In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Three
Michael could hardly believe his luck. His mother stood in the corner of the kitchen in their small apartment, her eyes as round as the saucers on which she placed two teacups. “The Marquess of Clitheroe? Are you certain it was him?”
“Of course,” Michael said with a laugh. “He has requested a portrait from me specifically. He is traveling to London soon, but he has already made an appointment for when he returns to Inglesbatch next month.” He drew a deep breath, suddenly nervous and overwhelmed. Was he prepared to paint a portrait for a marquess? Surprisingly enough, he was less nervous about portraying the nobleman than he was about portraying Miss Patience.
“This is wonderful, Michael.” Mother walked toward him, setting the tea tray on the nearby table. Her eyes shone with tears as she smiled up at him. Strands of grey mixed in with her dark curls, a contrast that he wished he could portray in his artwork and still have it be admired. If he were entirely realistic, he would have no clients at all. He had been taught that art was meant only to portray beauty and ideals, not signs of realistic aging. Mother squeezed his hand. “I knew you would make us proud.”
A surge of emotion flooded his chest, causing fresh determination to rise inside him. “From what I have heard, Lord Clitheroe is an agreeable man. For the gentry,” he added. “He seems far more agreeable than Lord Ryecombe, that is for certain.” And his daughter. Michael cleared his throat, returning to the subject at hand. “What I mean to say is that if he approves of my work, he will be likely to recommend me to his peers. We shall have more business than we know what to do with.”
A broad smile pulled on Mother’s cheeks. Michael had not seen her smile in a very long time—not since his father’s health had begun declining. “You must tell your father,” she said. “He will be very pleased to hear it. It will provide him with a measure of peace as well to know that you are able to care for us when he is gone.”
Michael removed his hat, raking a hand over his hair. His smile refused to falter from his cheeks. “I will go speak to him now,” he said in an eager voice. “Where is Emma? Isabel?” His two sisters were twins, and they could often be found with their arms linked, walking through town and sharing every bit of gossip they had recently heard, or staring at the dresses and accessories in the shops that they could not afford.
His mother gave a soft smile, walking back to the kitchen. “They are reading to Father.”
Michael looked toward the narrow stairs that led to the upper bedrooms. He would need the help of his sisters to get the shop presentable in time for his appointment with Miss Patience the following Monday. With so few clients, it had been neglected. He couldn’t presently afford new furnishings, but they could clean and organize that which they already had. He was also desperate to speak with his father for any words of advice he might have. Michael’s insides turned and flipped.
No, he could not be nervous already.
He still had days to prepare. However, there was one issue that had been troubling him.
“I looked through Father’s studio and found his supplies to be lacking.” Michael shifted on his feet, looking down at the floorboards. “I must present myself as a professional. The brushes are in adequate condition. As are the paints.” He paused. “But there is not even enough canvas remaining in the studio to make one portrait. We have been delaying the purchase of more because we haven’t had a need for it until now.”
Mother stopped near the pot of stew she had been stirring. Her lips pressed together and her eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t suppose we can afford a new roll of canvas at the moment.”
“That is my worry.” Michael remembered the long days with little to eat all too well. His stomach was already growling as the smell of beef, potatoes, carrots, and freshly baked bread wafted up to his nose from the kitchen. “Miss Hansford requested a three-quarter, so all I will need is a narrow roll. If I purchase one in sixteen ells, it will provide me with enough cloth to make at least twenty-two three quarter portraits. That is far more than I need. I cannot assume even my connection to Lord Clitheroe will provide me with so many clients.”
“I believe you can do anything, Michael.” Mother’s eyes flooded with determination. She reached for the pendant at her neck, unclasping it from the back. “Here.” She strode toward him and thrust the necklace into his palm. “Take this to town and sell it. Purchase your roll of canvas, and then purchase another in a greater width. I am certain you will have an abundance of clients.”
Michael shook his head, attempting to return the necklace to her. But Mother stopped his hand, closing his fingers around the chain and the glittering pendant that hung from it.
“Mother, I can’t sell this.” He continued shaking his head. His throat grew tight with emotion. “Father gave it to you.”
The determination in her eyes faded for a brief moment, replaced with an expression of wistful longing. “He will be proud to hear that it is being put to good use. The welfare of our family is more important to me than a necklace. This is the only thing of value we have to sell.”
He searched her face for any sign of hesitation. Her time with her husband was limited. Michael’s father would soon die, and this necklace was something she had to remember him by. “You must keep the one gift Father has given you,” Michael said.
Her voice took on a firmer tone, her hand shaking around his. “Your father has given me many gifts that are not material like this. He has given me the happiest of memories. He has taught me what it means to be loved deeply and truly. Those are priceless gifts that I will cherish forever.”
Michael was still shaking his head.
“Good heavens, take it.” Mother’s eyes shone with tears. “Take it, and make us both proud.” Her hand pulled away from his and she turned toward the pot she had been stirring.
He stood in stunned silence for several seconds, clutching the pendant so tightly that it dug into his palm. Could he do this? The pressure to create a satisfactory portrait was now even more daunting. As his fear increased, so did his courage and determination.
The scent of stew warmed his chest as he walked toward the stairs. He changed his course to Mother’s direction, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and giving her a soft squeeze. “Thank you for believing in me. I love you.”
She seemed surprised by his affection, for he did not often show it. She patted his hand where it wrapped around her shoulder. “If this is an attempt to earn an extra serving of stew tonight,” her eyes shot up to his with half-hearted scrutiny, “it is working.”
He laughed, moving to the staircase. “You have discovered my scheme. I will try to be more subtle in the future.” He threw her a wink, to which Mother wagged a finger at him.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to Father’s room, slipping the necklace into his pocket. He stopped by the door, listening to Emma’s soft voice as she read aloud. The words were muffled, but the rhythm of her voice told him that she was indeed reading from a book. He pushed open the door as quietly as he could.
Emma looked up from the pages. She sat in a wooden chair by Father’s bed, Isabel beside her. He was impressed with himself for recognizing the voice as Emma’s. The only way he had learned to tell their voices apart was that Emma’s was slightly higher. As for their appearances, Isabel parted her walnut brown hair on the right, and Emma’s was parted on the left. Both sets of identical brown eyes met Michael’s as he walked farther into the room.
At first glance, Father appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped and resting above the blankets. But the moment Emma stopped reading, Father’s eyes fluttered open. “You mustn’t stop at the best part of the story. Read on, unless you wish to torture my curiosity.”
“What is reading for if not to torture one’s curiosity?” Michael said with a grin. “That is the best part of the experience, is it not?”
Father’s eyes flickered in Michael’s direction. “No, indeed. The best part is indulging it.”
Emma smiled down at their father. “Oh, Papa. Wouldn’t you rather see Michael for a moment?”
Father’s voice was rasped as he turned his head to face Michael. “Only if he has something more interesting to say than what is written on the pages of that book.”
He didn’t need to smile for Michael to know he was teasing. The glint in his half-closed eyes was evidence enough. “I think you might deem my news worthy of distraction from your book.”
Father groaned as he rolled to one side, facing Michael fully. His eyes widened when he saw the smile on Michael’s face. “I see it is good news? Indulge my curiosity at once.”
Michael took a deep breath. “I have procured two clients for portraits, both of high birth and social standing. Miss Patience Hansford, the daughter of Lord Ryecombe, as well as the Marquess of Clitheroe.”
Father propped himself up on one arm, his mouth rounding in gleeful surprise. “You cannot be serious.”
“You know I would not lie to you.” Pride soared in Michael’s chest. “We have stumbled upon a bit of luck this week. I do not know what I have done to deserve it.”
“You have been a good man. That is what you have done.” Father coughed into the blanket before looking up again with watery eyes. “Do not doubt yourself. Remember all I have taught you and you will create two masterpieces.”
Michael’s nerves began to relax, and he clasped Father’s hand between both of his. “I hope my talent is enough.” He turned toward Emma and Isabel. “I will need help from both of you.”
“We are not skilled artists,” Isabel said. “Papa gave all his skill to you.”
Michael shook his head. “There is a skill I lack that you two possess.”
“What is it?” Emma asked, leaning forward on her chair.
“I need your help preparing the shop. It must be pretty and presentable for an elegant…and rather captious lady.” Miss Patience would be looking for fault in both his work and his service. So he intended to give her nothing to find fault with.
Emma and Isabel nodded, excitement gleaming in their eyes. He hadn’t told them yet, but he planned to purchase ballgowns for both of them as soon as he had enough money saved. They would be turning sixteen soon, and he knew how they longed to come out in society and attend a dance.
Michael’s heart swelled with gratitude. “Let us start our work today, then.”
The first thing he would do was walk to town to sell Mother’s necklace and purchase the rolls of canvas. His heart still ached at the thought of Mother’s sacrifice, but her belief in him, as well as his father’s, gave him strength.
