The Portrait Read Free

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.
    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