Saturday, December 26, 2009

Chapter Eight
Modesto: 1880



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Marguerite whispered.

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

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

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The last?” Clay asked.

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

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

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

Clay blanched. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“So it is.” Alex reached for it.

“Don’t pick it,” Rory admonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Some things are unforgivable,” Marguerite said darkly.

“Not to God,” Rory said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Taking a break

Ha ha.

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

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

Monday, December 14, 2009

Chapter Seven
Bourbon County, Kentucky: 1846 – 1858



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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I, Pamela,” her father corrected.

May I name her?”

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

“Itty Bitty!” Pamela declared.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I might,” she said in all seriousness.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“People, too?” he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was intrigued. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The auction today is for debt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sold?” Daisy said weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” Daisy said.

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

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

“Then what did happen?” Pamela asked gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t,” Daisy said stubbornly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Send Mr. Pike packing?”

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

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

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

“Why? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy cried out, “Father!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benjamin nodded. “Come on then.”

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

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

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

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

“Railroad? I don’t see a railroad.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you know about my mother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s an agent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated. “Daisy. . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Friday, December 4, 2009

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

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

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

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

“’Marguerite’ in French,” Beatrice said.

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

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

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

Marguerite shuddered. “And your married name was?”

“Johnson,” Molly said.

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

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

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

“Pack my bags,” Marguerite said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Butler?” Alex said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Carr fought for the North?”

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

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

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

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

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

“He was your father?” Clay said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jacob snorted, but let her continue.

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

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

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

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

“No, but his father was,” Jacob said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing left to talk about,” Marguerite said.

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

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

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

“Molly,” Clay cautioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was entitled to it,” Clay said.

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

“I’ve always run,” Marguerite admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She asked to be alone,” Molly said.

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

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

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

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

Marguerite frowned. “What?” she asked rudely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t understand,” Marguerite said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indians?” Marguerite asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it a shock?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let us lend you some of ours.”

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

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

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

Marguerite nodded, wordless.

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

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

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

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

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