The Portrait Page 4

  "Good heavens, Chastity, what have you been doing?" was her greeting.

  I attempted to explain, but she interrupted me after only a few words. "The garden is none of your concern. You will cease to grub about in the dirt and you will never again let anyone see you looking so disreputable. What if I had invited one of my special friends for tea?"

  Knowing it to be a rhetorical question, I said nothing, only bowed my head. Mother's circle of friends was not one I wished to join.

  "Lady Gilmartin was speaking this morning of her daughter's portrait. It was her recommendation, you will recall, that led to our engaging Mr. Sutherland to paint you. She says that he completed her Olivia's portrait with only five sittings. Furthermore, he painted her in white muslin, as befits a young girl in her first season." She paused to sip from the teacup on the table beside her. "Well? What have you to say to that?"

  "I...I don't know." Olivia Gilmartin and I had met once. I had not warmed to her, nor she to me. She is a small, delicate girl, with guinea-gold curls and a short, upturned nose. I suppose most young men would find her extremely attractive, and a small part of me envied her prettiness. "Mr. Sutherland seems to be making progress with my portrait." If one could call dozens of sketches progress.

  "Well, I shall have a word with him when he arrives on Tuesday. Your come-out ball is three weeks from tomorrow. The portrait must be finished by then."

  My stomach clenched. I had contrived to forget the ball. "I'm sure it will," I said. "Mr. Sutherland seems very responsible."

  "That is as may be," she said with a sniff, "but I shall have a word with him nonetheless. Now then, let us speak of the preparations for your ball." She spent several minutes outlining my schedule for the next three weeks. The dancing lessons would continue, I would attend several afternoon teas with the daughters of some of her friends, and I must practice my scales.

  "Scales? On the pianoforte?"

  "Of course. The tuner will be here this afternoon. You cannot have played since coming to Town, so you must be in need of practice. I advise you to learn several short pieces. There won't always be music available."

  "Music?"

  "Must you echo everything I say? It is quite the thing for young ladies to entertain with musical selections. Since you cannot sing, you will play."

  "But, Mother--"

  "Enough." She waved me away. "I have much to do. Go and change your dress."

  Instead I returned to the roses. They were poor, straggly bushes, but seemed to stand straighter when released from the twining tendrils. I pruned them carefully and dug well-dried manure in about their roots. Perhaps I would still be in Town to see them bloom.

  I returned the secateurs and the trowel to the ramshackle gardening shed and went inside, after one last, longing look around the garden. I had done what I could.

  Only then did I allow myself to consider Mother's command that I practice my scales. Had she ever listened to me play? Not that I could remember. If she had, she would have known that no amount of practice would render me anything but impossibly untalented where music is concerned.

  Tuesday morning I still had not come upon a way that I might dress without Mattie's assistance. She was just beginning to fasten the forty-six buttons--I had counted them--that closed the bodice in back when a scream and a series of crashes sounded from the stairway. "Go," I said, when she hesitated. The sound of loud sobbing drew her against her will.

  Quickly I pushed the gown off my shoulders and let it puddle around my feet. Removing the loose chemise was easy, although it did tousle my hair. I pulled the gown back up and struggled with the buttons. With a little contortion and some ingenuity, I was able to fasten the lower thirty buttons. The door swung open just as I finished stuffing a linen handkerchief into the décolletage, in a fair imitation of my chemise.

  "Miss Charity! You should have waited for me to come back."

  "Nonsense, Mattie. I'm perfectly capable of buttoning myself. I've been doing it for years." I turned my back and allowed her to fasten the last sixteen. Her fingers were cold against my bare skin. "What happened?"

  "That painter," she said with a snort. "He dropped a box of paints. Scattered them all over the place. One broke and splashed on Lucy. A fair mess, she is. It'll take more than soap and water to get the blue out of her hair."

  Had he somehow sensed that I needed a distraction? No. How could he have?

  "Let's look at you now," Mattie said, turning me to face her. "Hmph! That neckline's still too low."

  I danced back as she reached. "Leave it, Mattie. Mr. Sutherland had me adjust it last week, and I've got it just right."

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  I contrived to look the picture of innocence.

  "Go along with you, then. Mind you leave the door open."

  "I will." My promise meant nothing, for even though I would not close the door, Mr. Sutherland would. And lock it.

  As I ascended the stairs, I could feel my breasts moving against the gown's fabric. It was slick, cool. Very different from my chemise. No matter how fine the linen, it would never compare to silk. By the time I reached the room where Mr. Sutherland waited, my nipples were almost painfully turgid.

  He looked up as I entered. His face, never expressive, went still and closed. His gaze flicked over me, sharp glances here and there that I could almost feel. Something warm bloomed in my lower belly, a sensation not exactly uncomfortable, but...disturbing. "G-g-good morning."

  He did not answer immediately, only gestured me toward the couch. I was seated before he said, "I see you managed to leave off the chemise."

  Heat flooded my face. I know I must have been as brilliantly colored as the gown.

  "Sit."

  By now I should be used to his abrupt manner. There was no reason for tears to suddenly choke me, to flood my eyes. I stumbled to the couch and sank upon it, looking, I am sure, a perfect example of abject misery.

  "Do you remember the pose?"

  I did. I lay back, raised my arm above my head, let the other hand dangle until my fingers brushed the floor. When I bent my knee, I realized that I had forgotten to remove my slippers. I toed them off and kicked them to the floor.

  "Will you be still!"

  I froze.

  A moment's silence, then a muttered curse. "You've mussed your skirt. No. Don't move! I'll fix it."

  He sat on the edge of the couch, so close that I felt the heat of him. Lightly his fingers rearranged my hair, tilted my chin ever so slightly. Did I imagine that they lingered in a delicate caress? Before I could decide, he had stood and was bent over me, rearranging my skirt, draping it across my bent knee and over the edge of the couch. When he straightened, I opened my eyes wide and found myself staring into his.

  I do not know how long we remained captured by each other's gaze. Did he know how desperately I wanted to reach out to him? To ask him to touch me, hold me? Kiss me?

  To ask him to love me, as a man loves a woman?

  My breasts were tender, my female flesh hot and throbbing. I felt moisture collecting between my thighs. Yet I could not move. I could only lie there, pleading with my eyes, wishing he could read my thoughts.

  "Chastity..." His voice was hoarse, a near-whisper. His hand moved, then fell to his side, clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist. "Hold that pose," he said, through set teeth.

  In three strides he was back at his easel where today rested a stretched canvas.

  He did not so much apply paint to canvas as slash it on. His movements were fierce, as if he were attacking an enemy.

  I lay unmoving until my hands were tingling, my neck stiff, and my backside numb. An hour? Closer to two, I think.

  At last he said, "Rest."

  With difficulty, I pushed myself erect and sat upon the edge of the couch. The floor was cool under my bare feet. The odor of turpentine tickled my nostrils. As I rested, he cleaned brushes and scraped unused paint from his palette. "Are we finished for today?" I ventured.

 
; "Yes." His tone was snappish. "For today and for always. The portrait is finished. "

  "But I thought--"

  "Whatever you thought, you were mistaken. I have painted your portrait as commissioned. When it is dried and framed, I will have it delivered to your parents. It's not likely we will meet again, Miss Wayman."

  "But--"

  He ignored me as he crammed palette and paint bladders into his commodious carryall. Once he had the easel folded and strapped into a tidy package, he set them aside. "I will send my man for these," he said.

  He went to the far wall and picked up a large, flat box I had not noticed before. Carefully he fitted the canvas inside, and replaced the lid. Two leather straps held it closed. He picked it up and turned to go.

  "Mr. Sutherland, wait!"

  Without turning, he said, "What is it?"

  All I wanted to say to him tumbled through my mind, a confusion of pleadings, accusations, imprecations. As I stared at his back, seeing the dark red hair curling at his nape, I realized I could speak none of them. "Thank you, Mr. Sutherland. Thank you for all you have taught me."

  His head bowed, as if in acceptance. And then he was gone, striding out of the room as if pursued. I heard the clatter of his feet on the stairs.

  When all was silent, I went to the carryall. Inside was the paint-stained rag he had used to wipe his hands. I pulled it out and crumpled it within my hands. Lifting it to my nose, I breathed deeply.

  It smelled of turpentine and solvent, but under those strong odors, it smelled of him. Holding it against my breast, as I would a precious treasure, I ran down to my room and hid it in the farthest back corner of my wardrobe. Then I stripped off the magical gown and replaced it with my chemise before I slipped an overly-fussy pink muslin dress over my head.

  Mattie came in just then. "I saw him going, and thought you'd be needing some help with that shameless gown. You'll want me to get rid--" She reached for it.

  "No! Leave it. I-I'll take care of it. Just fasten me up, please. I promised Mother I would practice my scales."

  I waited until she was gone before I folded the gown carefully. At the foot of my bed was an old trunk where I kept a few treasures from my childhood. Although Mattie had several times suggested moving it to the box room, I had so far resisted. It had a good, sturdy lock, and only one key. Into that box went the gown and the paint-stained cloth, now crammed inside a small leather pouch. I arranged some puzzles and several half-finished needlework project on top of them, just in case Mattie, or anyone else, decided to pick the lock and snoop.

  I practiced scales for an hour, until Mother happened by. "Merciful heavens, Chastity! Is that the best you can do?"

  I had rather thought my playing had improved, but I merely nodded.

  "I had forgotten what your music teacher told us about your lack of talent. How unfortunate. Gentlemen are often impressed by musical accomplishment. Can you draw?"

  I shook my head.

  "And you've a voice like a frog. Your stitching is slipshod, and I've yet to see you successfully knot a fringe. What can you do?"

  Challenged, I said, "I ride. I garden. I speak three languages, although my Italian is rudimentary."

  "Bah! Gentlemen are not impressed with intellectual abilities. Nor do they choose wives by how well they ride. And gardeners are easily hired." She shook her head. "Well, never mind. You dowry will no doubt make up for your shortcomings."

  I followed her out of the music room, wondering if I dared return to the garden. No, I decided, not today. I had already upset her enough.

  The following Tuesday, Mother called me downstairs just before midday. Leaning against a table was a large, rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper. "Your portrait has been delivered," she surprised me by saying. " I imagine you will want to view it before anyone else."

  Almost reluctantly I attacked the parcel, sliding the string off the corners rather than cutting it. I carefully pulled the paper away, doing my best to avoid looking at the contents until all was revealed.

  The frame was ornate, gold leaf over elaborately carved white wood. The portrait was...a complete surprise.

  The girl who sat crosswise on a straight chair was beautiful. Conventional.

  Me.

  Yes, she was me, but a me I had never seen. Her hair was a magical color somewhere between chestnut and sorrel, her eyes an interesting mixture of green and brown. Her mouth was parted in a half-smile. The gown she wore was a muted bittersweet red, in the latest stare of fashion, high-waisted, puff-sleeved, bell-skirted. Shiny black slippers peeked from under it. Her hair was pulled back, sleek around her head, revealing small, well-shaped ears from the lobes of which dangled sparkling red stones.

  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.

  About the Author