After the convening of the first sketching, my hopeful mother closed ranks on me, discreetly asking for details of our conversation. (Heaven knows why she bothered to ask since Hooney, her servant, had sat watching over us the entire time.) The dark-skinned woman had absently plucked at the threads of the small pillow she was working on, presumably for the new baby, quietly clucking at me when I’d behaved rudely or indifferently toward the boring Mr. Ball. Exasperated, I told Mother, “He’s a dreadful bore, and he licks his fingers after he eats.”

My aloof father, during a rare moment of felicity toward me, had paid for the portrait in advance so that I might have all the advantages of my less wealthy but more socially skilled neighbors. Safely married and out of the way for the son he hoped he would finally have, I assumed. He brushed his sunburnt lips against my forehead after he bestowed his unwanted gift on me. I was careful not to make any gesture of unkindness toward him or to refuse him. I had sealed my heart off from my father many years ago. He was a cruel man who liked drinking corn whiskey, the spirits the slaves drink, and then lashed anything that got in his way, even Mother and me if we were unfortunate enough to cross his path.

If he had always been cruel, my heart would not struggle so, and it would be easy to keep him out. But I remember a different father. One who held my little brother with tears as he left us for heaven; a father who used to bring me soft rabbits for pets and trinkets from his trips to New Orleans. I don’t remember the day that kind man disappeared, but it happened many years ago. That man was long gone. Happily, he rarely stayed at Seven Sisters, preferring traveling his properties; he said it was to manage our many businesses. He came home long enough to make my mother cry and to walk the pathways of the garden with his purposeful, no-nonsense stride. Then he was off again, leaving Mother and me the run of the house and the property for however long his latest trip would take him.

In the past two months, I had endured day-long sittings with the painter. As a quiet protest, I took particular delight in tormenting him by making slight modifications to my attire before each sitting. Changing my hairstyle or the silk coral dress with the fitted bodice and ribbon sleeves was out of the question with my observant mother. However, I did manage to make small changes, like exchanging my coral pendant on the gold chain for the jade choker or sliding a flower behind my ear. The awkward Mr. Ball spent a good half hour at the beginning of each sitting, fussing over his sketches before deciding how to best correct them. The results were predictable. Dead set on proving himself worthy of his subject, he behaved like a gentleman, never scolding me or acknowledging the changes openly. The game became boring over time. In matters of mediocrity and passivity, Mr. Ball had proven a winner.