The Portrait (6 page)

I could only stare. This portrait bore little resemblance to any of the sketches I had seen,
yet it was a composite of all the ones he had made the two days I had posed on the chair.

In those two days, he had never set brush to canvas.

"I would never have believed it," Mother said. She was looking over my shoulder. "He
made you beautiful, without changing how you appear. The man is a genius."

I ignored the implied insult. All I could think was
Where is the painting he did that
last day?

* * * *

The portrait was hung over the mantel in the dining room. On the night of my come-out
ball, the forty-four guests who sat to dinner were subjected to a grand unveiling. They were
almost universally impressed. Most of them had something to say about how the portrait
complimented me. My Uncle Mortimer nudged me in the ribs with an elbow and whispered, loud
enough for the whole room to overhear, "Fella's good at making silk purses, ain't he?"

I neither wept nor kicked him. I had heard similar comments from too many people.
They no longer wounded me, for I knew I was beautiful. Had not Mr. Sutherland seen it, and
shown it to the world?

To my great surprise, my Season was a moderate success. I never did learn the art of
witty repartee, but was able to flirt well enough to get by. By mid-Season, I could claim several
gentlemen who were courting me, although none had yet come to the sticking point. The trouble
was, I wanted none of them. Mr. Sutherland had become my ideal, and I had met no one who
came even close to his perfection.

Lord Palmersett, the least objectionable of my court, invited me to the exhibit at the
Royal Academy. Ordinarily I would have begged off, but not this time. I was curious as to
whether Mr. Sutherland would be showing any of his portraits. Mother had grumbled last week
about his not requesting permission to display mine. "Not that I would give it, of course. A lady's
portrait is never displayed in public exhibition."

The gallery was crowded. We inched our way along. Lacking my escort's inches, I
seldom could see the paintings hung high on the walls. I was beginning to fret that I had missed
Mr. Sutherland's work when we encountered a solid clot of people, all staring at a painting hung
just at head high.

At first all I could see was the swath of brilliant blue, the bold splash of reds and
oranges. As I craned my neck to get a better view, I heard the viewers' comments in disjointed
fragments.

"Outrageous."

"Scandalous."

"Daring."

"Shameless."

Lord Palmersett, tall enough to get a clear view, tried to pull me along. "Miss Wayland,
let us move on. This is not suitable for your eyes."

But I had seen just enough. "Wait." I let go of his arm and forced my way through the
crowd. When I reached the front and stood only three feet from the painting, I halted.
Stared.

And almost laughed aloud.

The small card in the corner of the painting labeled it
Sleeping Innocence, oil on
canvas, by Kermit Sutherland
.

The young woman on the ultramarine velvet couch lay perfectly relaxed. Her bare feet
emerged from a gown of many reds, sleek and clinging. One hand dangled, fingers brushing the
floor, the other lay limply over the lower curved end of the couch. Long hair, of a magical color
somewhere between chestnut and sorrel, cascaded in riotous waves and curls across the velvet
and over the end of the couch. In the shadowy vee of her gown's neckline, was a hint of a softly
rounded breast. Turgid nipples peaked the delicate fabric of her gown. Her woman's mound was
clearly defined below the gentle curve of her belly.

I saw all this before I looked at her face, in dreadful anticipation. I need not have
worried. She was not me, yet she was. Rather she was all women, pure and wanton, virgin and
whore. Her features seemed, at first glance, relaxed in sleep. But as one looked again, one saw
the secret desire, the sensuous dreams hidden behind her closed eyes.

I do not know how long I stared, but eventually I became aware of an insistent pressure
on my arm. Lord Palmersett was pulling me away, almost dragging me in his determination. I
followed, lacking the will to resist. I obediently followed him along the room, looking at but not
seeing the many other paintings in the exhibit. Eventually we emerged.

"What a crush," Lord Palmersett said. "Had I known it would be so, I would have
suggested some other amusement. My apologies, Miss Wayland."

"Don't apologize. I enjoyed it very much. Perhaps I will return later, when the crowds
have abated. There were many painting I was unable to view."

"I would be delighted to escort you. Perhaps next week?"

I had opened my mouth to agree when I saw him.

He stood in a doorway directly across from the entry to the gallery. A stocky man in a
dark green coat. Craggy faced, clean-shaven, with a sleek mane of deep red-brown hanging
straight and silky below the level of his wide shoulders. His eyes were in shadow, but I knew
they would be green.

I stood, mesmerized, as he stepped out of the doorway and to the edge of the street. He
smiled slightly, lifted a hand to his lips, and blew me a kiss.

He stood there a moment longer and then, with a nod, turned and walked away. Within a
few yards, he disappeared into the gathering fog.

I never saw him again. I never forgot the gift he gave me.

On her way to a career as a writer, Judith B. Glad made a lot of detours--into motherhood,
short-order cooking, accounting, management, graduate school, botanical consulting. Eventually
she decided she had to write those books that had been growing in her head for years--romances
all. She believes every story should have a happy ending, even if it requires two or three hankies
to get there.

After growing up in Idaho--the locale of several of her books--Judith now lives in Portland,
Oregon, where flowers bloom in her yard every month of the year and snow usually stays on the
mountains where it belongs. It's a great place to write, because the rainy season lasts for eight
months--a perfect excuse to stay indoors and tell stories. Judith has four children, all grown,
three granddaughters and a grandson.

Visit Judith's webpage at www.judithbglad.com to learn more about her other books. While
you're there, take some side trips to view early 20th century picture postcards, read about 5,000
ways to earn a living, and see what a
Mentzelia
really is.

* * * *

Uncial Press brings you extraordinary fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Put a world of
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