Chapter 5 #3
“I don’t,” Marcus objected, folding his arms.
Miss Foxworthy frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought—”
“He needs his portrait painted,” Hawkney explained, sending Marcus a glare that promised retribution if he didn’t mind his manners.
“Ah. An important distinction,” Miss Foxworthy replied, her full mouth curving into a reluctant smile.
“It is,” Marcus muttered, and walked over to a wall which was crammed with paintings. “Are these yours?” he demanded.
Miss Foxworthy stiffened, no doubt sensing criticism. “Yes. I think it is in poor taste to hang your own paintings as a rule, but as this is my studio and they are of people, places or things I care about, I indulge myself.”
“I like the one of your dog.”
“How do you know he was mine?”
Marcus shrugged. “He looks well loved.”
A glimmer of surprise lit the woman’s eyes. “He was,” she admitted.
“Might we see the portrait?” Hawkney suggested, having noticed an easel bearing a large canvas in the room's corner. The curtains were drawn, casting it in shadow, either to protect the paint or her brother’s sore head, he wasn’t certain which.
“I do not wish to waste more of your time than necessary.”
Miss Foxworthy hesitated; she seemed wary, almost unwilling. “I’ve not shown anyone yet, save Clara and my brother.”
“Go on, Stacy, it’s bloody marvellous.” Her brother’s opinion, for what it was worth, seemed entirely sincere.
She flushed a little and shrugged. “Very well.”
“Shall I ask Mrs Wainwright to send tea?” Mr Foxworthy suggested.
“No. We shan’t intrude for long,” Hawkney replied, before Marcus could decide to be difficult and agree.
“Do you want me to stay and chaperone?” Mr Foxworthy asked with a grin, a comment which was greeted with a glacial look from his sister. He chuckled. “I’ll be in the next room, call if you need anything. Your grace, Colonel Hamilton, a pleasure.”
He sauntered out, and they waited as the lady drew back the heavy curtains. An expanse of stunning blue appeared through the large windows, and Hawkney saw doors that led out onto a terrace which must be a lovely place to sit.
Miss Foxworthy gestured for them to come forward.
Hawkney allowed Marcus to go first, telling himself that this was the reason they’d come, but he felt strangely impatient as he moved to stand beside him.
An odd silence filled the room as they viewed the portrait. Hawkney could not tell what Marcus made of the portrait as he did not know the sitter. He didn’t know what it was he felt, either, but he absorbed it as one might absorb a punch to the solar plexus.
It was Clara.
There she was.
Plain, certainly no beauty, but there was… something.
Dignity, he decided, but no, it was more than that.
The portrait was utterly compelling, making one ask questions about the sitter, even as the skill of the artist answered them.
She was poor, alone in the world, perhaps unloved.
A spinster. A knot formed in Hawkney’s gut, hard and painful, but he kept looking, unwilling to turn away.
God, but she shone through the paint. There was that irreverent little twinkle in her eyes, the one he knew must be there before she wrote him one of her appalling letters, and there was the fierceness of her, the courage, the devilry that made her stand up to him and tear him off a strip despite the discrepancies in their status.
And there, in the way Benny gazed at her, and her reassuring hand laid upon his head, was the kindness that lit her up.
He swallowed.
Well, it was art. It was supposed to make you feel, wasn’t it? That was the point of it. It irritated him all the same.
“Your brother is correct, Miss Foxworthy. It’s marvellous,” he said, aware his voice sounded somehow too loud. It broke the silence, shattering the spell that had been cast over them, for he could tell Marcus was not unaffected.
“Thank you, your grace,” Miss Foxworthy said, though he realised she had not needed his acknowledgement. She knew very well what she had produced here. Her gaze slid to Marcus, who was frowning.
“I told you, I don’t do rose-tinted,” she said softly. “If you want the truth, then you may come to me, but showing the world the truth takes courage of a different sort. You may prefer to go to Mr Lawrence after all.”
Marcus nodded, though Hawkney did not know if he was agreeing with her or not. He stalked from the room without a word.
Hawkney offered Miss Foxworthy a rueful smile. “If he lets you paint him, you’ll understand, I think.”
“I’m not sure Colonel Hamilton is ready for anyone to understand him,” she replied with a sigh. “Which is a pity, for I believe I could do him justice.”
Hawkney nodded. “Yes. I believe you could too. Good day, Miss Foxworthy, and congratulations on your work. It truly is something special.”
He let himself out, making his way slowly to the stables, lost in thought. What was it about the blasted portrait that had made him feel so… so out of sorts? It was only Miss Halfpenny, not The Last Supper or The Battle of Trafalgar.
Try as he might, he could not figure it out.