She Sold Paintings on the Street to Survive — Until the Wealthy Merchant’s Offer Shocked Everyone!
Chapter 3
Clara remained standing.
“What do you mean?”
Nathaniel gestured toward a chair.
“Sit.”
“I would rather stand.”
He accepted that.
“Twenty years ago, I was not yet the head of Ashford Trading. My father was. We had ships carrying timber, grain, cloth, and iron. Samuel worked with one of our bookkeepers.”
“My father was a painter.”
“He was both. He had an extraordinary eye for detail.”
Clara listened.
“One evening, Samuel showed me several pages from our account books. They did not match the cargo records.”
“Someone was stealing?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“We never discovered the whole truth.”
“What happened?”
“Samuel was accused first.”
Clara’s fingers curled.
“He told me.”
“I know.”
Nathaniel looked at her.
“He said he was being framed.”
“He was.”
“I believe that now.”
Clara stared at him.
“Now?”
Nathaniel’s face hardened.
“Because the same men who destroyed him nearly destroyed my family afterward.”
He opened a drawer.
Inside was a stack of old papers.
“There was a warehouse fire. Several ledgers disappeared. My father suffered a stroke. Two ships vanished at sea. A partner fled the colony.”
“And my father?”
“Dead.”
“You still haven’t told me why.”
Nathaniel closed the drawer.
“Because I did not know.”
Clara’s disappointment returned.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I want you to paint.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I want you to become the official portrait painter of Ashford House.”
Clara almost laughed.
“I sell paintings for pennies in the street.”
“I know.”
“People laugh at them.”
“People laughed at Samuel too.”
“I am not Samuel.”
“No.”
Nathaniel looked directly at her.
“You are better.”
Clara stared at him.
She had expected pity.
Perhaps charity.
She had not expected that.
“How much?”
Nathaniel named a sum.
Clara’s mouth fell slightly open.
It was enough to support her for nearly a year.
“You would pay that for paintings?”
“For your work.”
She shook her head.
“There must be another reason.”
“There is.”
Nathaniel walked to the window.
“I want you to paint a portrait of me.”
“That is all?”
“No.”
He turned.
“I want you to paint what you see.”
Clara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“If you see arrogance, paint arrogance. If you see sorrow, paint sorrow. If you see guilt, paint guilt.”
She studied him.
“Why?”
“Because your father once told me that a true painter does not flatter a man. He reveals him.”
Clara remembered those words.
Her father had said them often.
She accepted.
But before she left, Nathaniel said one more thing.
“Clara.”
She stopped.
“There is something your father left behind.”
Her heart stopped.
“What?”
“A painting.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
Nathaniel reached into his coat.
He produced an old envelope.
The paper was yellowed.
The seal had been broken long ago.
“Because Samuel sent this to me the night before he disappeared.”
Clara reached for it.
Inside was a single sentence.
If anything happens to me, find the painting with no signature.
Clara read it twice.
“What does that mean?”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“That is what I want you to discover.”
