room from the east window and touched the bowl of golden biscuits on the table. Sitting at her father's left, next to her mother, Sarah looked across the table to see her older sisters Anna and Margaretta smiling in her direction. "You look as pretty as a picture," Anna teased. Margaretta laughed.
Margaretta, five years older than Sarah, was beautiful. Just for today she'd like to be as pretty as Margaretta, if not so timid, and have 27 year-old Anna's talent and skill.
Her father held the bowl of warm biscuits before Sarah. "No thank you, Papa. I'm not hungry today."
"Take one," James said. "You'll need stamina and a steady hand." Sarah obeyed. She broke the biscuit and spooned honey onto one half, but already her mind had wandered to the painting studio. This was the day she was to paint her self-portrait, a tradition in the Peale family that, if successfully done, announced the change in status from student to artist. After today, if her self-portrait proved her skills, she would be a full assistant in her father's studio. Her portrait would hang there to show the world that she was competent. Her father had coached her intensively and impatiently over the past year and she was as ready as could be.
Her father's large easel sat in the space where the light was best, Anna's work table next to it, the miniature ivory she had been working on covered by a shroud of gauze. Margaretta had been painting the drapery in her father's large commissioned portrait. Sarah's table was clear.
The studio was already too warm. The neck of Sarah's crisp white blouse chafed. She ran her finger under the lace edging and wished she hadn't been so anxious to show off her skills in painting lace.
She set her palette and arranged her canvas so she could see her image in the mirror. James checked her palette and warned her about making the flesh tones too rosy. Though she tried to concentrate on what her father was saying, she was impatient and only half listening. Her task couldn't have been clearer. She had simply to paint what she saw in the mirror. However, her father continued to coach her, calling her Sally again as though she were still a child. "Remember what I told you about the line of the mouth—don't let it turn down at the edges. Get the shadows of the mouth right and a likeness will jump out of the canvas at you." He smiled.
"Yes, Papa; I'll remember."
"Now then, Sally, we'll leave you alone with your work. Your mother and sisters and I will drive out to Belfield for the day. I'll bring your Uncle Charles back with me, and together we will judge your painting and decide if you are ready." He eyed her with misgiving.
"Yes, Papa; I'll do my best. And oh yes," she brightened. "I hope cousin Betsy will come back with you. Then she can go to the wed ding with us tomorrow. Tell her the party will be lovely."
"Another damnable party," he said. "You shouldn't be thinking of parties at a time like this; you should concentrate on nothing but the work." James turned his stern blue eyes toward her, the lines in his forehead deepening. He shook his gray head and waved his finger."You'd best pay attention. No thoughts of wedding parties, no sitting out in the shade, no distractions. You'd better work as hard as you can for as long as you can."
"Yes, Papa," Sarah nodded and picked up a piece of charcoal.
"Don't worry," Margaretta whispered. "You'll do fine."
"Keep the shadows from going muddy," Anna added.
Sarah drew the head and shoulders, and blocked in the hair, but was not satisfied. She rubbed the drawing out. Changing her position, she posed before the mirror a dozen ways, settling on a pose with her head tilted toward the right, one side of the face in shadow. Squinting and looking at herself critically, she still wasn't satisfied. Loosening her thick brown hair and letting a few curls spill over her forehead helped. Her blouse was too warm. She took it off and threw a red drape low around her shoulders, giving the line of the neck a sweeping graceful curve. Satisfied at last, she sketched the composition quickly; then brushed in the dark areas.
Excitement grew with each brushstroke. She was eager to prove herself, to show the world, or whoever cared to inquire, that she was a Peale worthy of the name her uncle Charles had made famous—the name her father and cousins Rembrandt and Raphaelle had upheld in the art world of Philadelphia for so many years. She would make her own Peale portrait a wonderful likeness. Papa would be proud.
Her excitement lasted the entire morning and instead of exhausting itself, became even more intense when she came back to it after stopping for a lunch of bread, cheese and lemonade. The portrait didn't look like an eighteen-year-old girl who had seldom been away from Philadelphia. This girl was clever, polished and serene. This was the Sarah only she knew. And even she hadn't seen all the possibilities.
The day grew hotter. Perspiration dampened her face and slid down her neck. She banished thoughts of sitting in the cool grass in the shade. As she carefully painted the shadows around the mouth, her likeness fixed itself onto the canvas—just as her father had said. She paused, tremendously pleased, and with greater confidence high lighted the line of the nose, deepened the shadow in the right eye, put in the speck of light caught by the iris, the shadow under the chin. The hours passed.
She still stood at the easel when she heard carriage wheels and horses' hoofs stopping in front of the house. She put down her palette and peeked out the window just as Uncle Charles stepped out of the carriage. He looked almost fragile in those few seconds before he straightened himself up. At 77, Charles was small and wiry, but not fragile—far from it. His hat covered his balding head from the heat but left the unruly gray fringe to fly freely. James stepped down and stood next to his brother. James was eight years younger than Charles and an inch shorter with a thicker build. His face, though as fine-featured as Charles's, had a stern quality especially when his frown brought out the creases between his eyebrows. Sarah watched her father and uncle come up the walk together, her mother and sisters following. James shuffled forward using a cane while Charles took long purposeful strides. Sarah took a deep breath; they would soon pass judgment on her portrait. She wiped her hands on her apron, glanced at her canvas and waited.
Her father stood before her easel. His mouth opened slightly. He frowned and his expression darkened. "Damn," he muttered to himself. "What's the meaning of this? Why didn't you do it the way I told you?"
Sarah stepped back to look again at the canvas. The face looked serene and wonderful to her. "Whatever's wrong with it?"
"Everything," her father complained, his face reddening. "You're supposed to be painting Sarah Peale, a respectable young woman of good family. But this is a ... a fresh little flirt."
His recrimination stung. She trembled with unreasonable anger, but raised her chin in defiance. "It does not look like a fresh little flirt. It looks like me."
Her mother, until now quietly standing behind them, stepped forward. "Never mind your father. Maybe he hasn't noticed you're not still a child. I think it's well done, dear."
Charles came closer and stood before her portrait, one hand on his hip, the other stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Look again, James," he said. "It's wonderfully like her. Sally may have a bit more imagination than you need in the painting room, but many sitters will appreciate her abilities."
James glanced again at the portrait, his expression still troubled. "You're just not serious enough, Sarah. Painting is a difficult business—not a Sunday picnic."
Disappointment and fatigue overcame Sarah. She cleaned her brushes and went to sit beside the window in the kitchen. Closing her eyes, she tried to wash away her father's harsh criticism. She had thought her work would please him. She didn't dream he would be so disappointed at her best effort. And it was her best.
The
