An Artist's Gift

           Catalina hid her trembling hands beneath the embroidered shawl folded neatly on her lap. While the train passed through both the wonders of nature and the 20^th century, she could only glance at the other passengers waiting for their destination before returning her eyes to the seat in front of her. Nothing kept her mind off the lingering fear of what’s to come.

           Beside her sat her dear fiancé Henry, his smile a contrast to her emotions. Catalina changed her manner of distraction by taking in the little details of her beloved’s profile: the soft golden hair atop his head and the whispers of a beard on his chin, the tiny freckles on his cheeks she could only see in the light of morning, his nose slightly crocked from an accident as a child, and dark, warm eyes like a fresh cup of coffee. She loved him, she truly did, but on days like this she questioned his judgement.

           Her raven curls were pinned back tight enough for her scalp to scream out in pain. The silky lavender dress decorated in creamy lace he chose had a collar that fit too tight around her throat. Even the leather boots Henry swore were perfect constrained her toes to the point it was difficult to walk. The shawl she designed and embroidered herself was the only choice in attire he allowed her.

           He wanted the portrait to be magnificent.

           The bell rings over the speakers before announcing their current destination. Not theirs, not yet.

           Henry turned to his bride as if just realizing she was beside him. Catalina forced herself to smile, but the fear in her eyes was palpable.

           “Darling,” he cooed, “there’s nothing to be worried about. This painter is worth his weight in gold, he’ll make you look wonderful.”

           Catalina wasn’t concerned about her appearance, and he knew it.

           “What if the rumors are true? I don’t want to start our new life together analyzing every little detail.”

           Henry patted her shoulder, his smile meant to be reassuring in its warmth.

           “Our married life won’t be ruined by anything in a painting. Besides, who’s to say it wasn’t part of a complex plan?”

           But Catalina wasn’t convinced. According to rumor, this painter has the talent of revealing hidden secrets or offering glimpses into the future in his paintings. Recently a wealthy Lord commissioned a portrait of his mistress under the guise of being a patron of the arts. The painter completed the piece of the woman sitting at the base of a hill surrounded by spring blossoms, hair loose in the wind and a charming smile on her face. Yet something about the painting struck a nerve with the Lord, and he refused to pay the painter for his work. There was no explanation, only conjecture in the rumors spread about the tale. To compensate himself for the loss of funds the painter sold the piece to a popular art gallery. The portrait further spread word about his talent, both his technique, mastery of color, and the hint of something dark that only the Lord knew before he passed away due to unconventional circumstances.

           “I’m still afraid, Henry. If I see something in the painting…”

           “You won’t see anything that isn’t meant to be there. There will be no bloody knife on the ground, no hidden bottle of poison on the table, and no makeshift rope wrapped around your pretty little neck.”

           The bell chimed once again, announcing their destination.

           Their next mode of transportation was a sleek silver car with a chauffeur in a pressed royal blue suit who greets them with confirmation of their identities and nothing more. The drive itself was uneventful and filled with Henry trying to make conversation with the driver. All his attempts were unsuccessful.

           They arrived at a Victorian mansion whose canary yellow paint has faded over the years and is now barely hidden by climbing vines. The pathway’s stones were hard on Catarina’s already pained feet as the driver leads them inside. Edwardian furniture, all without a speck of dust, was minimal in number as if meant to be uninviting. The wallpaper depicted an Eden unspoiled by human hands, its flora and fauna vibrant and unafraid.

           The artist’s studio was where the driver lead the couple before abandoning them, and where the painter was reclining on a chaise lounge elegantly crafted from oak and decorated with velvet as red as blood. His coat was stained in a multitude of paint splatters, his hair an ashy blonde that hadn’t seen water in days, and his feet were bare as they hung over the end of the sofa. His eyes stared at the canvas before him, gray and lifeless like a mannequin’s painted face.

           “Sir?” prompted Henry. Catalina silently contemplated if the painter’s “gifts” caught up to him. While his death would be a tragedy to the art world, she wouldn’t have to sit for the portrait.

           The painter turned his head to pair leisurely, sending her heart sinking to the ground.

           “Oh, the lovely couple has arrived. I hope my driver wasn’t too cold to you. He’s not much of a conversationalist, even with me.”

           The painter rose from his seat, his tall frame towering over Catalina. Henry was the first to shake his hand, then Catalina felt the roughness of his fingers and palms that betrayed years of grueling work.

           “I’ve set up everything before you arrived,” the painter explained as he gestured to the display in front of the canvas. There stood a velvet parlor chair with a polished mahogany table displaying a blue China vase filled with fresh sunflowers beside it. The wallpaper decorating the mansion is hidden by a pine green curtain meant to serve as a backdrop for their portrait.

           “It’s perfect,” declared Henry. “We’ll have Catalina in the chair while I stand beside her, hand resting just beside her shoulder. She’ll look lovely next to the flowers, don’t you think, darling?”

           Catalina nodded in response, hands now behind her back to keep her nervousness hidden. The painter stared at her as if analyzing a piece of marble he was itching to sculpt into his masterpiece. The look sent a chill through her blood even as the painter shifted his attention to the nearby window.

           “We have plenty of lighting from the sun, so let us begin.”

           Catalina took her place in the chair as Henry’s warmth radiated behind her as he assumed his position. The painter gathered the tools of his trade before taking a seat on the little stool in front of the canvas. His brush moved with slow precision as he worked, his eyes darting towards them for only a few seconds before returning to his work. He mixed the paints into strange colors Catalina couldn’t see from her vantage point. These were the only things she forced her mind to focus on instead of the lingering fear whispering terrible things in her ear.

           “Where did the two of you meet?”

           The painter’s question stole her attention away from her distracting thoughts.

           “At a gala,” responded Henry before she could answer. “My aunt was hosting, and she and her family were invited, I was the first to ask her to dance, but it took three times to have her accept. I took every chance to visit her after my duties at the firm, but it’s been worth every moment.”

           The painter returned to his work without another word, as if Henry didn’t speak. Catalina remained silent until the painter offered to take a break. Despite sitting for what might have been hours, after keeping her pose for so long she was relieved to be able to move once again.

With the ring of a bell a pretty young maid entered the studio with a tray of tea and scones freshly baked. She set them on a separate table near the window where the three of them sat to enjoy the treats. Catalina took great pains not to lather the scones in butter or the strawberry jam on the tray and stuff her face with them, instead taking small bites between sips of tea as the gentlemen spoke of topics outside her knowledge.

           “It’s not fair that we’ve been neglecting the lady,” the painter prompted. “Miss Catalina, is there anything you would prefer to talk about? Any places you’ve visited? Stories from your childhood, perhaps?”

           Catalina hung her head, desperate not to speak but ingrained politeness overrode her desires.

           “I used to read fairy tales as a child. I still enjoy stories of that nature, but I haven’t been able to read much while planning for the wedding.”

           “I see, but I do hope it will all be worth it. You two make such a lovely couple.”

           The painting resumes after they finish their tea. The day passed without incident and the pair left the mansion once the painter lost the natural light of day, the driver taking them to their hotel where they shall remain until the portrait’s completion.

           Days pass, each one with a visit to the painter. Slowly Catalina would respond to questions from the painter, questions he promised were for an added emotion for the painting. He wanted to show the humanity of their love, not depict statues without feeling. The fear she felt before began to fade with each sitting, replaced with genuine anticipation for the piece to be completed.

           The portrait was all but finished when the driver brought Catalina to the estate alone. Wrapped in her chestnut coat she approached the door and knocked thrice. The maid is on the other side holding a duster.

           “Mr. Lemarchant is with another patron until tonight, miss, but he did tell me if you ever came alone, you could see the progress.”

           Catalina thanked the girl as she was led to the studio On this day the windows were shielded by curtains with only a sliver of light to illuminate the room.

           “If you’re staying until he comes back, you can wait here. I’ll bring some tea and sandwiches if you’d like.”

           “No, thank you. I won’t be long.”

           Catalina watched as the maid left the room before turning to the object of her visit. The canvas was covered by a white sheet to protect it from the sun, or so she assumed. She opened the curtains wider on one window, letting herself take in the garden she barely noticed whenever she posed for the painting.

           With great reluctance she turned her attention to the covered portrait. Her steps are unsteady as she walks, her hands once more trembling with a fear of uncovered secrets. Standing before the canvas she forced herself to grab the sheet, pulling it down with agonizing slowness until it reached the floor.

The next morning there’s another knock at the mansion door. Henry stands there wringing a handkerchief as the maid greets the new guest.

“I’m sorry sir, but I just received a call from Mr. Lemarchant, and he won’t be back until lunch. There were issues with another patron, and he had to stay the night.”

Henry’s grip on the piece of cloth tightened at her response.

“Did Catalina come here yesterday? She said she would be out to meet a friend at the library, but she hasn’t returned to the hotel.”

The maid shook her head.

“I received a call from her, but since Mr. Lemarchant was away, she declined to visit.”

Henry’s face fell at the news, his fingers releasing the handkerchief. The maid picked it up as Henry returned in silence to the driver and the car. The handkerchief was embroidered like the shawl Catalina wore for her portrait, something the maid remembered as she entered the studio after the other woman left. The portrait itself was lovely, the colors vibrant against the natural light outside. The pair resembled their living counterparts to the point where it would rival a photograph.

Save for the groom in the portrait’s newly grown beard which, the maid noticed with curiosity, was a pale shade of blue.