Chapter Eight
Modesto: 1880


Marguerite turned aside from the canvas – that was as far as she dared to go. What happened after. . .she could not face. Not yet. She looked at the sketched-in figure standing behind her own. She would have to face it, or else give up, but not yet. Please, not yet.

She turned to set her palette and brush on the table and found Molly sitting in one of the wing chairs, crocheting a bit of lace. There was a sandwich and a glass of milk on the table. “Oh,” Marguerite said. “I didn’t know you were there. You should have spoken.”

“I did,” Molly said. “Several times. I’ve never seen anyone so engrossed. May I?” She indicated the canvas.

Marguerite nodded, but turned away. Molly stepped closer, bending down to examine Marguerite’s work. “Yes, that’s how I remember you.” She smiled, pointing out the chain of daisies around the figure’s neck. “You were a bit like a daisy – I can see where you got the name.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You look. . .happy?”

“I was happy then,” Marguerite said. “The only time in my life when I ever was.”

Molly contemplated the portrait of the young Daisy. Clad in yellow, daisies around her neck, holding a palette and a paintbrush. “Happy as a slave?”

Marguerite shook her head. “Not happy that I was a slave, but happy because I was with people who loved me. Who I loved.”

Molly blinked. “Did we do wrong?” she asked, the lines on her face deepening. “We thought we were rescuing you. Should we have sent you back instead?”

“No. Never. Those happy days were over, no matter what anyone did. Although. . .” Her voice caught.
“Benjamin.” Molly said. “I need to beg your pardon, Marguerite. I realize that it’s not my place to tell you how you should feel. If you feel responsible, then I should respect you for that.”

“Thank you,” Marguerite whispered.

“It was dangerous, you know,” Molly said. “Perhaps a tenth of escaped slaves made it to freedom. Many were killed, or captured and returned to the slaveholders. It took a desperate kind of courage to even attempt it. Henry – and I – felt we had to try to help those who needed it.”

“Of course,” Marguerite said. “No one can blame you. Benjamin told me it was dangerous before we started.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

“Because I didn’t consider anyone else – how it would affect those we left behind, what might happen to. . .anyone.”

Molly considered this. “I see,” she said at last. “Then what you seek is forgiveness.”

“Do I?” Marguerite said. “Perhaps I do. But how can anyone forgive me? I can’t forgive myself.”

“That’s the first step then.” She looked at the canvas. “Is this your attempt at understanding?”

“I suppose. I haven’t analyzed it – I only know I need to do it.”

Molly looked down at the table. “It’s almost supper time – I brought you a sandwich because you missed dinner again. Drink the milk at least – you must be famished.”

“I am thirsty,” Marguerite admitted. She drank down the milk, although it was warm and the cream had already risen.

“I’ll leave you to freshen up,” Molly said.

“Has anyone seen Jacob since yesterday?” Marguerite asked.

“Alex has, and Aurora’s taking his meals over. Don’t worry, he’s not neglected, by any means.”

Marguerite nodded, and went to her room to freshen up for supper.


Clay volunteered to take Jacob’s supper to him. “I need to discuss the wheat sale with him anyway.” He picked up the basket that Aurora had packed. “What’s in here, Rory? You could feed a small army.”

“Enough for two,” Rory said. “No reason he should have to eat alone.”

“No indeed,” Clay agreed. He kissed her cheek and went to saddle his horse.

He rode to Jacob’s house, looped the reins by the trough, then knocked at the door. Jacob opened it, but he frowned when he saw who was standing there.

“Am I not welcome, Jacob?” Clay asked. “I brought your supper.”

“Rory’s already brought over enough food to last a week,”
Jacob said. He held the door open. “But come on in.”

Clay followed Jacob to the kitchen and set the basket on the table. “Am I not welcome?” he repeated.

“You’re the oldest friend I have left, Clay,” Jacob said, leaning against a kitchen chair, “so I never expected you would still be harboring that woman against my wishes.”

Clay opened the basket and began unpacking it. “I wasn’t going to talk about Marguerite,” he said, “but since you brought it up – she was practically a child, Jacob. Can you truly blame her?”

“Yes!” Jacob smacked his hand down on the table. “Do you have any idea – do you have any idea – what it’s like to lose everything you care for? My boy,” he choked, “was the last, and she got him killed. Yes, I can blame her.”

“The last?” Clay asked.

“I had four sons once, and two little girls. Old Mr. Carr sold them all away from me – all but Benjamin. After Old Mr. Carr died, and Lucian inherited, he promised me we’d never be parted.”

“I had no idea,” Clay said gravely. “But at least Lucian kept his word.”

“He did, as far as he was able. But I lost him for all that. Any road,” he glared at Clay, “you, of all people, got no cause to be lecturing anyone about holding grudges.”

Clay blanched. “What do you mean?”

“When I first built this house,” Jacob said, “you’d ride by here two, three times a week. But for ten years, you’ve gone no farther than my gate. I don’t know what reason you have to shun the Gardners, but shun them you do. You want to tell me about that?”

“No,” Clay said, hanging his head, “but you’re right – I got no cause to lecture you, and I didn’t come with that intention. For all we’ve suffered together, Jacob, will you grant me some patience? I’m not going to throw Marguerite out – she’ll leave when she wishes, not before.”

“She better not show her face around here,” Jacob said.

“I’ll leave that to you,” Clay said. “I hope you’ll change your mind, but I won’t ask it of you. You have the finest conscience I’ve ever known. I leave you to follow it.”

Jacob pressed his lips together. “All right then. May as well sit down – I do hate to eat alone.”

“As do I, old friend.” Clay pulled out a chair. “As do I.”


After supper, Rory and Alex took Marguerite for a walk in the garden. “I’m glad to see you out,” Alex said. “I was wondering if you meant to stay holed up in your room forever.”

“If I could paint in the dark, I probably would still be there,” Marguerite admitted. “Not that I want to spurn your hospitality – you all have been awfully good to me.”

“Pshaw,” Alex said, and Marguerite hid a smile. She did not think she had ever actually heard anyone use that expression. “You’re doing the hard part – staying and facing this like a man.” He blushed. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Ooh, look,” Rory said excitedly, “here’s my first rosebud.”

“So it is.” Alex reached for it.

“Don’t pick it,” Rory admonished.

“I wasn’t going to, Sis,” Alex said. He caressed the bud gently. “Here it is, the beginning of something beautiful, all wadded up in this little bud.” He glanced at Marguerite significantly.

“That might work better if it were a daisy,” she observed drily.

“All right, I’m not very good at metaphors,” Alex admitted. “You understand me.”

“I do. I’m glad you have faith I’m about to blossom. I don’t.”

“But you must,” Rory said, “or you wouldn’t have stayed. Mother says faith is more about doing than it is about feeling. It’s doing the right thing even when it seems hopeless.”

“How do you judge what’s right, when you have no idea what the outcome will be?” Marguerite asked.

Alex shrugged. “You have to follow your conscience. Of course, no one’s perfect – people make mistakes. Sometimes even doing the right thing won’t stop bad things from happening.”

“Which is why we have to be ready to forgive, and accept forgiveness,” Rory said.

“Some things are unforgivable,” Marguerite said darkly.

“Not to God,” Rory said.

Marguerite shuddered. “God.” The word was like ashes.

“You ready to tell us what you got against Him?” Alex asked.

“I fell on my knees and prayed for deliverance.”

“And He delivered you, it appears,” Alex said.

“At too great a price,” Marguerite argued. “I’d never have asked if I’d known what the price would be.”

“I don’t know,” Rory frowned. “Death, or being sold. I think I’d risk death before I’d allow someone to be sold into slavery. At least, I hope I would. And selling his own daughter – your father must have been a very bad man to even consider it.”

“It was common, Sis,” Alex said quietly. “All too common.”

“Well, if nothing else was worth fighting a war over, that was,” Rory said. “A lot of people thought it was worth giving their lives to end it. Think about that, Marguerite.”

“Her father was one of them,” Alex pointed out. “Let’s be fair.”

“I don’t understand,” Rory said. “He owned slaves. He would have sold Marguerite. Yet he fought against slavery.”

“And died for it,” Alex said. “Men are complicated, sometimes. Sounds like there’s a lot we don’t know.”

Marguerite contemplated this. “Yes, a lot I don’t know. And the only one who could tell me won’t have anything to do with me.”

Alex put a brotherly arm around her shoulder. “Give him time, my dear. Give him time.”

Taking a break

Ha ha.

No, really, I broke my arm, so the writing is going to have to take a pause until I'm in a new splint at least.

Thanks to everyone who is following and commenting - will try to have the next chapter as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience!

Chapter Seven
Bourbon County, Kentucky: 1846 – 1858


“She’s such a pretty little thing. Daddy, can’t we keep her?”

These were the first things she could remember. Pamela, six years old, all golden curls and doe eyes, begging her father for a gift.

“She has to go, dear,” Lucian said. “She needs her mother.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Pamela begged. “Please, Daddy, please?”

Lucian Carr’s dark eyes regarded his daughter. His brow wrinkled. Finally, he relented. “I suppose you will need a ladies’ maid when you’re a little older, Pammy. Will you let Aunt Elsie help you care for her until she’s big enough?”

Pamela clapped her hands and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Yes, yes, thank you, Daddy! Can I name her?”

“May I, Pamela,” her father corrected.

“May I name her?”

Lucian smiled. “All right, dear, what shall you name her?”

“Itty Bitty!” Pamela declared.

“She won’t always be so ‘itty bitty’, dear. Perhaps another name would suit her better?”

“Itty Bitty,” Pamela said stubbornly, crossing her arms.

“How about a compromise? Would ‘Bitty’ do?”

“All right,” Pamela agreed. “So she’s mine?”

“She’s yours,” her father assented, but his brow darkened even as he agreed.


At first, she was more Pamela’s doll than her maid or her playmate. Dressed in Pamela’s cast-offs, sometimes changed several times a day at Pamela’s whims, given the minimum of attention by ‘Aunt’ Elsie, the ruler of the kitchen, Bitty showered all her babyish affections on her mistress. The ‘children of the house’ – Bitty, Pamela and Benjamin – formed an alliance, with Bitty an anchor to their triangle. In ordinary circumstances a colored boy and a white girl would never have formed a friendship, except that Bitty, being a bit of both, was the bridge.

The farm was their world. They fed handfuls of hay to the horses, or ran through the hemp fields, playing hide-and-seek with each other and the ten or twelve field hands who worked there. It was a long time before Bitty realized what a slave was, or that she was one, as well as every colored face she saw around her.

And they were all colored, except for Pamela and her father, who was often absent. The field hands; the six or seven grooms who raised and bred the horses; Aunt Elsie; and Mr. Butler, Benjamin’s father, who ran the farm in Mr. Carr’s frequent absences. Always ‘Mr.’ Butler, never ‘Butler’. She never thought of this as odd until much later. Even Pamela called him ‘Mr. Butler’.

When she was three and Pamela seven, Mr. Carr hired a governess for Pamela’s education, a development Pamela met with some resistance. The sewing and knitting lessons she did not mind, since she was clever with her hands and these were activities that Bitty could join, but she went into hysterics at being separated from her ‘baby’ for actual lessons. Mr. Carr intervened, and allowed that it would do no harm to let Bitty occupy herself in the classroom while Pamela was instructed, so the governess supplied the younger girl with paper and pencils for drawing while Pamela had her lessons.

She often wondered in after years if this had been an underhanded way around the laws that forbade educating slaves, for, of course, she could not fail to learn while present in the classroom, for all that she was more interested in drawing than in reading or writing.

Governesses came and went – the farm was several miles north of Paris, too out of the way for many of them, and many more showed extreme discomfort at being the only white woman in the house. Pamela’s mother had died when she was six, and although some of the young women may have taken the job with the romantic notion of becoming the next Mrs. Lucian Carr, it did not take long for them to find that their hopes were misplaced and to seek a recommendation, which Lucian was only too happy to provide.

Between governesses, the children reveled in their freedom. It was Benjamin who bestowed Bitty’s nickname upon her, one summer afternoon when she had bedecked all three of them with daisy-chains. “You’re a daisy, yourself,” he said, plucking a bright yellow flower from the garland around his neck. “If I count the petals, will they say you love me?”

“Of course I love you, Benjamin,” she had replied, for all that she was five years old and he only seven.

“Would you marry me, Daisy?” he teased.

“I might,” she said in all seriousness.

Pamela laughed at both of them. “I’m never getting married,” she asserted. She slapped Benjamin’s shoulder. “You’re it!” and the three of them ran through the pasture and into the hemp field.

But Bitty was ‘Daisy’ to the three of them after that.


Of course, sunny childhood days soon end for all of us. As the years passed, the relations between the three changed, as did they. Benjamin was apprenticed to a carpenter in town, and resided at the farm only on Sundays for a year, returning at age fifteen a strapping young man, with skills that could be, and often were, hired out to neighboring farms and businesses.

When Lucian took note of Daisy’s artistic talents, for she had continued to draw even after the need for that fiction had passed, he made sure that the next governess was qualified to teach the skills of drawing and painting.

This development did not please Pamela at all, and the next time he was home, she taxed her father with it. “It’s not fair, Daddy,” she argued. “I’ve been positively begging you for a piano for months, and here you spend money teaching Daisy to draw, which she already does well enough.”

“It’s the same reason I have the men learn skills,” Lucian explained patiently. “I can sell art, the same as I can hire the men out, dear. It’s an investment.”

“I can’t believe you’d rather invest in my maid than in your own daughter,” Pamela pouted.

Daisy might have been embarrassed to witness this scene, if she had not seen so many like it before. She wondered why Mr. Carr bothered to argue since Pamela always got her way when she wanted it. Not so much spoiled as neglected – for even when home, her father spent much time closeted with Mr. Butler in the study – Pamela always knew the way to play upon her father’s guilty conscience.

A few days later a second-hand spinet was delivered to the house, and both girls were happy.


Pamela threw herself into practicing, which freed Daisy’s time for drawing and her new passion, painting. Not that she found her usual duties in any way onerous – Pamela was no stylish miss. Although well-dressed as suited her station, she looked down her nose at those vapid girls of their acquaintance who boasted the latest Paris, France, fashions. She always said that Paris, Kentucky, fashions were quite well enough for her, thank you. Daisy’s needle was more than enough to keep her modest wardrobe in good state.

For Pamela’s seventeenth birthday, Daisy presented her with a miniature portrait of herself. “It’s charming, dear,” Pamela proclaimed, “but what shall I do with it? I know what I look like.”

“Give it to a beau, when you have one,” Daisy said. “That’s what most people do.”

“I don’t want a beau,” Pamela asserted. “I shall be an old maid, then I may do as I please.”

Daisy was shocked. “But Miss Pamela, isn’t it shameful to be an old maid?”

“I don’t care,” Pamela said. “I’ll never ask a man for permission.” She looked down at the miniature. “You take it, Daisy. Have something to remember me by, when we’re grown up.”

Daisy took it, reluctantly, puzzled at Pamela’s words. Did she believe that Daisy would ever leave her, no matter how ‘grown up’ they became? If Miss Pamela never married, wouldn’t she need Daisy more than ever?


Daisy sat painting in the pasture, trying to capture the strength and essence of the horses that grazed there. Benjamin worked nearby, repairing a broken gate. He strolled up to her, looking over her shoulder as she worked. “That’s good. You’ve become quite an artist, Daisy dear.”

“Who thought I’d have to study anatomy to do it?” Daisy complained. “Muscles, bones.” She glanced at Benjamin’s shirtless torso, then hurriedly turned back to her canvas. “In order to paint something’s outsides, I have to understand its insides.”

“People, too?” he inquired.

She smiled. “Yes, of course. But there’s more to a person than skin and muscle.”

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “You want to go into town?” he asked abruptly.

“Can’t. Don’t have a pass, and Mr. Carr’s out of town again.”

“I have one,” Benjamin said. “I’m doing a job for Mr. Hunt later. I doubt anyone would ask for yours if I show them mine.”

“Too risky.” Daisy shook her head. “What do you want to go into town for?”

“Want to show you something, since you’re interested in people’s insides.”

She was intrigued. “What?”

“There’s an auction on the courthouse steps today.”

Daisy shivered. “Why do you think I’d want to see that?”

“Because it’s real, Daisy,” Benjamin said heatedly. “It doesn’t bother you that you, or I, or anyone like us, can be bought and sold like so much cattle?”

“Mr. Carr wouldn’t sell us. He doesn’t sell slaves. He never has, you know,” she said primly.

“He might have to someday.” His tone was grim, now.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The auction today is for debt.”

Daisy laughed. “Mr. Carr would never go into debt. He’s too careful with money.”

“Bad things happen, Daisy,” Benjamin said angrily. “If not to you, then to others. But if you’re too cold-hearted to care. . .”

“What is it you want?” Daisy said, growing angry herself. “Yes, it’s terrible slaves are sold. But what can I do about it?”

“What’s terrible is that we’re property in the first place,” Benjamin said.

“Maybe,” Daisy said, wrinkling her brow. “But, again, what can I do about it?”

“You can start thinking, for one thing.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “And it’s not true that Mr. Carr has never sold a slave.”

“Not since I’ve been here,” she asserted.

“Bury your head in the sand, Daisy. See what it gets you.” He stalked off to finish repairing the gate.

Daisy turned back to her work. Ever since Benjamin had come back from his apprenticeship, he had been like this – it terrified her sometimes. The world outside the farm seemed to be a wild and frightful place. If that was what became of those who went out into it, she would have none of it.


Her paintings were gone, two of them – the one of the horses in the pasture, and another she had sketched out that same day, of Benjamin working on the gate. She had been rather proud of that one – she felt she had captured something of his fire in it. Now it was missing and she could not think where it might have gone.

She asked Pamela. “Daddy took them,” Pamela told her. “He said they were good enough to sell – you should be proud, dear.”

“They were mine,” Daisy said, wrinkling her brow.

“Now, dear, Daddy told you he intended to sell your work when it was good enough, right from the start, didn’t he?” Pamela’s attempts to soothe her seemed half-hearted, but she spoke the truth.

“I reckon,” Daisy agreed, but she went to the small room she inhabited next to Pamela’s bedroom and sat down, thoughtful. Nothing I have is my own, she realized. She looked down at her hands. Not even these. She wondered if she would even desire to paint anymore, if nothing she did was hers, and yet the thought of that nearly crushed her soul. If I have nothing, not even myself, then who am I?

Mr. Carr came home a few days later, closeting himself as usual with Mr. Butler. Pamela stalked into the study unannounced, and was there some time. When she came out, she was red-faced, but she smiled at Daisy. “Daddy wishes to speak with you, dear.”

Daisy quailed. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“It’s all right.” Pamela patted her shoulder. “It’s good news. Go on in.”

Daisy opened the door, quaking, but Mr. Carr smiled at her and offered her a chair. “Sit down, Bitty. I have some good news for you.”

“So Miss Pamela said,” she said, sitting. Mr. Butler was busying himself dusting the bookshelves, and she took no further notice of him.

“I’ve sold your paintings to a dealer in Louisville,” Mr. Carr said, “and he’s asked for more. Congratulations, my dear.”

“Sold?” Daisy said weakly.

“Yes,” Mr. Carr said cheerfully. “And you’re to have some of the proceeds.” He gave her a ten dollar gold piece. “And there’ll be more, if you keep doing the same kind of work. I’m very proud of you.”

The coin weighed heavily in her hand. “Some of the proceeds?” she said.

Mr. Carr reddened. “Well, yes.” He leaned forward. “Consider this your apprenticeship – I am due back the money I’ve spent on you, aren’t I? For lessons, and supplies?”

“Of course, sir,” Daisy said. “I thank you very kindly.” She rose to go.

“This is only the beginning,” Mr. Carr said. “You’ll be a fine artist someday.”

“Thank you,” Daisy said, stunned. “May I go now?”

“Of course,” Mr. Carr said, seeming somewhat disappointed. Did he expect her to be grateful? Perhaps he did.

Pamela was waiting for her in the hall. “Well, isn’t it wonderful?” she asked.

“Yes, wonderful,” Daisy said, pretending an enthusiasm she did not feel. She showed Pamela the coin. “So much money. What do I do with it?”

“Why, whatever you like,” Pamela laughed. “It’s yours.”

Daisy clenched her fist over the coin. Well, something is my own, it seems. For now.

It suddenly struck her – she doubted that Mr. Butler spent all his time in the study dusting. What did he and Mr. Carr do in there? Going over accounts, she supposed, but she did not reckon the bookkeeping could be so extensive. She shrugged. She had other things to think about. What did Benjamin mean that Mr. Carr sold slaves?

That night, Pamela called her into the bedroom. “Come sit by me, Daisy.” She patted the bed. Daisy clambered up and Pamela wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so excited for you, love,” Pamela said. “This is the beginning of great things for you, I know it.”

Daisy’s heart began to lift. “I wish he’d asked me,” she confessed. “I would have liked to have kept one of them.”

“I know.” Pamela gave her a squeeze. “Don’t think I don’t know how you feel about Benjamin. It was a good picture, but there’ll be lots more. And one day, you can keep or sell your paintings any way you’d like.”

“I don’t see how,” Daisy said. “I’m a slave.”

It was the first time those words had been said aloud, and it caused Pamela’s eyes to turn grave. “I know, dear,” she said, “but Daddy says the day is coming when all the slaves will be free. It’s one reason he makes sure all the servants have some skills, so they won’t be destitute when that day comes. And in the meantime, you’ll have money to spend, and when I turn eighteen, I’ll ask Daddy to give you to me, and we can go to Paris, the one in France, and you can sell your paintings and I can play my music, and we’ll be oh, so happy, won’t we, Daisy?”

Mollified by this happy vision, Daisy smiled, and the two girls talked and planned until they fell asleep in each others’ arms.


But when Pamela did turn eighteen, neither the hoped for transfer of ownership nor the promised trip to France materialized. Instead, Pamela began to entertain a suitor.

Harold Pike was tall, reasonably handsome, and the son of a wealthy landowning neighbor. He and his sister Belinda began to pay calls on Pamela and, at her father’s insistence, she received them.

There was no spark there, that Daisy could see. Harold was far from unattractive, but it was obvious that Pamela did not care for him, yet within a month of her eighteenth birthday, the engagement was announced.

Daisy was distraught, but hid it for Pamela’s sake. Her own future was in doubt – she did not wish to be separated from Pamela, but neither did she want to become that man’s property. Her fears were vague and unfounded until the night she was forced to run away.

Pamela had gone out riding with Belinda and Harold, and Daisy was repairing a piece of lace on one of Pamela’s dresses when she heard the front door open downstairs. There was a brief exchange of words, a tread on the stair, then Pamela’s bedroom door was flung open by Harold.

Daisy jumped up from the settee. “Mr. Pike! What are you doing here? I thought you were out riding.”

“My horse threw a shoe,” Harold replied, closing the door behind him. “I thought we might get to know each other better, Bitty.”

Daisy’s heart leapt into her throat. “In the parlor?” she choked out.

“Here’s fine,” Harold said. “After all, you will be living in my house, once I marry your mistress.”

“Not married yet,” Daisy pointed out. “You shouldn’t be here, in Miss Pamela’s bedroom. It’s most improper.”

“What does a nigger know about propriety?” Harold said, grasping Daisy’s wrist. “I’ve seen the way you look at me – you’re all alike.”

Daisy gasped. That word had never been spoken in that house before – neither Mr. Carr nor Mr. Butler would allow it. But there were matters more important than the insult she had just been dealt. That’s my painting hand. Calming herself, she said steadily. “What is it you want?”

“A little kiss, is all.” He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Do it!” he commanded.

She would rather kiss a copperhead, but she steeled herself. “All right, please don’t hurt me.”

“That’s more like it.” He grinned and yanked her close, covering her mouth with his, hungrily. Disgust filled her, but she allowed the indignity, as long as he held his grip on her wrist.

“So sweet, my dear, so sweet,” he murmured. He cupped her breast in one hand, then dropped her wrist to tug at her skirt with the other.

Daisy saw her chance and took it, raking her nails across his face as hard as she could.

Harold cried out, jerking back and covering his bleeding face with one hand. He drew back the other to strike her, when the door was opened behind him. “Do you require assistance, Mr. Pike?” Mr. Butler asked quietly.

“No, damn you!” Harold said. “Get out of here!”

“You’re bleeding, sir,” Mr. Butler insisted. “Come with me and I’ll attend to you.”

Harold growled, stymied. “All right.” He turned to Daisy. “You’ll pay for that, I’ll see to it!”

Daisy rearranged her skirt as Mr. Butler escorted Harold out of the room. Mr. Butler cast her a significant look as he shut the door behind him, and Daisy heard the key turn in the lock. Am I locked in, or is he locked out? Either way, she was safe, for the time being.

She tried to still herself and work on Pamela’s dress, but her hands were shaking. She paced back and forth until she heard Pamela return from her ride. Her heart pounded until she heard her mistress sprint up the stairs and unlock the door.

“Whatever has been going on here, Daisy?” she asked testily. “It’s not like you to misbehave.”

“I didn’t,” Daisy said.

“Harold says you enticed him up here,” Pamela said, frowning.

“You know I didn’t,” Daisy said. “Would I do that to you? With your fiancé? You know me better than that.”

“Then what did happen?” Pamela asked gently.

“He came up here, threatened me, demanded a kiss, then he. . .” Daisy covered her face, “. . .tried to ravish me,” she said weakly.

“You’re a child,” Pamela scoffed. “What do you know of ravishing?” She patted Daisy’s shoulder. “Now, admit it, Daisy. You tried to flirt, perfectly harmlessly, I’m sure, but things got out of hand. Apologize and promise not to do it again, and everything will be all right.”

“It’s not all right,” Daisy said. “I told you what happened. Why won’t you believe me?”

“He’s going to be my husband, Daisy. I have to take his part.”

“You’re not going to marry him, after this?” Daisy asked, horrified.

“I have to,” Pamela said weakly. “I gave my word.”

“Girls break engagements all the time,” Daisy said.

“It’s not like that,” Pamela said. “I can’t explain, please don’t ask me. I’m doing this as much for your good as anyone’s.”

“You can’t,” Daisy pleaded. “Please, Pamela, say you won’t.”

“Miss Pamela,” Pamela corrected sternly. “You forget yourself, Daisy. Now do be a good girl, and say you’re sorry.”

“I won’t,” Daisy said stubbornly.

Pamela sighed. “Daddy’s coming home tonight – I don’t know what he’ll have to say about all this. Very well, I’ll let him handle it. He’ll know how to deal with you, I daresay.”

Pamela left Daisy alone, locking the door behind her. Daisy went into her closet and threw herself down on her cot, choking back the wails that wanted to escape her. Pamela might be spoiled, but she had never been so unjust before. She could only hope that when Mr. Carr found out what had happened, that he would send Harold packing.

She waited until dusk, when she finally heard the carriage and then the front door slamming. A babble of voices, and then her owner unlocked the bedroom door and called to her. “Yes, sir,” she answered, drying her face with her hands.

“Now, now, Bitty,” Lucian Carr said, patting her shoulder. “Come sit on the settee and tell me what happened.”

Daisy related her tale, all the while Lucian frowned. “You do believe me, don’t you, Mr. Carr?”

“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid I do,” Lucian answered. “You do see that there’s only one thing I can do?”

“Send Mr. Pike packing?”

Lucian laughed wearily. “Oh, if only I could. No, Bitty, I shall have to find another home for you.”

“You mean sell me,” Daisy said, horrified.

“Since you put it like that, yes,” Lucian said.

“Why? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“It’s to protect you, and Pamela.” Lucian shook his head. “I’m certainly not going to supply her husband with a mistress the same time I supply him with a wife.”

“Supply him. . .” Daisy was struck speechless.

“Come now, it’s a pity this had to happen, but surely you can’t believe you’re the first slave to be ravished by her owner,” Lucian said bitterly. “I’ll preserve you from that, if I can.”

Daisy was beyond horror now. The future opened before her, a black pit at her feet.

Lucian stood. “It’s for the best, you’ll see.” He turned toward the door.

Daisy cried out, “Father!”

She hardly had time to think, how did I know? when did I know? before the back of Lucian’s hand smacked her across the cheek and she fell off the settee. “Don’t you dare call me that!” he shouted. “You may be of my getting, but you are none of mine! Don’t forget that! You are nothing to me, nothing!”

She could only whimper in reply as he stormed out of the room, once again locking the door. Daisy fell to her knees and clasped her hands, praying to God for her deliverance. Heavenly Father, I go to Church every Sunday, am always obedient, have never harmed another. If you love me at all, please deliver me from my bondage.

She did not know how long she prayed, but she was interrupted by a rattle of gravel against the window pane. She rushed to it and flung up the sash. “Daisy?” she heard Benjamin call. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she said, unable to hold back a sob. “Mr. Carr is going to sell me!”

“Is he now?” Benjamin said grimly. “Wait there.”

She did not have much choice, but hope began to spring in her heart. Benjamin returned shortly bearing a ladder. He set the ladder against the wall and climbed up, clambering over the sill. He took Daisy in his arms. “Sh. It’ll be all right, I promise.”

She let herself sob now. “What are we going to do?”

“Why, escape, of course,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“How can we? They’ll have the slave catchers on us in a jiffy.”

“Trust me,” Benjamin said. “Do you have any money?”

“A little,” Daisy said. She went into her closet and took a small purse from under the mattress. “About fifty dollars.”

“That’s fine,” Benjamin said. “Bring it, but nothing else. We must travel light.”

“Are you sure, Benjamin? It’s awfully dangerous.”

“It is, and you must be brave,” Benjamin answered, “but it will be all right.”

“I do trust you,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“Better change into trousers, and boots,” Benjamin said. “It’s going to be a rough road.”

“Of course,” Daisy said. “Give me a minute.”

Benjamin went out into the bedroom while Daisy changed. When she opened her trunk, she found the miniature of Pamela she had given her the year before. She almost crushed it in her fist, but decided to bring it along. Perhaps they could sell it if they needed to.

Benjamin helped her down the ladder. He carefully closed the window before climbing down himself. He replaced the ladder behind the stables, then took Daisy by the hand and led her into the darkness.

It began to rain, and Benjamin smiled broadly. “Good,” he said. “This will help keep the dogs off our trail.”

“Dogs?” Daisy said. “They won't set the dogs on us?”

“We're runaways, Daisy,” Benjamin said. “Mr. Carr might be a gentleman, but the slave catchers aren't. If you have no stomach for it we'd better turn back now, before you're missed.”

Daisy paused, then shook her head. “I don't know where we're going, but I can't go back.”

Benjamin nodded. “Come on then.”

They ran through the pastures, and into the woods. They ran for what seemed like hours but was probably less than one. Benjamin guided her down into a steep gully, and they waded through the creek that lay at its bottom, nettles and briars tearing at their clothes until they reached the end. Benjamin tied a thread around one of the briars, then pushed aside the undergrowth to reveal an opening barely large enough to squirm through. He urged Daisy through into the darkness, then followed her, carefully covering the opening behind them.

The darkness was thick and black as ink. There was a smell of oil and the flick of a match, and Daisy opened her eyes to find herself in a small cave. Benjamin held a lantern aloft and said, “Follow me.”

There was room enough to stand, and Daisy followed him through a narrow opening into a much larger cavern. Mica and quartz embedded in the walls caught the flickering lamplight and dazzled her eyes. “What is this place?” she asked.

Benjamin grinned. “This is your first stop on the Underground Railroad.”

“Railroad? I don’t see a railroad.”

“It’s only a metaphorical railroad.” Benjamin laughed aloud, “but it will take us to Canada, if we’re lucky.”

“If you use words like ‘metaphorical’ around white folks, you’ll get in trouble for sure,” she chided.

Benjamin led her into another, smaller chamber. Here were blankets, food, water – every necessity. “Come sit, Daisy,” Benjamin said. “we may have a while to wait. I don’t know how often Willie checks for the signal.” He stroked her cheek, frowning. “Who struck you?”

“Mr. Carr.” The thought of it almost brought tears to her eyes.

“Why?”

She hung her head. “Because I called him ‘Father’.”

Benjamin clenched his fists and turned his back on her. “Benjamin?” she said timidly.

He turned back around, his cheeks livid. He did not speak while he took a moment to calm his rage. “How dare he? It’s shameful.”

“I’m sorry. But he shouldn’t have struck me.”

“Don’t apologize – you’re not the one who should be ashamed. After the way he treated your mother. . .”

“What do you know about my mother?”

Benjamin smoothed a blanket over a straw-stuffed tick that lay on the floor of the cave. Taking Daisy’s hand, he pulled her down next to him. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing really. Only vague impressions.” She stretched out on the blanket and Benjamin lay down beside her, wrapping a protective arm around her.

“He sold her,” Benjamin said grimly. “Bought her, used her, sold her.” He hugged her tightly. “Just like every other white man.”

Daisy’s life was shattering about her, everything she had believed about herself and the world dissolving. Before today, she would never have believed it of Mr. Carr. Now she could believe anything. “And kept me?” She contemplated this for a long moment. “Do you know where she is? What happened to her?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Sold down South, I believe. No one ever hears from any one again. Not from there.”

Daisy shivered. “How do you know of this place? How did you know I needed you?”

“Aunt Elsie can’t keep anything to herself. She said you’d been locked in, although she didn’t know why. Do you want to tell me?”

“He tried to ravish me.” Daisy stomach roiled in turmoil to think of it.

“Mr. Carr?” Benjamin’s voice could barely contain his rage.

“Oh, no! Mr. Pike. But Pamela wouldn’t believe me, and Mr. Carr said he would sell me. I begged him not to, and that’s when I called him Father, and that’s when he struck me.”

Benjamin relaxed, but only a little bit. “Well, that’s bad enough. Lucky for you I’m an agent on the Railroad.”

“What’s an agent?”

“When I hear of a slave who might want to run away, I help him find this place. A thread on the briar is the signal, and then the conductor comes to help him to the next station.”

“You’re a slave stealer!” Realization dawned.

“So the whites call it,” Benjamin agreed. “Now I’ve stolen myself, and you.” He turned to look into her eyes. “This is your last chance to change your mind.”

Daisy shuddered. “No, I can’t go back.” She stroked his cheek. “Would you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he said. “Surely you know that by now.”

She felt suddenly shy. “Would you kiss me?”

He hesitated. “Daisy. . .”

“I need to rid myself of the taste of him.”

Benjamin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Daisy. Not for that. . .” He frowned. “I can’t take advantage of the situation.”

She snuggled closer to him. “Are we going to be married? When we get to Canada?”

“Ah, Daisy. You’ll see – you’ll be the prettiest girl in all of Canada. You’ll have your choice of beaux. Don’t fix on me because you’ve known me all your life.”

“Loved you all my life, you mean. If you think there’s anyone else for me, you don’t know me very well, Benjamin.”

Benjamin looked down tenderly at her. “You’re sure?”

Daisy nodded, suddenly shy. She reached up and kissed him, softly, but warmly. He pulled her closer to him, caressing her gently. “You touch me the same way,” she said. “Why is it so different?”

“Because I love you, Daisy. I’ve always loved you.”


It was some hours before Willie finally arrived. Benjamin pulled Daisy to her feet. “Willie,” he said proudly, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Daisy.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

“I don’t understand,” Aurora said plaintively. “How do you know Jacob? I thought you were from France.”

“I have a French passport,” Marguerite said, “but – “ she looked at Molly, “I was born in Kentucky.”

Molly was frowning, as though pulling something from deep in her memory. “I knew a young man named Benjamin, a long time ago.” She frowned down at Marguerite. “And a girl called Daisy.”

“’Marguerite’ in French,” Beatrice said.

“Now you two know each other?” Rory asked.

Marguerite nodded. “I think. . .’Molly’ is a pet name for Mary, is it not?”

Molly nodded. “But only Henry called me ‘Mary.’ I shed that name, too, when I took back my maiden name.”

Marguerite shuddered. “And your married name was?”

“Johnson,” Molly said.

Marguerite shuddered. “Yes, I see. That’s why I was so drawn to you – I couldn’t figure it out. God baited this trap very nicely.”

“If God brought you here,” Rory said, “it was probably to free you, not trap you.”

Beatrice looked at her daughter approvingly. “What are you going to do, Marguerite?”

“Pack my bags,” Marguerite said.

“Benjamin’s death was not your fault,” Molly said. “It was tragic, yes, but he knew what the danger was.”

“He was trying to save me,” Marguerite said. “If if weren’t for me, he’d still be alive.”

“Be that as it may,” Beatrice said, “if you run, Jacob will still be here. Doesn’t he deserve at least a word from you?”

Run, run, run. Marguerite shivered, but found she could not argue with Beatrice’s statement. “I suppose,” she said weakly.

“We’ll help you,” Rory said earnestly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t believe you every willfully harmed anyone.”

Molly perched on the edge of the sofa and took Marguerite’s hand. “If you’re still feeling guilt for Benjamin’s death, then I think Rory is right – you’re here to be freed from that. Go talk to Jacob – we’ll all stand by you.”

“Why would you do that?” Marguerite said. “He’s ‘almost one of the family.’ Why would you side against him?”

“There are no sides here,” Rory said. “Only a world of hurt, that I can see.”

Marguerite felt lifted up on the tide of their sympathy. It was strange – she had never felt anything like it. “All right,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything he can say to me that I haven’t said to myself, many times.”

“Good,” Beatrice said approvingly. She took Marguerite’s hand and lifted her off the sofa. Molly took Marguerite’s arm and the four women ventured into the library.

“You shouldn’t have let that woman into this house!” Jacob was shouting.

“Now, Jacob,” Alex said calmly, “how were we to know – you never said anything about her. Still haven’t, for that matter.”

“It’s all right,” Marguerite said, leaning on Molly for support, “I will.”

“Are you all right?” Alex took her other arm and led her to the sofa. “Do you need some brandy?”

Marguerite shook her head. “No, thank you.” She looked up at Jacob. Now that she was forced to it, she was amazed at how calm she felt. Or maybe numb, she was not sure, but anyway, she was grateful. “Hello, Mr. Butler.”

“Butler?” Alex said.

“My slave name,” Jacob explained. “This one was no ‘Marguerite’, either. Hello, Bitty,” he said tersely.

Marguerite winced. If he had meant to humiliate her, he had succeeded. “If you have to use a name from that time, I’d prefer Daisy.”

“How dare you!” Jacob exclaimed. “How dare you invoke my son’s pet name for you!”

“May we begin at the beginning?” Clay said. “I take it you both belonged to Captain Carr?”

“Captain?” Marguerite asked. “You knew him?”

“We three,” he nodded at Jacob, “served together in the War. I told you I was with a black regiment.”

“Mr. Carr fought for the North?”

“He fought for the Union,” Jacob said tautly. “He may have been a slaveholder, but he loved his country. He didn’t want to see it torn apart.”

“It’s how I met Jacob,” Clay said. “I invited him to visit us after the War, and he and my father hit it off.”

Marguerite paused to digest this information – it was completely unexpected. “What happened to him? Captain Carr?”

“Died in my arms,” Jacob said. “After saving my life.”

“My father,” Marguerite whispered, “died a hero?”

“He was your father?” Clay said.

“Not that he would ever acknowledge that,” Marguerite said bitterly, “but, yes, he was.”

“If you were Lucian Carr’s daughter, then that makes you – “

“Nothing,” Jacob cut him off. “It makes her nothing.”

Marguerite recoiled. It was not the first time those words had been said to her.

Alex interceded. “So you grew up together? In the same house?”

Marguerite nodded. “I was ladies’ maid to Pamela Carr, Jacob was the butler. His son, Benjamin, was. . .” she hesitated. How to describe the wealth of feeling and history that was the boy she had known? “. . .my especial friend.”

Jacob snorted, but let her continue.

“When I was fourteen, Mr. Carr decided to sell me - “

“Sell you!” Alex took umbrage. “His own daughter?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jacob muttered.

“If you’re telling me Lucian Carr was in the habit of selling his own children, I will not believe you,” Clay said.

“No, but his father was,” Jacob said.

“Oh,” Clay said, reddening. “Go on, Marguerite.”

“Benjamin helped me escape, but he was killed.” She turned to Alex. “It was my fault, you see. I was selfish – ”

“Selfish? To not want to be sold?” Alex said. “What an abomination.”

“Yes, it was,” Molly said. She looked at Jacob. “It was not Marguerite’s fault, Jacob.”

“What do you know about it?” Jacob snapped.

“I was there, or almost,” Molly said. “You know my husband was a conductor on the Underground Railroad. It was while they were in his custody that your son was killed. So if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s ours.”

“It was good work he was doing,” Rory asserted. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s the slaveholders. Why is it only the good people who feel guilty?”

Marguerite looked around her – so many people willing to take her part, but the only one that mattered refused to look at her. “Jacob.” He still studiously avoided meeting her eyes. “I’ve been sorry for it every day of my life. I’ve never had a moment’s peace.”

Jacob turned to Beatrice. “This is getting us nowhere. Bea, you know how much I care for you and yours, but I will not cross the threshold of this house again as long as she is in it. Clay, come to my place if you have business with me, but for nothing else.” He stalked out of the room, having enough dignity not to slam the door.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Rory said, dismayed.

“Neither have I,” Marguerite said. “He was always the soul of kindness.” She stood. “I’d better go pack.”

“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, gesturing to Clay to follow her. They followed Marguerite up the stairs to the guest room.

“I don’t know what to do about dinner,” Beatrice said practically, although still frowning over what had occurred, “it’s too late now to cook anything.”

“Let’s go throw some sandwiches together,” Rory suggested. “Although I doubt anyone feels like eating.”

The two women went off to the kitchen, leaving Alex alone in the library. He hurried outside and caught up to Jacob. “Let me hitch up the buggy, Jacob,” he said, “I’ll give you a lift.”

“It’s only half a mile,” Jacob pointed out. “And I don’t need anyone talking at me.”

“I was more of a mind to listen,” Alex said. “I don’t think you ought to be alone right now.”

Jacob regarded the younger man for a moment. “All right, but leave the buggy. It’s a fine day for a walk.”

Marguerite went into the studio to begin gathering her things. “I’ll find someway to repay your advance,” she promised.

Molly took her hand. “Come sit on the sofa, Marguerite. Let’s talk for a bit.”

“Nothing left to talk about,” Marguerite said.

Molly tugged her down onto the sofa, too firmly for Marguerite to resist. “Plenty to talk about. It’s ridiculous for you to feel this guilt about Benjamin’s death. How many times do I have to say that it wasn’t your fault?”

“It was. If he hadn’t tried to save me. . .”

“If you hadn’t been in trouble, he wouldn’t have tried,” Molly said with growing heat. “He was brave and heroic and that’s how he should be remembered. With respect and gratitude, not remorse.”

“Molly,” Clay cautioned.

“All right, Clay,” Molly said. “We all know I’ve had my own problem in that regard, but allow me to teach as I’ve been taught.” She turned back to Marguerite. “Besides, Jacob is your family – you can’t run out on him.”

“He’s not my family – we lived on the same farm, is all.”

“Molly,” Clay said. “Jacob stopped me from telling her, didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed, but it’s not a secret, Clay. I’m surprised she doesn’t know already.”

“Know what?” Marguerite asked, although she was beginning to suspect.

“Your father and Jacob were brothers,” Clay said, surrendering. “Half-brothers. Which makes him your uncle.”

“And Benjamin my cousin.” Marguerite’s hands flew to her face. “I had wondered why he took the name ‘Carr.’ I know a lot of slaves took their owners’ names after they were freed, but – .”

“He was entitled to it,” Clay said.

“Please don’t leave, Marguerite,” Molly pleaded. “Wait for the emotions to die down a bit, then we’ll see what can be worked out. We hate to see you both in such pain – you can’t go, don’t you see?”

“I’ve always run,” Marguerite admitted.

“So have I,” Molly said, “until I found a reason not to.”

“But Jacob? He’s refused to enter your house – I can’t believe you’d want me to stay.” Marguerite turned to Clay.

Clay thought for a moment. “No, it’s awkward and painful, but I agree with Molly that it’s best for you to stay. If you leave all this pain behind you, it will be Jacob you leave it with, and that I can’t countenance.”

“Will your mother agree? It’s her house, after all.” Marguerite was not sure what she hoped for – to be welcomed or to be turned out? Neither seemed entirely to be desired.

“I’ll go ask her, but I’m sure she’ll agree,” Clay said.

After he had gone, Marguerite turned to Molly. “May I be alone for awhile? I need to sort this all out.”

“Of course,” Molly said, rising. “Come downstairs, or call, when you’re ready for company. Or when you get hungry. Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten all about dinner. I’d better go see if Mother needs any help.”

Alex returned a couple of hours later to find his family in the parlor. “Where have you been?” Clay asked.

“With Jacob – I didn’t think he should be alone. I’d still be there except he finally asked me to go. I got him calmed down some, though. He might be ready to listen to reason in a day or two.”

“Leave it to you, Brother,” Clay said appreciatively.

“What’s Jacob going to do for meals?” Rory asked. “We know he can’t cook. He probably doesn’t have any food in the house at all.” She stood. “I’m going to go fix him a picnic basket right now.”

“Good idea, dear,” Beatrice said. “We’ll send his meals over for awhile.”

“Where’s Marguerite?” Alex asked. “She isn’t gone, is she?”

“No, Molly talked her into staying,” Clay said. “We all agreed it was for the best. Where are you going?”

Alex was already heading for the door. “To talk to her.”

“She asked to be alone,” Molly said.

“I won’t be long.” Alex bounded up the stairs.

Marguerite was kneeling on the floor of the studio, stretching a canvas. “May I help?” Alex asked.

Marguerite looked up at him. “Yes, I suppose you can. I’ll stretch it, then you tack it where I tell you. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Alex said, taking up the hammer. They worked in silence for several minutes. “May I ask you something?”

Marguerite frowned. “What?” she asked rudely.

“About your name. You aren’t French, so what’s with the ‘Marguerite’ and especially the ‘Dumas’?”

“I’m pretending to be something I’m not, is that it?” Marguerite sighed. “I am a French citizen, actually. I sailed there as soon as I could save the passage. You do know who Alexander Dumas was?”

“Sure,” Alex said. “Three Musketeers.”

“And when you read one of his books, you think, ‘that was a good book,’ not, ‘that was a good book by a colored man.’

“Dumas was colored? I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t. His grandmother was a slave. And that’s what I wanted – to paint so well that no one thought of my race, but I failed.”

“I don’t think you’re a failure. That portrait of Molly was something special.”

Marguerite sighed. “A fluke. My. . .beau in Paris said it was because all that touched the canvas was paint. No soul, you see.”

“Because you’ve been wadded up into a tight little ball ever since you left Kentucky.”

She nodded. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, I don’t see what good it will do. Molly and Clay seem to think it will, but I feel like. . .there’s no where left to run.”

“You can’t run from yourself, no how,” Alex said.

“I gave it my best shot, anyway,” Marguerite said.

They worked in silence until the canvas was done. Alex helped Marguerite to her feet and she put the canvas on the easel.

“I wanted you to know,” Alex said, “that we’ve got something in common.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Marguerite said.

“I know what it’s like not to have a name, too,” Alex said. “I didn’t know who my father was until I was eleven.”

Marguerite’s eyes flew wide, but Alex held up a hand before she could interrupt his tale. “My mother never told me – or him, either – until she was on her deathbed. He came and got me and brought me here, and – “ he shrugged, “here I am.”

“I don’t. . .” Marguerite began. She stopped. “No one treats you any differently, but that must have been quite an upheaval.”

“Not to my direct knowledge,” Alex said, “although I guess that there must have been quite a dust-up behind closed doors. But you’re right, Beatrice has never treated me differently than she does Clay. Rory was just a baby when I came, sweet little thing,” he said reminiscently. “Clay was a little hesitant, but he’d been an only child so long, he was glad to have a brother near his own age. But I can never forget what it was like being a bastard, for all that everything’s good now. I don’t want to forget – I think it makes me a better person to remember it.”

“I don’t understand,” Marguerite said.

“You will,” Alex said. “You’re like some hard little nut that no one’s ever been able to crack, but I think you’re cracking now.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, “but I don’t seem to have any choice.”

“Have a little faith,” Alex said. “It’s no good living without a soul.”

“Faith,” Marguerite winced. “In what? In God? Where was He when I needed Him?”

“Ah, that’s why you don’t go to Church,” Alex said. “Well, if you can’t have faith in God, have some in yourself. There’s more to you than you’ve allowed – I think we’ve all seen it. Do it for your art if you can’t do it for yourself.”

She shook her head. “I think I have to do it for Jacob. He doesn’t deserve what I’ve handed him – he was always good and kind to me, to all of us. If there’s any hope I can ease his pain, then that’s why I have to stay.”

Alex smiled and squeezed her hand. “Good enough, my dear. I’m starving. Have you eaten yet?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry. You go get something – I need to work. Not for Clay and Molly, for myself.”

“All right, then,” Alex said, “but you can’t stay cooped up in here forever.”

Beatrice did not usually wander the halls at night, but she could not sleep – although outwardly calm, the day’s events had left her agitated. She noticed a light under the nursery door and knocked softly.

“Come in?” Marguerite said hesitantly. She was seated on the sofa surrounded by sketches. “Oh, Mrs. Palmer, I’m sorry. Was I disturbing you?”

“Not with the light,” Beatrice said. She picked up one of the sketches that had fallen to the floor. “This is a good one of Jacob, although he looks much younger.”

“It’s how I remember him.” Marguerite shuffled the pile of sketches together. “Today seems to have opened the floodgates.”

“May I?” Beatrice asked, holding out her hand.

“I’d rather not,” Marguerite said, “not to seem ungrateful. . .”

“Think nothing of it,” Beatrice said. “I’m merely curious, not prying.” She sat down in one of the wing chairs, gathering her robe about her. “You’ve raised quite a storm in my house, you know.”

“I know,” Marguerite sighed. “I’m sorry – it was not my intention.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Beatrice said. She paused a moment. “You didn’t come down to supper, and you skipped dinner, as well. You must be famished.”

Marguerite shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry.”

“I won’t have you starving yourself,” Beatrice said sternly, “especially if you’re not going to sleep, either.” She took Marguerite’s hand. “We’ll go raid the pantry. Come now, I insist.”

Marguerite followed her downstairs into regions of the house she had not yet seen. The kitchen was in the wood frame portion of the house, but the pantry was built of logs, floored with unfinished planks. “You have such an interesting house,” Marguerite said, hoping for details.

“Yes, this was the house at first.” Beatrice stretched out her arms – she could almost touch the shelves on each side of the room. “Clay Sr. and I built it ourselves. Clay was born here.” She sighed. “I daresay it should be torn down – but not until after I’m dead, I hope.” She took a crate of eggs down from the shelf, and some cheese. “How about I whip us up an omelet.”

“Allow me,” Marguerite said. “One thing I did learn in France was how to make a proper omelet. Do you have milk?”

Beatrice nodded and took a pitcher from the ice box. She showed Marguerite where the bowls and utensils were, then lit the stove while Marguerite prepared the food.

Marguerite found some solace in preparing the simple meal – it was a long time since she had cooked for someone, and was pleased at the result. She had not forgotten the old skill.

“I’m must admit I’m surprised you have no servants,” she said, dishing up the omelet.

“This is my home,” Beatrice said. “Why would I delegate the care of it to someone else? Of course, I don’t do all the work – Rory helps with the cooking and housework, and everyone is responsible for keeping their own rooms. When we have large parties, I do occasionally hire one of the neighbor girls to help out, but I’m well able to care for my home myself.”

“Tell about this house,” Marguerite asked. “You must have been one of the original pioneers. When did you come? Eighteen forty nine?”

“Eighteen forty three,” Beatrice corrected her. “Years before the gold rush. We had the ranch well-established by that time – Modesto didn’t exist yet. A few farms and ranches, not much else.”

“Indians?” Marguerite asked.

“Yes, Indians,” Beatrice frowned. “They welcomed us at first – they had been fairly well treated by the Spanish – they thought they had nothing to fear from us. And they didn’t – not until the gold rush, when the government set out to exterminate them.”

“Oh, dear, I had no idea,” Marguerite said. “One hears such tales. . .”

“Lies,” Beatrice said starkly. “Greed and lies, that’s what the gold rush was founded on. It was a dark time – don’t believe all you hear about it.”

Marguerite cleared her throat. “Well, what about the rest of the house?”

“This part,” Beatrice indicated the kitchen, “we built when Clay was little, in anticipation of a larger family. Which did not happen.”

“I wondered,” Marguerite said. “There’s such a large age difference.”

Beatrice sighed, her forehead wrinkling. “We lost two to smallpox, one to scarlet fever – we almost lost Clay that time, too. I had several miscarriages. My husband had the new portion built when I was pregnant with Rory. I didn’t want it – I was afraid I’d lose her just as I had the rest, but he insisted. It was as though he knew she’d thrive and be the daughter we both wanted. And he was right.”

“And then Alex came,” Marguerite said. Beatrice raised her eyebrows, startled. “He told me himself,” Marguerite explained.

“Did he now? You should feel honored – he doesn’t tell that tale to just anyone.”

“Was it a shock?”

“A surprise, certainly,” Beatrice said, “but my husband had already confessed the dalliance years before. He didn’t know there was a child – he wouldn’t have left Alex without a father if he had.”

“So. . .you just took him in?” Marguerite asked tremulously.

“There was no ‘taking in’,” Beatrice asserted, “he was ours as much as Clay or Rory were.”

Marguerite sat silent for a moment. “I think he told me because he didn’t want me to feel alone.”

“And you aren’t alone.” Beatrice put a hand on Marguerite’s arm. “We’ll help you in any way we can.”

Marguerite bowed her head. “I’m afraid I don’t see what’s to be done. The past is gone, over and finished. How could I remake it?”

“In here,” Beatrice touched her chest, “and in here.” She touched her temple. “Do you think you’re the only one with regrets?”

“No, I know I’m not, but I don’t know how to go on from here.”

“Sometimes you have to put your foot down in the dark, if you have no light,” Beatrice said.

Marguerite thought a moment. “You’re talking about faith,” she said, “and I have none.”

“Then let us lend you some of ours.”

When Marguerite did not come down for breakfast, Clay went upstairs to check on her. He found her before the easel, a portrait sketched out on the canvas – but instead of two figures, as he expected, there were five. “What are you doing, Marguerite?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I should be working on your portrait,” she said, “but I have to do this. Don’t ask me why; I couldn’t begin to explain it to you.”

Clay examined the canvas. Three figures were seated in the foreground, a tall figure flanked by two shorter ones. Behind these, two darker figures, standing. “It’s your family, isn’t it?” he asked. “Here,” he pointed at the taller seated figure, “is Lucian, and the ones on either side must be you and your sister.”

Marguerite nodded, wordless.

“Then the two in back must be Jacob and Benjamin. Am I right?”

“Yes. I know it’s not what we agreed. . .”

“No, it’s all right,” Clay said. “Actually, it’s more than all right.” He turned beaming eyes on her. “Go ahead, you have my blessing.”

“Thank you,” Marguerite said. “Thank you for understanding.”

Clay nodded, smiling, and left her to her work. She contemplated the canvas. Which one first? She sighed. Although she thought that she knew herself not at all, if she had a hope of getting anyone’s soul on the canvas, she had best start with herself. She took up her brush and began to paint.

Chapter 5

Modesto, 1880


Molly smiled and squeezed Clay’s hand. “Of course, that’s not the whole story, but everything began there, that night in the buggy. Mrs. Laven recommended me for the job at the orphanage, so I was able to stay in Modesto.”

“We’d have managed that, somehow,” Clay said. “I’d never have let you go.” He turned to Marguerite. “You understand, I’ve only told two people about Jim and Lucy – Molly and my brother. Not even my mother, and absolutely not my sister.”

“I understand,” Marguerite said. “I’ll respect your confidence, certainly.” She gathered up her sketches – she had used almost an entire pad while their story was told. “We’ve done enough for today – I’ll need to assimilate all this. Let’s have another session tomorrow, with the clothes you wish to wear.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Beatrice said, standing in the doorway. “I hate to interrupt, but the steaks are getting tough, and if you don’t come to dinner now, it’ll be ruined.”

Clay pulled out his watch. “I’m sorry, Mother. We lost track of the time.”

They followed her down to the dining room. “I know you’re here to work, Marguerite,” Clay said as they were seated, “but we don’t expect you to do so on the Sabbath.”

“Will you be joining us for Church?” Beatrice asked.

Here it comes. “I don’t attend Church,” Marguerite said.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, but all she said was, “Very well. Spend the day as you wish. We’re attending the theater tonight – I’d be pleased if you would join us for that.”

“There’s a theater?” Marguerite asked in surprise.

“And a concert hall,” Clay said proudly. “Modesto may be small, but we pride ourselves on our culture. What’s the play, Mother? ‘Much Ado About Nothing’?”

“Yes, but no jokes from you,” Beatrice said, mock severely. “So would you like to join us, Marguerite?”

“I’d be delighted. I adore Shakespeare.”

Beatrice smiled. “I had a telegram from Jacob, Clay. He’ll be home on the noon train tomorrow.”

“Did he get a good price for the wheat?” Clay asked.

“He thinks so. I’ll leave you two to discuss that,” Beatrice said.

“Do you ride?” Alex asked Marguerite. “We could pick out a horse for you for tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“It’s been awhile,” Marguerite said, “but yes, I know how. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Alex said.

That was easier than I expected. Marguerite recalled how Molly had confessed to a lack of, but a desire for, faith in God. And I’m the opposite. Still, as she regarded Molly over the dinner table, she felt a sort of kinship.

She accompanied Alex to the stables to pick out a horse after dinner. “I hear there are atheists in France,” Alex said in an exaggeratedly casual tone.

“Are you asking if I’m an atheist?”

Alex shrugged. “Guess so. Never met one before.”

“And if I were? Would you try to convert me?”

Alex held the stable door for her as she stepped into the warm, dark interior, pausing a moment to savor the aroma of horse. “Don’t reckon I’d know how,” Alex said. “I mean, God seems obvious to me – if He’s not to you, it’d be like trying to explain blue to a blind man.”

Alex led her to a stall. “This is Missy.” The sorrel mare lifted her head and whinnied. She butted her head against Alex’s chest. “There’s my pretty girl,” he said, offering her some sugar he had swiped from the sugar bowl.

Marguerite looked up at the tall mare. “I don’t know, she might be a bit more than I can handle.”

“Oh, she’s docile as a kitten,” Alex said. “She likes the ladies, too.” He handed Marguerite some sugar. “Come on, get acquainted.”

Marguerite stepped up to the stall half-door and fed Missy some sugar while she stroked her nose, sighing pleasurably. “I’m not an atheist,” she blurted, unsure why she felt the need to justify herself. “I just don’t attend Church.”

Alex smiled, relieved. “Well, then, I don’t guess it’s a requirement. Do you mind me asking why not?”

“It’s a long story,” Marguerite said. “Too long.”

“Don’t mean to pry,” Alex said. “How about a few turns around the paddock so you two can get to know each other?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring riding clothes,” Marguerite said regretfully.

“Rory can fix you up, I’m sure,” Alex said. “You run and ask her while I get Missy saddled up for you, all right?”

Marguerite smiled. “All right.”

She returned a few minutes later in a too-big riding skirt pinned and belted to fit her. Alex had saddled another horse as well, and the two of them trotted around the paddock until Marguerite felt comfortable with her mare.

She went back into the house to find Clay and Molly in the parlor. “I do need to work on the sketches I made today,” she said. “So we’ll have another session on Monday, then?”

“After school,” Molly said. “I do have to work.”

“All right,” Marguerite said. “I’m working to your schedule, after all.”

She went upstairs to the studio and laid out the sketches on the table. She had drawn pages and pages of eyes, she found. Clay’s particularly compelled her, the joy in them as he looked at Molly, the sorrow as he told of Lucy’s betrayal, the horror of his attempt at murder. How was it possible for one person to contain so much that was dark and so much that was light all at the same time? To contain both sorrow and joy? Remorse and hope? Their sorrows haven’t crushed them. She frowned. Why not?

She suspected that a more pertinent question was, Why have mine? but she repudiated that thought. She hardened her heart – it was the only way she knew, the only way that had ever worked. Was this more of God’s doing? She suspected it was, but was determined that He would not win against her. He had refused her prayers when she needed Him, there was no way He would ever win her back into the fold. Try though He may, her soul – poor thing that she knew it was – was her’s and no one else’s.

She opened another sketchpad – she would have to send for more at this rate – and began putting her ideas together.

She worked all afternoon, and after an early supper, accompanied the Palmers to the theater. Clay escorted his mother and Molly, Alex his sister and Marguerite. As Marguerite took his arm, she hesitated – her race had not seemed an issue until this moment, but if she walked into a public place on the arm of a white man. . .

She squared her shoulders. Let them look – she cared for their approbation no more than she cared for God’s.

Still, she took a moment to observe whether anyone noticed. There was a stir when they entered the theater, but as the Palmers did not react to it, Marguerite surmised that this was not unusual where they were concerned. She was not by any means the only colored person at the theater, and as they settled into their seats, she relaxed and enjoy the play.

She had seen better, she thought, but the actors who played Beatrice and Benedict were good, playing off each other with wit and verve, so she was glad she had come. The Palmers stopped to chat with some of their friends afterward, introducing Marguerite to them. No one seemed to find anything remarkable about her presence there, so she breathed a sigh of relief.

The next morning, after an early breakfast, the Palmers left for Church, leaving Marguerite alone in the empty house. She felt. . .bereft. She did not understand why – she had spent most of the last five years alone, it should not bother her now. She shook herself, changed into her borrowed riding gear and went to saddle Missy.

Not knowing the area, she chose to stick to the road, spurring Missy into a trot in the direction away from town. She soon came to a neat white clapboard house, with a picket fence and gate. The sign on the gate read ‘J. Carr’, at which Marguerite started, then shrugged. There were many Carrs in the world, and she had never met one named Jacob. She assured herself there could be no relation, but still she felt seared to the bone.

She kicked Missy into a gallop, hoping to cool the fire in her heart. Strange how a single word, coming from nowhere, could so unnerve her. She bent low over the mare’s neck, not daring to close her eyes at this pace, and strove to clear her mind.

She finally pulled up her winded horse and dismounted, allowing Missy to graze. She looked around her – newly plowed fields surrounded her, and she could see a house around a bend in the road. Hoping to water the horse there, she led the mare around the bend. Another clapboard house, this one painted a merry yellow. No one was home, as she would expect on a Sunday morning, and the name on the gate was ‘Gardner.’ So this must be the home of Clay’s betrayer. Strange, to have them so nearby. She felt calmer as she contemplated the sign – she found solace in the fact that pain was common. Even the wealthy had their share.

She opened the gate, found the trough and allowed the horse to drink. She walked the mare down the road until she was well cooled down, then remounted and headed back to the ranch house at a canter, arriving well ahead of her hosts. She tended to the horse, then went inside to change and freshen up.

She heard the Palmers and Molly return from church – the chatter of familiar voices and the rumble of an unknown deep bass voice. She hurriedly finished dressing and headed down the stairs.

Beatrice looked up as she came into the parlor. “There you are,” she smiled. “Marguerite, I’d like you to meet Jacob Carr.” She gestured toward the gray-haired man sitting beside her.

No one told me he was colored. The Palmers’ nonchalance about her race suddenly made sense. Jacob stood and she smiled up into the strong dark face and offered her hand.

Jacob took it, and stopped, stunned. “You!” he shouted.

Recognition seized her at the same moment. “Mr. Butler?” she said weakly.

Marguerite had never fainted in her life, but she did so with gratitude now.


She came to on the sofa in the parlor, surrounded by the women. She could hear muffled shouting coming from the library and she groaned aloud.

“Are you all right, dear?” Beatrice asked, putting away the vial of smelling salts. “Did you hurt your head?”

Marguerite shook her head. “No, I’m not hurt.” She wished she could disappear. Oh, that this too, too solid flesh should melt. She covered her face with her hands. She could almost laugh – God had outmaneuvered her after all – the one person in this world who still had the power to break her heart.

She laughed sardonically, remembering her Bible lessons. “Jacob. Of course – the father of Benjamin.”

“Who is Benjamin?” Molly asked with a frown.

“His son,” Marguerite said, still unable to show her face. “Oh, Lord, save me. I killed his son.”

Chapter 4

Modesto, 1879

Darkness was gathering as Clay Palmer looked up from his law books in frustration. He rubbed his brow, sighing. He was getting nowhere. As he paused to light the office lamp, there was a knock at his office door. His secretary had gone home for the day, so he answered the door himself.

The woman who stood there looked familiar, but he could not place her. “Yes?” he asked.

“Mr. Palmer?” the woman said. “I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I would like to consult you, if I may.”

“All right, Miss. . ?” he asked, his tone cool, but stepping back and opening the door for her to enter.

She handed him a pasteboard card. He took it and read the fine, Copperplate script. “’Mary K. Holt.’ Ah, yes, Molly Holt. I’ve seen you at Church – my mother speaks very highly of you.”

She walked, rigid as a board, back erect, to the chair he offered her. She was darkly dressed, Clay noted, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and smoke-tinted spectacles on her eyes.

“Recently?” she asked, stiffly.

“I’ll be frank with you, Miss Holt,” Clay said, perching on the edge of his desk, “I have heard some nasty rumors about you, but I am far too busy a man to listen to malicious gossip. My mother’s not the sort to do so, either. On what matter do you wish to consult me?”

Miss Holt looked down at her hands and folded them neatly on her lap. “Well. You know, then, that I was a governess for the Nagle family.”

“Yes, my mother’s known Cora Nagle for years. She was very impressed with the way you turned those boys around – they were once the terror of the county.”

A ghost of a smile crept across Miss Holt’s face, then vanished. “They aren’t bad boys, really, but they’ve had the misfortune to be raised by parents who don’t know the difference between discipline and punishment.”

“Too many of those, unfortunately,” Clay said.

“All I did was to show Jim and Aaron how to use their energies more constructively.”

“That can’t have been as easy as you make it sound.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. I’ve certainly had worse jobs.” She looked up at Clay. “I really miss them. I’m sorry I had to leave them as I did. But it wasn’t as you’ve heard.”.

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

Miss Holt looked down at her hands again. Fidgeted. Clasped her hands together. “One evening a month ago, Mr. Nagle came home drunk, which wasn’t unusual, but this time. . .” she paused unhappily.

“Did he assault you, Miss Holt?” Clay asked gently.

She smiled now, grimly. “He tried, Mr. Palmer. But I know how to take care of myself. I made sure he wouldn’t try anything like that again, and it should have ended there, but the next thing I know Mrs. Nagle is giving me the sack.”

Clay shook his head. “I can’t believe you would have stayed there after that.”

She shrugged. “I would have stayed for the boys. My problem is now that I find that it’s my name that’s being dragged through the mud. I can’t find another position because my reputation has been tainted. So I ask you, Mr. Palmer, do I have any legal recourse?”

“Do you wish to press charges against Mr. Nagle?”

“It’s too late now, isn’t it? I might have been able to prove something if I’d done so when it happened, but he’s had time to heal, now.” She shifted in her chair. “I understand the burden of proof is much less in civil court.”

Clay raised an eyebrow. An informed client, evidently. “Well, yes, but the burden of proof is still on the plaintiff, the accuser. There are two possible briefs we could file. ‘Wrongful dismissal’ is one – but I have to tell you that the law comes down pretty heavily on the side of the employer. We’d have to prove gross misconduct, and as you’ve pointed out, that would be difficult to do. Or we could sue for slander, but that’s even more difficult – we’d have to prove both that it was one or other of the Nagles who are spreading these rumors, and that the rumors are untrue.”

“And you believe that to be impossible.”

Clay sighed. “Not impossible, but very difficult. Another lawyer might take it on, but if you’re seeking my advice. . .”

“I am.”

“. . . Then my advice would be to let it drop. Not only do you have a very poor chance of winning, but filing a suit would keep the scandal alive.”

Miss Holt sat thoughtful for a long moment. “Very well, since I have asked your advice, I should not be such a fool as not to take it.” She stood. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Miss Holt. I cannot help you.”

“You do charge a consulting fee, do you not?”

Clay walked behind the desk. “Generally, yes, but I often waive it.”

“I pay my debts, Mr. Palmer,” Miss Holt said severely.

“I’m sure you do, but you haven’t incurred one here.”

“I’ve sought your professional advice, and I have taken it. In what way have I not incurred a debt?”

“I can’t help you. I won’t charge you,” he repeated.

Miss Holt removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, which were green and surprisingly soft. “Mr. Palmer. Please. I have very little in the way of dignity left. Please don’t take away what little I do have.”

Clay leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. “Miss Holt. Molly. How much money do you have? I know it can’t be much.”

Molly replaced her spectacles. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Do you have any family, anyone who can help you?”

“That’s also not your concern.”

“I take that to mean ‘no,’” Clay said. “What kind of man do you think I am, to think that I’d take money from you now?”

Molly glanced down. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be a debtor, and I’ve never been a debtor.”

Clay sighed. “Very well, I’ll suggest a compromise. I’ll send you a bill, but you have to promise not to even think about paying it until you’ve found decent work. Fair?”

“Fair,” Molly said, giving him her hand. “You may send it to Mrs. Ephraim’s Boarding House.” She turned to go, then turned back. “I’ve always heard you were an honorable man, Mr. Palmer.”

“Clay,” he said. “For what it’s worth, Molly, I believe you to be an honorable woman.”

“Thank you,” Molly said quietly. “That is worth something to me.”

Clay walked her to the door and saw her out. He went back to his desk, sat, feet on top of the law books, unheeding. He lit a cigar, smoking pensively, then stamped it out. He put on his jacket – he was already late for dinner. He blew out the lamp, closed the shades, and went home.



He lit an after-dinner cigar and stared into the fire in the Palmer parlor. His brother sat reading a book while his sister knitted some unidentifiable charity garment. His mother put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Is something wrong, Clay? You’ve hardly spoken a word all evening.”

Clay kissed her cheek. “No, nothing wrong, Mother. At least, not with me.”

“You’ve been working hard on the railroad negotiations – I’m sure you’ll find an equitable agreement.”

“No, it’s not that, either, although I am going to have to work a lot harder on it tomorrow. I. . .well, once again I seem to have hit the limits of legal justice.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Just. . .someone whose only possession was her good name and who’s had it stolen from her. There’s no restitution for that,” he said, bitterly.

“Someone like Molly Holt,” Beatrice said.

Clay raised an eyebrow. “Now why do you mention her?”

“Because she’s been on my conscience. I’d like to do something for her, but for the life of me I can’t think what.”

Alex raised his head. “Molly Holt? Isn’t she that governess the Nagles got after their boys got kicked out of the school?”

Clay nodded.

“Woman should get a medal for taking on that lot,” Alex said.

“How can you say that, Alex?” Rory asked. “After what she did?”

“What did she do?” Alex asked.

“Really, Alex,” Rory said. “Everyone knows what she did.”

“‘Everyone,’ Sis?” Alex asked. “How could ‘everyone’ know? Was ‘everyone’ there?”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Rory said.

“Out on the range, yes,” Alex said, “but you’ll find, Rory, that what ‘everyone’ knows is almost never so. It’s vile.” Alex pounded the arm of his chair. “You soil a poor man’s name, that’s bad enough, but soil a poor woman’s, and you might as well rob her and leave her in a ditch.”

“Oh, really, Alex,” Rory said. “No one ever died from a bad reputation.”

“I’ve seen it, Rory,” Alex said. “I’ve seen women pushed to starvation, or worse. All for the sake of a little ‘harmless’ gossip.”

“What’s worse than starving?” Rory asked.

“Think about it. If a woman who needs to work can’t get decent work, she’ll either starve or take indecent work.”

“That’s. . .horrible,” Rory said. “You mean Molly could end up like that?”

“The world can be a very cruel place, Sis, especially for a woman alone,” Alex said.

“Can’t we help her, Mother?” Rory asked.

Alex snorted. “You sure change your tune in a hurry.”

“Well, even if she did do. . .what everyone says she did, she doesn’t deserve that. No one does.”

“Don’t offer her money, whatever you do,” Alex said to Beatrice.

“Amen to that,” Clay muttered.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Beatrice said. “I should pay her a call, though. That’s the least I can do.”

“Actually, Mother,” Clay said, thoughtfully, “that in itself might go a long way toward solving her problem, if you make sure you’re seen doing it.”

“Do you think so?” Beatrice thought for a moment, then smiled. “You may be right at that.”

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Clay said.

“Maybe. Let me talk to Molly first.”

“See, Clay,” Alex said, “you helped your client after all.”

“Now, Brother, I never said Molly Holt was my client. I can’t say that I’ve ever met Molly Holt.”

“You can’t say it, Brother, but we can think it.”

“Think whatever you like,” Clay said. “Now, I’ve had a tiring day, so I think I shall retire with a good book, and not a law book, either. Good night, Mother,” he said, kissing her.

“One more thing,” Beatrice said. “If I’m to pay a call on her, do any of you know where she went after she left the Nagles?”

“Well,” Clay said, “I do believe that I have heard she was staying at Mrs. Ephraim’s Boarding House.”

“Thank you, Clay. Good night, dear.”

Clay fairly bounded up the stairs.



Molly struggled with the pump in front of the boarding house. The pump was rusty, and sweat stained her back. Her wiry black hair had escaped its ribbon, and long tendrils straggled along her cheeks and forehead. She looked up at the sound of a buggy approaching, and with some surprise recognized Beatrice Palmer. She shoved her hair back from her face and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Good morning, Mrs. Palmer,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Good morning, Molly,” Beatrice said. “I’m sorry it’s so early, but I wanted to be sure to catch you at home.”

“You did?” Molly frowned slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Is there someplace private we could talk?” Beatrice asked, descending lightly from the buggy.

“There’s my room,” Molly said, “but there’s nothing to sit on except the bed and a couple of trunks.”

“I can sit on a trunk. When my husband and I first came to California, we lived in a tent with nothing but a couple of apple crates and a straw tick full of bedbugs.”

“Well, I can’t offer you any bedbugs, but if you want to come up, you may. Let me take this water to the kitchen first.”

“I’ll help,” Beatrice said, putting a hand to the bucket.

“I can manage it,” Molly said, pulling the bucket away.

“I’m sure you can, but why should you when I’m here to help?”

Molly gave Beatrice a hard stare from behind her spectacles. “Come on, then,” she said.

There was barely space in Molly’s room for the narrow bed, bureau and two trunks pushed up against the wall. Beatrice ran her hand over the spines of Molly’s books, which were carefully arranged on the bureau, before perching herself on a trunk, seeming entirely at her ease.

Molly sat down on the bed, smoothed back her hair and said, “I suppose Mr. Clay Palmer sent you to talk to me?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Clay told us that he’d had a client he wished he could have helped, but he didn’t mention names or particulars. It was my own bad conscience that brought you to mind.”

“Bad conscience? Why? You don’t owe me anything. Cora Nagle is your friend – it’s only natural for you to take her side.”

“Is it? If you think that we should be against you, then why did you consult my son?”

“I know his secretary – we’re in the same sewing circle. Generally, when people discuss their employment, it’s to complain, but Annie never did. She only spoke of his kindness, and his integrity. I thought I could trust him.”

“You can. I do, better than anyone in the world.”

Molly clasped her knee. “Why did you come?”

“I’ve known Cora Nagle for years. I know her follies as well as her strengths, but this is far beyond folly. I ask you, if a friend of yours had done someone a grievous injury, and was either unable or unwilling to put it right, what would you do?”

Molly thought. “I would try to put it right myself.”

“So we do understand each other,” Beatrice said.

“But, Mrs. Palmer, most people don’t think that way.”

“If you do, and I do, what does that matter? And please call me Beatrice.”

Molly hesitated. “I don’t think I’m ready to do that yet.”

“Very well. When you’re ready. Now, as to your situation, I think I may know how to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m proud, Mrs. Palmer, but I’m no fool. If you can help me, I won’t argue.”

“Then it’s my pleasure to invite you to accompany myself and my family to Church tomorrow.”

Molly gasped, shocked, then threw back her head and laughed. “Mrs. Palmer! What a bold person you are!”

“I’ve invited Rev. and Mrs. Laven to the ranch for Sunday dinner, and I’d like you to come as well.”

Molly strode two steps across the room and clasped Beatrice’s hands in hers. “Thank you. All I need is a chance to redeem myself, and you’re giving it to me. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay such kindness.” She hesitated. “Beatrice.”

Beatrice smiled. “By passing it on, of course. I’m merely repaying the many kindnesses I’ve received myself.”

“I will. Thank you, you won’t be sorry.”

“No, I won’t. One of my sons will call for you tomorrow. I believe Clay is the only one you know?”

“Yes, barely.”

“Well enough,” Beatrice nodded. “He’ll call for you around ten thirty.”

“Everything all ’right and proper,’ Beatrice?”

“Of course. We want to show that we respect you.” Beatrice stood. “I shall see you tomorrow at worship.”

“I’ll walk you down.” As Molly watched Beatrice drive away, she considered what had just happened. The Palmers, the first family of Stanislaus County, were taking her disgraced self to Church. It was almost too funny to bear.

She ran back up to her room, threw herself on the bed and laughed until she cried.



Aurora pulled on her gloves as she descended the staircase. “Really, Mother, I don’t know why you had to invite her to Church with us.”

“Now, Rory,” Beatrice said, “we all agreed to help her.”

“But this, Mother! I don’t know how I’ll ever raise my head again.”

Beatrice turned at the bottom of the staircase and glared up at her daughter. “Then stay home, Aurora!”

“Mother, you don’t mean that.”

Clay emerged from the library at the sound of raised voices. “I do,” Beatrice said. “I won’t have you taking such unchristian thoughts into the Lord’s house. Perhaps you’d do better to stay at home and contemplate what company Our Lord kept.”

Rory hid her face in her hands. Clay moved to comfort her, but Beatrice held his arm. Rory dropped her hands and wiped her eyes. “All right, Mother. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“Will you be kind to Molly?”

“I will try. I’ll not be unkind to her, at least. I promise.”

“Very well,” Beatrice said, kissing Rory’s cheek. “Please go tell Alex that we’re ready.” Rory fled back up the stairs.

“Don’t you think you were a little rough on her, Mother?” Clay asked.

“My only daughter,” Beatrice sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve overindulged her. She’s become altogether too spoiled and selfish.”

“But she always ends up doing the right thing.”

Beatrice smiled and kissed Clay’s cheek. “I’m glad you have faith in her. Now go call for Molly – we’ll meet you at the Church.”



Molly watched from the window of her room. As soon as she saw the Palmers’ buggy turn the corner, she grabbed her shawl and dashed down the stairs. She was standing, breathless, on the porch as Clay reined in. “Good morning, Molly,” he said, climbing down and assisting her into the buggy. “Are you ready for this?” He climbed in beside her.

Molly nodded. “I have to be, don’t I?”

“It may be difficult,” Clay said, “but keep your head high. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Molly smiled and squared her shoulders. “Is this better?”

Clay gave her chin a tiny nudge upward. “Now it is.”

Molly chuckled. Clay flicked the reins.

He pulled the buggy up in front of the church and helped Molly to alight. Offering her his arm and an encouraging smile, he led her into the church. His brother and sister were waiting in the foyer. “Miss Molly Holt, I’d like to introduce you to my sister Rory. . .”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Rory said, subdued.

“. . .And my brother Alex.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Alex said, taking Molly’s hand.

“Where’s Mother?” Clay asked.

“Here she comes, now,” Alex said.

Beatrice bustled into the foyer. “Molly, how good to see you,” she said, kissing Molly’s cheek. “Marjory is ill today, so I have to play the organ, but I’ll rejoin you before the sermon.” She took in all her children in one glance. “You know what to do,” she said and hurried up to the choir loft.

“What are we doing?” Molly asked.

“We’re supposed to stand here looking conspicuous and make sure that anyone who wants to talk to us has to talk to you, too,” Alex said.

“I feel like a prize cow at the fair,” Molly said.

“Now that’s not so bad,” Alex said consolingly. “If you saw the way we pampered our prize cattle, you’d be glad to be one.”

“Alex,” Rory said, “don’t be talking about cattle in Church.”

“Why not? If God made cattle, I don’t see why He’d mind us talking about them.”

“It’s not very uplifting is all.”

Molly smiled wistfully. How nice it would be to have brothers again. Suddenly, she felt small arms thrown around her from behind.

“Miss Molly! Look Aaron! It’s Miss Molly!” Jim Nagle buried his face in Molly’s waist. Molly looked up to see his parents swooping down on her – she gave Jim a quick hug.

“It’s good to see you, Jim, Aaron.” She reached out and touched Aaron on the shoulder.

“Git away from her, boys,” Fred Nagle hissed, barely controlled.

Cora tugged at his arm, futilely. “Fred, please.”

Fred glared around at all the Palmers. “I don’t know what the likes of you are doing with the likes of her!”

“My mother invited Miss Holt to worship with us,” Clay said.

“And if the likes of you doesn’t like it, you can come talk to the likes of me!” Alex hissed.

“Come along, boys, Fred,” Cora pleaded. “Let’s find our pew. The service is about to start.” As the Nagles traipsed up the aisle, each one looked back at Molly: Fred glaring, Jim longingly, Aaron wistfully, Cora with such a look of mortification that Molly found herself longing to run and comfort her.

“That’s one unhappy woman,” she whispered. She did not realize that she was weeping until Clay handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes. “That was hard.”

“Let’s find our pew,” Clay said gently. He escorted Molly into the sanctuary, the others following.
Molly enjoyed the hymns, as she always did, but she barely heard the sermon. She assumed it was about Love and Forgiveness – Rev. Laven’s sermons generally were. She was grateful for Beatrice’s presence – she found the older woman’s strength and self-assurance comforting. One final hymn and she was filing out of the church, shaking hands with the minister, climbing into the surrey with Alex and Beatrice while Clay and Rory went ahead in the buggy to see to dinner. “Are you all right, Molly?” Beatrice asked.

“We had a run-in with Fred Nagle,” Alex said. “It shook her up a mite.”

Molly took a deep breath – she could finally feel her heart beating again. “No, it wasn’t that. It was Cora and the boys. It’s hard to see people you care about so miserable.”

“I see why you might care about the boys, but Cora?” Beatrice said.

“Apparently so,” Molly said. “I didn’t think I did, but seeing her face today. . .I find I can’t be angry with her anymore.”

“Good, Molly, good,” Beatrice said, patting Molly’s hand.

“Maybe so,” Alex said, “but if Fred Nagle ever bothers you again, you come tell me, Molly, you hear?”

“He doesn’t bother me,” Molly said, leaning back and staring at the passing scenery. Brothers. It would be so nice to have brothers again.



At dinner, Molly found herself seated between Clay, at the foot of the table, and Rev. Laven to her left. Mrs. Laven was to Clay’s right, across from Molly and next to Alex. At least Beatrice was at the head of the table, as Molly expected. Molly was relieved that the food was served family-style, so she wouldn’t have to spend the entire meal wondering which fork to use.

“So, Molly,” Alex asked, passing the food around, “how did you manage to tame those Nagle boys? Because if those two weren’t headed for jail, I’m not Alexander Palmer. I know their father beats them – I can’t imagine what punishment you could use that would get through to them.”

“I never hit them,” Molly assured him. “They’ve already been hit far too much. There’s a big difference between discipline and punishment.”

“What do you mean, Miss Holt?” Rev. Laven asked.

“Punishment only instills fear of getting caught. Discipline instills conscience, a desire for good. Punishment is certainly a lot easier to administer – discipline takes time and a lot of patience.”
“Weren’t you tempted?” Alex asked.

“Not really. I admit I’ve had to use force a few times, especially at the beginning, to keep them from hurting themselves or each other, but never violence. How can you trust someone who hurts you?”

“But what did you do? That’s what I want to know.”

“I helped them find ways to put their energies to constructive use. Aaron, for instance, likes to take things apart. . . ”

“Destructive little menace,” Rory muttered.

“. . .But I showed him that putting things together is far more interesting. Whatever money he came by ended up buying tools and parts. He’s built some amazing contraptions – all perfectly useless, of course – but he can take them apart and put them back together in quite creative ways.”

Rev. Laven nodded. “Admirable. But what about Jim? His mother is always despairing that she cannot get him to stop lying, to save her soul. How do you make a seeming natural-born liar stop lying?”

“I didn’t. I made him write them down and embellish them.”

“I don’t get it,” said Alex. “You get him to stop lying by encouraging him to tell better lies?”

“Jim has a very active imagination. If he can learn to use that constructively, and learn the distinction between fiction and lies, then that is a good thing. Didn’t Our Lord use stories to show the truth? Jim’s real problem right now is that lying is very useful to him as a way of avoiding his father’s violent punishments. I wasn’t able to do anything about that, unfortunately. Once Jim learned to trust me, he never lied to me. But that’s the best I was able to accomplish in the time I had.”

“Yes,” Rev. Laven said. “I’ve tried to curb that violent temper of Mr. Nagle’s, and his drinking. Many a time, to no good purpose.”

“You seem very wise about children, Miss Holt,” Mrs. Laven said. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience with them?”

“Not as much as I would like. I raised my four brothers after my father died, and was studying at a ladies seminary to be a teacher when the War intervened. I was never able to achieve my certificate.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Union Army burned the seminary down.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Laven said. She paused. “But after the War? Couldn’t your brothers have helped you to find a way to finish?”

“They might have. If any of them had come home.”

Rory gasped. Molly stared down at her plate. I will. Not. Cry.

“Perhaps we should stop plaguing Molly with questions and let her eat her dinner,” Beatrice said.

“No,” Molly looked up. “I’d like to finish answering the question, if I may.”

“Of course,” Beatrice said.

“After the War, I drifted. I worked my way downriver and westward in whatever employment I could find. I tried to always be honest, though I admit I was not always respectable.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Laven asked.

“For instance, I worked for a while as a costumer for a traveling Shakespeare troupe. I know that working in the theater is not considered ‘respectable,’ but I’m not ashamed of it.”

“So you could be a dressmaker,” Rory said.

Molly touched her spectacles. “Not anymore. My eyes are too weak for anything but plain sewing. One of the jobs I had, four or five years ago, was as cook at a lumber camp. Many of the lumbermen had also had their educations cut short, so I taught several of them to read and do arithmetic.”

Clay looked startled. “Dick Shalot?”

“Yes, Dick was one of my pupils,” Molly said, crinkling her brow. “A quite good one, too. He went through all the Readers in about six months, and was almost ready for Algebra when winter closed in. How did you know?”

“Because it was our lumber camp,” Clay laughed. “You might be pleased to know that we’re sending Dick back East in a couple of weeks to study engineering. He’s one of our best men, smart as a whip.”

“He told me once he’d learned to read from a cook,” Alex said. “I’d never thought I’d meet her.”

“It looks as though the Palmers owe you a debt, Molly,” Beatrice said.

“Not really,” Molly said. “Dick was very eager to learn. I don’t think anyone could have stopped him.”

“Never underestimate a good deed, Miss Holt,” Rev. Laven said. “It’s possible that someone else might have come along to change that young man’s life, but you were the one who actually did.”

“Now, I really think it’s time we let Molly eat, don’t you?” Beatrice said. “That was an interesting sermon today, Reverend. . .”

Under the chatter of conversation which ensued, Clay leaned over and whispered, “Brava!”

“I hadn’t intended to tell the entire life history,” Molly said.

Clay merely smiled and ate his dinner.



“I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, Beatrice,” Rev. Laven said, after dinner, “but I need to stop by the orphanage and we have several ill parishioners to call on.”

“Quite all right, Reverend,” Beatrice said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“Miss Holt,” Rev Laven said, “it’s been a pleasure to deepen our acquaintance.”

“Molly,” Mrs. Laven said, pressing her cheek against Molly’s, “so good to get to know you.”

“Perhaps I should go, too,” Molly said as the Lavens made their departure.

“Nonsense,” Clay said. “You’ve been working like a stevedore. It’s time for you to relax and be a guest.”

“Come sit down, Molly,” Beatrice said, taking her arm. “Why, you’re trembling. Sit down, dear. Alex, fetch her a brandy.”

“I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I’ve been under such a strain the past month.”

“Don’t apologize,” Beatrice said. “Here, drink this. Slowly now. Perhaps you’d better lie down. Rory, could you please show Molly to the guest room?”

“No, I’m all right,” Molly said, clutching her glass. “If I could sit quietly for awhile?”

“Come into the library,” Beatrice said, “it’s quiet in there.” Clay took Molly’s elbow and they followed his mother. “Here’s a sofa, there’s a lamp - I noticed you like George MacDonald,” Beatrice continued, “and we have several of his books, too, but feel free to help yourself.” She plumped up a pillow on the sofa. “Relax and no one will bother you for an hour.”

Molly smiled, and mother and son left her. “Where’s Aurora?” Beatrice asked Alex who was still sitting in the parlor.

“She went upstairs a little while ago,” Alex said. “Didn’t say why.”

“That’s not like her,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps I’d better check on her.”

“Let me, Mother,” Clay said. “She may still be feeling awkward from your tiff this morning.”

“Tiff?” Alex asked.

“It was nothing,” Beatrice assured him. “All right, Clay – see if she needs anything.”

Clay climbed the stairs and stood outside Aurora’s room, listening a moment, hearing nothing. He rapped a knuckle on the door. “Rory?”

“Go away, Clay,” Rory said through the door. Clay heard her sniffle, then she said, “No. Wait. You may come in.”

Clay opened the door to find Rory sprawled across the bed, eyes red and streaming. “Rory, what’s wrong?” Clay asked, although he had an idea.

Rory sprang up and threw herself into her brother’s arms. “Oh, Clay. She’s so goodhearted and kind and she’s had such a hard life and I’ve made it worse!”

“Now, Sunny, how could you have made her life worse?”

“I gossiped about her, Clay. All the trouble she’s in, I helped to make. I’m so ashamed. I’ve been so mean.”

Clay sat on the bed and put his arm around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept. “Yes, you’ve done wrong, dear, but you’re deeply sorry for it, aren’t you?” Rory nodded against his shoulder. “Then you’re a better person today than you were yesterday. That’s all any of us can do, is try to be better today than we were yesterday.”

“Bless you, Clay,” Rory said. “You always know the right thing to say.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, Sunny, I misjudged her myself when I first met her. I thought she was stern and prim and stiff. But what she really was, was frightened.”

“She won’t need to be frightened anymore, will she, Clay? Not with you and Mother looking after her.”

“Not with all of us looking after her. When did you know the Palmers to all agree on something and not be able to do it?”

“Never,” Rory said.

“Don’t worry, Sunny. I have very good feelings about Molly Holt.”

“So do I.” Aurora smiled, wiping her eyes. “You haven’t called me ‘Sunny’ since I was a little girl.”

“I know,” Clay said. “Guess I felt like playing at Big Brother.” He kissed her nose. “Better?”

“Yes, but I think I’d like to stay here and think and pray for awhile.”

“All right, Sunny, but I’m here if you want me. Shall I send Mother up to you?”

Rory nodded. “Yes, please, if you think she won’t be angry with me anymore.”

“No, dear, she won’t.”



Molly read for awhile, and when Beatrice returned for her, found she felt much better. She enjoyed spending the rest of the day with the Palmers – Alex showed her is favorite horse, Rory showed off her prize rose garden, Beatrice and Clay had both read many of the same books that she had and enjoyed talking about them, and all the Palmers endeavored to make her feel at home.

Clay drove Molly back to Modesto after supper. The night was moonless, and Molly leaned back in the buggy, looking up at the stars. “I wonder why the sky seems so much bigger here than it does back East? Look, there’s Mars. And I think that’s Jupiter. And over there are the Pleiades.”

“That’s the Seven Sisters, right?” Clay asked.

“Yes, except you can only see six stars with the naked eye. With a telescope you can see hundreds.”
“May I ask you a personal question, Molly?” Clay hesitated. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Molly stiffened, then forced herself to relax. “Of course. You’ve earned the right.”

“Why did you stay in Modesto?”

“I’m not sure. Part stubbornness, I think, not to be run off when I’d done nothing wrong. But this is the third time I’ve been to this part of California, in a life where I’ve never been to the same place twice. I guess I wanted to find out why.”

“Perhaps you’re finally ready to settle down.”

“I hope so. I’m nearly forty – it would be nice to have a home of some sort. I’ve been a feather on the wind for so long.”

“Or perhaps a feather on the breath of God.”

Molly cocked her head. “Would you be shocked if I told you I didn’t believe in God?”

“Surprised, certainly, given your taste in books.”

“I read MacDonald because he believes in God.”

“I don’t understand,” Clay said.

“I’d like to believe. I could wish there was a loving Father who looked after us and guided our feet, but I don’t. If I have no fire of my own, I can at least warm myself at others’ fires.”

Clay turned and scrutinized her, but there was sympathy in his eyes. Molly seemed to struggle with herself. Finally she said, “Clay? There’s something I left out of that life story I told at dinner. May I tell you?”

“If you wish to, of course.”

Molly held her breath, closed her eyes. “I lost my husband in the War, too.”

“I’m so sorry, Molly.” Clay calculated. “You must have been very young.”

“I was twenty when the War began. Henry was twenty years older than me – he’d been a friend of my father’s, so I had known and loved him all my life. He insisted that I finish my education, even after we were married. He believed that the world would be a better place if everyone, man or woman, was educated to as high a level as they could achieve.”

“He sounds like quite a man.”

“He was a visionary. He saw the world as it could be, and he spent his life working for that. He’d been a long-time abolitionist. . .” she paused, “no, more than that. He was part of the Underground Railroad. He was always putting himself in danger for others, the War was no different. He was old enough to be exempt, but he felt he couldn’t stay out while others died for what he believed in.”

“I was in the War, too,” Clay said. “I was a lieutenant in a colored regiment. At least your husband died fighting for what he believed in.”

“He died, that’s all I know,” Molly said bitterly.

Clay pulled back on the reins. He turned to Molly. “Would you rather he’d had a senseless death?” he asked angrily.

Molly was taken aback. “I’d rather he’d not died at all.” She touched Clay’s arm. “I’ve offended you – I’m sorry, but I don’t know why.”

Clay flicked the reins again. “It’s nothing. Not your fault.”

Molly released his arm, shook her head, then took his arm again. “It’s not nothing. Will you let me make it right, whatever I did wrong?”

Clay reined in the horse once more. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It’s. . .my wife, Lucy, died in a buggy accident. We’d had a fight, she ran out – she always drove too fast, this time – well, it was my fault, you see.”

“All married couples fight, Clay – it’s not your fault.”

“It was.” Clay shifted anxiously. “Lucy and I grew up together – she was the belle of the county. She could have married anyone, but she waited for me to finish law school. And I neglected her. She wanted us to live in Sacramento or San Francisco, but there are plenty of lawyers there. These are my people, Molly – I grew up here, I know them, they know me. And I worked hard. Too hard to suit Lucy. She was right, I guess. She spent more time with our friends Jim and Sarah Gardner than she did with me.”

“You were trying to establish yourself,” Molly said, “she understood that, I’m sure.”

Clay shook his head. “No, she didn’t. And I didn’t understand her, or weigh her needs enough in the balance, and so she died. But that’s not the worst of it.” He turned to face her. “At the funeral, Jim Gardner condoled with me how terrible it was to lose Lucy and her baby both.”

Molly put her hands to her face. “She was with child?”

Clay nodded. “Yes, only I didn’t know it. And Jim did.”

“Oh, dear.” Molly turned pale.

“I walked away from him that day, too shocked to utter a word, but it ate at me, Molly. Day after day, like a cancer. Until the day I loaded up my gun and rode to his farm, intending to make an end of it – it was going to be either him or me.”

Molly shook her head. “You never talked to him about it?”

“What was there to talk about? Lucy would never have told him before me if it had been mine – it didn’t bear thinking of.”

“What happened? You didn’t kill him,” Molly said hopefully.

“No,” Clay slumped, “I didn’t. I didn’t even go through the gate. His daughter Abigail was sitting in the yard making mud pies, and I looked at her, and I couldn’t go through with it. Whatever might have happened between him and my wife, I couldn’t make his daughter an orphan. I turned around and went home and haven’t spoken to him since. But I had murder in my heart, Molly. I can never forget that – that I’m capable of murder. It’s a black place in my soul that I’ll never be rid of.”

Molly frowned. “I don’t think that’s so, Clay. You were in pain, and very angry. It was your pain and anger that wanted to kill, not your heart. If not Abigail, you’d have found some other reason. You’re not a killer.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Clay began to flick the reins, but Molly tightened her grip on his arm and he let them drop.

“Henry came home for a week, before he was killed,” she said. “We had an awful fight. My brothers were all gone, I begged him to stay with me, but he refused to desert. And then three weeks later he was dead, with no way for me to take back the hateful things I’d said.” Clay nodded in sympathy. “When I got the word, I didn’t even pack – left with the clothes on my back and what little money I had in my purse. I went to Louisville and got a job on a riverboat, and somewhere around Natchez I had a miscarriage.” She covered her face with her hands. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant. Three years married before the War, and it had never happened - I thought I couldn’t, but – if I’d stayed home, I might have. . .” She looked up at him, her face tear-stained. “I might still have something of Henry. So you see, I do know how it feels to be responsible for someone’s death.” She hid her face again, weeping.

Clay put his arms around her. “Molly, Molly dear, don’t cry,” he said. “I’m here, it’s all right,” and then he was kissing her, and it was, somehow, all right.