Excerpt of Portrait of a Lover by Julianne MacLean

Prologue

June 19, 1892

Annabelle Lawson tipped her head back upon the rough bark
of the oak tree on the hill, and laid a hand upon her
stomach. Her heart was pounding uncontrollably. She’d
always feared this day would come – that after all these
years, Magnus would be bold enough to contact her.

She took a deep, slow breath, telling herself that at
least this way, she’d been warned that he had returned to
London. It would have been excruciating to meet him
unexpectedly somewhere. Not that this wasn’t excruciating
enough on its own.

Meet me at the gallery.

Her stomach began to churn. He wanted to see her. But
how could she see him? She had not forgiven him for what
he’d done all those years ago. He’d ripped her heart to
shreds and stomped on it. He’d treated her appallingly.
Inexcusably. He was her brother’s enemy, and he was
vengeful. He had no heart of his own.

No. She could not see him. It would be too painful and
agonizing, to revisit all those feelings.

A cool breeze fluttered the letter in her hand, and
Annabelle gazed beyond her easel, down the grassy hillside
toward her home. Or rather, her brother’s home, which she
had been struggling to capture on canvas.

She folded the letter and stuffed it into her pocket.
Picking up her palette and brush, she took a step forward,
but stopped and laid a hand on her stomach again, waiting
for the churning sensation to pass.

She had not felt anything this intense in years. Eight,
to be exact, because that was the last time she had dealt
with Magnus – the day he had left England for America.
Permanently.

She had been so very relieved that day. Relieved that he
would disappear and never bother her or Whitby again.
Whitby had made sure of it. He had paid Magnus handsomely
to leave, with an allowance forthcoming as long as he
remained in America. Magnus knew that if he ever
returned, the payments would cease.

But he was here now, wasn’t he? Here on English soil,
opening old wounds and causing Annabelle to question
whether or not he had ever really been gone. Because the
scars he had left were still etched sorely on her heart.

Forcing herself not to let those thoughts distract her any
further because she wanted this painting finished, she
assessed and appraised her work.

It was nearly complete, but did not yet convey what she
wished it to convey. Determined to get it right, she
dipped her small flat bristle brush into the black paint,
and redefined the outline of the far side of the house.
She tried to touch up the other side as well, then she
used her painting knife to delineate the lines she’d just
added.

Annabelle stepped back again to examine the subtle changes.
Good God. She'd been working on this for what seemed like
forever, and still, she wasn't happy with it. It was
dull. It evoked no emotion. Anyone could have painted
it. Whitby would be just as well off with a photograph.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, she set her palette down
upon her paint box and backed up against the tree. She
continued to stare at the painting. What was wrong with
it? What was missing?

The same thing that was missing from all her paintings,
she supposed. Originality. Passion. Life. She never
took chances with them and she was never happy with them,
and she would tinker with them forever if she could.

Another breeze blew by, gusting through the leaves
overhead. Annabelle spent a few more minutes staring with
dissatisfaction at the painting, wondering what she could
do to fix it, then at last she shook her head and decided
to give up. The truth of the matter was - she hadn’t the
slightest idea how to make it better without taking the
chance of spoiling it. Best not to risk it.

Consequently, she cleaned her palette and brushes, set all
her supplies into the paint box and closed it.

Perhaps Whitby would think it was fine. He always
disagreed with her about her paintings, after all, and
fought to convince her they were marvellous, when she
invariably thought they were catastrophes.

Lying back on the grass to give the paint time to dry, she
laced her fingers together over her stomach - which
thankfully had settled somewhat - and crossed her legs at
the ankles. She squinted up at the leaves against the
bright, white sky, listened to the whispery sound they
made in the wind, and thought of the letter in her pocket
again.

The painting deserves this recognition. She realized
suddenly that she had been so shaken by the thought of
seeing Magnus again, she had not really considered the
larger picture. He wanted to show one of her paintings in
an exhibition.

No, not just any painting. He wanted to show The
Fisherman – which she had not seen in thirteen years. She
couldn’t even remember what it looked like, and she wasn’t
even sure she wanted to see it. She’d always regretted
painting it and had wished it did not exist in the world.

Many times over the years, she’d wished she could get it
back and destroy it.

But he seemed to think it was praiseworthy. Was it
possible he was right, and this exhibition could be the
key to her future as an artist? And if that was so, could
she ignore this opportunity, because of her personal
feelings toward Magnus?

Surely she was stronger than that, wasn't she? She knew
the truth about him now, and she was a woman, no longer
the naive girl she had once been so many years ago when
she'd stepped on the train...