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.