But I digress. The inspection of my face had shown me nothing I hadn't seen a thousand times before. Perhaps Mr. Sutherland was seeing what he wished to see, rather than what was. He would not be the first person to look at me and see someone else. Nonetheless, for the next week I often caught myself staring into the mirror, hoping to see the promise of a smile or slumberous eyes.
All I saw was an ordinary face.
Mr. Sutherland called the day before our next scheduled sitting and asked to speak to Mother. I only knew because I happened to be crossing the upstairs hall when Fortesque announced him. Although I was curious, I had no opportunity to eavesdrop. Fortesque already had one ear against the door. Stifling both amusement and frustration, I continued on my way, regretting I had not made friends with the starched-up butler.
A few minutes later, I heard raised voices from the parlor, Mother's first, then Mr. Sutherland's. The argument ended with the slam of a door. Quickly I went to the window. Sure enough, Mr. Sutherland soon emerged from our house, his exit punctuated by yet another slammed door.
I remained in my room, wondering what they had argued about and if the confrontation spelled the end of my sittings. Oddly enough, although I had dreaded the whole procedure initially, I knew I would miss the two hours weekly I spent with the temperamental portraitist.
Later that afternoon Mother came to my room, followed by Mattie. "Show me," she commanded, ignoring me, as usual.
Mattie opened the wardrobe and started pulling out gowns and laying them on the bed. All were ones purchased for my Season, and all were, in my opinion, perfectly ghastly. They were white and pink and pale blue, beribboned and beruffled, made for a pretty child with blonde hair, pink cheeks and china-blue eyes.
So far I had received only a few day dresses from the modiste. Several evening gowns were on order, but I was given no opinion in their choice. I knew they would be pale and feminine and perfectly ghastly, too.
My hair is too dark to be called blonde, too reddish to be called brown. My eyes are neither green nor brown, but somewhere in between, and my cheeks are no rosier than my skin, which seems to be tanned lightly by summer sun, even in the dead of winter. I look swarthy in white, sallow in pink, and unwashed in pale blue.
"The pink will have to do. It's not red, but as close as she has."
I stifled a groan. I hated the pink gown most of all. Besides the yellow cast it gave to my skin, it was cut far lower than any of the others, exposing my breasts to a degree I was not comfortable with. I had asked Mattie to insert a fichu, but she had refused, no doubt fearing Mother's reaction. Now I wondered what Mr. Sutherland would think. He wanted to see the real me.
Who was she?
"Is there some special event we will attend?" The Season was barely underway, and I had been forbidden to appear in public until Mother's ball two weeks hence, I could not imagine Mother allowing me to be seen, but perhaps...
I was unsure whether to anticipate or dread.
"No, it's that Sutherland creature. He insists you must wear red or orange" Tapping her chin with one forefinger, she frowned at the pink gown Mattie still held. "I have a scarlet shawl. You may use it, but see that you do not soil it."
I shuddered at the thought of her scarlet shawl with the pink gown, but said nothing. My small experience with Mr. Sutherland told me that he would not accept a substitute. My next--and probably last--sitting would last only as long as it took him to get a good look at me.
Despite the pink gown, I could scarce contain my impatience for Wednesday to dawn. Until Mr. Sutherland's advent, the days of my life were all the same. Dancing lessons on Mondays and Thursday mornings, elocution lessons on Wednesday afternoons, and training in housewifery on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Occasionally I would be commanded to accompany Mother in a visit to a modiste or a milliner, always dressed in drab clothing and a deep poke bonnet. Mother had the notion that I should emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis at my come-out ball, and did her best to make sure that no one of any social importance saw me.
The following morning, Mattie assisted me to dress in the pink gown. It was actually a lovely garment--for someone else. The slip was satin as pale a pink as the throat of a delicate shell, while the overdress was fine lace just a blush darker. Tiny cap sleeves and a miniscule bodice were joined to the skirt with a deep pink velvet ribband that tied in a flat bow just under my breasts, with trailing streamers almost to the scalloped hem. My slippers matched the ribband, as did long gloves extending well above my elbows. Perhaps they were intended to reduce the impression of near-nudity the bodice elicited. In my opinion, they failed dismally.
The scarlet shawl clashed horribly with the pink, but it did cover the vast expanse of flesh above the bodice, as long as I held on to it.
Followed by Mattie, I climbed the stairs to the room serving as Mr. Sutherland's studio. My midriff was host to a whole flock of small, fluttering creatures, for I knew that he would shout at me. I told myself that I would shout right back, letting him know that the pink gown was not of my choosing.
I lied. I was far too much the coward.
His back was to the door as I entered. Mattie went immediately to the chair provided. The high stool I had used before was no longer in the middle of the room. As I stood hesitating just inside the doorway, he turned.
His expression did not change when he saw me, but his body grew very still. After a moment he stepped toward me. I felt as a lamb must when stalked by a wolf.
He halted just inches away, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. My eyes were at the level of his chin.
"I believe I specified a red or orange gown?" His voice was silky, yet held a certain threat.
"I--" The sound came out a whisper. I swallowed. "I have no red or orange gown. Mother said this would serve."
Before I could say more, his hand caught the dangling corner of the shawl and ripped it from me. "Pink!" he roared. "Pink! With your skin! My god, girl, it makes you look half dead. No, worse. You appear completely dead and unburied for a week. Take it off!"
So stunned was I that I said, "Here?" as my hands went to the ribbon bow under my breasts.
The corners of his mouth turned up. "No, darling, not here," he said, in an entirely different tone. His brows drew together as he looked me up and down. "So she dresses you in pink, hmmm? Why am I not surprised? And pale blue as well? White?" At my nod, he went on, "I thought so. All one has to do is look at her parlor and know the woman has no sense of color at all.
"I ought to paint you exactly as I see you today. It would serve her right. But no. 'Twould be unfair to you. You're just one more helpless pawn."
Stepping back, he gestured to Mattie. "You there, bring your mistress the chair. Yes, that's right. The one you're sitting in. Bring it here."
He took the straight wooden chair from Mattie's hands and set it in the approximate place where the stool had been. Pointing, he said, "Give me the shawl!"
I took one step but Mattie had picked it up before I could bend for it. He snatched it from her hands and tossed it across the chair. After a few adjustments in how it draped, he said, "There. Sit."
I sat.
Impersonally he repositioned my arms and legs until he was satisfied. All the while he muttered to himself. "...show the line of thigh...tempting but untouchable...the aching vulnerability of youth...magnificent poitrine...ivory's not the right word either...how to catch that color...incredible mouth...taste like sun-warmed raspberries..."
Something about his voice, his half-heard words, caused a small fluttering of the midriff-creatures.
He posed me sideways on the chair, my left arm resting on its back, my hand dangling. My right arm stretched back to the edge of the seat and supported me. My head was thrown back, my eyes directed at the juncture of wall and ceiling behind his easel. Holding the pose would be a strain. Remembering the silly twit appellation, I resolved to do so until I collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
"Raise your skirt."
&n
bsp; "I beg your pardon." Without thinking I turned my head to stare at him.
"Damn it, girl, I told you not to move."
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?"
&nbs
p; "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.
The Portrait Page 2