In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Seven
“When paint is spread thin enough and left alone for too long, what do you suppose happens to it?” Michael asked Emma and Isabel.
“It hardens,” Emma said.
“Indeed.” He scraped at a mistake he had made at the corner of Miss Hansford’s portrait. “Not only that, but it becomes cruel and unforgiving.” After a great deal of coaxing, he managed to remove the hardened lump of paint.
The bell on the studio door chimed, indicating Miss Hansford’s arrival. She was early today.
Though Michael hadn’t seen her in a week, he had been working on her portrait, and by now he seemed to know her hauntingly beautiful features better than his own. He was proud of his work. It was nearly complete.
As she walked through the door, he was reminded that she was far more beautiful in person than she was on the canvas. Would she approve of his work? His stomach flipped as she walked in. Their last conversation had been very odd, and she likely felt the effects of it still lingering between them as much as he did.
“Miss Hansford,” he greeted with a smile. “I trust you have had an enjoyable week?”
She didn’t reply for several seconds as she settled into her stool. Her gaze found his before flickering to the floor. “Yes.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Michael watched her carefully. Why did he sense she had lied to him?
He began gathering his painting supplies, sending Emma and Isabel to attend to Miss Hansford in their routine manner. It was not his business to know, but his curiosity couldn’t be helped. “Did your efforts to win over the gentleman meet with success?”
“It has only been one week. I could not have won him over already. Not completely.”
“Yes, it will take time. High opinions are won little by little. Love, however, is a bit more unpredictable.”
“How so?” Miss Hansford threw him an incredulous look.
Michael couldn’t pretend to be an expert at love, given his inexperience with such matters, but as an artistic person, he had always thought deeply enough and read enough to come to his own conclusions. He tried to clean a bit of dried paint from his brush, but it wouldn’t come off. He tossed it to the floor, picking up a clean one to use instead.
“Sometimes love comes gradually, but other times, I have heard it sneaks up like a thief, set on taking your heart and giving it away without warning.” Michael scowled as he contemplated the analogy. “Or perhaps love is not a thief, but rather it returns your heart to the place it has always belonged—with the person you love.” He had always enjoyed giving life to inanimate things, such as love. It was what he did with his paintings too—bring life to a boring piece of cloth wrapped around a frame of wood.
Miss Hansford stared at him for a long moment before the corner of her lips twitched. “I think you should have been a poet.”
Michael laughed. “I confess, I do have the heart of one. But I’m afraid painting is my only useful talent.” He glanced up, meeting her gaze before focusing on his work. He was still learning how to do his work correctly, but he assumed that speaking of matters such as love with his female clients would be frowned upon. Especially when he found himself increasingly intrigued by that particular client.
He shook his head. No. No. No. No. He refused to be even the slightest bit smitten by a woman so far above his station—and the daughter of Lord Ryecombe, no less. As soon as he finished her portrait, he was confident he would never think of her again.
At least he would try not to.
Miss Hansford’s brow furrowed. “How will I know if the gentleman is falling in love with me?” Miss Hansford’s features turned thoughtful. “Do men often flirt with women they have no intention of courting or marrying?”
Michael couldn’t quite place the moment he had become Miss Hansford’s advisor on matters of the heart, but the role made him vastly uncomfortable. He raised one eyebrow as he recalled Miss Hansford’s behavior during her last visit. “Do women do the same with men?”
“No.” Her voice was defensive.
Michael raised both eyebrows.
Her voice became flustered. “Well—er—yes, I suppose that is what I was doing. I havenointention of courting you, of course.” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, a crack in her facade Michael hadn’t yet seen. “I was practicing.”
He threw her a teasing smile. “Ah, so women often practice their flirting on disposable men.”
“You are not disposable.” She scowled, straightening her chin. “Because you are painting my portrait.”
Michael studied her flustered expression, hiding the smile that climbed his own face. He stepped behind the easel. “I am indeed, and I thank you for trusting me with the task. Before I begin today, would you like to see it? It is nearly complete.”
Her eyes flew up to his, round and almost…terrified. Several seconds passed in silence before she spoke. “I—I suppose. I should ensure it is to my satisfaction before you continue.” She stood abruptly, wringing her fingers together as she walked toward him.
Her nervousness must have been contagious. Michael’s stomach had begun twisting. What if she didn’t approve? His family needed her payment desperately, and he didn’t know what he would do without it. He still had a fortnight before the marquess had scheduled his first appointment. There was some measure of security in that fact. He and his family and the studio could survive well enough on the remaining money from Mother’s necklace until then.
Miss Hansford stopped a few paces away. “P-perhaps I should wait until your work is entirely finished.”
“Surely you must be curious,” Michael said. In truth, he was curious to see her reaction. He turned his gaze back to the canvas, taking in the result of his hours and hours of work. The final details of Miss Hansford’s face had yet to be completed, but her hair and dress were finished. The portrait ended at her waist, and he had done all he could to showcase her perfect posture and long torso, and all the fine details of her gown. The lace on the ends of her long sleeves had been difficult, but he was proud of the result.
Now, to see if Miss Hansford was proud of it as well.
He waved her forward, and she took one more step, those striking hazel eyes flooding with dread.
“You have nothing to fear, Miss Hansford,” he said with a laugh. “It would seem you assume I painted a monster.”
Relief crashed over him when she smiled, just a hesitant curve at one corner of her mouth. “If that is what you see when you look at me, I should be greatly offended.” Her smile only lasted a brief moment before she clamped her lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow. Her pallor was concerning as she seemed to have one final debate with herself over whether or not to take the final few paces toward where Michael stood. Only from his angle was the portrait in full view. He stepped aside, making room for her to come stand where he stood.
With determination in her stride, she moved forward. The moment she did, Michael saw his discarded paintbrush on the floor. But he was too late. Miss Hansford’s foot made contact with the brush, and it rolled forward, throwing her off balance in the opposite direction. Michael had never seen anything but grace and perfection in her movements, but now she stumbled backward, her long limbs flailing.
He lunged forward to catch her, but not quickly enough. All he managed to reach was the fabric of her sleeve. A succinct series of popping threads cut through the air as the fabric tore, followed by a thud as Miss Hansford hit the floor.
Michael rushed forward. Miss Hansford sat up, her cheeks crimson. He squatted down beside her. “Are you hurt?” His gaze flickered over her in search of injuries. His eyes caught on her right arm, no longer covered by the thick sleeves she always wore. His gaze lingered on the large patches of puckered scars trailing from her wrist up to the middle of her upper arm. The skin was pale pink and white, scars grouped together like a spider’s web, or the fragments of ice in a snowflake.
“No,” Miss Hansford whispered, angling her body away from him. Her mortification was obvious, and it wrenched at Michael’s heart. She started to stand, and Michael reached for her hands to assist her. Her fingers shook. He pulled her to her feet, and the moment she was standing, she tugged her hands away from his. Her gaze flicked frantically around the room as she crossed her arms, attempting to hide the bare skin that her torn sleeve had exposed. Her cheeks were still pink as she lunged for the fabric on the floor, pulling it back up over her arm as best as she could. It hung from her elbow, loose threads dangling from the edge.
Michael searched her face. “Are you certain you aren’t hurt? Forgive me, I should have ensured the path was clear before insisting you walk forward.”
She refused to look at him, crossing her opposite arm over her body to hold the torn sleeve in place. She didn’t say a word.
Emma and Isabel had seen the incident unfold, and they were now rushing toward them, offering Miss Hansford anything from tea to water to biscuits. Michael wished he could reassure her somehow, but he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he had seen the scars on her arm. Would it lessen her humiliation if he told her that he was not disgusted by them? He decided it would be better not to speak of them at all.
She remained silent, scowling down at the floor.
“Miss Hansford—”
“I am well,” she snapped, eyes blazing. With a determined stride, she walked forward, still clutching her arms against herself. She turned to face the canvas, the horror in her gaze intensifying.
Michael held his breath while she stared at the portrait. The color in her cheeks remained as she whirled toward him. “This is not what I asked for.”
He frowned, heart beating in his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“I asked for a three-quarter.” Her voice was frantic, edged with anger.
“This is a three-quarter.” Michael gestured at the portrait.
“No.” She shook her head, ringlets thrashing. Her dark brows drew together. “The portrait only depicts me from the waist and above. That is certainly not three-quarters.”
Michael rubbed one side of his face, catching Isabel’s gaze from behind Miss Hansford. His two sisters watched the ordeal with wide eyes and slack jaws. “You must have been misinformed,” he said. “A three-quarter portrait means the canvas is three-quarters of a yard in size.”
She breathed deeply, eyes glistening. “You should have explained the difference to me! How should I know about these matters? You are the artist, and I am the client. It is too small. My father will not hang this in the gallery.” Her voice grew harder but quieter—a harsh whisper. “I will not pay for this.”
Michael’s stomach fell, a wave of anger gripping his chest. “You acted so certain that a three-quarter was what you wanted. You did not question me about what the dimensions would be. I cannot read your mind.”
Her eyes sparked dangerously. “I have no use for a portrait this size.”
“Please reconsider—”
“No. I told you I would not pay for it if I was not satisfied, and you agreed.”
Michael groaned, unable to remain courteous. Panic had set into his bones, especially with his two sisters staring at him. They needed this money. “Miss Hansford, your lack of satisfaction with it is entirely your own fault. You cannot cast all the blame on me. It seems that what you wanted was a half-length. It is a larger canvas that depicts the subject to just below their knees.”
“That is three-quarters of the subject, is it not? It doesn’t make sense!” Her voice cracked.
“I know!” Michael gave an exasperated sigh, trying to regain his composure. “It is simply the way it is. If you needed an explanation, you might have asked for one.”
She raised her chin. “I have never been treated so poorly at a business establishment. Why should this encourage me to pay you?” Holding her sleeve up with one hand, she marched past him. She fetched her bonnet and started toward the door.
“Miss Hansford—please forgive me. Allow me to start on a new portrait for you, this time in the size you need.” Michael followed behind her, but stopped in his tracks when she turned on him.
“I wish to never come to this studio again, and I will ensure no one of my acquaintance comes either—especially not the marquess.”
His nostrils flared, and his anxiety doubled. “Lord Clitheroe?”
“He is the gentleman of whom I have been speaking. I am the reason he scheduled an appointment with you at all, and now I shall be the reason he never sets foot here.”
“Miss Hansford, please.”
She shook her head, refusing to so much as look at him again before marching out the door and letting it slam behind her.
Silence fell in the studio, and Michael watched Miss Hansford’s back through the window. Where was she going? The torn fabric of her sleeve rustled in the wind as she tore away from his studio more quickly than she would have had it been on fire.
Michael’s face was on fire. His hands curled at his sides.
Emma and Isabel stood in stunned silence until Emma finally spoke. “If-if the marquess doesn’t come, how will we afford the studio?”
He shook his head as dread fell through his chest. “I don’t know.” He had been relying on the marquess’s recommendation. It could have changed their lives.
He had been wrong. He would still think of Miss Patience Hansford every day of his life. He would think of her when his family became hungry. He would think of her as he searched tirelessly for clients in town. But no matter how he thought of her, one thing was certain: He would no longer think of her with any measure of fondness.
