Native Gold Read Free

herself. Was that what he thought of her masterpiece? That it was a monstrosity? Was that what everyone thought?
    The flames snapped and flared behind him, and for a moment Ambrose looked like the Devil himself silhouetted against the inferno. Then he set the poker into its stand and thoughtfully stroked the end of his mustache.
    "Henceforward, Mathilda, while you live beneath my roof, you will no longer indulge in such licentious avocations. I’ve had the servants remove the paints and canvases from your room, along with your sketchbooks."
    His words sucked the very breath from her lungs. Not her art. It was all she had. He couldn’t take that away from her.
    "As for this abomination..." He snatched up the painting.
    She sprang to her feet and grabbed his sleeve. "No!" Surely he didn’t mean to take her masterpiece as well. As a desperate afterthought, she added, “Please.”
    He extracted his arm. "It’s for the best," he said sternly.
    "No." Panic seized her by the throat, leaving her voice a feeble whisper. Lord, she hated to beg. "Not my...please-Uncle-don’t-take-my—"
    "I won’t have filth like this infecting the Hardwicke house."
    "But it’s...” She tried to modulate her voice to a reasonable tone. “It’s mine." Lord, what did he intend to do with it? Pack it away in the attic? Give it to the servants? Sell it?
    His eyes flattened like storm clouds as he turned away from her. And suddenly she knew what he intended.
    "No!" she screamed.
    She dove for his coattails, trying to stop him, and skidded on the hem of her skirt. The satin ripped, and her knee banged on the polished oak floor as she caught the back of his coat. He grunted, nearly losing his footing himself.
    "Please!" she shrieked.
    He half-turned toward her, his eyes rolling in fear as if a madwoman pursued him.
    She reluctantly loosened her grip on his coat. It wouldn’t do to frighten the man. Swallowing hard and licking her lips, she willed her heart to stop racing, willed her voice to return to a sane pitch.
    "I’ll do anything you say, Uncle Ambrose. I’ll stop painting. I’ll be good. I promise. Just please..." She was truly begging now, on her knees, no less, clutching at his clothing like a waif in the streets pleading for a crumb. But she didn’t care. She was desperate.
    "Unhand me, Mathilda."
    She stared into his narrowed eyes. Could she change his mind? Would he listen to her? Reluctantly, she let go of his coat and gave him a watery, hopeful smile.
    She saw his jaw tighten once, then release. His eyes softened, and he breathed a long sigh. He reached down to cup her chin affectionately in one hand, as he often did with his own daughters. For one brief moment, she glimpsed forgiveness.
    Then he murmured, "It’s for the best, girl."
    Before she could digest his words, he slipped off the velvet drape and cast her painting, her best work, her masterpiece, into the heart of the fire.
    "No!" Despair ripped through her throat, as if her spirit was torn from her body. "No!"
    Sparks leaped up and collided with the canvas like falling stars. Black smoke curled towards the flue. Orange fire licked at the edges of the painting, moving inward voraciously.
    Mattie screamed as the flames seemed to sear her soul. It was like watching her child burn.
    She scrambled forward on hands and knees, hampered by the tangle of her voluminous skirts.
    Liquefied in the heat, the oils began to smoke and bubble, lending eerie life to the sea she’d painted.
    Her eyes tearing and her throat clogged with sobs, she fought her way across the slippery floor.
    A sudden burst of flame shot through the middle of the painting, startling them both, snapping at the figure of her father like a ravenous shark.
    "No!" She knocked Ambrose out of the way and lunged toward the hearth, where a hellish darkness slowly fell over the painting’s ethereal light.
    Throwing caution aside, Mattie thrust her hand into the flames, desperate to salvage her masterpiece, desperate to