In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Five
Out the window of Patience’s bedchamber, a chorus of birds sang, coaxing the sun over the horizon. Every muscle in Patience’s body was tight, even the two fingers that pinched her quill. She wrote to Hattie in her diary sometimes. It was a way to unleash her thoughts and feelings. Hattie would never read those words, but by writing them down, Patience could pretend that Hattie understood how suffocating her shadow had become. She might at least sympathize. She might even defend Patience when their mother belittled her.
Don’t be weak, Patience demanded to her heart. Glancing out the window again, she could almost smell the rain-soaked earth. The gray sky beckoned her. She had not risen this early to wallow. Her little ones needed her.
Rising from her desk, she threaded her hair into a braid before covering her bare arms with her soft wool cloak and tugging on a pair of gloves. As quietly as she could, she made her way down the stairs and outside into the rainy morning. This spring had been particularly wet, and it was carrying into the beginning of summer as well. Besides the cricket match, there had hardly been a sunny day in weeks.
Cold water seeped into Patience’s boots as she sloshed over the wet lawn where the match had been played. Beyond the manicured field was a row of trees. Patience stopped beneath the second one on the right. It was moments like this that made her glad that she was tall. She only had to rise a few inches on her toes to see inside the nest that was tucked in the attachment site of three branches. The rain had gotten to it, leaving some of the dirt that held the twigs of the nest together muddy. To her relief, the three turquoise, speckled eggs still rested inside, unharmed.
The mother bird swooped down from a nearby branch, and Patience backed away to give her the space she needed. The bird’s tiny eyes watched Patience for a minute before it was brave enough to make an inaudible landing on the ground, pecking the wet earth for worms. Patience observed from a distance as the bird took its meal up to the nest, enjoying the fat worm while it warmed the eggs beneath it.
The last time Patience had found a nest filled with eggs on the property, she hadn’t had the chance to see them hatch. Her parents had given Hattie a cat for her birthday, just days before Patience expected the eggs to hatch. The next day, when Patience had gone out to check on her nest, that wicked cat had eaten them all. The cat had even eaten the mother bird, evidenced by the feathers on its whiskers and between its claws as it walked away from the scene.
Warm relief cascaded through Patience’s chest as she walked away from the tree today. She might just see these babies hatch. Hattie had taken her cat with her to London. So long as she did not return, the birds would be safe.
A trickle of rain had begun falling again, leaving pinpoint dots of moisture on the sleeves of Patience’s cloak. It wasn’t enough to drive her inside though. These early hours of the morning were hers. She could listen to the chirping of birds, to the rustling of leaves, or to absolutely nothing at all. No demands, no disparaging remarks. Out here by the trees, Patience could slouch her shoulders or spin or watch the birds flying above and wish for the same sort of freedom. And she did wish for it. Every day.
Dread puddled in her stomach like the rain between the protruding roots of the tree. Her family was hosting a soiree that night. Lord Clitheroe would be in attendance, and her mother had been encouraging her to make another attempt at his attention. And somehow she had to sneak away between now and then for her second appointment with the painter.
Mr. Cavinder.
Chills ran up the course of her arms. Surely it was the cold that caused them. Not the thought of the painter. It had been a week since she had last been in his studio, but for an odd reason, she looked forward to going back. The environment was comfortable, and Mr. Cavinder’s sisters doted on her. She would not allow herself to add a third reason.
Lord Clitheroe was the only man who could dwell in her thoughts today. She had to plan carefully how she would behave around him, what she would say. She could not afford to ruin this new opportunity. She needed to practice beforehand.
Perhaps she could test a thing or two during her time in Mr. Cavinder’s studio that day…an innocent experiment that would put her worries at ease.
Her flirting abilities needed practicing, and she would not mind testing them on a man as handsome as Mr. Cavinder. Not one bit, in fact.
Patience Hansford was a peculiar woman. Michael didn’t mean to think of her so often, but it was difficult to keep his mind focused on anything else while spending his days working on her portrait. It was strange, but during her first posing session, Michael had felt like the subject. He had never been stared at so intently in his life.
At least, he hadn’t been so aware of a stare before.
Miss Hansford’s eyes were penetrating, sharp, framed in dark curled lashes. The color of her irises had stamped itself in his brain like a hot wax seal, leaving behind strokes of moss green and a golden brown like lightly steeped tea. To replicate the colors of Miss Hansford was a difficult task.
As was properly reflecting her countenance.
One moment, she was condescending and distant. The next, she was attempting to intimidate him. He had caught her in other moments though, when she had seemed to lower her facade just enough to show an exhaustion and defeat behind her gaze. Michael believed people were not often born so stern and serious. There were usually circumstances that made them so.
He didn’t thoroughly analyze all of his subjects, but Miss Hansford refused to leave his thoughts. His vexation with her was threaded through all his intrigue, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Though he wasn’t intimidated by her, he was wary of her. According to their agreement, she could withhold payment from him for these hours of work if she wished. It was a test, one that Michael should have never agreed to. He hadn’t told his family of their agreement, but he already knew his father would have advised him against making it. But he was desperate, and Miss Hansford knew it. He was at her mercy.
When the bell above his studio door chimed, he met those hazel eyes with the most polite greeting he could manage. Miss Hansford wore the same gown as she had for their first session, the long mauve sleeves ending with lace at her wrists.
“Good day, Miss Hansford,” Michael said. Emma and Isabel rose from their seats to usher Miss Hansford to her stool.
He took to readying his painting supplies. Contrary to their last two encounters, today Miss Hansford seemed intent not to look at him until absolutely necessary. Her attention was focused on the floorboards as Emma and Isabel smoothed the fabric on her shoulders. When their hands moved to smooth and straighten her sleeves, Miss Hansford’s back stiffened. “I will do that,” her voice snapped loud, echoing against the wooden walls. She brought her arms in toward herself, angling her body away from Emma’s outstretched hands.
Michael cast a quick warning glance at his sisters, and they backed away from Miss Hansford with round eyes. They sat on their chairs in the corner, providing several feet of distance for their client.
Michael observed as Miss Hansford tugged the hems of her sleeves into her palms, clamping them down with her fingers. She cleared her throat lightly when she caught him staring, and she pulled her arms even closer to her body. There was a light flush to her cheeks, as though she realized how sudden and impolite her outburst had been. She didn’t seem intent to acknowledge it though.
“Would you like to see the portrait as it is thus far?” Michael asked.
A swallow bobbed in Miss Hansford’s long neck. “No. I will wait until it is finished.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded, her lips pressing together.
“Very well. It will be a surprise.” Michael gave a smile that he hoped would calm the nervousness she was exhibiting. Her eyes flitted to his and then fell back to the floor. He sighed. It would not do.
With slow steps, he walked toward her. “May I?”
“May you…?” her dark brows shot up.
“Assist you with your pose.”
She hesitated for several seconds before giving a nod so slight he wondered if it had been intentional. Her eyes followed his movements as he slipped his fingers beneath her chin, lifting gently and turning her head at the same angle it had been before. Her skin was velvet under his calloused hands, reminding him of the difference in their stations. His view of her features was better here, standing just a foot away. Each color and line was dramatic, dark, and lovely. Faint freckles dotted her cheeks like stars across a night sky. When her eyes met his, his stomach gave a pathetic flop. Well, that was uncalled for. With his other hand, he touched her opposite shoulder, but it did not relax as he had hoped. It only grew more tense. He pressed down softly until the angle was correct.
“There.” He turned on his heel, fingertips thrumming with a strange sort of energy. His heart had been jolted by that brief touch, and now it beat just a little differently. How—how on earth—had Lord Ryecombe produced such a beautiful daughter? After reaching his sanctuary behind the easel, he met Miss Hansford’s stoic gaze. “You may request entertainment, food, or drink from my sisters at any time throughout the appointment today.”
She was silent for a long moment. “May I request entertainment from you?”
Michael hadn’t the slightest idea of what to make of her words. “My attention will be a bit occupied.” He nodded toward the canvas that faced him.
“Surely you are capable of focusing on more than one thing at once.”
He picked up his brush, rolling it between his fingers, already thoroughly distracted. “I’m surprised at your sudden confidence in me. If I am already incapable of painting a suitable portrait of you while being entirely focused, how am I to do so while…” how had she put it? “…entertaining you?” He frowned at the canvas. “Do you wish for me to read while painting? That would be nearly impossible. I could sing, but I assure you, the sound is horrendous.”
“You did not mention dancing.”
He gave a breathless laugh when he caught sight of her flirtatious smile, extremely concerned with her new behavior toward him. Was she unwell? He cleared his throat. “Of all the things I do not do, dancing is first on the list.”
Flirting with the daughter of Lord Ryecombe is second.
He set his jaw, determined to focus on the canvas and not on Miss Hansford’s distracting smile. He hadn’t seen her smile before, but he was fairly certain that now that he had, the image would be etched behind his eyes for the next week.
“Any enjoyment of dancing has much to do with one’s partner.”
“I imagine that would be true.” Michael mixed the color of Miss Hansford’s eyes on his palette.
“As does one’s enjoyment of a conversation rely on the partner.”
Michael glanced up just as she pressed her lips together in a coy smile.
“I think I have chosen my partner well today.” She watched him with the same intensity she always had, but this time she seemed to be waiting for something. A reaction, perhaps? Despite how bewildered he was, he couldn’t give her what she was searching for. Women like Miss Hansford must have known the effect their beauty had on men. There was little that rankled Michael as much as vanity. If Michael were daft enough to take her flirtations to heart, he would be a very devastated man when he realized she was toying with him for attention. A man of his station had no place with a woman of hers, and she knew it. Whatever game she was playing, he could play it better.
He didn’t miss a step, glancing away from her flirtatious smile with a shrug. “You must be quite easily entertained. I have hardly said a word.” His voice was flat as he painted a small stroke across the likeness of Miss Hansford’s hair.
He heard the air deflate from her lungs in a small puff. “What a clever observation. I must now consider that my enjoyment of your company is related to something else entirely.” Her voice was filled with false innocence. “What could it be?” She tipped her head to one side, elongating her neck, as if to say, look at my attractive, smooth skin. You want to touch it. I know you do.
Michael set down his paintbrush, striding straight toward her. A flicker in her strange facade showed her unease, and she licked her lips nervously. This was not the woman who had just flirted two seconds before.
Emma and Isabel were thankfully engaged in a book. He was grateful they were such devoted readers. Nothing short of an earthquake could shake their attention from the pages of their story. He could practically see Miss Hansford’s pulse racing in her neck as he approached. He reached for her. Her eyes widened.
Furrowing his brow in concentration, he took her chin between his fingertips and returned her head to the correct angle. “Please hold still,” he said.
He could practically feel her shocked gaze at his back as he walked to his easel. Had she really feared he would greet her with sudden advances? And with his sisters present no less? At his open and operating business establishment? His amusement deepened and he struggled to hold his laughter at bay. When he turned around again, she was glaring at him.
A frustrated mutter tumbled out of her lips. “If I cannot even attract your attention how on earth am I going to attract the attention of a gentleman?”
Ah. That was what this was about, was it? He didn’t particularly appreciate being part of her experiment, but luckily he had seen straight through it. Other men would not have been so fortunate. “Er—I will try not to take offense to that. If it is any comfort to your pride, my attention is not easily won, and especially not by such obvious antics as what you just displayed.” Gads, he needed to watch his tongue. This woman could walk out of his shop without paying him a shilling if she wished.
Fire shot from her eyes, followed by a resigned sigh. “Advise me, then. What would attract your attention?”
He considered her words carefully. He had been so focused on work, art, and his family for years that he had only set his cap on a few young ladies over the years. One daughter of a stone mason, one daughter of the local solicitor. Both had been uninterested in him, and he had soon forgotten them. Neither woman had made a considerable impression on his heart, but he could still recall the prevailing attributes which had attracted him. Humility and kindness.
Michael tried his best to split his attention between his work and Miss Hansford’s peculiar question. “I assure you, my opinions will likely be different than this gentleman whose attention you are seeking. I am a mere painter.” He gave his voice a flare of dramatics, a rare occurrence for him. “What could I possibly know? At any rate, we should not be speaking of these matters.”
He thought she would agree with him and return to her prim expression, but instead, deep curiosity burned in her features. “You must tell me. Surely all men are the same in that regard.”
He did not like her demanding tone. “In what regard, exactly?”
“In what attracts them to a woman.” Her face colored, as if she were just now recognizing the impropriety of this entire conversation.
“If you are implying that beauty is the only thing that matters, you are wrong.” Michael examined Miss Hansford’s face before completing a stroke of his paintbrush just beneath the likeness of her nose.
Miss Hansford’s brow twitched in confusion. “That is the prevailing theme of poetry.”
“If I were to write poetry,” Michael said with a smile, “it would likely be intolerable to read, but it would be different. Beauty draws the eye, but it is something else that draws the heart. Something mysterious that has been experienced by many, but is too complex to ever be properly explained.”
Miss Hansford’s frown persisted. “What is it?”
“That is where men vary. What draws my heart is different than what draws the heart of the gentleman you spoke of. If, perchance, he has a heart. I hear some high-and-mighty gentlemen lack that vital organ.” He needed to stop. He was about to lose a client and his reputation.
One of her dark eyebrows arched. “Are you referring to my father again?”
“No.” Michael was a terrible liar, and that was one reason why he chose to refrain from the practice.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t question him. “How am I to know what draws his heart?” She paused. “What draws yours?”
Michael met her gaze with a half-smile. “I thought you might like to know.”
Miss Hansford’s lips sputtered. “Only to apply it to my current situation with the gentleman.”
Drat, had he just flirted with her? He hadn’t meant to. “Does the gentleman have a name?”
“Not one that I would reveal to you. These are secrets I’m sharing with you, Mr. Cavinder, and I think I have shared enough already.”
“And why have you chosen me to share these secrets with?” He bent closer to the easel, squinting. “You must have a sister or female friend in whom to confide these things, do you not?”
When she didn’t respond for several seconds, he glanced up. Her eyes were glazed over, staring at the corner of the room. “No.” She clasped her hands before seeming to remember she was supposed to be holding a pose. “I do not.”
His brush paused over the canvas.
“I chose you because you are of no consequence to me.” Her voice was direct. “As soon as my painting is finished, our paths shall part and we will likely never speak again.”
Michael nodded, resuming his work. “It is a wonder then…why we are speaking at all.”
Her eyes found his, communicating her agreement without words. They said nothing more for the time that remained of the appointment. Michael worked quickly, careful to avoid those hazel eyes whenever possible. They were deeper than the sea. One moment she was easy to read; the water was clear. The next, it was as if someone had unsettled the bottom of a pond, letting up clouds of mud to obscure that which she kept hidden beneath the surface.
When it came time for her to leave, she replaced her bonnet on her head, turning when she reached the door. “You are surprisingly wise, Mr. Cavinder.”
He tipped his head to one side as he removed his smock. “Surprisingly? Again, I will try not to take offense.”
Her cheeks twitched, but she didn’t quite smile as she stepped outside into the rain.
