The Portrait (5 page)

I waited...waited...waited, for his kiss.

"Miss Wayman, if you are so desperate for sleep, perhaps you should retire."

Startled, I rolled to my side and stared. Mr. Sutherland was methodically packing his
case. The easel stood empty, and his large portfolio was leaning against the wall near the
door.

"Oh, I am sorry!" Mortification caused a wave of heat to sweep upwards. I knew I was
blushing furiously.

"Never mind. I was finished." He tossed several sticks of charcoal into the case and
closed it. "Next week you will arrive appropriately clothed, remember." His gaze lingered upon
the neckline of my gown.

Again that wave of heat. "I remember." All I had to do was convince Mattie that my
chemise was unnecessary. I wasn't quite sure how I would manage that particular feat.

A few days later Mother returned from some social event or other and immediately
summoned me to her parlor. I had been in the garden, attempting to free neglected roses from a
stranglehold of bindweed, so I wore my oldest muslin, faded and shabby.

"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.