The Portrait (2 page)

The chime of the clock broke the silence. 'Twas noon, and my first sitting was over. My
virtue was still intact, and I had discovered that Mr. Sutherland was not the ogre I had feared.
Abrupt and demanding, yes, but also thoughtful and thoroughly impersonal, even if he did
sometimes behave shockingly.

"We will commence sharply at ten next week, Miss Wayman. See that you're prompt."
The arrogant artist was back, and I wondered if I had imagined his gentle concern, his quick
humor.

* * * *

"Good morning, Mr. Sutherland." This morning I had approached my sitting with far
less apprehension than the first time. He said little while working, although he did, as before,
mutter about my appearance. I gathered he approved of my mouth--"too wide for classical
beauty, but with a promise of smiles"--my eyes--"slumberous, with an unconscious invitation to
passion." I hoped Mattie hadn't heard the latter. She would have certainly told Mother, for she
had been once again commanded to report any impropriety.

What Mr. Sutherland did not approve of was most of the rest of me. He called my nose a
challenge. What he meant was it was far too large for my face. I had heard that since it assumed
enormous proportions when I was about twelve. He made rude comments about my shape. "Arch
your back, girl. You've breasts. Display them. A shame to hide such delicious curves." Could he
see through my clothing? I crossed my arms over my chest, only to drop them at his fierce
glower.

Nor did he favor my gown, one Mother had decided I should wear in my portrait.
"White's not your color, girl. Next week wear red... No, deep orange. It'll give you color instead
of washing you out. Egad! You've no more color than a three-day-old corpse."

His words stung. I bit my lip. And wondered how I should tell Mother... No, I could
not.

Three more sheets of paper joined the others in the corner before he told me to rest. This
time I needed no invitation to stride around the room, to swing my arms freely. He watched my
every movement. I felt his gaze, like a touch, on my face, my shoulders, my breasts, my thighs.
Would a man's touch cause the same prickling sensation?

When I resumed my pose, he came to me, standing so close that his smock brushed my
knees. His finger lifted my chin, his eyes bore into mine. "What is behind that vacuous stare, I
wonder. Does a woman of intelligence lurk there? A woman of passion? Or are you as bland as
porridge, as tasteless as weak tea? Once or twice I thought I saw a spark of rebellion, of
obstinacy, but it was soon gone. Hidden? Or merely repressed?

"I do not paint pretty faces. I paint what I see behind them. You have thus far given me
only glimpses, and those have been fleeting and contradictory. Perhaps I should inform your
parents of a forgotten but unavoidable conflict preventing me from completing this
commission."

I know I made no sound.

"Ah, you don't like that, eh?" He glanced over his shoulder toward Mattie. Lowering his
voice to a bare whisper, he said, "Do you want me to go on?"

I nodded, although for the life of me I know not why. He frightened me, for he saw into
me in a way no one else ever had.

"Will you show me the real Chastity? I cannot paint the perfect little doll you have been
until now."

I nodded, unable to speak, afraid, yet unable to resist the temptation to be, for this little
while, honestly myself.

His eyes compelled my gaze, until I felt as if he were seeing into my very soul. After a
long moment, he stepped back. "Very well, Miss Wayman. Next week I will begin painting. I
won't need you any more today. I must set the scene and prepare the canvas."

I lingered, watching him sort through the sketches, until he made a shooing motion. "Go
away. Can't you see I'm busy!"

I was just through the doorway when he called, "Wait! I want to talk to your maid."

I nodded my permission for Mattie to remain, my mind whirling with possibilities. Was
he going to seduce her?

And if he was, what did that mean? I had never been particularly curious about what
seduction entailed before. Now I wondered if it was really the dreadful experience I had been
told.

Once in my bedchamber, I found myself staring at my reflection.
A promise of
smiles
, he had said of my mouth. I smiled.

What I saw was a polite grimace. Leaning closer, I looked at my eyes, opened them
wide, then let my lids descend to their usual screening level.
Slumberous
? Sleepy,
instead, and half-concealing. Mother, while not terribly perceptive, would be quick to read the
frequent resentment I felt toward her if she were ever to look into my wide-open eyes. I had been
only an inconvenience to her and Father for all my life, until I came of an age to marry. Now I
was a social advantage.

Quickly I stifled the anger that lived all too close to the surface. I had been happy at
Currancy, alone with my horse and my dog. When my governess of the year had been congenial,
I enjoyed the time I spent with her. The other sort, the ones who must rule the lives of those they
are engaged to educate, were simply something I had to endure, until they were discharged.

Often they were discharged before the usual year, perhaps because I showed so little
improvement under their tutelage.

Fortunately Mother always blamed them. She found it inconceivable that a child of hers
was uninterested in learning how to go on in society.

But I digress. The inspection of my face had shown me nothing I hadn't seen a thousand
times before. Perhaps Mr. Sutherland was seeing what he wished to see, rather than what was.
He would not be the first person to look at me and see someone else. Nonetheless, for the next
week I often caught myself staring into the mirror, hoping to see the promise of a smile or
slumberous eyes.

All I saw was an ordinary face.

Mr. Sutherland called the day before our next scheduled sitting and asked to speak to
Mother. I only knew because I happened to be crossing the upstairs hall when Fortesque
announced him. Although I was curious, I had no opportunity to eavesdrop. Fortesque already
had one ear against the door. Stifling both amusement and frustration, I continued on my way,
regretting I had not made friends with the starched-up butler.

A few minutes later, I heard raised voices from the parlor, Mother's first, then Mr.
Sutherland's. The argument ended with the slam of a door. Quickly I went to the window. Sure
enough, Mr. Sutherland soon emerged from our house, his exit punctuated by yet another
slammed door.

I remained in my room, wondering what they had argued about and if the confrontation
spelled the end of my sittings. Oddly enough, although I had dreaded the whole procedure
initially, I knew I would miss the two hours weekly I spent with the temperamental
portraitist.

Later that afternoon Mother came to my room, followed by Mattie. "Show me," she
commanded, ignoring me, as usual.

Mattie opened the wardrobe and started pulling out gowns and laying them on the bed.
All were ones purchased for my Season, and all were, in my opinion, perfectly ghastly. They
were white and pink and pale blue, beribboned and beruffled, made for a pretty child with blonde
hair, pink cheeks and china-blue eyes.

So far I had received only a few day dresses from the
modiste
. Several evening
gowns were on order, but I was given no opinion in their choice. I knew they would be pale and
feminine and perfectly ghastly, too.

My hair is too dark to be called blonde, too reddish to be called brown. My eyes are
neither green nor brown, but somewhere in between, and my cheeks are no rosier than my skin,
which seems to be tanned lightly by summer sun, even in the dead of winter. I look swarthy in
white, sallow in pink, and unwashed in pale blue.

"The pink will have to do. It's not red, but as close as she has."

I stifled a groan. I hated the pink gown most of all. Besides the yellow cast it gave to my
skin, it was cut far lower than any of the others, exposing my breasts to a degree I was not
comfortable with. I had asked Mattie to insert a fichu, but she had refused, no doubt fearing
Mother's reaction. Now I wondered what Mr. Sutherland would think. He wanted to see the real
me.

Who was she?

"Is there some special event we will attend?" The Season was barely underway, and I
had been forbidden to appear in public until Mother's ball two weeks hence, I could not imagine
Mother allowing me to be seen, but perhaps...

I was unsure whether to anticipate or dread.

"No, it's that Sutherland creature. He insists you must wear red or orange" Tapping her
chin with one forefinger, she frowned at the pink gown Mattie still held. "I have a scarlet shawl.
You may use it, but see that you do not soil it."

I shuddered at the thought of her scarlet shawl with the pink gown, but said nothing. My
small experience with Mr. Sutherland told me that he would not accept a substitute. My
next--and probably last--sitting would last only as long as it took him to get a good look at me.

Despite the pink gown, I could scarce contain my impatience for Wednesday to dawn.
Until Mr. Sutherland's advent, the days of my life were all the same. Dancing lessons on
Mondays and Thursday mornings, elocution lessons on Wednesday afternoons, and training in
housewifery on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Occasionally I would be commanded to accompany
Mother in a visit to a modiste or a milliner, always dressed in drab clothing and a deep poke
bonnet. Mother had the notion that I should emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis at my
come-out ball, and did her best to make sure that no one of any social importance saw me.

The following morning, Mattie assisted me to dress in the pink gown. It was actually a
lovely garment--for someone else. The slip was satin as pale a pink as the throat of a delicate
shell, while the overdress was fine lace just a blush darker. Tiny cap sleeves and a miniscule
bodice were joined to the skirt with a deep pink velvet ribband that tied in a flat bow just under
my breasts, with trailing streamers almost to the scalloped hem. My slippers matched the
ribband, as did long gloves extending well above my elbows. Perhaps they were intended to
reduce the impression of near-nudity the bodice elicited. In my opinion, they failed
dismally.

The scarlet shawl clashed horribly with the pink, but it did cover the vast expanse of
flesh above the bodice, as long as I held on to it.

Followed by Mattie, I climbed the stairs to the room serving as Mr. Sutherland's studio.
My midriff was host to a whole flock of small, fluttering creatures, for I knew that he would
shout at me. I told myself that I would shout right back, letting him know that the pink gown was
not of my choosing.

I lied. I was far too much the coward.

His back was to the door as I entered. Mattie went immediately to the chair provided.
The high stool I had used before was no longer in the middle of the room. As I stood hesitating
just inside the doorway, he turned.

His expression did not change when he saw me, but his body grew very still. After a
moment he stepped toward me. I felt as a lamb must when stalked by a wolf.

He halted just inches away, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. My eyes
were at the level of his chin.

"I believe I specified a red or orange gown?" His voice was silky, yet held a certain
threat.

"I--" The sound came out a whisper. I swallowed. "I have no red or orange gown.
Mother said this would serve."

Before I could say more, his hand caught the dangling corner of the shawl and ripped it
from me. "Pink!" he roared. "Pink! With your skin! My god, girl, it makes you look half dead.
No, worse. You appear completely dead and unburied for a week. Take it off!"

So stunned was I that I said, "Here?" as my hands went to the ribbon bow under my
breasts.

The corners of his mouth turned up. "No, darling, not here," he said, in an entirely
different tone. His brows drew together as he looked me up and down. "So she dresses you in
pink, hmmm? Why am I not surprised? And pale blue as well? White?" At my nod, he went on,
"I thought so. All one has to do is look at her parlor and know the woman has no sense of color
at all.

"I ought to paint you exactly as I see you today. It would serve her right. But no.
'Twould be unfair to you. You're just one more helpless pawn."

Stepping back, he gestured to Mattie. "You there, bring your mistress the chair. Yes,
that's right. The one you're sitting in. Bring it here."

He took the straight wooden chair from Mattie's hands and set it in the approximate
place where the stool had been. Pointing, he said, "Give me the shawl!"

I took one step but Mattie had picked it up before I could bend for it. He snatched it
from her hands and tossed it across the chair. After a few adjustments in how it draped, he said,
"There. Sit."

I sat.

Impersonally he repositioned my arms and legs until he was satisfied. All the while he
muttered to himself. "...show the line of thigh...tempting but untouchable...the aching
vulnerability of youth...magnificent
poitrine
...ivory's not the right word either...how to
catch that color...incredible mouth...taste like sun-warmed raspberries..."

Something about his voice, his half-heard words, caused a small fluttering of the
midriff-creatures.

He posed me sideways on the chair, my left arm resting on its back, my hand dangling.
My right arm stretched back to the edge of the seat and supported me. My head was thrown back,
my eyes directed at the juncture of wall and ceiling behind his easel. Holding the pose would be
a strain. Remembering the
silly twit
appellation, I resolved to do so until I collapsed
from sheer exhaustion.

"Raise your skirt."

"I beg your pardon." Without thinking I turned my head to stare at him.

"Damn it, girl, I told you not to move."