The Portrait Read online

  The Portrait

  A Regency Fable

  By

  Judith B. Glad

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2009

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-073-1

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-073-5

  Copyright © 2009 by Judith B. Glad

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2009 by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  The Portrait

  Fortesque opened the parlor door. "Mr. Kermit Sutherland," he announced, his tone indicating that the person about to enter was a bit less than a gentleman, but a trace higher than a tradesman. He stepped aside.

  Uncertain what to expect, I found the breath catching in my chest as Mr. Sutherland strode into the parlor. He was quite the most unusual man I had ever seen. Craggy faced, clean-shaven, with a sleek mane of deep red-brown hanging straight and silky below the level of his wide shoulders. He paused just inside the door, staring at me.

  I know I colored under his scrutiny. No gentleman would ever stare so openly and so penetratingly at a lady. Fortesque's instinct had been correct.

  He spoke without looking at Mother. "This is the young woman I am to paint?" The slight emphasis on the first word held a hint of scorn.

  "This is my daughter, Miss Wayman." A slight lift of Mother's chins signaled me to stand. I did so, reluctantly, feeling as if his deep-set, dark eyes were seeing right through my clothing. The heat in my cheeks spread into my body, until I wanted to reach for the fan I had laid on the small table beside my chair.

  "Step forward."

  "I...I beg your pardon."

  "Step forward girl. I want to see all of you, not just your front."

  "Do as he says, Chastity," Mother commanded. I wondered at her tolerance of the man's rudeness. She rarely stood for lack of good manners or respect in anyone.

  I stepped to the middle of the room. The sensation of being stripped to nakedness grew as he slowly circled me.

  "Good posture," he muttered. He tugged at a curl, dislodging half a dozen hairpins. "Hair's a rotten color, but a little cobalt blue in the mix should liven it up."

  I shivered as his fingers drifted across my nape.

  "Skin's like silk. No, that's too common. Ivory. The finest African ivory. It gleams." He cupped my chin. "Let's see your teeth."

  I wanted to bite the finger that stroked my lower lip. Instead I clamped my teeth tight.

  "Your teeth, girl! Or are they rotten and black?"

  I bared them. I am, however, a lady. I did not stick my tongue out at him, tempted though I was.

  "There! That's what I wanted to see. That sparkle in your eye!" He flicked a finger against my cheek.

  It stung. I jerked free of his loose clasp and stepped back. "Are you quite finished with your appraisal, sir?"

  "Chastity!" Mother cried. "Behave--"

  His lip curled and one eyebrow rose. "Never mind, Lady Curran. I like to see a bit of spirit in my subjects. One becomes tired of working with perfect little dolls." To me he said, "Get used to having my eyes and hands on you, missy. There's no one in London who can paint you more beautiful than I. But I can't do it by admiring you from afar."

  Mother and he made the arrangements for my sittings. I did not participate, wanting as little to do with the man as possible. Revealing my intense dislike of him to Mother would do me no good. She was convinced that a portrait of me, to be displayed over the fireplace here in the parlor, would add to my consequence and make me more attractive to would-be suitors.

  Mother and Father were determined to see me wed advantageously, with little regard for my sentiments toward my future husband. I was resigned to following their dictates. Nineteen years of living with them had taught me that their vision for my future would prevail.

  The first sitting was on Wednesday, one week after my introduction to Mr. Sutherland. He arrived early in the morning, followed by a servant loaded down with an assortment of sticks and boxes. I watched from my bed chamber as they climbed to the third floor where the artist had approved a large, empty room with a northern exposure, calling it "as good as can be expected in a residence."

  Mother had not been amused. "I supposed one must put up with a certain artistic temperament," she said to Father, "when one considers his reputation."

  The room was directly over my bedchamber, and I listened curiously through the next half-hour to the considerable thumping and bumping that occurred. Eventually the servant descended the stairs. There was not a sound from overhead for several moments, then I heard footsteps crossing the room and descending the stairs. I remained inside my bedchamber, curled on the window seat, book in hand. To this day I cannot remember what I was reading...if I was reading.

  Shortly thereafter Mattie, the maid who usually brought my morning chocolate, tapped lightly at my door. "Miss? Miss, you're wanted upstairs."

  We ascended, I not entirely without trepidation. The man unsettled me in a way no one had. There was no pleasure in my anticipation of the next few weeks. Ever since I had arrived in London, just ten days ago, I had been dreading the entire adventure. Other girls might, as Mother had often told me, look forward to their Season with delight and eagerness. I, who had never been more than five miles from Father's principal seat, dreaded the entire process. I would far rather stay in the country, would prefer to remain unmarried, for I did not deal well with others, having been a solitary child without playmates. Only a nurse until I was five, then a series of governesses, most of them pleasant enough but lacking warmth.

  The draperies had been stripped from the tall dormer windows and the bright winter light streamed through, turning the polished oaken floor to a pond of molten gold, reflecting from the white walls until one's eyes were dazzled. I paused at the doorway, squinting.

  "Don't dawdle, girl. Come here! And you--" He glowered at Mattie. "Go away. I don't paint in public."

  Mattie hesitated. "My maid will remain," I said. "Surely my mother made that clear."

  "Are you afraid I'll ravish you?" His voice was no longer harsh, but was a seductive purr, one that sent small shivers down my spine.

  After our first encounter, I had resolved not to let him gain the upper hand again. I lifted my chin in perfect imitation of Mother and said, "Not at all sir. However, there are certain proprieties to be observed, and I am careful to do so."

  "Huh! Silly twit." He turned his back and fiddled with objects on the tall table beside his easel. After a moment, he looked at me over his shoulder. "Well? Why aren't you sitting? There. On that stool."

  For the first time I saw the tall stool sitting alone in the middle of the room. Surely he would not paint me without background, simply perched there like a child on a fence. I opened my mouth to protest.

  "Sit, sit!" His pointing finger commanded me. I decided to save my arguments for a more important issue. I sat, exposing a considerable length of ankle while doing so.

  His eyes gleamed.

  I felt heat rise in my cheeks.

  "Look at me."

  Reluctantly I turned my face toward his, letting my gaze rest upon his chin. It was square and firm, the chin
of a man who gave little quarter.

  He began to sketch, his hand moving quickly across the wide sheet. The soft rasp of charcoal against paper was the only sound. After an interminable time, he said, "Raise your head. I want to see your eyes." Without looking at me, he tore the sheet of paper from the large tablet and sailed it across the room. It came to rest against the far wall, just out of my sight.

  I turned to look.

  "Damn it girl! Look at me."

  I jerked my chin higher and glared at him. It was a mistake.

  His eyes blazed hot green fire, compelling, mesmerizing. I could not look away, could not even blink. Within me a small core of warmth bloomed, just enough to make me wonder if there were not something after all to the fairy tales of love and passion in the half-dozen romantic novels left to me by the only governess I had found a kindred spirit.

  She lasted five weeks before Mother discharged her as too frivolous.

  In the several years since then, I had decided the stories were the imaginings of demented minds. Men simply did not behave with such silliness. Imagine a man believing he had to woo and win a maid with candy and flowers. Why should he go to such effort when all he had to do was buy her from her parents?

  His gaze held mine. The warmth flared into heat, suffusing my entire body, until I felt a faint sheen of perspiration upon my upper lip and between my breasts.

  "Don't move! No, don't close your mouth either." His hand swept over the paper, moving with the speed of a darting hummingbird. As he worked, he muttered to himself. I heard only the occasional word. They made little sense. At least he no longer held me captive with his gaze.

  "Enticing...that little curve...there, now to...slight slant...no! Innocent seduction..." After a interminable time, he looked at me again. "Stick out your tongue."

  "I beg your pardon!"

  "Don't poker up that way. Keep your chin up. That outraged expression is perfect, but I want you to part your lips even more. Just enough to show your tongue in the corner. No, not that far out. Just the tip of it, as if in invitation... Yes! That's perfect."

  He resumed sketching. After a moment he tore off that sheet and let it fly to join the first. His hand, holding the charcoal stick, scarcely paused. "Unconscious...unawakened...capture that innocence...the potential of great...aha! Got it!" He tossed the charcoal stick onto the table. "Rest now," he told me as he stepped back. "Get down, move around. Swing your arms."

  Of course I did no such thing. I slipped from the stool and walked over to the windows where I stood looking down in to the small garden at the back of our house.

  "Are you as innocent as you appear, I wonder?"

  I started, not having heard him approach. His breath was warm on my nape. I could feel the heat of his body just behind me--not touching, but so close that he might as well have been. I fought the urge to lean into his warmth, to relax against him. How I hungered for the gentle touch of a hand, for the comfort of another body against mine.

  His hands cupped my shoulders lightly, not really clasping. Barely turning my head, I looked down to the left. His fingers were long, his nails cut square. Black charcoal marked thumb and forefinger, as if he'd used the tips to smudge the lines he had drawn.

  "Come," he said in a near-whisper. "You must move. You've been sitting still too long."

  His hands slid lightly down to grasp my wrists and he lifted them upwards, until my arms were stretched out at shoulder height. "Stretch," he said, and I felt the curls over my ears flutter.

  "Bend." One arm went around my waist and the other hand pushed between my shoulder blades. My spine stretched as he bent me forward.

  For an instant my bottom brushed his body.

  I leapt forward, colliding with the wall. "How dare you!" I gasped as I turned to face him.

  His mobile lips were spread in a wide grin. "I got you moving, didn't I? No, don't stop. Walk the perimeter of this room, twice. Swing your arms as you do."

  I obeyed, but it did not satisfy him. "Swing, girl! You mince like a puppet on a too-short string. Big steps. Wide swings. Lift your chin. One. Two. One. Two."

  I marched as commanded.

  On the second circuit of the large room I realized that I felt better than I had since coming to London. Used to daily tramps, I had initially champed at the restrictions that kept me in the house, unless I traveled with Mother to a modiste's shop, always in a carriage. I was drawing deep breaths, and my shoulders felt loose and relaxed. Not waiting for his command, I began a third circuit.

  "Enough. You may halt now." He pointed me back to the stool. "Face the window this time. A little more. So." He walked all around me. "Hmmm. Lay one finger across your lips. No. as if you were shushing someone. Yes, like that. Now don't move."

  Back to his easel, and again the scritch-scritch of charcoal on paper was the only sound in the room.

  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.