Chapter 6 #2
Mr. Hawke looked at my canvas, as if noticing it for the first time.
I suppressed my grin, patiently awaiting his compliment.
I’d graciously accept and turn my cheek with a coy smile.
He’d bow and excuse himself to the club.
I’d tell him to enjoy the male company. He’d laugh and say that no company could rival mine. It was the perfect plan.
But when Mr. Hawke looked back at me, he said nothing. Not a single compliment escaped his mouth. His only reaction was an indifferent smile.
I cleared my throat to fill the insufferable silence. “Do you paint, Mr. Hawke?”
He shifted his stance. “Me? No, I never had time to learn the arts.”
“But surely you’ve had time to admire the arts.”
“I suppose I have… seen paintings before.”
“Excellent! Then you are the perfect person to help me.”
“H-help you?”
“I keep staring at my canvas, but I cannot figure out why I’m unhappy with it.”
He frowned at the canvas. “You don’t like it?”
“Artists grow blind when we stare at our work too long. Believe me, you’d be helping me dearly if you offered your opinion on how to improve it.”
His smile thinned as he glanced between me and my easel. I didn’t understand his hesitation. Men loved offering their opinions, solicited or not.
“I am no art critic, Miss Weston.”
“But I’m sure you have a keen eye for beauty.”
“Ah, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”
“And you are currently the beholder.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Sweete would like to offer her opinion first.”
Both of our gazes snapped to Mrs. Sweete. She calmly threaded a needle and said, “Miss Weston already knows what I think of her work.”
I leveled a stare at Mr. Hawke. “But I do not know what you think, sir. Please, enlighten me.”
He tugged at his cravat. “Of course, yes. Your painting… one cannot help but admire your bold disregard for, um, convention.”
“Convention?”
“Your choices imbue the piece with—how would one put it—an air of refreshing… naiveté.”
My fingers tightened around my paintbrush. “You think my art is naive?”
“Yes—I mean no! The sky and the pond you painted are just so… blue?”
“Mr. Marceaux said he liked all the blue.”
A muscle in his jaw tensed. “Of course he did. Marceaux always has something flattering to say.”
“Kindness comes easily to him, I suppose.”
Mr. Hawke kicked at a loose cobblestone. “I just meant—” He froze in place as he stared at his shoes, then he straightened with renewed vigor. “What I meant to say is that your artwork is like a pair of well-worn boots.”
“Boots?”
“Perhaps I should offer my thoughts,” Mrs. Sweete interjected.
But I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was my chaperone running to my aid, as if I were a child on the verge of a tantrum.
Perhaps my behavior was not far from that, for I shoved my paintbrushes into their box and slammed the lid closed.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawke,” I said brusquely. “You delivered exactly what I asked of you. It’s my fault for imposing such an offensive piece of rubbish on your eyes.”
Mr. Hawke’s eyes widened. “Rubbish?”
I wrenched the canvas off the easel. “If you’ll excuse me, my fireplace requires some attention only this painting can provide.”
I tossed the canvas onto the cobblestones and bent over to tug the legs of the easel closed. But a hand clasped over mine, stopping me.
“Wait—” Mr. Hawke’s voice was hoarse. “Allow me to explain. Please.”
His unexpected touch made me still. I forced my gaze to follow up along the length of his arm until I met his piercing eyes. They were tight with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher.
Mrs. Sweete cleared her throat, and Mr. Hawke released his hand from mine, leaving behind a strange tingling sensation.
I wiped the feeling off on my skirts. “Believe it or not, I don’t want to hear about how my artwork resembles something scuffed and foul-smelling.”
I poured my water glass out before shoving it in my bag, not caring whether or not it splashed on Mr. Hawke’s shoes. But he stepped around me, putting his hand on top of my box of paints before I could pack them too.
“Please move,” I ground out between clenched teeth.
“Your artwork is like a pair of worn boots because it brings comfort.”
I eyed him as he picked up the canvas and set it back on the easel.
“So many paintings nowadays are ostentatious,” he continued, “like shoes made to be admired, not worn. But your painting is not meant to be tried on once and forgotten. No, it’s something one wears day after day for ease, something one does not realize they need until they have it.
And once he does—” he exhaled sharply, his piercing green eyes meeting mine, “—he could not imagine living without it.”
My grip loosened on my bag. He might have been sincere, but Mr. Hawke was not the first man I’d encountered who used honeyed words to smooth over a blunder.
“I appreciate your attempt to preserve my dignity, Mr. Hawke. But I am not a fragile bird who must be spoon-fed in order to fly.”
“I did not intend to imply—”
“Aren’t you late for your card game?”
He let out a long sigh. “I have offended you. Again.”
“If only your taste in art were as honed as your powers of observation.” I grabbed the canvas and jutted my chin up. “Let’s go, Mrs. Sweete. We’re done here.”
“Wait—” He stepped in front of me. “You’re not really going to burn it, are you?”
“What do you care what I do with it?”
He paused. “Because I want it.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you five pounds for it.”
I coughed. “Excuse me?”
“You’re right, that’s far too low an offer. How about ten?”
“Are you mocking me again?”
He took a step closer, his gaze earnest and pleading. “Twenty?”
“She accepts the offer,” Mrs. Sweete said, appearing between us. She took the canvas out of my trembling hands and handed it to Mr. Hawke. “You may deliver your payment to No. 8 Grosvenor Square.”
Mr. Hawke held the dry side of the canvas against his chest. “Thank you.”
I was too stunned to say a word—or perhaps I was too enraged—which is why I was grateful when Mrs. Sweete executed the farewell on my behalf. A moment later, I watched as Mr. Hawke vanished into the club.
“What—what just happened, Mrs. Sweete?”
“You just earned as much money as a maid makes in a year,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’m not a maid.”
Mrs. Sweete eyed me. “Money is money, Miss Weston.”
I crossed my arms and huffed, glaring at the door to the gentlemen’s club. “I don’t get it. One moment he’s pushing me into the mud, and the next he’s paying me off like some sort of low-class laborer. What’s his game?”
Mrs. Sweete followed my gaze. “Perhaps he’s trying to walk beside you and hasn’t yet learned how.”
“What does that mean?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well, I am sure about one thing: Our scheme failed. Mr. Hawke only wasted his money in an effort to save his own pride. Clearly, I did not impress him.”
Mrs. Sweete gave me a soft look. “You know, it doesn’t matter what he or anyone thinks of your work, Miss Weston, only what you think of it.”
I sighed. “Oh, Mrs. Sweete. If only that were true.”