In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold

Chapter Nine

The sound of tearing paper was not as satisfying as Michael had hoped, even after tearing the letter five times. He let the pieces fall the floor before sitting down beside them, burying his face in his hands. He let out an exasperated sigh, dragging his fingers down his cheeks.

The letter had contained just what he feared. The marquess’s cancelation of his appointment.

Miss Hansford was nothing if not thorough. She could not ruin his business half-heartedly, no, that would have been too kind.

His family had been distraught enough to hear of Miss Hansford’s cancellation. What would they think when they learned that she had advised the marquess to cancel too? Perhaps what hurt the most was that his mother had sold her necklace for nothing. His father’s health was growing worse by the day. The physician had told their family that he was only expected to live a few more weeks. Michael’s chest had been aching ever since he had heard that news. His anxiety had been potent.

He glared at the place where he had left Miss Hansford’s portrait on his easel. Her beauty was deceiving, and he couldn’t deny that he had fallen victim to it. He had failed to see what she was capable of. She was selfish and cruel, just like her father. Portraits depicted only the best of people, but Miss Hansford had shown him her worst. If only it were something that could be depicted in art. Instead, he was instructed to portray only ideals, beauty, and perfection. If he could portray Miss Hansford’s heart, what would be on that canvas?

His own words to Miss Hansford from the last time he had seen her echoed through his mind.

“It would seem you assume I painted a monster,” Michael had said when she had been afraid to approach the canvas.

The world outside his shop was dark, his studio windows lit only by a half-moon and a sprinkling of stars. He hadn’t been sleeping well of late, so he had been coming to his studio to practice.

Tonight, something drew him to his unfinished portrait of Miss Hansford. He would have no use for it now that she would not purchase it. He couldn’t bear to dispose of it after all his hard work, but he also couldn’t bear to look at her appearing so perfect and beautiful. How many people in the world existed the way Miss Hansford did? Surely everyone, if their souls were laid bare, would be depicted a little differently than they appeared on the outside.

He walked toward Miss Hansford’s portrait, examining it from all angles as an idea twisted through his mind. This idea would be far more satisfying than tearing paper.

Working quickly, he began mixing his paints, organizing his brushes, and adding several adjustments to Miss Hansford’s portrait. On one half of her face, he darkened her eye, taking away the brightness and color that had been there before. He deepened the arch of her eyebrow, bringing a wicked gleam to the expression on one half of her face. He added gray to the tone of her skin on that same half, eliminating the warm, flushed glow he had given her before.

He released the reins on his creativity—and, admittedly—his bitterness. He worked through the entire night, hardly pausing as he added the horrific details to the piece. A horn on one side of her head. A leathery ear. Protruding teeth in the shape of fangs. The other half of her face remained tranquil and breathtakingly beautiful. The contrast was shocking, and when the first hints of dawn spilled through his windows, Michael stood back to admire his work.

The message was clear. Beauty is dangerous, and it is not to be trusted. Where beauty could be a reflection of one’s equally beautiful soul, it could also be a disguise for a monstrous one.

Michael had never painted something so uncommon and unsightly. People did not look upon art to be disgusted, but somehow he didn’t think people would be disgusted by this portrait. They would be intrigued. It was a thought-provoking piece, and even though he had just spent hours painting it, Michael couldn’t stop staring at the canvas as morning light spilled through the windows, reflecting off of the wet paint on the right side of Miss Hansford’s likeness. The monstrous side.

Surprisingly, the activity had managed to lessen his frustration and anxiety. He took a deep breath, still in awe that so many hours had passed. He had never been so immersed in a project before. His emotions had never been so involved. Exhaustion had begun to set in, so he put away his brushes and turned the canvas away and out of sight before starting toward home.

His back ached and his eyes stung, but he managed to smile as he walked through the door of their apartment. Mother was cooking breakfast while the others in the house likely still slept.

“Where on earth have you been?” she asked, a thread of shock in her voice. “I thought you were asleep in your bed all this time.”

“I’ve been painting.” He walked with casual steps to inspect the eggs she was cooking. His stomach growled.

Mother cast him a sideways glance. “Is it work for another client?” The hope in her voice broke his heart.

“I’m afraid not.” He sighed. “It was a creative piece of my own. I—well, I very much enjoyed completing it.”

“You still need to sleep.” Mother’s brow furrowed.

“It is always beneficial to practice my craft.” He picked up a piece of egg from the corner of her pan, blowing on it gently before popping it in his mouth.

Mother didn’t object, but instead, she offered him the entire pan. He shook his head, laughing. “Father will have my head if he knows I ate all his eggs.”

A slight smile pulled on her lips. “I suppose you are right. He is already awake.” Her features drooped. “He has been in a great deal of pain and has had difficulty sleeping.” She scooped the eggs onto a plate, adding a slice of bread and cup of water. “Will you take his breakfast to him?”

Michael nodded, his own expression turning solemn. Pain radiated out from his heart, tingling in his limbs as he ascended the narrow, creaking staircase to Father’s room. Father appeared to be sleeping at first glance, but the moment the door opened, so did his eyes. He surveyed Michael with furrowed brows. The corners of his mouth twitched as he groaned. “I have told your mother never to trust you with my breakfast tray. You will have eaten three-quarters of it on the way up the stairs.”

Michael wanted to laugh, but the sound lodged in his throat. he was not particularly fond of the words three-quarters at the moment. And he would miss his father’s slightly insulting comments.

“You are fortunate I didn’t eat the entire plate. I’m hungry enough to eat three. I’ve been up all night painting.” He had to tell someone about his project. His father, being as artistic and creative as Michael was, would understand.

“Have you?” Father’s eyes sparked with interest as he wriggled in the blankets, struggling to sit up. His frail frame was engulfed in the pillows behind him. “What is this piece that demands so much of your time?”

“It is not for a client,” Michael said. It would be better to crush Father’s hopes immediately. “It is a revision I have made to Miss Hansford’s portrait. It is unconventional and strange, but I am quite proud of the result. Of course, I would never show it to a soul.”

“Not even this old soul?” Father pointed a slender finger at his own chest.

Michael laughed. “I suppose I could. It is drying in the studio at present.”

“Fetch it for me as soon as you can. You know I cannot go without my curiosity being appeased on any matter.” He sipped from his water cup, and Michael reached forward to steady his shaking hand.

“I will.” Now that his father was so close to death, Michael would do anything he asked of him, if only to make up for all the times in his life that he hadn’t. Panic began to set in as Michael remembered that he would soon be on his own. He would not longer have his father to advise him. Mother, Emma, and Isabel relied on him, and he had already failed once. How many more times would he fail? “Father, I’m afraid,” Michael said in a quiet voice. “I don’t know if I will be able to find any more clients. I-I don’t know if I will be able to provide for our family.”

“You will.” Father did not hesitate. “I have no doubt that your talents will be discovered. You are a good man, Michael. You must expect good things to come into your life.”

“Life is not always so just or generous as that.” How could father believe such a thing when he himself was a good man, yet his own life was drawing to a close years before it should have?

“Life is not always generous, but hard work and determination will give you far more than you realize.”

Michael let the words settle into his bones. He would never stop working to make his family feel secure and comfortable. Though he was skeptical, he chose to believe his father’s wisdom. It calmed the turmoil in his chest. “Is it the eggs that are giving you such wisdom?” Michael asked. “Perhaps I should have eaten them on my way up the stairs after all.”

“If you had, I wouldn’t be speaking to you at all.” Father took a small bite, throwing Michael a smirk.

They talked for nearly an hour, and at the end of their visit, Father raised a hand above his blankets. “Please do not forget to bring me the painting. I do wish to see it.”

Michael nodded. “I won’t forget.”

How could he forget that piece? The image was still vivid in his mind—Miss Patience Hansford, half beauty, half monster. She was leaning off of a precipice, teetering between both identities. Michael thought of the scars on her arm, the horror in her eyes when he had seen them. There was more to Miss Hansford than what met the eye, and though Michael had been hurt by her, he suspected she was not entirely wicked. She was much like that painting. Soon, one side or the other would triumph, either the beauty engulfing the monster, or the monster devouring the beauty. He could only hope, for her sake, that it was the former.

When Michael’s revised portrait was finally dry a week later, he wrapped it up and took it to Father’s bedchamber. His heart pounded as he uncovered the canvas. He peeked out from behind it, holding his breath as he awaited Father’s reaction. Slowly, a smile crept over Father’s face, his eyes rounding as he beckoned Michael closer.

“How fascinating.” He squinted, tipping his head to one side. “The lady’s mask has come undone.”

“Precisely.” Michael took a deep breath. “I have tried to convey that message.”

“You have succeeded.” Father coughed into his blanket, his eyes filling with tears from the strain. He blinked them away, focusing on the portrait again.

“This is masterful, Michael, and I do not say that lightly.”

Pride flooded Michael’s heart, and an odd surge of emotion made his throat clench. “You taught me all I know.”

“What you did with this portrait cannot be taught,” Father said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat. “It is extraordinary talent.”

Michael studied the portrait again. He had heard that any form of art was strengthened by emotion. So many times he had painted without emotion, simply applying methodical strokes to a canvas. This had been different. His fear and worry and anger had all poured out of his heart, reflecting back as this work of art. He could hardly take credit for it.

“Michael.” Father’s voice took on a new tone, one even more serious than before. “I will die soon.”

The plainness of his words drove a dagger into Michael’s heart.

Father coughed again, rolling to the side to face Michael more fully. “That misfortune comes with a few privileges.” A weak smile pulled on the wrinkles around his mouth.

“Privileges?” Michael raised his eyebrows.

“The right of a dying person is to present their last wishes to their family members and expect them to be fulfilled.” Father touched the corner of the canvas that Michael still held in front of him. “I have a wish that I would like you to fulfill for me.”

“Anything, Father.” Michael nodded for him to continue.

“I would like you to submit this piece to the exhibition at the Royal Academy. The exhibition is next spring. You will receive word a month or two before the exhibition if your piece is to be included or not.”

Michael laughed under his breath. “This piece is not worthy of a London exhibition. It is far too…unconventional.”

“People in London are always in search of something to flap their tongues about. They want to be surprised.” Father gripped Michael’s wrist. “This is the piece they have been searching for.”

Michael shook his head, still far too hesitant to agree. “I cannot expoit Miss Hansford’s face in such a public manner.”

“Call it revenge, if you will.” Father’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Father—” Michael shook his head as another laugh escaped him. The sound lodged in his throat as Father squeezed his wrist tighter.

“It is my final wish for you. Please, submit the piece. I daresay it could change the course of your life.”

Michael turned his head to look at the portrait again. The odds of it being accepted were slim, and the odds of Miss Hansford being recognized by the guests at the exhibition were even slimmer. Father was right—if it were accepted, his troubles could be lessened greatly. The exposure that such a display would bring him was incomparable.

“Very well. I will do it for you.” Michael gave his promise, heart pounding against his ribs.

Father’s frame seemed to relax, and he nestled his head into the pillows. He stared at the canvas for several seconds. “May I name the piece for you? It must be something all those who are in London will understand and find amusing.”

“By all means.” Michael studied the beautiful half of Miss Hansford’s likeness, then the other side. He couldn’t decide which was more captivating.

Father grinned. “Let us call it The Monstrous Debutante.”