The Portrait by Judith B. Glad

The Portrait
    Fortesque opened the parlor door. "Mr. Kermit Sutherland," he announced, his tone
indicating that the person about to enter was a bit less than a gentleman, but a trace higher than a
tradesman. He stepped aside.
    Uncertain what to expect, I found the breath catching in my chest as Mr. Sutherland
strode into the parlor. He was quite the most unusual man I had ever seen. Craggy faced,
clean-shaven, with a sleek mane of deep red-brown hanging straight and silky below the level of his
wide shoulders. He paused just inside the door, staring at me.
    I know I colored under his scrutiny. No gentleman would ever stare so openly and so
penetratingly at a lady. Fortesque's instinct had been correct.
    He spoke without looking at Mother. "This is the young woman I am to paint?" The
slight emphasis on the first word held a hint of scorn.
    "This is my daughter, Miss Wayman." A slight lift of Mother's chins signaled me to
stand. I did so, reluctantly, feeling as if his deep-set, dark eyes were seeing right through my
clothing. The heat in my cheeks spread into my body, until I wanted to reach for the fan I had
laid on the small table beside my chair.
    "Step forward."
    "I...I beg your pardon."
    "Step forward girl. I want to see all of you, not just your front."
    "Do as he says, Chastity," Mother commanded. I wondered at her tolerance of the man's
rudeness. She rarely stood for lack of good manners or respect in anyone.
    I stepped to the middle of the room. The sensation of being stripped to nakedness grew
as he slowly circled me.
    "Good posture," he muttered. He tugged at a curl, dislodging half a dozen hairpins.
"Hair's a rotten color, but a little cobalt blue in the mix should liven it up."
    I shivered as his fingers drifted across my nape.
    "Skin's like silk. No, that's too common. Ivory. The finest African ivory. It gleams." He
cupped my chin. "Let's see your teeth."
    I wanted to bite the finger that stroked my lower lip. Instead I clamped my teeth
tight.
    "Your teeth, girl! Or are they rotten and black?"
    I bared them. I am, however, a lady. I did not stick my tongue out at him, tempted
though I was.
    "There! That's what I wanted to see. That sparkle in your eye!" He flicked a finger
against my cheek.
    It stung. I jerked free of his loose clasp and stepped back. "Are you quite finished with
your appraisal, sir?"
    "Chastity!" Mother cried. "Behave--"
    His lip curled and one eyebrow rose. "Never mind, Lady Curran. I like to see a bit of
spirit in my subjects. One becomes tired of working with perfect little dolls." To me he said, "Get
used to having my eyes and hands on you, missy. There's no one in London who can paint you
more beautiful than I. But I can't do it by admiring you from afar."
    Mother and he made the arrangements for my sittings. I did not participate, wanting as
little to do with the man as possible. Revealing my intense dislike of him to Mother would do me
no good. She was convinced that a portrait of me, to be displayed over the fireplace here in the
parlor, would add to my consequence and make me more attractive to would-be suitors.
    Mother and Father were determined to see me wed advantageously, with little regard for
my sentiments toward my future husband. I was resigned to following their dictates. Nineteen
years of living with them had taught me that their vision for my future would prevail.
    The first sitting was on Wednesday, one week after my introduction to Mr. Sutherland.
He arrived early in the morning, followed by a servant loaded down with an assortment of sticks
and boxes. I watched from my bed chamber as they climbed to the third floor where the artist
had approved a large, empty room with a northern exposure, calling it "as good as can be
expected in a residence."
    Mother had not been amused. "I supposed one must put up with a certain artistic
temperament," she said to Father, "when one considers his reputation."
    The room was directly over my bedchamber, and I listened curiously through the