Chapter Ten
Modesto: 1880

Marguerite stepped back from the canvas and turned around – no one there, this time. No stale sandwich or tepid glass of milk. She was almost disappointed – it seemed the angels of the household had abandoned her.

She turned back to examine her work. Pamela: stronger than she knew, kinder than she knew. Pamela’s letter had explained much, although Marguerite felt no tenderness toward their father, as Pamela had. Whatever his straits might have been, he had had no right to mortgage her, nor to sell her. No moral right, anyway.

The letter. If she had returned to the farm when she received it, would her life have been less cold and dark? She shook her head. It had come too late. For all that Pamela had been a musician, she had had a knack for painting bright, happy, unattainable pictures. Marguerite wondered where Pamela was now. Had she married, did she have children? Was she happy?

There was a soft tap at the door. “Come in,” Marguerite called.

Aurora opened the door and stepped in. “How are you?” she asked. “I wanted you to know we left your lunch in the icebox – it seemed better than letting it sit out and spoil. Of course, you’re free to raid the pantry whenever you want – you keep such irregular hours, but we don’t want you to starve. All part of following a Muse, I suppose. I think I see why artists have such unconventional reputations.” She paused her chatter to gaze at the painting. “Oh, my, that’s very good. Your sister?”

Marguerite nodded. “As I last saw her.”

“She looks just like you,” Rory noted.

Marguerite’s forehead wrinkled. “Do you think so? I was thinking she looked something like you.”

“The coloring, yes,” Rory agreed, “but in every other way, she looks like you. Same chin, same mouth, same nose and eyes. You painted it, you must see it.”

“Perhaps I’m too close to it,” Marguerite frowned.

“Perhaps. You must both resemble your father, then.”

That must have been how I knew. Marguerite was not one for staring into mirrors, but if the resemblance was obvious to a stranger, it must have been obvious to everyone. Except to Marguerite, apparently.

“She’s holding sheet music.” Rory said. “Was she a musician?”

“A pianist,” Marguerite said. “A very gifted one.”

“Musician, painter – it must run in the family,” Rory said. “It’s an hour until suppertime,” Rory turned toward the door, “but if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to come down and have a snack beforehand.”

“No, I’m all right,” Marguerite said, frowning.

“Well, then, come down when you’re ready.” Rory left Marguerite still staring at the painting. Now that Rory had pointed it out, the resemblance was obvious. I’m an artist, this is what I do – why did I not see it before?


She changed and went down for supper. She tried to enjoy the conversation and socializing afterward, but was too distracted. For all that she knew Pamela was her sister, she had never thought of her as family. She had never thought of anyone as family except for Benjamin during their all-too-brief marriage. She thought she had only been happy in her ignorance – what if she had been happy in something else?

She excused herself early and went back upstairs to the studio. She lit a lamp and sat down, contemplating the portrait. She heard a noise behind her and turned around – Clay was standing in the doorway. “I don’t wish to disturb you,” he said. “Rory told us about the painting. I thought I might have a look?”

“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. “Come in.”

Clay approached the painting hesitantly. He stood in front of it for several minutes. When he finally turned to Marguerite, he had an odd look on his face. Not weeping, exactly, but as though he were remembering having wept, long ago. “Do you know what became of her?” he asked, his throat tight.

Marguerite felt her own throat tighten. She shook her head.

Clay took the other wing chair, clasping his hands on his knees. “I truly hate to be the one to tell you,” he began.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Marguerite said, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. “How do you know? Did my father talk about her?”

“I knew her,” Clay said. “She joined the Army as a nurse the same day Lucian and Jacob did. Shall I tell you about it? How we met, what we suffered, how your father and sister died?”

There was nothing she wanted less; nothing she needed more. She nodded silently. It was only when Clay handed her his handkerchief that she realized she was weeping. This was no wave of grief, merely a trickle, but she could tell that the wave was coming. How much of her would be left when it came?

She wiped her eyes and steeled herself to listen.