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.