In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold

Chapter Four

“Blast the rain,” Patience muttered as she raced from her coach to the front door of Mr. Cavinder’s shop. It had been pouring all day, but there was nothing that could stop her from arriving on time to her appointment. She had worn her finest gown, but even from the ten steps she had taken to reach the front door, the detailed mauve hem had been splashed with dirty water.

She crashed through the door. It chimed when she entered. Pushing it closed behind her, she stopped, gripping the door handle as she caught her breath. Fat droplets of water cascaded down the glass. She wiped gingerly at her cheek, hoping the rouge had not rubbed off with the rain drops. Her hat had only kept some of the water from touching her hair and skin.

“Miss Hansford.”

The deep voice made her jump. She gathered her composure, rolling her shoulders back and straightening her spine before turning toward the voice.

As expected, the voice belonged to Mr. Cavinder. He stood near the back of the studio, a tray of paint laid across his muscular forearms. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, much like they had been during the cricket match. When he lowered his head in a bow, a few strands of his dark brown hair fell over his forehead. Was he scrutinizing her? Was he surprised that she had come without a companion?

She lowered her own head in greeting, allowing her chin to lower just an inch. “Mr. Cavinder.”

He strode closer, setting his supplies down on a nearby stool. It was then that Patience noticed two young women standing in the opposite corner of the shop. Her eyes darted between the two faces. They were identical. One girl wore a lavender dress, and the other wore white. That was the only difference Patience would decipher between their appearances.

“Do come in, Miss Hansford, and meet my two sisters, Isabel and Emma.” Mr. Cavinder brushed his hands off on his trousers, taking another step closer. “They are here to help make you comfortable.”

Patience clasped her hands in front of her, interlocking her gloved fingers. She turned toward the two girls, tipping her head in greeting. In response, they walked toward her, offering simultaneous curtsies. Even their brunette ringlets seemed to bounce in unison. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Hansford,” the girl dressed in lavender said. “I am Isabel.” She offered a warm smile. “Come, have a seat.” She gestured toward a stool with a tufted cushion resting on top. Beside it was a table with a pitcher of water as well as a tea tray filled with scones and dried fruit.

Patience sat on the stool, removing her bonnet and handing it to the other girl. Had her name been Emma? Patience could hardly keep them separated in her mind, so similar were their faces. Without missing a second, Isabel held an ornate looking glass in front of Patience’s face. “You may adjust your hair as you see fit.”

It was a kind way of pointing out that her bonnet had flattened her curls slightly, and the rain had made some of them stick to the sides of her forehead. Patience tried not to appear flustered as she brushed aside the wayward strands. Her maid had spent hours on the arrangement, and now it would never look as immaculate as it once had.

“Do you require assistance?”

“No.” Patience hadn’t meant to snap at the girl, but her voice cracked like a whip. “No, thank you.” When she finished, she waved the looking glass away with a flick of her hand.

Without the two girls standing in front of her, Patience had a clear view of Mr. Cavinder as he approached. He pulled a smaller, less sturdy stool out from behind a nearby table, setting it across from hers. He sat, clasping his hands together in front of him. “There are a few items that are necessary to discuss before we begin. I believe your original request was a three-quarter?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Cavinder nodded. “Very well. Do you have any other requests?”

Patience resisted the urge to scratch her neck. The lace of her collar was dreadfully irritating. “In your depiction, if you must alter any of my features to make them more beautiful, you may do so. That is to say, without losing its likeness to my true appearance. Artists paint according to ideals, do they not? You will not depict my blemishes?” She hoped her nervousness wasn’t displayed in her voice.

Mr. Cavinder’s gaze lingered on her face, a hint of confusion on his brow. “It would not be a likeness at all if it weren’t beautiful, Miss Hansford. I assure you, there will be no alterations necessary.” He cleared his throat, looking down at the pad of paper in his hand. He held a pencil as well, though he hadn’t yet used it to take notes.

His words were quite forward, albeit reassuring. She would excuse them this one time.

“Another matter we must discuss is the amount of time I must ask you to commit to this project,” Mr. Cavinder continued. “I estimate that I will require you to pose a total of ten hours, which may be split into three sessions over the next month. The layers of paint will require time to dry between each session.”

Patience had fully expected such a time commitment, but it was still daunting to consider. If only she could have the portrait within a week. “Is it possible that the paint could dry with greater speed?”

Mr. Cavinder shook his head slowly. “I am an artist, not a sorcerer.”

She scoffed in the back of her throat. “Very well, but is there any other way the process could be expedited?”

“The only way could be through shorter sitting sessions, though it could risk the accuracy of the work if the subject is not present for those ten hours.” He raised one eyebrow. “The question is, do you live up to your name?”

She scowled before smoothing away the expression. She could not risk acquiring wrinkles. “Pardon me?”

He stood from his stool, marking something on his pad of paper. “A woman with a name such as yours should have no problem waiting,” his eyes met hers, “Miss Patience.”

“I am patient,” she said in a defensive voice. She cleared her throat. “I will invest all the time necessary.”

Mr. Cavinder’s mouth twitched upward. “I am glad to hear it, and I thank you for your cooperation. Should you need anything throughout the process, please inform Miss Emma or Miss Isabel.”

Patience nodded, following Mr. Cavinder with her gaze as he moved back to his station. He seemed to have already stretched the canvas over a wooden strainer, though she could only see the corner of it from beyond the easel.

As Mr. Cavinder finished setting up his supplies, she studied him in detail, much like he would soon be studying her. It was only fair that she should inspect him just as thoroughly. His clothing seemed to be second-hand, the threads and seams wearing at the edges, flaws that only a trained eye like hers would notice. His cravat was tied loosely. His face seemed to be freshly shaven, the remnants nothing but a faint shadow on his solid jaw. His eyebrows were dark, like two brushstrokes framing his inquisitive brown eyes.

Though Patience had thought she was an expert in perceiving detail, she realized now that she was a novice compared to Mr. Cavinder. Not only was he trained to recognize the small details of a person, but to replicate them.

“I must apologize,” he said suddenly as he moved to stand in front of his easel, “for my words at the cricket match. Had I been aware that Lord Ryecombe was your father, I would not have expressed my opinions so freely.”

Patience gave a prim nod. “Your words were quite untoward, indeed, no matter that he was my father.” She had not taken personal offense to them, but it had been amusing to see Mr. Cavinder’s flustered appearance when she had told him who her father was.

“It does make matters worse though…that he was your father.” Mr. Cavinder’s eyes met hers as he lifted his pencil to the canvas. “If anyone spoke ill of my father in my presence they would become my swift enemy.”

Patience should not have found Mr. Cavinder’s conversation so interesting, but if she were to be sitting there for three hours, then she could think of no other way to pass the time. “You are fortunate that I do not make the same rule for myself. You would not want me as your enemy, Mr. Cavinder. I daresay no one would.” Patience had been described as intimidating. She couldn’t help that she was tall, or that her voice was so direct. She had watched many people cower around her.

Mr. Cavinder raised one eyebrow in curiosity. “Is that so? Have you been known to be vengeful in the past?”

She allowed herself a small smile only after his attention turned to the canvas. “I have not had a reason to be.”

“Not even after I said a horse could play cricket better than your father?”

“A horse with its legs strapped together, I believe was the exact phrase. But no, it would require a greater grievance to make me so vengeful.”

A smile lifted one half of his mouth. “I am glad to hear it. But again, I offer my apologies.” He repositioned the easel, his eyes darting between her and his canvas. When he seemed to decide on a satisfactory position, he walked toward her.

She straightened her spine as he approached. His sharp eyes took her in from head to toe. Though Lord Clitheroe had just done the same at dinner earlier that week, Mr. Cavinder’s intentions were different. She felt calm, relaxed…yet somewhat flustered at the same time. Was he taking note of which flaws to omit from the portrait? She tugged on the ends of her long sleeves, keeping them tight against her skin.

“Angle your shoulders more to your right, and tip your chin slightly upward,” he instructed.

Patience obeyed, glancing up at him for approval. “Is that enough?”

He nodded before ushering one of his sisters forward. “Adjust the curl on the left side.”

The girl followed his directions. “May I?” she asked.

“Yes,” Patience said, though she wondered why Mr. Cavinder had not simply done so himself. This was a professional meeting after all. She eyed his hands and forearms. She had never seen such attractive ones in her life. Patience banished the thought, careful not to move her head and shoulders out of position as the girl adjusted a strand of hair on Patience’s forehead.

Mr. Cavinder examined her again until he nodded in satisfaction, walking back to his station just a few feet in front of her. “If you grow bored and wish to be entertained,” he said, “my sisters will read aloud to you. They have books here on many subjects.” His dark brows drew together as he touched the pencil to the canvas. His squared jaw tightened in concentration as he began his work. Good heavens, why couldn’t most noblemen be so handsome? Here was a man who did not need elegant clothes and elaborate hair styles to elevate his appearance. In his raw, authentic state, he looked better than them all.

“Is there a certain subject which interests you?” Mr. Cavinder asked.

She shook her head before remembering she was supposed to hold still. “No.”

So long as Patience could watch Mr. Cavinder work, there would be no additional entertainment necessary.

“Very well.” He seemed amused about something, his lips twitching at the corners. Why was he not intimidated by her? He was far beneath her station and she had threatened not to pay for the portrait if it was not satisfactory. Vexation sprouted in her chest as his subtle smile persisted. She didn’t dare ask what it was about. She simply sat still for the hours that followed, until her back and neck ached. The easel was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see a single stroke as Mr. Cavinder finished sketching and began painting. She didn’t want to see it until it was finished. She was too nervous.

She couldn’t understand what exactly made this portrait so important, but at the moment, it was everything to her. It was as if her heart had been crumpled when her father had taken down her first portrait, and the only way to mend it would be to see her likeness on that wall again, proudly displayed beside Hattie’s. Perhaps then, and only then, she would not be so invisible.

“That will be all for today,” Mr. Cavinder said finally, setting down his brush.

Patience stood immediately, shaking out her numb legs and stretching her back. She had been lost in thought for much of the session, making the time pass faster. Mr. Cavinder’s brown eyes were warm and golden, like fresh cup of translucent coffee. They sparked with mirth. “I thank you for your patience.”

“Of course.” She looked down at the floor, feeling a sudden urge to look away from those warm brown eyes. They were opened all the way—attentive and inviting, quite unlike Lord Clitheroe’s eyes. A scowl pinched at her brow. Was Mr. Cavinder simply being kind because he wanted to win her favor so she would pay him? He must have known what his looks did to women. No matter how far above his station a woman was, she could not rise far enough to mistake the fact that the man was handsome.

It was a shame, really, that he was not a marquess.

She shook herself of her strange thoughts. It would not do to find herself thinking excessively of a painter.

After scheduling her next appointment, Patience gathered her bonnet, leaving the studio—and Mr. Cavinder’s inviting eyes—behind her.

At least until the next week.