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.”