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.