The Spirit of Catherine

Mother had been very beautiful. Everyone said I was the perfect image of her, with white porcelain skin and honey-strawberry curls. We both had petite statures, with high cheek bones and fragile features. Except while Mother had eyes the color of a sunny, blue sky, mine were dark green, like emeralds. Even though we looked alike, Mother and I were worlds apart. I never once cared about parties or jewels or dresses, and I never took notice of my looks. I loved the outdoors, loved the swift breeze that rustled the leaves and the thick, lush grass that curled around my feet. I adored the birds' happy songs and the sunny blue sky. But of course, proper young ladies never played outside, in hopes to preserve their dainty, white complexions. The only times I’d been allowed outside to play were when I was very small, and even then I was forced to wear a bonnet. After a while, I got used to the fact that I had to be proper and somber, that fun was not allowed. At least, not for me. The other girls in class seemed to get along well enough in their lessons of Conversational French and needlepoint, among others. I’d attended Miss Mortemeyer's Academy for Young Ladies for six years, learning such things as how to behave at the dinner table and when to serve tea, along with arithmetic, literature, music, French, science, and history. In all honesty, the only class I’d really paid attention to, the one I absolutely adored, was art. I loved the idea of taking a white canvas, open to the word, and spilling the colors of my heart out onto it. After I’d learned I had a great aptitude for creating artwork, winning first prize in the Academy’s watercolors contest , I budged Papa to buy me paints and a sketchpad to practice my newfound talent. I would go outside and sit in the shade of our giant tree and paint different landscapes I saw or birds that sat perched on a branch. Sometimes I would pick up a pencil and sketch scenes, adding colors later. The first portrait I did was of Milly. Milly, my chambermaid, was only about five years my senior. She took care of me and gave me the attention and love I lacked from my mother. One day I told Milly to sit in the rocking chair by the window, the one that she always sat in to read me stories or sing soft hymns to me before bed. I set the crocheting materials in her lap and posed her just so, then picked up my pencil and began to draw. I was only about twelve, but my picture was surprisingly praiseworthy. I made her big eyes just perfect, adding the spark that was usually found in their chocolaty depths. I gave just the right amount of shading to her ebony skin and finished the picture off with the sweet outline of her full lips.