a cold, poor woman in the street. In answer to her kindness, that woman had then stolen Patience’s reticule.”
Realization crashed over him.
“Patience does not even have that blue pelisse anymore.” Mother’s words came faster. “The woman she gave it to had already proven to be a thief once before. I am entirely certain that it was she who stole your painting, not Patience.”
He covered his face with his hands, regret spiraling through his stomach. What had he done? His accusations had been harsh, a result of his broken heart. He had no excuse for it. His pride had hardened him, making him unwilling to listen and risk making a fool of himself by trusting her. Amid it all, relief still flooded his soul. Patience hadn’t betrayed him.
But now he had betrayed her. He was like Orpheus, unwilling to trust that Patience could change from darkness to light. He had given up too soon, and now he might have lost her forever. He didn’t care about the painting. That thief could do with it what she wished. All he wanted was to take back the things he had said to Patience.
He groaned into his palms. “What shall I do now?”
“Apologize to her at once.” Mother patted his knee with force. “Do not leave her with her confusion a moment longer. Go.”
He stood, thanking Mother with his eyes before leaving the room. She wouldn’t have wanted him to linger with any words of gratitude. He had a grand apology to make, and no matter how carefully he planned his words, there was no way of knowing if it would be enough.
As Michael waited in the same drawing room where he had accused Patience earlier that day, he tapped his foot on the rug. He couldn’t sit still, pacing from one window to the next, examining every piece of art that hung on the crowded walls. When the door finally slid open behind him, his heart leaped.
Patience stood in the doorway, chin held high. Her eyes were fierce, as if daring him to accuse her again. Guilt fisted its hands around his throat. He couldn’t speak. How could he have doubted her for one moment? As he looked at her now, he saw the glistening lines of dried tears on her cheeks. The fierce glare she gave him faltered as he walked toward her.
“Patience, I am so sorry.” He shook his head as he took her hands in his. She looked down, her jaw hanging loose with surprise. “I know now that you didn’t steal the painting. I-I was rash and unkind. I should have listened to you, but I was afraid to make a fool of myself by trusting you a second time.” He let out a sigh, searching her face. “My mother told me how you gave away your blue pelisse. The woman the witnesses saw was wearing it. That was the greatest source of my confusion. I wanted to believe you, and I should have.” He could think of nothing more to say, nothing that would not be repetitive. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Patience didn’t say a word, staring up at him with a furrowed brow. Her lips were solemn. “I was just packing my trunk, you know.”
His heart fell. “Where are you going?”
She was silent for a long moment, looking down at their hands. “My father invited me home. There is a viscount who he would like me to meet.”
A surge of dread tore through Michael’s chest. He had already behaved like Orpheus once, so he ought not to allow her to venture back to Hades, or, in this situation, her father, Lord Ryecombe. “You mustn’t go back to them, Patience. I have seen how unhappy it made you.”
She pressed her lips together. “I know.” Her eyes fluttered up to his, still hesitant. “But for a moment I was also truly unhappy here.”
He knew the precise moment she was referring to. His heart broke all over again.
“I thought you would never speak to me again.” A tear hovered on the edge of her eyelid. She blinked hard. “You have caused me several hours of stress, you know.”
“I know.” Michael moved without thinking, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest. She was stiff at first, but then she melted against him. He could feel her trembling. He rested his chin on top of her head. “How many times will I ruin you before I learn my lesson?”
A quiet laugh passed through her body, vibrating against him. It was his favorite sound in the entire world.
He could easily envision his future with Patience, and he yearned for it so much it physically ached. They had already learned to forgive one another, many times over, and they would likely have to continue doing so throughout their entire lives. That was what happened when two imperfect people happened to be such a perfect match.
“I knew I never should have given that horrible woman my pelisse,” she said. “Now she has my favorite item of clothing, my reticule, and your painting. Not only that, but she has framed me for the crime in the process.” She sniffed, looking up at him. “Is there justice for people like her? Like my sister Hattie? Why should they be allowed to carry on with their lives without any punishment?”
Michael brushed a curl from her forehead. “There is a reason revenge is so tempting. It would offer temporary relief to see their deeds punished, but in the end, the hatred and anger is still yours to carry. This thief, as well as your sister, may do as they wish. Your happiness is independent of their actions.”
Patience gazed up at him. Her hazel eyes were still slightly hesitant, but she no longer glared at him. He would consider that a small victory. In that moment, he was reminded that his happiness was entirely dependent on her staying in London. “Do you still plan to leave?” He held his breath as he awaited her answer. He was fully prepared to beg her to stay if he had to.
A flash of uncertainty crossed her features. “I-I don’t know.”
He looked down at her soft pink lips. If he kissed her again would that help her decision? The temptation set his heart thudding against his ribs. “Who is this viscount? Are you interested in marrying him?” He tried his best to keep the envy from his voice, but it still managed to slip through.
“My cousin and her husband do not want me here.” Patience looked down at the floor, her voice growing quieter. “I-I fear I no longer have another choice but to return to Briarwood.”
He wanted to reassure her that she did have a choice. She could stay in London with him, as his wife, and move to his townhouse with his family. His throat was dry, his hands weak as he swiped a tear from the side of her face. He would have proposed to her right then, but he had a much better plan. He needed just a little time to prepare. “Come join my family for dinner tomorrow,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “What difference will that make?”
“That will depend on your answer.” He smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
A lovely shade of pink flooded her cheeks. Her eyes shifted to his lips, and it took all his concentration not to kiss her properly on the mouth. “My answer?” Her voice was filled with confusion.
Michael shouldn’t have taunted her so much, but he couldn’t help it. He stepped away with great effort, backing toward the door.
“I will see you at dinner tomorrow evening.”
A slight smile pulled on her cheeks, but it was hesitant, as if she were afraid to trust the hope he was giving her. He was afraid too, because it was still possible that she might not accept his proposal. She might have needed more time to forgive him for his accusations toward her. But he couldn’t wait. He needed her to know without any doubt how much he loved her.
Just before he took his leave, he cast her one last smile. “And please do not run off and marry that viscount while I am away.”
She shrugged one shoulder, her eyes locked on his. “I am a little impatient, you know.”
He laughed, holding her gaze for a few seconds more before slipping out of the room.
