Portrait of a Love

Isabel MacCarthy turned off Interstate 95 to Route 26, the road that would take her into Charleston, and as her rented station wagon hummed along, she looked forward with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension to the job ahead of her. Commissioned to paint the portrait of South Carolina Senator Leo Sinclair, Isabel had received her first commission, a big break for her, and she was nervous.

She was tremendously fortunate to have gotten this chance. Gabe Bellington, the
Times
art critic, had recommended her to Mrs. Sinclair, the senator’s mother, and Isabel had been hired on the strength of that recommendation. Hired at a fee that had made her blink, Isabel had only just begun to make a name for herself in the art world, and was not yet accustomed to commanding decent, let alone princely, sums of money.

This commissioned portrait was a big chance for more reasons than the money, however. Leo Sinclair was probably one of the most-well-connected men in the United States. He was a figure in the worlds of society, sports, and politics. If he was pleased with her work, this portrait could be Isabel’s entree into the buying circles of the wealthy. Or so Isabel was devoutly hoping as she drove east on this lovely March afternoon.

Having read up on Charleston in the New York Public Library before she left, Isabel was delighted and charmed to see that the books had not exaggerated the city’s beauty. New York had been damp, raw, and windy, but here the sun was bright, the air pleasantly cool, and the gardens were aflame with flowers. Marvelous houses with airy galleries Charlestonians call piazzas were grafted onto genuine Georgian and Federal style residences.

The Sinclair house proved to be larger than many of the surrounding homes. It was set back from the street behind a wrought-iron fence and the piazza
ran across the front of the house rather than down the side. Isabel parked her car and got out, stretching muscles that felt decidedly cramped after an all-day drive. She glanced down at her slacks and thought she looked distinctly out of place in the middle of this charming eighteenth-century street. She was wearing tan corduroy pants and a burgundy crew-neck sweater. Isabel was partial to reds and burgundies because she thought they were a good foil for her black hair and olive-toned skin. Reaching into the car for her purse, she closed the station-wagon door and started purposefully up the path toward the entrance of the Sinclair house. Whenever Isabel was nervous, the expression on her face was aloof and rather severe, and today was not an exception. She lifted the door knocker and waited.

A distinguished-looking black man opened the door.

“Hello,” said Isabel coolly. “I’m Isabel MacCarthy. I believe I’m expected.”

The man opened the door wider in welcome. “Come in, Miss MacCarthy. I’ll tell Mrs. Sinclair you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Isabel replied gravely, and stepped into a center hall that was right out of the eighteenth century.

“This way,” the man said as he led her into a drawing room of Georgian perfection. Isabel was looking at the tiles on the fireplace when she heard someone enter the room from behind her.

“Those are Sadler tiles,” a soft Southern voice said. “How do you do, Miss MacCarthy. I’m Charlotte Sinclair.”

Isabel turned and saw a thin, white-haired woman dressed in a simple dark-blue dress. She was smiling and holding out her hand, and Isabel’s face softened slightly as she took the slender, blue-veined hand into her own firm, competent grip.

“How do you do, Mrs. Sinclair. This is a very beautiful room.”

The older woman’s skin was so fine and fair that it almost looked translucent. Her bones were still beautiful and she must, Isabel thought, have been absolutely smashing when she was young. Mrs. Sinclair was of medium height and held herself erectly. She smiled serenely up at Isabel, who was a few inches taller, and said, “You must be tired after such a long drive. Come upstairs to the family sitting room and I’ll give you some tea.”

“I left my things in the car,” Isabel began.

“Simon will get them and put them in your bedroom.” Mrs. Sinclair started to walk toward the door but suddenly halted. “Would you
like
tea?” she asked. “We can have coffee if you would prefer it.”

“Tea will be fine,” Isabel said, and followed her hostess back over the huge Oriental rug, which she judged to be authentic and priceless, and into the hall.

They went up the stairs, through an arched door in the second-floor hallway into one of the most beautiful rooms Isabel had ever seen. Completely paneled in natural cypress, the room was mellow and warmly glowing in the late-afternoon light. The woodwork was magnificent, with carved pilasters, fretwork, and decorated moldings done in darker pieces of mahogany.

The room, stunning as it undoubtedly was, did not look like a museum. The chairs and sofa were contemporary and comfortably upholstered in a slightly faded chintz. The small tables held lamps, an assortment of priceless china, books, and magazines. It was obviously a room that was lived in.

Mrs. Sinclair gestured Isabel to the sofa, which was placed at a right angle to the fireplace. Isabel sat down and kept her back very straight, determined not to be intimidated by the beauty and wealth that surrounded her. Tea was brought in by a middle-aged black woman. The service, Isabel noticed as her hostess poured, was silver and antique—probably Georgian.

“Lemon?” asked Mrs. Sinclair. “Sugar?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Isabel accepted her cup and sipped. The tea tasted very good.

“You
are
a tea drinker,” Mrs. Sinclair said approvingly.

Isabel looked at her and met a pair of smiling blue eyes. She felt herself relax a little.

“I’m Irish,” she said. “I was brought up on tea.”

“You don’t look at all Irish,” Mrs. Sinclair said. She put down her teacup. “Now, doesn’t that sound narrow-minded? Do forgive me, my dear. I really didn’t expect you to have red hair and freckles.”

For the first time Isabel smiled. “I’m what they call the black Irish,” she said. “It comes from all those Spanish sailors who were shipwrecked on the Irish coast during the Armada. My mother’s family was from Kerry—she looked even more Spanish than I do.”

Mrs. Sinclair chuckled, a charming sound that somehow put Isabel even more at her ease. “You look very lovely, my dear. And very young. I must confess I had not expected you to be so young.”

“I’m twenty-six,” said Isabel coolly.

Mrs. Sinclair gave her an amused glance. “Well, of course, that probably sounds quite old to you,” she murmured tactfully.

Isabel suddenly grinned. “It sounds quite ancient, actually. But you’re right, Mrs. Sinclair, I
am
young. I thought you had understood that from Mr. Bellington.”

“What I understood from Gabe, my dear, was that you are extraordinarily talented.”

Isabel had never been any good at accepting compliments. “I hope you won’t be disappointed,” she said a little gruffly.

Mrs. Sinclair turned to look at her. “Let me tell you about my conversation with Gabe. I called him to say I had persuaded Leo to have his portrait painted and that I was looking for a painter who was a realist yet also an artist. I don’t have anything in this house that isn’t quality, and if I wanted just a likeness of Leo, I’d have his picture taken. I don’t need a society portrait, but I want a portrait that looks like him. I don’t want him ending up with an eggplant for a nose.” Mrs. Sinclair was not smiling now. “Gabe suggested you almost immediately. He had seen a show of yours recently and was very impressed.”

“Yes. It was my first show, actually. Mr. Bellington was very kind.” Isabel was serious as well. “I did abstracts while I was in art school, Mrs. Sinclair, but I have always been drawn to realism. And I like doing portraits; I had two of them in my show, in fact. I think I can do something that will please Senator Sinclair.”

Mrs. Sinclair made a rueful face. “Senator Sinclair, I regret to tell you, is completely uninterested in having his portrait done. He is only doing this to please his poor doddering old mother.”

“Oh,” said Isabel, a little disconcerted by this news. She had been expecting a willing subject.

“Do you see that picture?” Mrs. Sinclair said, gesturing to the portrait over the mantel.

“Yes.” Isabel looked at the distinguished and aristocratic face of an elderly gentleman in eighteenth-century clothes.

“That is James Sinclair, Leo’s great-great-great-grandfather. He was an officer in George Washington’s command and the man who built this house.”

“I see,” said Isabel softly.

“This house is filled with such portraits, Miss MacCarthy. The Sinclairs built this house and have lived in it ever since the end of the eighteenth century. Leo is not unique in this family; he is only the latest in a long line who have faithfully served their state and their country over two centuries. I want a portrait of him to hang on my walls.”

“I understand.”

Mrs. Sinclair gave Isabel a smile of great beauty. “And of course, he is my beloved son and I dote on him—but don’t tell him that, will you?”

* * * *

Over dinner that evening Isabel met the other members of the Sinclair household. The senator, she had been told by his mother, would arrive from Washington the following day.

Isabel’s bedroom on the third floor of the house was furnished with a four-poster bed that Mrs. Sinclair had described as a field bed, along with a Queen Anne wing chair and table. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of Mrs. Sinclair’s great-aunt, who, as Isabel was informed, had been a devoted worker in a Columbia hospital for Confederate wounded.

Feeling a little overwhelmed by all the family history, Isabel put on a wine-colored paisley print shirt dress—one of the three dresses she had brought with her. Dinner, she felt, would be a more formal occasion at the Sinclairs’ than it was in her own apartment back in New York. She changed the thin gold rings in her ears for a wider, more dressy pair and then surveyed herself in the large cheval mirror in the corner of her room.

Her hair, which was her one vanity, was very long, reaching almost to her waist. It was thick and black with a texture like heavy silk. She had secured it off her face tonight with two tortoiseshell barrettes and her dark-brown eyes, set under straight black brows, looked gravely back at her from the mirror. Isabel was elegantly tall and slim, though her nose was too long and her skin too sallow. She shrugged. Oh, well, it wasn’t her picture that had to be painted, she thought philosophically and went downstairs to the dining room.

At dinner she met Senator Sinclair’s younger sister and brother.

“So you’re the painter who’s to do Leo’s portrait,” Ben Sinclair said, giving her a friendly grin. He was about twenty-four, tall, blond, good-looking, and confident. “Lucky Leo,” he said. “Mama, can’t I have my portrait painted?”

“When you become a senator,” his sister retorted. “And I wouldn’t hold my breath until that happens!” Paige Sinclair turned to Isabel. “Don’t pay any attention to Ben, Miss McCarthy.”

Ben laughed and softly replied and Isabel sat and listened to the play of talk around her, watching, assessing, judging, and occasionally contributing something when the conversation demanded it of her.

She was among people who were completely foreign to her. Senator Sinclair’s fair-haired, elegant sister, a senior at Charleston’s exclusive Ashley Hall Day School, was utterly removed from the girl Isabel had been in high school. Both of these young Sinclairs had an easy self-confidence, a natural patrician gloss that Isabel had noticed in many of the people who browsed through the gallery at her New York show two months ago. Their every gesture bespoke Money, Family, and Social Eminence.

Isabel felt like a creature from another planet in their midst.

“You’re very quiet, Miss MacCarthy,” Ben Sinclair said.

“I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed by all these blond good looks,” she replied a little dryly.

Ben laughed, obviously pleased, and Paige said with amusement, “Wait until you meet Leo, Miss MacCarthy. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Children, stop teasing Miss MacCarthy. Come along with me, Isabel, and I’ll show you around the rest of the house.” Mrs. Sinclair started toward the door.

Paige groaned dramatically. “Now you’re in for it, Miss MacCarthy. She’s going to show you the plate that was buried during the War Between the States.”

“And the portrait of Czar Nicholas that the czar himself presented to our revered ancestor who was an ambassador to Russia,” chimed in Ben.

“And the clock that belonged to the ancestor who was a cavalry hero in Lee’s army,” chanted Paige.

“I shall be delighted to see all of those things,” Isabel said firmly.

“A tea drinker and an antiquarian,” Mrs. Sinclair said. She gave Isabel her lovely warm smile. “You’re a girl after my own heart, Miss MacCarthy.”

Isabel smiled back. It was impossible not to respond to this charming woman. “You called me Isabel a minute ago,” she said.

“So I did. Well, come along, Isabel, and I’ll give you the penny tour.”