The Portrait Read Online Free PDF Page A

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,