The Portrait (3 page)

Quickly I resumed the pose. Surely I had heard wrongly.

"Chin a bit higher. There, that's it. Now, raise your skirt. Show a bit of ankle."

I ignored him.
How dare he!

He sketched in silence for several minutes. Suddenly he threw his charcoal stick to the
floor and strode to where I sat. His big hand grasped my hem and pulled it above my knee.

"Sir!" Mattie cried, "Unhand my mistress!"

He turned to glower at her. "Sit down!" he thundered. "It's not your place to interfere
between me and my subject. If I want to strip her naked, I will."

For some reason the possibility intrigued rather than terrified me.

Mattie hesitated, and then she almost ran from the room. Her steps echoed on the
uncarpeted stairs as she sped away--to enlist Mother's defense, surely.

"That's too much leg," Mr. Sutherland said, as if nothing had occurred. "Have you a
pin?"

I gaped.

"Oh, for God's sake girl, must I repeat everything? Have you a pin?"

As a matter of fact, I did, for the magenta ribbon had insisted on drooping at the back,
and Mattie had pinned it into place. I told him where he could find the pin.

His hands fumbled briefly. I felt their heat through the layers of velvet, lace and satin as
if they were sheerest gauze.

After some trials, he finally got the lace and satin to drape as he wanted, exposing my
slipper and perhaps a hand's width of my ankle. One might have seen more as I mounted a
carriage step. Certainly he had seen as much each time I'd climbed upon the tall stool.

No sooner had he finished his task than we heard steps ascending the stairs. "Bother," he
muttered. He stood and stepped back from me.

Mother burst through the doorway. Before she could utter a word, Mr. Sutherland said,
"Lady Curran, such interference as I was just subject to is intolerable. I've half a mind to refuse
to carry on."

Mother's mouth worked, much like a freshly caught fish. At last she found her voice. "I
was led to believe...that is, Mattie said..."

"Is a servant capable of judging an artist's actions?" His pose and his tone said that he
was but one step removed from the gods. "How dare
she
presume to question my
purposes?"

"But she said--"

"Lady Curran, I am attempting to arrive at the appropriate pose so that your daughter's
portrait will show her true beauty. The process is one of trial and error. It might be best if the
servant were excluded from this room for the time being, since she seems inclined to
misinterpretation."

"Well, perhaps..." Mother blinked, more at a loss than I had ever seen her. "Yes, of
course," she said at last. "There is no reason for Chastity to be chaperoned in
your
company."

Mr. Sutherland merely bowed.

* * * *

The following Monday Mother called me to her small office shortly after breakfast. She
was holding a package, wrapped in striped black and white paper. "This is most unusual. It came
from Maurelle."

Even I had heard of Maurelle, London's most exclusive modiste, although admittedly
from conversations not intended for my ears. One learns so much more from them than from
formal instruction. Maurelle clothes the
haut
of the
ton
, the most famous of the
actresses, the
crème de la crème
of the
demimondaine
. I had
once overheard Mother say to one of her friends that she would kill to have one gown from
Maurelle.

"It is for you." Her tone implied that surely some mistake had been made.

"Well, go on. Open it," she commanded, when I had sat, staring at the box for some
time.

The wide satin ribbon was knotted, but I refused to cut it. As I worked to untie the knot,
I wondered if perhaps my grandmother had decided to surprise me. Although she was unable to
go out any more, she kept a firm finger on the pulse of society. I had gained the impression that
she thought me a wishy-washy thing, not worthy of her attention. Had I been mistaken?

The knot yielded at last. Slowly I lifted the lid and pushed back the tissue protecting the
contents.

I saw a shimmer like an autumn sunset. Not red, not orange, but a shifting, changeable
iridescence that gradually resolved itself into fabric. With trembling hands I lifted it.

"Good God!" Mother said, her voice hoarse.

I wanted to echo her words, even if my sentiments were drastically different, but I was
speechless. The gown was far from the height of fashion. Its waistline was low, its bodice was
long and shaped--surely it would fit closely, like a silken skin--and it terminated in a point
whence rich gathers of the skirt spread.. Instead of a wide neckline, there was a high collar,
opening into a deep slit that surely must have reached far too deeply for proper modesty. The
sleeves were long and flowing, gathered to tight cuffs embroidered with gold threads. A full skirt
flowed like crimson water across the edge of the box and fell in a shimmering cascade over the
edge of the table and onto the floor. Gold glinted from the bottom edge, and I saw embroidery
matching the cuffs in a narrow band along the hem. Surely no lady would appear in public in
something so...so outlandish.

I loved it!

A small piece of paper slid from the folds as I let it fall back into the box.

Mother snatched it up, opened it. In an awed tone, she read, "'If you want your portrait
painted, you will wear this.' The nerve of that man! Of course you cannot wear something so...so
extraordinary"

"Mr. Sutherland?"

"Who else? His reputation for arrogance is certainly well deserved. But he will not
dictate to me. Give me that!" She snatched the box from my unresisting fingers. "I will send it by
return messenger. He can paint you in your pink gown or not at all."

"No."

"
What
did you say?"

"Mother, no one will see me in this gown. Only Mr. Sutherland. And Mattie. What does
it matter?"

"They will see your portrait." She clutched the box to her bosom.

"A portrait. Everyone knows that artists never paint what they see, but only what their
minds imagine."

"How do you know that?"

"He... Mr. Sutherland told me." It was a lie, but at this point, I didn't care. I wanted that
gown as I had never wanted anything in my life. In it I would be someone else. Someone dashing
and bold and confident. Someone desirable.

I had never cared to be desirable before. No, that is not true. I had never even
thought
about being desirable.

Early the next morning I had just completed my toilette when a delivery van drew up to
the house. Curious, I leaned my face against the cold glass of my window and watched as two
dark-clad, robust men unloaded a large parcel, almost certainly a piece of furniture. Covered as it
was against the drizzle, I could not discern its exact shape, but from the size, I thought it might
be a couch.

Oh, dear. Was Mother redecorating again?

Soon I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. They continued upwards. The temptation to
peek out of my door was almost too much to resist. Had Mr. Sutherland sent a couch as well as a
gown? How delicious! For the first time since my arrival in London, I was truly enjoying
myself.

Mother was furious. When I went down for breakfast, she was still at table.

Now you must understand that I usually lingered in my bedchamber until I was sure she
was off about her tasks, so I could enjoy my meal. When I saw her still sitting at table, I had a
momentary temptation to flee, but I forced myself to enter the room. She scarcely took note of
my presence until I had seated myself.

"Good heavens, Chastity, what are you wearing? Surely you have gowns more
presentable than that one. Don't hover. Sit down and eat. You've barely an hour to prepare
yourself for your sitting. I've half a mind to discharge him. The nerve of the man. He takes too
much upon himself. This time I shall inform your father-- Yes, Fortesque, what is it?"

As usual, the butler had crept into the room on silent feet. He spoke from behind me.
"That artist person has arrived, bringing yet another large parcel. Shall I admit him, my
lady?"

"No! Tell him I am at breakfast and will see him when I have finished." She looked at
me, eyes narrowed. "What have you done with your hair? No, don't answer. I can see that you've
done nothing. And your eyebrows. Didn't I tell Mattie to pluck them? I shall--"

This time I interrupted. "Mr. Sutherland forbade Mattie to touch my eyebrows. He says
they are perfect." Those had not been his exact words, but I was not going to tell Mother that he
had commented upon the contrast my nearly black eyebrows made with my hair and eyes. I was
not sure having them labeled dashing was complimentary, but any word that would prevent
Mattie from attacking me with tweezers was welcome.

"Humph! His behavior exceeds all limits of good manners. I ought to-- What is it this
time, Fortesque?"

"The artist person refused to wait. He forced his way past me and is even now creating
havoc upstairs."

I closed my eyes, envisioning a confrontation between Fortesque and Mr. Sutherland.
Our butler was tall and thin, almost willowy, if such an soubriquet can be attached to a male.
With his broad, stocky body, Mr. Sutherland probably outweighed Fortesque by a good three
stone. Besides, the artist was a force to be reckoned with. I wondered if anyone had ever
successfully prevented him from doing what he wished or going where he wanted.

Mother muttered something as she rose, and I am sure it was not a ladylike expression.
"I shall see about this." Once again I resisted temptation, although I would have loved to be a
witness to the meeting between her irresistible strength and his immovable will.

I heard nothing more. My sitting was scheduled for eleven. At a quarter till, I entered
my bedchamber and found Mattie waiting there. The gown, in all its garnet, scarlet, crimson,
carmine, bittersweet, apricot glory lay across the bed. I hesitated, wondering, not for the first
time, if I was woman enough--

Mattie reluctantly assisted me with it. All the while she muttered under her breath. I
caught snippets like "'scandalous"' and "no decent woman" and "asking for trouble". I ignored
them. At some point in the past few weeks, I had lost all fear of Mr. Sutherland. He might insult
me, might verbally abuse me, might even seduce me, but he would never deliberately harm
me.

How I knew that, I am not sure, even to this day. Rude, sharp-spoken, and entirely
self-absorbed, he had little patience with or tolerance for ordinary human beings. Yet I felt safe in his
company.

Safe? No that was not the right word. In Mr. Sutherland's company, I was someone else,
someone beautiful, exciting, interesting. Not a dull, shy almost-woman with odd-colored hair and
no conversation.

"Hurry, Miss Chastity. Your mother says you're to go upstairs as soon as can be.
He's
waiting."

Did I imagine a delicious shudder in the way she spoke
he
? From Mattie, the
terror of my life?

Surely not.

The deep slit in the collar of the gown did, as I had suspected, dip between my breasts
and below. My chemise, sturdy linen, showed through the lower handsbreadth of the opening, a
glaring sliver of ivory inconsistence. Mattie
tsked
and tugged and finally gave up with a
shake of her head. "It'll have to do, Miss Chastity. I can't imagine what the man was thinking,
ordering you to wear a dress so immodest."

I can, I said to myself. I know what he was thinking.

But did I? Seduction was scarcely more than a word to me, a word promising a dreadful
fate, a destroyed future. Yet I really had only a glimmering of what it involved.

My hair is difficult. It is determinedly straight, slick, and stubborn. Despairing of
Mattie's efforts to do more with it than fashion a chignon at my nape, Mother had engaged a
hairdresser last week, commanding him to cut it into the short crop that was so fashionable for
young ladies in their first Season. He was a mincing fop, I thought, with his lavender
inexpressibles and his cerise waistcoat. He had, however, won my lifelong gratitude when he
refused to do more than trim the ends of my long mop. "Mademoiselle's hair will refuse to do the
curl," he'd informed Mother. "
C'est impossible
, this hair." He lifted a strand and let it
fall onto my shoulder. "Such body! Such texture. And the color!
Incroyable!
Never have
I seen so many shades together, like a wig assembled from several heads."

"Her hair is brown," Mother said, with a sniff.

"But of course." He stepped back. "
En masse
the hair is brown, but when one
looks closely, there are strands of glittering gold, of rich titian, of deepest ebony, and of purest
silver--"

"There are no white hairs on my daughter's head!"

"No, no, madame. That is not what I meant to say at all." Once again his fingers sifted
through my hair, as I sat, still terrified that he would be commanded to cut it despite his
objections. "It is only that I waxed poetic." His hands began lifting and twisting my hair. "Rather
than cut this so
impossible
hair, let us see what we may do to make it more...more
proper." He fussed for several moments, while I did my best to sit still. With each
snip
of his scissors, I cringed. When he set them down finally, I breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he
could not have removed much in so short a time.

At last he stepped back. "
Voila!
I have achieved a masterpiece."

Mother walked all around the chair on which I sat. Twice. "I must admit, Monsieur
LeGrande, that you have made her look like a woman grown rather than a scruffy child. Now
you must teach her maid how to reproduce this style."

M. LeGrande and Mattie let down my hair and put it up again perhaps a dozen times that
morning. My scalp was sore before they were done, for Mattie had not the gentle touch that the
hairdresser did. At last he admitted his satisfaction with her efforts. "I'll need to practice more,
my lady," she told Mother after his departure. "Her hair's that slick, it's not easy to get the pins in
where they'll hold."