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.”