The Portrait

by Judith B. Glad

  How I knew that, I am not sure, even to this day. Rude, sharp-spoken, and entirely self-absorbed, he had little patience with or tolerance for ordinary human beings. Yet I felt safe in his company.

  Safe? No that was not the right word. In Mr. Sutherland's company, I was someone else, someone beautiful, exciting, interesting. Not a dull, shy almost-woman with odd-colored hair and no conversation.

  "Hurry, Miss Chastity. Your mother says you're to go upstairs as soon as can be. He's waiting."

  Did I imagine a delicious shudder in the way she spoke he? From Mattie, the terror of my life?

  Surely not.

  The deep slit in the collar of the gown did, as I had suspected, dip between my breasts and below. My chemise, sturdy linen, showed through the lower handsbreadth of the opening, a glaring sliver of ivory inconsistence. Mattie tsked and tugged and finally gave up with a shake of her head. "It'll have to do, Miss Chastity. I can't imagine what the man was thinking, ordering you to wear a dress so immodest."

  I can, I said to myself. I know what he was thinking.

  But did I? Seduction was scarcely more than a word to me, a word promising a dreadful fate, a destroyed future. Yet I really had only a glimmering of what it involved.

  My hair is difficult. It is determinedly straight, slick, and stubborn. Despairing of Mattie's efforts to do more with it than fashion a chignon at my nape, Mother had engaged a hairdresser last week, commanding him to cut it into the short crop that was so fashionable for young ladies in their first Season. He was a mincing fop, I thought, with his lavender inexpressibles and his cerise waistcoat. He had, however, won my lifelong gratitude when he refused to do more than trim the ends of my long mop. "Mademoiselle's hair will refuse to do the curl," he'd informed Mother. "C'est impossible, this hair." He lifted a strand and let it fall onto my shoulder. "Such body! Such texture. And the color! Incroyable! Never have I seen so many shades together, like a wig assembled from several heads."

  "Her hair is brown," Mother said, with a sniff.

  "But of course." He stepped back. "En masse the hair is brown, but when one looks closely, there are strands of glittering gold, of rich titian, of deepest ebony, and of purest silver--"

  "There are no white hairs on my daughter's head!"

  "No, no, madame. That is not what I meant to say at all." Once again his fingers sifted through my hair, as I sat, still terrified that he would be commanded to cut it despite his objections. "It is only that I waxed poetic." His hands began lifting and twisting my hair. "Rather than cut this so impossible hair, let us see what we may do to make it more...more proper." He fussed for several moments, while I did my best to sit still. With each snip of his scissors, I cringed. When he set them down finally, I breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he could not have removed much in so short a time.

  At last he stepped back. "Voila! I have achieved a masterpiece."

  Mother walked all around the chair on which I sat. Twice. "I must admit, Monsieur LeGrande, that you have made her look like a woman grown rather than a scruffy child. Now you must teach her maid how to reproduce this style."

  M. LeGrande and Mattie let down my hair and put it up again perhaps a dozen times that morning. My scalp was sore before they were done, for Mattie had not the gentle touch that the hairdresser did. At last he admitted his satisfaction with her efforts. "I'll need to practice more, my lady," she told Mother after his departure. "Her hair's that slick, it's not easy to get the pins in where they'll hold."

  I could have told her that. There was a good reason why I usually wore it in a simple plait at my back.

  Only when they left me alone in my bedchamber was I able to see the results of M. LeGrande's efforts. My mirror was cloudy and discolored with age. Perhaps that's why I didn't at first recognize the woman it reflected.

  I was used to seeing my hair pulled back from my face. Now short tendrils softened the high expanse of my forehead and tangled with my thick eyebrows. More wisps drifted in front of my ears. The rest of my hair was caught high in a complicated arrangement of braids, almost a crown. The style gave me height and a certain regal veneer, while the wisps and tendrils softened the rather severe lines of my face. Fascinated, I dug into the top drawer of my bureau for the gold-framed hand mirror that had been my great-grandmother's. Although even more clouded than the one on the wall, the small mirror showed me my profile. I stared for a long time, wondering how my nose could have shrunk since this morning.

  What would Mr. Sutherland say? He had, like M. LeGrande, called my hair impossible, my nose a challenge, my mouth--well, my mouth had not changed, at least. It was still too wide, too full.

  The clock in the lower hall was chiming eleven as I ascended the stairs. My stomach was churning, my hands were icy, and a headache lay in wait for the best moment to attack. In spite of my apprehension, a small part of me enjoyed the swirl and swish of silken folds about my legs, the cool sliding of silk along my arms, the soft sensation of silk against bare skin. What if I wore no chemise? Would the silk tease my... Oh, no, I must not think such thoughts. Surely they were wicked.

  Even as I denied my curiosity, I felt my breasts tighten, as they sometimes did when I stepped into the cold. But the stairway was not cold, nor was I.

  I was terrified.

  He was standing in the middle of the large, almost empty room when I entered. His eyes narrowed, his mouth settled into a grim line. After an eternity, he said, "What have you done to your hair?" His voice was low, vibrant, dangerous.

  "I...Mother...it's just the front," I faltered. "Just around my face."

  He strode toward me, circled me slowly. "Fools," he muttered. "Blind idiots." He stopped before me, caught my jaw in the vise of his fingers and turned my head this way and that. "At least they had the sense to leave the back long."

  "The hairdresser...he said...Mother tried to insist, but he..."

  "A man of rare sense. Let it down."

  "What?" I blurted, then remembered my training. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Take the pins out. Let your hair down." He turned away, then spun back. "Wait! What is that?" His pointing finger nearly touched my chemise where it peeked from the open neckline.

  "My...my chemise."

  "Good God, what were you thinking? I send you a gown most women would kill to possess and you betray it with your petty, bourgeois modesty. Take it off!"

  "I will not." I am certain he heard the hesitation, the uncertainty in my tone. This gown was meant to be worn against a woman's skin. I do not know how I was so certain of that fact, but there was no doubt in my mind.

  "You will. If you want your portrait done, you will remove that...that abomination."

  I took my courage in both hands. "Mr. Sutherland, if I promise to leave off the chemise next time, can you not go ahead today?" I was so afraid that any further delay would strengthen Mother's will to discharge him. Despite my mixed emotions about the man, I had come to believe that he saw more to me than anyone else in the world was capable of seeing. I desperately wanted to see myself through his eyes.

  He glared and muttered and fiddled with his brushes. Eventually he said, "Oh, very well. Go sit. I've a bit of preparation to do before we begin."

  Ever since I had entered the large room, I'd been surreptitiously eyeing the settee that sat in the slanting sunrays. It was exactly like one I'd seen drawn in a catalogue Mother had left lying about in the parlor. Backless, it had scrolled ends, one higher than the other, inviting one to recline against it. The covering was velvet, in a deep, rich shade I thought might be ultramarine, tufted with glinting silvery buttons that matched the toenails on the crocodile feet.

  I hesitated, feeling entirely unworthy to rest upon such an elegant couch. Instead I seated myself on the same stool I had occupied before.

  "Your mother has no idea what a treasure she has in you. Did you know that?"

  His words took me by surprise, for I had been intent on watching his hands as they squeezed paint from bladders and set brushes int
o a tall jar. Although his fingers were not artistically long, they moved with a certain grace, one that gave the feeling of restrained strength. They lingered on each item he touched, as if he enjoyed the tactile sensation. I imagined his fingers touching me that same way, my face, my hands. Remembered the feel of his hands on my shoulders the first day, and realized that they had lingered there that same voluptuous way. A shiver made its way down my spine.

  "What are you thinking of?"

  I could feel my face bloom with heat. "N-n-nothing."

  "A man, no doubt. Good. I want that expression. Go to the couch."

  I found myself wondering if anyone ever simply sat in any of his portraits. Once I was seated, he proceeded to rearrange my limbs as if I were a doll. First he had me half-recline, with one elbow on the higher scroll and my legs lying stretched the length of the seat. After a few moments in which he sketched rapidly, he threw down the charcoal. "No, Damn it. You look a cliché. Sit up."

  I sat.

  "Tuck one foot under you. Yes, like that. Now, lean on the other arm." He cocked his head and regarded me. Long fingers stroked his chin.

  I shivered again, wondering...

  "No, that's still not right. Lie down, with your feet on the high end. Yes, that way. Now turn your head."

  My skirt slid toward my knees. Without thinking, I leaned forward and pushed it to cover my ankles.

  "For God's sake, woman, forget your maidenly modesty. This is Art!"

  "This could also be my reputation, sir. I will not stretch the bounds of modesty beyond what is proper." Although I had shown some ankle last week, I was sure that having my feet in the air and my skirt rucked halfway to my knees went beyond what would be acceptable to even the most liberal art critic.

  "Ha!" The scritch of charcoal punctuated his exclamation. For several minutes he sketched in silence. I let my thoughts wander, building in my mind an imaginary encounter with Mr. Sutherland, somewhere far from this room.

  A ballroom, perhaps. A masquerade. I would be wearing this gown, without a chemise. My domino would be black satin, lined with the palest gold, perhaps with a feather trim at the hem. My slippers--

  "Lie down, on y our belly this time. No, the other way, with your arms across the foot."

  I turned and scooted until I was lying prone on the settee, my upper body more or less draped over the foot. Although my back was, of necessity, somewhat arched, I found the position no more uncomfortable than the one I had assumed on the chair last week.

  Mr. Sutherland stared at me for a moment, chewing his lower lip. "No," he said again. "It won't do. Your shape is hidden."

  I thought that might be for the best, but said nothing.

  "Turn over. Tuck your shoulders up against the foot. Yes...a little more. Let your hand drop over the edge. Relax!"

  Tossing his charcoal onto the table beside his easel, he strode to me. His fingers fastened on my chin and turned it so my face was three-quarters facing him. Before he released me, he stroked one finger across my lips.

  I didn't try to catch it. I was tempted.

  He went to one knee beside me and reached across to catch my opposite wrist. "Let's put this here--" He made several small alterations in the position of my hand above my ear before he was satisfied.

  Was it possible to feel sensation with each strand of one's hair? Or did I imagine the heat from his hand as it passed lightly over my crown?

  "And this one can trail, thus."

  My fingertips grazed the floor. The position was quite comfortable. "I'll fall asleep," I told him, before I could stop myself.

  "As long as you do not move. Now, your hair." His fingers plucked the pins from my braids. They fell free of their own weight. My hair, never obedient, started to unravel, and he helped it with his fingers.

  "Impossible hair," he said, his voice gruff. "No color, yet all colors. How will I ever capture the color?"

  "My grandmother's was the same," I said, without thinking.

  "And men wrote poems to it. How I wish..."

  One last hairpin plinked onto the floor. "I saw the study Gainsborough did of her. You have a bit of her about your face. The same chin, determined and inclined to a certain tilt." He touched my chin, moved it slightly to the side. "There. Don't even breathe."

  Rising, he went to his easel and picked up the charcoal. A pause, while he stared at me, eyes narrowed. "Still not right. How...?"

  I stared back, afraid to move, to speak.

  After a long moment, while he simply stared at me intently, he came to me again. This time it was my ankle his strong fingers encircled. I was so startled that I let him move my leg as he wished. He placed the foot flat on the settee, close to my other knee, before smoothing the skirt to cover it. Smiling into my eyes, he said, "Don't fret. You are completely covered, to the toes." A hesitation, then he smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Toes! Of course!"

  He removed my slipper and was tugging at my stocking before I could react.

  "Wait!" I screeched.

  "Oh, calm down. I am not about to ravish you. Remove your stockings. I want to see naked toes."

  "Turn your back."

  "As if I haven't seen a woman's legs before." But he obeyed, tapping his foot impatiently as I removed the other shoe and both stockings.

  You haven't seen mine, I wanted to say, but refrained.

  Once again he posed me, like a jointed doll. He arranged my skirts to drape over the edge of the settee, tugged and pulled at my hair until it cascaded over the scrolled end and puddled on the polished floor. Everywhere he touched me--impersonal touches, but always with that lingering, menace to virtue--everywhere his fingers stroked, I felt marked, branded.

  After all that, the next hour was anticlimactic. I reclined on the couch, half-dozing. He sketched.

  At first he used the charcoal, but after a few minutes he picked up a brush. Fascinated I watched it dart across the paper, sometimes in long strokes, sometimes in a series of quick dabs.

  "I thought artists painted on canvas," I said.

  "I'm not painting. I'm sketching." His tone was distracted, as if half his mind was elsewhere. More strokes, more dabs, until, with a curse, he tore the sheet of paper from the easel and threw it onto the floor. "Don't move," he commanded, as I started to sit upright.

  For two endless hours I lay there while he filled sheet after large sheet of heavy paper with paint and charcoal. Twice he allowed me to stand and move about for a few minutes. The second time I asked him again if I could see what he had been sketching. To my great surprise, he acquiesced.

  The first sheet I picked up was my hand. Nothing more. Just my dangling hand, fingers relaxed, the tips lying lightly on the polished floor. Another was my foot, each toe lovingly delineated, rosy and delicate. As I leafed through the sheets, I found myself growing warm, as if I were standing too close to a fire. There was something about the drawings...something that spoke to me on a level below--beyond?--thought.

  One of the sketches showed my body, from shoulder to hip. Yet it was not my body, for there was something different, something... I shivered. The drawing in my hand shook, blurring in my vision.

  Perhaps it was the blurring, or perhaps it was the film of tears in my eyes. The body on the paper took on shape, depth. Seemed to breathe. And in that moment I wanted to touch, to stroke, to cup and hold the soft breasts, the deep curve of waist, the sumptuous contour of hip. My hands tingled and for one timeless instant, there was a ghostly sensation of touching, of holding, of caressing.

  The drawing fell from my fingers. I swayed, might have fallen to the floor but for the strong arm encircling my waist. I was held against a hard body, was warmed by its heat. A gentle hand stroked my hair, pulled my face into the folds of an often-washed cravat. I smelled his scent, a combination of snuff, sweat, and the strong solvent he used to clean his brushes. His heart beat was a steady, strong vibration within his chest. I imagined I could feel my own heart taking on its rhythm, as if we were in perfect tun
e.

  Even as the thought was born, I felt him stiffen. The arms that held me straightened slightly, pushing me away. Although he took no step, he somehow moved back, away from me. "Please resume your pose." His tone was neutral, lacking all warmth.

  Stepping over the scattered sketches, I returned to the couch, my knees still weak. As I sank on it, I looked to him. But he had turned his back and was attacking his palette with a short knife.

  "Turn your head," he said, over his shoulder. "I want to see your profile."

  I obeyed, staring up at the ceiling. It was water-stained, the dark blotches like angry clouds against a creamy sky. Deliberately I forced myself to seek patterns and pictures in the blotches. Anything to banish all memory of the strength of his arms, the scent of his body, the comforting throb of his heart.

  He had returned to charcoal, The scritch-scritch of it lulled me, relaxed me, until I drifted, half asleep. When I opened my eyes, he was there, on one knee beside the blue velvet couch. His gaze was gentle, rather than austere. His smile invited mine. When he cupped a rough palm around my chin, stroked a hard thumb across my cheek, I leaned into the caress. My eyes closed again as his face drew close. My lips parted upon a sigh as his breath lightly touched them. "Chastity," he breathed. "Sweet, innocent Chastity."

  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.