Page 49 of Portrait of a Lady
“Miss, what’s wrong? You look as if you’ve been crying.”
Evelyn stumbled farther into the room with a sob, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. “Oh, Patience, I...it’s over...I can’t…”
Patience crossed the room in a blink, taking Evelyn up before she could collapse onto the floor. She leaned on her companion, who over the years had also become her dearest friend. She allowed herself to weep now, unable to stop the torrent as it came pouring out of her, shaking her body with harsh sobs.
“I’m so sorry, Miss,” Patience crooned, stroking Evelyn’s back with a soothing hand. “I thought the two of you were getting on so well together.”
So had Evelyn, but she’d been mistaken. A naive fool. Hugh had made himself clear from the beginning, but she had allowed the execution of his duties as her courtesan to make her think otherwise. It didn’t matter how good and how right it had felt, not when she’d heard him say with his own lips that it had all been a farce.
Certainly, he had insisted to her face that it had all been real. But, how could she trust that? He’d said those things to his friends thinking she wouldn’t hear them, which made them more than likely true. Of course he’d tell her what she wanted to hear in person.
Letting Patience help prepare her to bed, Evelyn made no effort to cease her crying. She let the tears fall, wetting her face and neck. Curling up on her side and hugging a pillow against her chest, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the grief. There was no way around this. Her heart was broken, and she must suffer through this just as she had every other hurt she’d experienced in her life. Only, this wasn’t anything as simple as embarrassment over stuttering when being introduced to a man she’d admired from afar, or being overlooked time and time again. It wasn’t so trivial as waiting year after year for someone to take notice of her, only to find herself turning five-and-twenty without a single prospect.
This hurt far more, and would take longer to recover from—but, recover she would. Then, she would pick herself up and carry on, just as she always had. In time, Hugh would be so far behind her he’d be no more than a distant memory.
For now, however, he was a dagger in her side, twisting itself in the wound and creating a sharp and resounding pain.
Chapter 11
“The day of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition draws near! Rumor has it that the estranged son of the Earl of P has submitted a most beautiful painting for consideration. This writer certainly hopes he finds success this year. Had I a betting book, I suppose I might make a grand sum taking wagers over whether any member of his family might show their faces at the event.”
-The London Gossip,23April 1819
Despite his attempts to get to her, Hugh went without seeing or speaking to Evelyn for weeks after their falling out. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d gone straight to her home the morning after, only to be turned away by Joseph, who had informed him that Evelyn was not taking callers. He’d tried again for three successive days and was turned away each time. On his last visit, Patience herself had come to the door, disgust in her eyes and venom lacing her words.
“You are only making matters worse, coming here. You’ve done enough, and all she wants now is to be left alone.”
“Will you give her a message for me?” he’d pleaded, needing her to at least know how he felt. He didn’t want her to believe that the things she’d overheard represented the truth of his heart. He had only been trying to convince his friends, as well as himself, that he did not love her...and all because he’d been too daft to see what had been right in front of him.
“Fine,” Patience had relented. “What do you want me to tell her?”
He hadn’t even hesitated, spilling forth the only words that truly mattered. “Tell her that I love her, and I refuse to go away until she can look me in the eye and tell me she doesn’t feel the same.”
Patience had seemed taken aback by that, but had recovered quickly, giving him a curt nod before slipping back inside. He’d never know how his message had been received, because Evelyn had not come to see him. She hadn’t so much as sent him a note, not even to tell him to go to Hell.
He’d been relentless anyway, sending flowers and writing notes that went unanswered. He’d even tried waiting outside her townhouse in hopes that he might find her coming or going. But not once did she appear on the threshold, not once did she respond to his attempts at apologizing and making things right.
Now, he sat in the dimly lit confines of his studio three nights before the Exhibition, drowning his sorrows in brandy. He’d done quite a bit of that lately, especially once it had become evident that Evelyn wanted nothing more to do with him. Some nights he drank with company, his fellow courtesans dropping in to ensure he was at least eating and bathing regularly—something he did with half-hearted resignation. Laying down to die felt like a suitable alternative to living through such pain, but no one would go away and allow it. His servants, his friends, all seemed determined to force him to carry on as if he hadn’t lost his entire reason for living.
Even his art did not soothe him as it once had, everything he’d attempted coming out dark and macabre now that Evelyn was no longer his subject. He drew the most morose scenes of sadness and death, and found himself painting with carbon black pigment more than anything else. Crosby had visited last week with the exciting news thatPortrait of a Ladyhad been selected for the Summer Exhibition, and he found it ironic that he could not conjure a single ounce of joy over it. The one thing he’d wanted most for the past several years, and it had ceased to matter to him without Evelyn to share it with.
Glancing down at the stack of pages on his knee, he took another sip of brandy. The words swam on the top sheet, but he’d practically memorized them by now. He had finishedThe Mad Baronweeks ago, and had read it three more times since, feeling connected to Evelyn just by reading her words. Each read only reminded him that he’d never gotten to tell her how brilliant the story was and how gifted a writer he thought her to be. He had expected to find it enjoyable, but had been amazed at how absorbing the tale of Regina, Sir Antony, and Baron Redgrave had been. He ought to return it to her, but could not help secretly hoping that him maintaining possession of it would draw her to his doorstep. Once he had her in front of him, he wouldn’t let her go until he’d made her understand just how much she meant to him.
He still had her spencer in his bedchamber, as well, her scent still faintly emanating from the fabric. He’d been reduced to clinging to that piece of clothing, pressing it to his face and remembering with an aching chest the last time he’d held her, her sweet scent wafting up his nostrils. Before long, the scent of the spencer would be over taken by his own, the last trace of her obliterated from his life.
“Mr. Radcliffe, you’ve a visitor.”
He glanced up just as a footman ushered in a woman he hadn’t laid eyes on in two long years. His empty glass fell to the floor with a thud, and he just barely managed to keep Evelyn’s manuscript from flying every which way as he shot to his feet. His chest tightened painfully, his mouth going dry as he blinked to ensure he wasn’t seeing things. But there she stood, his sister Melanie, the youngest of the Radcliffe brood and the only one who had protested when his father had disowned him.
She had the same dark hair and brown eyes as Hugh and their other siblings, though the roundness of her face had melted away to reveal the stunning visage of a woman grown. No longer a debutante and one year into her marriage, she had truly come into her own.
“Mel,” he rasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is that really you?”
Sniffing the air, she cringed, but came farther into the room with a swish of her skirts. “That stench tells me you’re in your cups, but I know you can’t have gone blind. Of course it is me. Are you just going to stand there, or will you come greet your sister?”
He was on her in an instant, rushing across the remaining space between them and crushing her in his embrace. She was not the woman he’d hoped would come to call, but he still found relief in her presence. He’d been so miserably alone, drowning in his own sorrow. Seeing Melanie again after so long felt like a breath of fresh air.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as they pulled apart, noting that she blinked back tears.
