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.

Chapter 3 Reworked

Reworked portion in BOLD

Modesto, 1880

True to Marguerite’s belief, she did not go back. She bought her paints, canvas, brushes and other necessaries and set to work. It had been years since she had painted a proper portrait, and she was uneasy about this commission, but she set to with a will. She used part of her advance to hire one of her fellow roomers as a model, a not-yet-faded dance hall girl, and gave her as much attention as she would have a fine lady in a mansion. The girl was flattered by the result, and although it did not approach the heights Marguerite had reached with Molly’s miniature, it was with an increased confidence that Marguerite set out for Modesto on the thirteenth of April.

There was no railroad line to San Diego yet, so it was a long stagecoach ride to Los Angeles, then a much swifter and more comfortable rail journey to Modesto. As she got off the train, she was greeted by a tall, strongly-built man. “Miss Dumas?”

“Yes,” she said, offering her hand. “You’re Mr. Palmer?”

“Alex Palmer,” the man agreed. “My brother Clay asked me to pick you up – he’s tied up in court. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Marguerite said. “It’s most kind of you.” She had been somewhat confused – Molly had said her fiancé was a lawyer, but this man was pure cowboy, from his hat to the worn boots on his large feet. He even smelled like a cowboy, as Marguerite noted when he offered her his arm to assist her along the platform. Not that she objected; not in the least. She had known the Palmers were ranchers, but she had assumed they were gentleman ranchers. She was pleased to learn the contrary.

There was a surrey and a buckboard loaded with supplies waiting in front of the station, attended by another cowboy. “Give Pedro here your baggage tickets, and he’ll take your luggage out to the ranch for you,” Alex instructed her. “We’ll be picking up Molly on the way – your things might even arrive ahead of us.”

She handed over her tickets, and Alex handed her up into the surrey as Pedro tipped his hat and went off to collect her baggage. As they drove down the street, Alex pointed out the courthouse, an unimposing wood frame building. Indeed, Modesto itself was singularly unimposing. Like many Western towns, the streets were of dirt, with wooden sidewalks. The most imposing structures in town were the two large water towers in the center of it. Although the area was blessed with a river and many streams, little rain actually fell and the inhabitants were forced to make the most of what rainfall there was.

Alex spoke little on the drive out of town, for which Marguerite, not an admirer of empty pleasantries, was grateful. She spent the time studying her companion – his hair was sandy and damp from sweat under the worn hat. His skin was nearly as leathery as his vest, but the blue eyes that peered out from under the heavy eyebrows were keen, and the lines around them were humorous ones. Aurora had said he was ten years older than herself, so he must be a year or two younger than Marguerite.

“Gonna draw a picture?” Alex asked eventually.

“I might,” Marguerite said coolly, although caught off-guard. She was glad that her complexion would hide the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks. “Would you mind?”

Alex shrugged. “Don’t see why you’d want to, but it wouldn’t hurt me in any way.”

“How much further to your ranch?” she asked in order to change the subject.

“About another half hour to the ranch, about that far again to the house.”

“How big is your ranch?” Marguerite asked, doing a quick calculation.

“Twenty two thousand acres, and a bit,” Alex replied.

Marguerite whistled. “That’s enormous.”

“It’s big for out here, but there are larger spreads up and down the valley,” Alex said. “Mostly wheat farms or nut orchards around these parts, but we’re the largest ranch in the county. Several counties.”

He lapsed into silence again – not an uncomfortable silence, Marguerite thought, merely that he was a man who, when he had nothing to say, did not fill up the air with empty words.

“This here’s our ranch,” he said as they passed an invisible boundary and turned down a rough track. “The orphanage is just off here a piece.”

They pulled up in front of a white clapboard house. Several children, apparently just released from school, clattered down the stairs and began playing in the yard. Marguerite spotted Emily’s red head among them as the girl began tossing a ball to some younger children. Molly tripped lightly down the steps, and Alex sprang from the surrey to assist her aboard.

“Admirable timing, Alex,” Molly congratulated him.

Alex grinned. “The train was on time.” He looked at Marguerite. “Would you like to move to the back with Molly? I’m sure you ladies have more to talk about than I do.”

“All right,” Marguerite agreed. She hopped down and accepted Alex’s aid in stepping up into the rear seat of the surrey.

Molly greeted her warmly, taking her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Dumas. I’m so excited about this portrait.”

“Please, call me Marguerite.” She once again felt drawn. What was it about this woman? Marguerite wondered. Had she met her somewhere on her many travels? She did not think so, and surely Molly would have remembered her if that were so – it was unlikely that the woman numbered many colored women painters among her acquaintances.

“All right, then you must call me Molly.”

As they emerged from the track onto the main road, a horse and rider passed them at a gallop. The rider was already reining in his horse when Molly stood, hitting her head against the canopy of the surrey, waving her hand and calling, “Clay!”

Clay Palmer turned his horse and met the surrey, bending down and taking Molly’s hand. He planted a hearty kiss on her lips. “No need to shout at me, dearest,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “I could see you well enough.”

Although dark-haired instead of blonde, Clay had the same vivid blue eyes as his brother and sister. Regular, somewhat chiseled, features – Marguerite recognized a classical profile when she saw it. She understood Molly’s qualms now. Wealthy, handsome, Clay Palmer surely could have any woman he wanted. That he evidently wanted the rather plain, middle-aged woman he was currently lavishing his affections on made Marguerite look upon him with a growing respect.

“Dearest,” Molly gently pushed Clay away, “this is Miss Dumas.”

“I had gathered that,” Clay said, reaching across Molly to offer Marguerite his hand. He dismounted, looped his horse’s reins to the back of the surrey, and leapt into the seat beside his brother. “Forgive me for missing your train, Miss Dumas. I know Silent Alex here is hardly fit company for a lady.” He punched his brother in the arm and Alex grinned back at him.

“He was admirable company,” Marguerite said. “I find him quite pleasant.”

“What?” Clay raised his eyebrows comically. “Alex has never been known for his gift of conversation.”

“He converses very well,” Molly joined in, “after you get to know him. He just doesn’t speak unless he has something meaningful to say.”

“You’re in high spirits, Brother,” Alex said. “You must have won your case.”

Clay grinned. “That I did – justice was served at long odds.”

Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, Clay! That’s wonderful! We’ll have to celebrate.”

“We would be anyway, because Miss Dumas is here,” Clay pointed out.

“A double celebration, then,” Alex said.

“As you wish. I won’t argue.” Clay reached back and took Molly’s hand. “Plenty of reasons to celebrate,” he said warmly.

Marguerite felt a pang of – what? Envy? It should be nothing to her whether others were happy when she was not. Still, she did wonder what had brought these two together – the plain, poor schoolteacher; the handsome, accomplished landowner. Well, part of painting a portrait was getting to know one’s subjects. She would ask, and at the first opportunity.

They arrived at the ranch house, and an odd construction it was. Another large water tank loomed over it from behind. The front, obviously newer, portion of the house was two-story brick, but the back was wood-frame, and even whole logs. Evidently, the house had been added to at need over a period of decades – Marguerite appreciated a house with a history, and was curious to learn this one’s.

They were greeted in the front hall by Rory and her mother. “Miss Dumas,” Clay introduced her, “you already know my sister Aurora, this is my mother, Beatrice.”

“So pleased to meet you, Miss Dumas,” Beatrice Palmer said, taking her hand. She was gray-haired, but the children had obviously inherited their eyes from their father, for their mother’s eyes were a warm hazel. “Your things have arrived ahead of you,” Beatrice continued. “Rory, perhaps you’d care to show Miss Dumas to her rooms?”

“May we, Mother?” Molly asked, a gleam in her eye. “Clay and I?”

“If you like,” Beatrice acceded with a smile. “It was your idea, after all.”

Molly took Marguerite by the hand and led her up the broad staircase, Clay following behind. Molly threw open the door to a large room and stood back proudly to let Marguerite enter. An easel stood in the corner; a long, narrow table along one wall for Marguerite’s supplies, and a sofa and two wing chairs pushed against the wall. But the highlight of the room was the large window facing north that admitted just the right sort of soft light an artist needed.

“Oh, my, this is wonderful,” Marguerite said. “A perfect studio.”

“Your bedroom is next door,” Molly said, “but I was sure you’d want to see the studio first.”

“Thank you – it’s very thoughtful,” Marguerite smiled. “I’ll set up right away.”

Clay laughed. “Tomorrow, mademoiselle. Tonight you rest and refresh yourself.”

“All right,” Marguerite said, “but I am eager to get started. What is this room? It’s not usually a studio, I presume.”

“It was the nursery,” Clay said, putting his arm around Molly. “Someday it will be again.” Molly looked up at him and smiled, somewhat wistfully. “Soon, we hope,” Clay continued, smiling down at her, wistfully as well.

There was an uncomfortable pause, which Molly broke. “Let me show you which room is yours, then you can freshen up and relax a little before dinner.”

Marguerite’s bedroom was comfortably furnished, although somewhat small. Hot water and towels awaited her on a stand by the dresser, and her trunks had already been brought up, but not unpacked. The Palmers apparently lacked servants – in a more fashionable household, her things would have already been put in the wardrobe and dresser.

Molly and Clay left her to her ablutions, and she was changing her dress when there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” Marguerite asked.

“Rory,” came the reply. “I thought you might need some help getting ready.”

“Come in.” Marguerite hastily gathered the back of her unbuttoned dress together. “Thank you,” she said. “I can button myself, but some help would be appreciated.”

“No problem at all,” Rory said, stepping behind Marguerite and tugging at the buttons. She spoke not a word at her task, and although their acquaintance was sparse, Marguerite knew that taciturnity was not a trait Rory shared with her brother.

“Something’s bothering you,” Marguerite said.

Rory sighed. “Why didn’t you come call on us? You said you would.”

“I’m sorry,” Marguerite said. “This is the first portrait commission I’ve had in a long time. I needed to practice – the time passed more quickly than I was aware of.” See? I can lie without telling a single falsehood.

“Well,” Rory said, fastening the last button, “I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to do a good job. I can see this is very important to you.”

“It could open a lot of doors for me,” Marguerite agreed.

“I wish you success, then.”

“Thank you.” Marguerite turned around. “Have you talked to your family about what we discussed?”

Rory brightened, her eyes flashing. “Yes!” she said. “I’m going to have tutoring over the summer, then enroll in college in the fall – so I’ll be going back to San Diego. I’ll miss my family, but I’m very excited about it.”

“I’m sure they’ll miss you, too, but you’ll make friends quickly. You’ll have a string full of beaus before you know it.”

Rory wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want a string full of beaus. I’m an heiress – do you have any idea how hard it is to tell if someone likes me for myself, or for my money?”

Oh, indeed I do. “I see your problem – I’m sorry I spoke out of turn. You’re embarking on your own adventure, and I’m truly happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Rory turned to go. “Mother said to tell you that dinner is in half an hour. We don’t ring a bell or anything, so come down when you’re ready. We usually gather in the parlor before going in to dinner.”

“I’ll be down soon,” Marguerite said as Rory left.

She finished freshening up, then went downstairs to the front hall. Which of these doors led to the parlor? She opened one to discover the library, and was about to close it when she was arrested by a large portrait over the mantelpiece. A man and woman – the woman dark-haired and hazel-eyed, the man blue-eyed and blonde. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, she surmised. She walked in to study it more closely. Yes, the children did get their eyes from their father. She tilted her head as she gazed at it. It was a fair enough likeness of Mrs. Palmer, but unless the lady had changed a lot in the years since the picture was painted, it was all wrong. Both subjects looked prim and stolid – not the sort of people who had raised the easy-mannered and confident men and young woman Marguerite had met.

“It’s not very good, is it?” Marguerite started as Beatrice Palmer entered the room behind her. “I’m sorry to startle you,” Beatrice apologized. “You left the door open – the parlor is across the hall.”

“I wasn’t sure, then I saw this,” Marguerite explained. “It’s a good enough likeness, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem to capture you.”

“I hope not,” Beatrice said. “I look like a marm-ish spinster.”

Marguerite laughed. “I’m afraid that’s true.”

“And my husband had a big laugh and a bigger temper. He threw everything he had into everything he did.” Beatrice turned to Marguerite. “We were all very impressed with your painting of Molly – most people only see her plainness. It takes a keen eye to see her beauty.”

Marguerite was flustered for a moment. “I’m glad you think so.”

There was a noise of chatter from across the hall. “Time for dinner.” Beatrice took Marguerite’s arm. “Let us go in together, shall we?”

Marguerite was led into the dining room and seated at Beatrice’s right hand, Alex across from her. Clay sat at the foot of the table, between Aurora and Molly. “We’ll have to put in the leaf when Jacob gets back,” Alex observed.

“Who is Jacob?” Marguerite asked.

“Father’s business partner,” Rory supplied. “He manages our business affairs as well as his own now, since Father died. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

“He has a house about half a mile further down the road,” Beatrice said, “but he takes his meals here. He and my husband generally worked late, so it became a habit.”

“More than that,” Aurora said. “He’s practically one of the family.”

“So he is,” Beatrice agreed. “Clay, would you say grace, please?”

The food was plentiful, well-prepared if somewhat plain. Clay was still ebullient from his victory, so Marguerite had no trouble deflecting personal questions, for which she was grateful. After dinner, they all adjourned to the parlor. Alex was pleased to find that Marguerite could take Jacob’s place at the chess table, and although he did defeat her, it was not by much.

That night, Marguerite lay in bed, thinking. These people were all so nice, it was worrisome. Although she found she longed to know them better, particularly Molly, she did not want them to get to know her. Too much past, too many easy lies - she did not know how long she could maintain her façade.

After breakfast, Molly and Clay joined her in the studio. She sat them together on the sofa and pulled out one of the wing chairs to face them while she sketched in pastels.

“Don’t you want us to dress?” Clay asked.

“Not today,” Marguerite said. “Today I want to concentrate on your faces. I need to capture your expressions, and your eyes, and what you feel for each other. Why don’t you tell me how you met, how you came to love each other?”

Clay shifted uneasily. “I’d rather not.”

“Why not?” Marguerite asked, nonplussed.

“Because it’s not all sweetness and light,” Clay replied. “There are dark corners it’s best not to pry into.”

Of course, this only made Marguerite more curious. “I don’t think that portrait of your parents is very good, do you?”

“What does that have to do with it?” Clay asked tersely.

“Painting a portrait is more than just capturing a likeness - a camera can do that better than an artist can. It’s about capturing the soul. This is your wedding portrait - I need to put your love on the canvas.”

Molly clasped Clay’s hand. “Clay,” she said gently.

Clay looked at her as though she had spoken volumes. “If she captures you the same way she did the miniature, then I’ll be satisfied.”

“And when I look at it in years to come, I want to see you, Clay,” Molly said. “The man I love. Not some whitewash.”

Clay pursed his lips. “You know there are places in my soul I don’t like to revisit, Feather.”

“Mine, too,” Molly said. “Perhaps telling a disinterested party will help us with it.”

Marguerite listened eagerly to this exchange. Perhaps the Palmers were not pure and simple as they seemed. This was certainly getting interesting.

Clay sighed. “You’re sure, dearest?”

Molly nodded. “If we want it to be honest, we should. If not, then let’s go down to the photographic studio in town and have done with it.”

“I guess you’re right,” Clay said reluctantly. He turned to Marguerite. “None of this is to leave this room, you understand?”

“Yes,” Marguerite said. “My lips are sealed, of course.”

Clay stood paced, hands behind his back, and with Molly supplying occasional details and corrections, began to tell their story.

Chapter 2

San Diego, 1880

Marguerite went about her old habits - selling her miniatures on the docks and in the market. She never again painted as she had for Molly, and she did not try, doing her best to push that experience to the back of her mind. Her little nest egg grew slowly, but surely.

Roughly six weeks later, she was approached by a young woman accompanied by two children. The woman’s elegant attire spoke of money, her long-legged gait spoke of someone accustomed to riding horses: money and horses - Marguerite pegged her as belonging to one of the wealthy ranches that dotted California. The children were a puzzle - they were ten or twelve years old and the woman seemed no older than twenty-four or -five. The boy was dark-haired and -eyed, the girl redheaded and fair, both contrasting with the young woman’s golden curls and large blue eyes.

The woman turned to the two children, handing them her shopping basket and a list. “You two go do the shopping while I speak with this lady,” she said, indicating Marguerite. “I’ve written down what things should cost, so don’t let anyone cheat you.”

“No, Miss Rory,” the boy said, grinning, “we won’t.”

The woman smiled at them, then turned to Marguerite, offering her hand. “Miss Dumas?”

“Yes?” Marguerite said, taking it.

“I’m Aurora Palmer. You painted a miniature for my brother’s fiancée, Molly Holt, a few weeks ago. Do you remember?”

Marguerite felt no surprise - she had been half expecting that shoe to drop, and here it was. “Yes, I remember. Is everything satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes,” Aurora smiled. “My brother has sent me with another commission, if you’re interested.”

“I’m always interested,” Marguerite replied. “What does he have in mind?”

“Do you paint portraits? I mean, full-size portraits?”

“Not for several years,” Marguerite said. “But yes, I have, of course.” Her heart began to pound, and she unconsciously put her hand to her chest.

“Clay simply adored the miniature of Molly, and he would like you to paint their wedding portrait, if you’re available.”

“He’s seen it already?” Marguerite asked, wondering why she picked at the inconsequential.

“Molly was so pleased with it, she couldn’t wait to give it to him,” Aurora explained. “Would you come to dinner, and we can discuss the terms? We’re staying at my family’s beach cottage. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I promise not to poison you.”

Marguerite smiled. “Of course you won’t. I’d be happy to come.”

“Good.” Aurora gave her directions and the time, then rejoined the children who had finished their shopping.

Marguerite contemplated. It seemed that the God she no longer loved was conspiring to send her to a place she had no desire to go. She pressed her lips together in a grim smile. God wanted to trifle with her, after all this time, did He? She dared Him to try.

She would take that commission, if it was at all profitable, and she was sure it would be. Let God do His worst - she was ready for Him.


She put on her best dress and pinned her best hat atop her carefully coiffed hair. The Palmer cottage was a mere mile or so from her rooming house, so she walked the distance, her chin lifted defiantly.

Aurora Palmer stood on the porch, barefoot, attired in rolled-up denim trousers and a pink shirt knotted at the waist. “Hello,” she greeted Marguerite with a smile. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called loudly, “John! Emily! Time to come in!” She took in Marguerite’s attire. “I suppose we’d better dress for dinner.”

“No, don’t bother,” Marguerite said as the children ran along the beach toward the cottage. “You’re on holiday. Don’t dress up for me, Miss Palmer.”

“Not holiday, exactly,” Aurora said, “and call me ‘Rory’ - everyone does. I should have thought of it before - it’s been so long since we had company, except for the family. But if you don’t mind - we won’t be here much longer and I want the children to enjoy what time we have left.”

“Of course, don’t give it another thought,” Marguerite said as the children arrived.

“Say ‘hello’ to Miss Dumas,” Rory commanded, "then wash up at the pump and come in to dinner.”

“Hello,” the children said cheerily as they headed around the cottage to the pump at the back.

“Come on in,” Rory said, opening the door for Marguerite. She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, then led Marguerite into a small parlor. “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea, perhaps? We have ice if you’d like it cold.”

Ice tea sounded refreshing after her warm walk. “Yes, please, that would be lovely.” Marguerite took the opportunity to gaze around the parlor as Rory went to fetch the tea - three doors opened off the room, two at the back, evidently the bedrooms, and the door that Rory had vanished through, obviously the kitchen. The room was well and comfortably furnished - clean, if not altogether tidy. Books, papers and drawings lay scattered about in a welcoming tumble. Certainly a room for living in.

Rory returned with two glasses of tea on an enameled tray. Marguerite heard the two children laughing and splashing at the pump. “Nice children,” she remarked, taking her glass and sipping it. “Yours?”

Rory laughed. “Heavens, no! I’m not nearly old enough. They belong to the orphanage where Molly works.”

Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

“She didn't tell you?”

“We didn't discuss it,” Marguerite said. “We didn't really have that much time to talk.”

Rory nodded understanding. “There was a scarlet fever outbreak there a few months ago. My mother and brothers went to help with the nursing, but I couldn't, as I've never had scarlet fever. I had to stay home and run things at our ranch,” she said with a sigh.

“Which I'm sure your family greatly appreciated,” Marguerite said.

“I guess,” Rory said, “but I wanted to do something to help, so when it was over, I offered to bring Em and John, who were the sickest, down here to complete their recovery.”

“They certainly seem healthy now,” Marguerite observed.

Rory smiled. “They are. The doctor says we can go home as soon as it's warm enough back in Modesto, so we should be leaving in two or three weeks. It's been fun, but it will be good to get back home.”

Emily and John tumbled in the door then, laughing and still damp from the pump. “Don't want to go home!” John chimed, catching Rory's last remark.

“I do,” Emily said. “I miss all my friends. I'm glad we came, but I'll be glad to get home, too.”
John frowned at this. “Ah, well, I guess you're right. As long as we don't have to go right away.”

“Which we don't,” Rory said, standing. She led the way into the kitchen, where the meal was spread out on the table. “It's just some cold steamed crab and salad - it's too hot for hot food, if you don't mind.”

“Sounds perfect,” Marguerite said.

“I caught the crab,” John said proudly.

“Found it in a tide pool,” Emily corrected.

“I still had to catch it, didn't I?” John said defiantly.

“Yes, you did,” Rory said, “and we all appreciate it. Marguerite, if you'll sit here, next to me,” Rory indicated, “and Emily, would you please say grace.”

Marguerite bowed her head along with everyone else, although she certainly did not pray.

The food was good, simple and refreshing, and decidedly not poisonous. After dinner, Rory dismissed the children to play on the beach. “Only until sunset,” she warned, “then you have to come in and finish your lessons. And don't turn your back on the ocean.”

“You say that every time,” John complained good-naturedly. “We remember.”

“See that you do,” Rory smiled. She turned to Marguerite. “It's a nice evening to sit on the porch and watch the sunset, if you'd like.”

“All right,” Marguerite agreed, following her out to the porch and seating herself in the proffered rocking chair while Rory sat on the porch rail, stretching out her long legs in front of her.

“Well,” Rory said, “Down to business, I guess. The wedding is the first of June. How long will it take you to paint a portrait?”

“Depends on the size, and the subject,.”

“Well, of course it will include both my brother and Molly,” Rory said. “Clay thought it should be about three feet by four.”

“No animals or props?” Marguerite asked. “He doesn't have a favorite dog he wants included?”

Rory laughed. “No, why?”

Marguerite shrugged. “Some people do. In that case, four to six weeks ought to do.”

Rory nodded. “It's the middle of March now, so if you go up the middle of April, that should give you enough time. That should also give you enough time to buy supplies and finish up whatever projects you have here. That reminds me - wait just a moment.” She hopped down off the rail and went into the cottage, returning in a few moments carrying a small reticule. “Clay wanted me to give you an advance to buy supplies with.” She shook out a few coins and offered them to Marguerite. “Is a hundred dollars enough to start?”

Much more than enough. Marguerite's eyes grew wide but she was too stunned to do anything but nod. Rory handed her five twenty-dollar gold pieces, the coins weighing heavy in her hand. She had never earned so much at once.

“Now as to your price,” Rory said, “Clay said I could go as high as five hundred.”

Marguerite laughed nervously. “You're a very poor negotiator to give away your bargaining position like that,” she observed.

Rory shrugged. “We have plenty of money; it's never been our way to short shrift people.”

“It's a wonder you do have so much, then.”

“Well, the West was completely open when my parents came here,” Rory said. “They had to fight for what they earned, but they didn't do it by abusing people. Father always thought the way to get the best workers was to offer the best wages, and he was right. 'You get back what you give away,' he always said, and I've never known him to be wrong about that.” She grew sober for a moment. “At least, not until he was killed.”

“How?” Marguerite asked quietly.

“You don't know?” Rory asked. “I thought everyone around here knew how Barclay Palmer died.”

“I'm not from here,” Marguerite said.

Rory shook her head. “No, of course you aren't. Forgive me. Well,” she shifted uncomfortably, “in addition to our family businesses, Father was elected to the State Senate a couple of years before he died. He was working on legislation to rein in the railroads, as well as to end child labor and grant equal rights to the Chinese workers. He was gunned down on the street in Sacramento - his killer has never been caught, but it's obvious that it was a political murder.”

“I'm so sorry,” Marguerite said, her stomach clenching.

“Thank you,” Rory said. “It's been five years and it still seems fresh, sometimes.” She shook her head. “But back to you - will five hundred be enough?”

“Yes,” Marguerite said. She paused, then said sincerely, “I'll certainly try to make it worth that much to you.”

“I'm certain you will. Molly showed me the miniature - it was quite a work of art. If you can do the same on a larger scale, we'll all be very happy.”

The sun was beginning to set, so the children returned from their explorations. Rory excused herself for a moment to settle them to the day's schoolwork, returning a few moments later carrying a pair of leather-bound journals. She lit a lamp that hung beside the porch rail. “Would you mind giving me your artistic opinion about something?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Marguerite replied, prepared to flatter this wealthy patron for all she was worth. She opened the first journal, but sat nonplussed for a moment, unable to tell just what she was looking at.

“It's a sea anemone,” Rory supplied. “I've been drawing the tide pools. It's not very good, is it?”

The drawing now resolved itself, and Marguerite turned the pages, filled with similar drawings of anemones, limpets, crabs and other creatures she had seen but did not know the names of. Many of the pages had notes alongside the drawings, written in a pretty feminine hand.

“No, actually, they're rather good. You might want to take some drawing instruction, but you certainly have ability,” Marguerite said sincerely.

“There's a Natural History Society here in San Diego,” Rory said. “I've been to a few meetings, and a couple of the young men there have taught me and helped me with my observations.”

Marguerite glanced at the girl's golden head and sweet face and smiled to herself.

Rory swept her arm out toward the ocean. “I'm so drawn to that,” she explained. “There's so much about it we don't know; we're barely dabbling at the edges of it at the moment.”

Marguerite considered her with more seriousness now. “You're saying you want to be a scientist?”

Rory nodded. “I haven't been to college yet. I've been waiting until I knew what I wanted.” She hugged the journals closer. “I'll have to talk to my family about it first, of course, when I get home.”

“Will they make difficulties for you?”

Rory shook her head. “Of course not. Both my parents were big supporters of education. My mother has founded three schools. It's just that - “ she gazed out over the ocean, “well, I've been rather spoiled. I'm afraid they might not take me seriously.”

“I would have said you were completely unspoiled,” Marguerite said.

Rory laughed. “Thank you. I've grown up a lot the few months I've been down here, I think. Taking care of the children has been fun, but it's also been a big responsibility. I'm the youngest, you see. The younger of my two brothers is ten years older than I am, and I'm the only girl. Father, especially, doted on me.” Her eyes clouded for a moment. “But I know what I want to do with my life now. I'm sure they'll support me once I convince them I'm serious.”

“If it's what you love, then of course you should pursue it. With all your heart,” Marguerite said, well aware of the hypocrisy of her words.

“Thank you,” Rory said. “I shall. Oh dear, I've kept you past dark. Would you like me to see you home?”.

“No need, you'd only have to come back in the dark, too. I'm used to these streets. I'll be all right.”

“All right, then,” Rory said, not arguing. She handed Marguerite a small slip of paper and shook her hand. “Here's Clay's address in case you need to telegraph him directly. Do pay us another call when you have the chance.”

Marguerite nodded and said, “I will,” but as she walked away she knew that she would not.

Chapter 1, cont.

She sat back, unsatisfied. She dipped the miniature in her bucket, washing it clean, prepared to start over. She contemplated her sketches, seeing her subject again in her mind's eye. No simple daub was going to satisfy, not for this subject. She wet her brush and dipped it in burnt umber, washing the color over the ivory. Chiaroscuro - it was a painstaking technique, one she had not used for years, but this time. . .well, perhaps thirty dollars was not too much to ask, after all.

She felt a frenzy seize her. She painted all night, layering wash after wash across her oval. Burnt umber and sepia for the skin, emerald for the eyes, blue-black and violet for the hair. Her lamp was sputtering when she finished - she extinguished it and got up to open the drapes. She picked up the miniature by the edges and examined it critically. Yes, she had done it. She nodded in satisfaction, then frowned to herself. What was it about this woman that excited such strong feelings? She knit her brow. Something. . .she could not catch it, though she tried, in vain. She sighed and put the miniature back in its holder to dry before she applied the clear lacquer that would protect the colors.

She glanced over at her bed - she should sleep since she had been up all night - but found it particularly unappealing. No need to go to the docks, she had plenty of money. She took up her sketchbook, her pastels and her hat and made her way down to the seashore.

She walked along the sands, climbed over the rocks, looking for a vista to draw, but she could not settle. Armand's assessment was fresh in her mind - she shuddered. It was not true that she could not feel, it was only true that she tried not to. Emotion had never brought her anything but agony, but it was certain that something was stirring in her now, and she did not know why. She wasted several hours in these ruminations, her mind running in circles like a mouse on a wheel. Finally, she returned to her room.

The painting was thoroughly dry, and as she carefully lacquered it, she contemplated the likeness once more. Molly looked out at her, the image full of warmth and good humor. It was good, the best work she had done in years. The question that haunted her was, "Why?"

She threw herself on her bed and tossed and turned for a few hours until dinnertime, when she realized she had eaten nothing yet that day. This was unlike her, she'd always been of strong appetite. She sighed and went out for dinner, returning only to find a fitful sleep until the morrow.



She arrived early at the market, setting up her awning but not bothering to set out her samples. She sat down with her knitting and found that the rhythm of the needles calmed her admirably. As she saw Molly scurrying toward her, she was able to present her usual serene demeanor.

"Is it done?" Molly asked excitedly.

"Yes," Marguerite said, opening the pasteboard box she had stored the miniature in, carefully cushioned with cotton wool.

Molly gasped. "Oh, my, it's exquisite. You flatter me."

"Not at all," Marguerite assured her. "I hope I have captured you."

Molly took the box and examined the painting more closely. "Well, it's a thing of beauty, anyway," she smiled. "I do believe you've outdone yourself."

"I do believe I have," Marguerite agreed, returning Molly's smile. She had known it was good, but still Molly's praise warmed her.

Molly reached into her purse, took out a twenty dollar gold piece and handed it to Marguerite. "Wait," she said, rummaging in her purse and taking out another five. "I think you deserve a bonus."

Marguerite looked at the coin hungrily, then pushed Molly's hand away. "No," she said, "I've already charged you far more than I usually do. I'm well-paid. Go have it mounted - there's a jeweler in town who does excellent work."

Molly shrugged and noted the down the address Marguerite gave her. "Thank you," she said. "This will be a most excellent wedding gift."

"Best wishes," Marguerite said. "I hope you shall be very happy."

"I shall," Molly assured her, offering her hand. "It was very nice to meet you. I wish you well."

"Thank you," Marguerite said.

Molly took her miniature and departed. Marguerite watched her go, still wondering what about her had roused Marguerite so, but doubted she would ever know.

Portrait of the Past

Chapter 1: San Diego, California: 1880

Marguerite always arrived early on market day. She had no booth, only a small awning to protect her customers from the hot southern sun. Two chairs, a small table. Her quick, coffee-colored hands (coffee and cream) laid out the tools of her trade. Oval disks of sanded ivory, bits of velvet ribbon. A drawing pad, pastels, fine tipped brushes, paint.

She studiously ignored the mutters of a few of the other early risers. Some would like to drive her from the market, she knew. But hers was a luxury item – no competition for the farm goods and crafts of the others. Still, she was colored, and that was enough for some. Her sex offered her some protection, it seemed. Even the most profound bigot scrupled to harass a woman alone. At least here, in front of others.

She set out her samples, lingering over one miniature portrait, painted long ago. A girl she would never see again, nor did she wish to. She wondered why she kept it - not for sentimental reasons, certainly. Well, it was a good likeness. She put the miniature in its stand, and sat down with her knitting to await her customers.

Market days were usually slow - she generally had better custom setting up near the docks when the ships were in, but sometimes a vacationer or one of the many who came to this southern seashore for its healing effects would stop by. It was an outmoded sort of remembrance she fashioned, but one still desired by many. Some.

A woman walked through the market, shopping basket hanging on her arm. She paused a few steps away from Marguerite's awning, looking thoughtful, and Marguerite took the moment to examine her with an artist's eye. Dark, wiry hair, only partly contained in the net that secured it, skin darkened by the sun, but not recently - the crow's feet around the bespectacled eyes were earned. Marguerite would have taken her for a farmer's wife if not for the elegant, if somewhat casual attire. A vacationer, then, but not of the usual sort. Marguerite found herself intrigued and offered an uncharacteristic smile. The woman smiled warmly back and approached the table. "These are lovely, so vibrant," she said. "How long does it take?"

"About an hour of your time, a day or two of mine," Marguerite replied. "Would you like one for your. . ." she almost said "husband", but noted the large sapphire ring the woman wore on her left hand - no wedding band, so she corrected herself, ". . .sweetheart?"

The woman frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe. It might make a nice wedding present. I've been wondering what I could possibly give him that he doesn't already have."

"You're getting married soon?"

The woman nodded, turning sparkling green eyes on Marguerite. "In June - when school is out. I'm a teacher, you see."

Something about this woman both intrigued and repelled Marguerite - the sparkling eyes, the easy manner, but the aversion? Then she realized - the woman had a slight accent. Marguerite tamped down her distaste. After all, not everyone from the South. . .

"Yes," the woman interrupted Marguerite's thoughts, "I want one." She sat down in the chair opposite. "How much?"

Marguerite sized her up - whatever the market would bear. "Thirty dollars."

"Oh, dear," the woman said. "I don't have that much with me. I could come back later?"

"No need," Marguerite said. "A small deposit will do."

"All right," the woman agreed. She opened her purse and handed Marguerite a ten dollar gold piece. "Is this enough?"

She didn't even haggle. Maybe I should have asked for more. Marguerite put the coin in her pocket and shrugged. She was already charging three times her usual price, best not to be too greedy. "Yes, of course." She took up the pad and opened the box of pastels.

"Wait," the woman said, tugging off her hair net. The wiry curls cascaded over her shoulders, down her back. "Clay likes me with my hair down."

I shouldn't wonder. Marguerite was arrested for a moment herself. "Of course." She took up a dark pastel. "Miss. . . ?"

"Oh, I haven't introduced myself, have I?" The woman tossed back her head and laughed. "Molly Holt." She offered her hand.

"Marguerite Dumas," Marguerite responded, taking the proffered hand.

Molly's eyes lit up. "Dumas? Like the author?"

"Yes, but I'm no relation." Marguerite quickly began sketching. "You're from Kentucky," she said before she could stop herself.

"You can tell? Most people tell me I've lost all my accent - it's been so long since I left home."

"A mere trace, and I have a good ear," Marguerite said, flushing.

"So what is a Frenchwoman doing all the way out here in San Diego?" Molly asked.

"Oh, I came to see your beautiful country," Marguerite said. It's not wholly a lie. "But I caught pneumonia in Colorado, and had to come here for my health."

Molly's brows knit in concern. "Oh, dear. Are you quite recovered?"

"Quite recovered," Marguerite assured her. "In need of money for my travels, but quite well, thank you. What brings you here?"

Molly shifted in her chair, then stopped. "I'm sorry, I should sit still, shouldn't I?"

"No," Marguerite said. "I can better capture you if you act naturally. If I need you to hold still, I will ask you."

Molly smiled. "Oh, well then. I'm not good at being still. But as to what brings me here - Clay and I were down visiting his sister, but he got called back to Modesto on a case. He's a lawyer, you see."

"He abandoned you?"

"I wouldn't say that," Molly frowned. "He's very conscientious. Like my first husband." She thought a moment. "You probably don't know what the Underground Railroad was, do you?"

Marguerite started. "Yes, I do. They aided slaves to escape, before the War."

Molly nodded. "Henry, my husband, would be gone for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and I wouldn't know where he was or when he was coming back."

"Did you help him?"

"Sometimes," Molly said, "but I was only seventeen when we married, and he tried to keep me out of it. We had to hide people in our cellar a few times - not that I begrudge it, I wish he'd let me do more. Slavery was an abomination - I'd have liked to have had more of a hand in stopping it."

Marguerite sketched in silence for a few moments. Her heart was pounding in her chest, yet she found she could not let the subject drop. "What happened to him?"

"Killed in The War," Molly said sadly.

"I'm sorry," Marguerite said. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right," Molly said. "It was a long time ago." She inhaled deeply. "And here I am, about to begin a new life, after all this time." She touched the lines around her eyes. "Although I don't know what Clay sees in me. He could have any woman he wanted."

Marguerite looked down at her sketches. "Perhaps I can show you."

"No flattering portrait can countermand what I see in the mirror every morning," Molly said. "I know I'm plain. And I just turned forty."

"A good portrait can reach below the surface," Marguerite said.

"So I've heard," Molly said. She smiled. "You may try, but a good likeness is all I'm paying you for."

"I shall," Marguerite said. She gathered up her drawings. "Come back day after tomorrow and I should have it ready for you."

"You paint from sketches?" Molly asked, surprised.

"Don't worry," Marguerite said. "I have an excellent visual memory." Too vivid a memory. "This is how I work."

"All right then," Molly said, standing and offering her hand again. "Day after tomorrow then."

Marguerite gathered up her things, took down her awning and made her way back to the rooming house she occupied. She washed up, then sat down, gazing at the blank ivory circle that was her canvas. She sighed and picked up her brush.

"You may be a painter, mon cherie, but you will never be an artiste."

Marguerite's head snapped up - it was almost as though she could hear Armand's words, spoken years ago.

"I'm the best student at the atelier," Marguerite protested. "Monsieur Pierre says so."

"The best painter," Armand repeated, "but your heart, it is cold. Nothing touches your canvas but paint. There is no fire. I love you too much to lie to you, mon amour."

"But not enough not to insult me," she pouted.

Armand took her hand. "Marguerite, my little daisy, I have tried to ignite the flame of love in your heart, but to no avail. You do not love, you do not hate. There is no passion in you at all."

"I do love you," she protested. "You know I do."

"You do not," he insisted. "You love nothing, not even yourself. You should go home - perhaps there you may find what you need. It is not here - you have been in Paris long enough to have found it if it were."

"I have no home," she said. "I never did."

Armand tutted. "Everyone has a home. You must find it. Then, perhaps, you may become what you wish to be. Not before."

Marguerite's hand trembled. She put down her brush, shook her head to clear it, then resolutely took up her brush again. Now was not the time for such doubts - she had a commission to fulfill. She filled her mind's eye with Molly's green eyes and began to paint.