Chapter Fifteen
Modesto: 1880


“She died a few days later,” Clay told Marguerite. “Jacob and I nursed her, but it was as I’d warned her and her father. Perhaps she was too worn by her griefs to fight back.”

Marguerite lowered her eyes. I was one of those griefs. She turned away from the thought. “The men who were hanged? Were they ever found?”

Clay leaned forward in his chair. “No. Colonel Lieb informed General Grant, but Grant was besieging Vicksburg and he let the matter drop. Unfortunate, because it was not, by far, the last time that the rebels murdered black prisoners, or their officers. Fort Pillow, Poison Spring. . .Well, I wasn’t there. I was invalided out of the army and I made Jacob promise to come here when he got out.”

“I would never have known that you had lost an eye,” Marguerite said.

Clay reached up and tapped his right eye – it made a slight tinkling sound. “Good, isn’t it? I found a glassblower in San Francisco who’s a master. Not many people know.” He reached toward her. “Are you all right? It’s a lot to hand you all at once.”

It was a lot to hand her all at once, and she was not sure how she felt. She had borne a grudge – no, she had hated her father all these years. The picture that Clay painted of him was not the one she held in her mind. She glanced over at the portrait. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. For the first time in more than twenty years, she felt homesick. Not the first time, only the first time you’d admit it.

“Should I stay with you, or should I leave you alone to think?” Clay asked.

His tale had taken up the entire evening and much of the following day – it was now well past the dinner hour, but no one had disturbed them.

Her hands clenched themselves. “I need to paint,” she said.

Clay nodded understanding and stood. “I’ll tell Rory you might need some company later. She’s good at offering comfort without even realizing it.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve already been the recipient of it. All of you are.”

She took up her brush as Clay left. She could feel hot burning tears behind her eyes, and she turned her gaze from her sister’s portrait. She had told herself she never wished to see Pamela again, but even then, she had known it was not true. At this moment, there was nothing she wanted more, but she could not bear to contemplate gone forever.

Her father – she could not paint him. The images in her mind were too jumbled, and Benjamin. . .no, not yet. Not yet. She squirted several daubs of paint on her palette and began painting the tall dark figure that stood behind her sister on her canvas.



Clay saddled a horse and rode to the orphanage. School would be out by the time he arrived, he hoped, if he rode slowly. Spring flowers bloomed by the road and in the pastures – he regretted that he so seldom took the time to notice. Telling his tale to Marguerite had reminded him that life was short and uncertain.

He timed his ride accurately – the children were sprinting down the steps as he arrived, and he bounded into the schoolroom. Molly was busy putting away books, but she dropped them on the desk as she saw him enter. “What is it, dearest?” she asked. “Are you unwell?” She looked at him with concern.

“No. But I wanted to tell you – there’s something I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the courage.”

“You do,” she said, taking his arm and perching on the desk. He perched beside her, clasping her hand. “You’re the most courageous man I know. What is it?”

“Something you said to me when we first met, and something Jacob said to me the other day. And I’ve been talking to Marguerite, and I realize I don’t want to carry this corruption into our marriage, Molly.”

She knitted her brow, trying to understand him. “What corruption?”

“Lucy,” he said. “And Jim. And my suspicions, and my hatred.” He clasped her hand tighter. “I need to go talk to Jim Gardner, and find out what happened, and try to forgive her.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you believe that will help?”

“I don’t know. I watch Marguerite and how she’s trying to reach an understanding through her art, and I wonder if to know all is really to forgive all, as they say. And I’m afraid to know, because then I’ll know for sure that I drove her to it, yet I can’t go on this way, not and be any kind of man to myself, or husband to you.”

Molly slipped her arm around him. “You’re right. This has hung on you for too long, you need to find release. Bear what responsibility is yours, and let the rest go.”

He smiled. “One reason I love you is because you don’t sugarcoat things. Will you lend me your courage, dear?”

“All I have,” she said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I have to do this alone.” He stroked her hair. “But you’ll be with me, nonetheless.” He kissed the top of her head and jumped down from the desk. “Now I’d better go before I lose my resolve. Come to the ranch for dinner – however it goes, I think I’m going to want you near me afterward.”

Molly agreed and walked with him to his horse, kissing him warmly before he departed.

Clay’s horse slowed at Jacob’s gate, and Clay had to apply his spurs to get him to move forward. Clay smiled grimly – even horses were creatures of habit, and he felt that he was crossing a boundary to some strange world himself.

The house looked much as he remembered it, with a fresh coat of yellow paint and freshly turned flower beds. As he looped his horse’s reins at the porch rail, Sarah opened the front door. She paused for a moment before exclaiming. “Clay Palmer! As I live and breathe!” She clattered down the steps, hands outstretched. “What brings you to my door? And what’s kept you away so long?” She took both his hands, reached up and kissed his cheek.

He was not sure what he was expecting, but this warmth overwhelmed him. “I’d like to talk to Jim,” he said. “Is he around?”

“He’s in the barn,” Sarah said. “Oh, he will be glad to see you!”

Clay rather doubted it, and he began to doubt himself. If Sarah did not know of Jim’s infidelity, would Clay’s coming here today throw her a bombshell? He sincerely hoped not – he had enough on his conscience as it was.

He walked behind the house to the barn. He opened the door, taking a moment for his eye to adjust to the dim light. “Hello?” he called. “Jim?”

Jim came out of the tack room. “Who’s there?” He squinted toward the door.

Clay realized he was back lit, so he moved into the dimness of the barn. “It’s me, Jim. Clay Palmer.”

Jim stood frozen a moment, then, “Clay! Oh, my word! Clay! I never expected to see you here again. What brings you?”

“Are we alone?” Clay said. “I wish to speak with you privately, if I may.”

Jim looked back over his shoulder and called, “You still up there, Abby?”

Abigail Gardner peeked over the edge of the hayloft, book in hand, spectacles on her eyes. “Yes, Daddy. Do you need me for something?”

“It’s all right, dear, go back to your book,” Jim said. “Just checking.”

Abigail brushed straw from her pigtails and disappeared into the hay.

“Let’s go into the tack room,” Jim said. “I do my accounting in there. We can be as private at you like.” Clay followed him – there was only one chair, which Jim gave to his visitor, sitting himself on the edge of the desk. “Can I get you anything? I don’t have any refreshments out here, but I can send Abby to the house.”

Clay waved a hand. “No, it’s all right.” He hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject, puzzled by his warm reception. “Have you heard I’m getting married?”

“Yes, I have, to Miss Holt. She seems like a fine woman – I’ve heard a lot of good things about her.”

He seemed so at ease, Clay thought. Curious, polite, not at all uncomfortable or conscience-stricken. Clay wrinkled his brow. “Well, in light of that, I thought we ought to have a talk about Lucy.”

“I wondered,” Jim said. “I know how her death devastated you – but usually people get closer when they share a tragedy, not cut each other off. Or was there more to it than that?”

Clay felt himself getting angry at the man’s perversity. He clenched his fists, but schooled himself to speak calmly. “You know there was.”

Jim shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You knew she was with child,” Clay said, barely contained. “Why would she tell you and not me?”

“She didn’t tell me,” Jim said, startled. “She told Sarah. You know how women are. Sarah about sobbed herself to death over it – that’s how I knew.” He frowned at Clay. “That’s what this was all about?”

Clay could not breathe. I was wrong, I was wrong. Such a simple explanation, and it never occurred to me.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “And so you thought what?”

“That you. . .that she. . .” Clay was nearly choking.

“That we?” Jim’s voice was stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I was wrong, I see that now.”

“I think you’d better leave,” Jim said.

Clay stood. This is all wrong. “If you wish, Jim. But. . .I was hoping our friendship might still matter for something.”

“Our friendship?” Jim nearly exploded. He glanced toward the door, apparently reminding himself of his daughter’s proximity, and likelihood of overhearing. “You’ve got your nerve!” he whispered. “You’re the one who threw our friendship into the gutter.” He stood up. He was shorter than Clay, yet somehow he still managed to loom over him. “Ten years I’ve been wondering what happened, why you’d rather cross the street than speak to me. You’ve known me all my life – how could you think such a thing of me?”

How could I, indeed? “I was wrong,” Clay repeated, knowing how weak it sounded. He reached for the door. “I hope, one day, you can forgive me.”

“In ten years,” Jim said tersely. “At least you’ll know why I cross the street when I see you coming.”

“Fair enough,” Clay said. He opened the door and walked around the house to his horse.

Sarah came out on the porch when she heard his step. “Will you stay for dinner, Clay?” she asked hopefully.

Clay might have laughed if he had not been so close to tears. “I can’t, Sarah, but thank you for asking.”

Sarah pressed her lips together. “It went wrong, didn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “All my fault, Sarah. All of it, from the beginning.”

“Then fix it,” Sarah demanded. “This ain’t how it ought to be. Jim’s mourned you for ten years – I thought you’d come to set it right.”

“It’s what I should have come for,” Clay said, “but I find I am a faithless dog, Sarah. I doubt he’ll ever forgive me now. And I don’t deserve for him to.”

“Forgiving ain’t something anyone deserves,” Sarah said. “If it were, we’d all be going to Hell for sure.” She flicked her hands at him. “Well, you go on home, but don’t you give up, Clay Palmer. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

Clay kissed her cheek impulsively. “Open-hearted Sarah – a man always knows where he stands with you.” He mounted his horse. “But I’m afraid you won’t think so kindly of me when Jim tells you everything.”

She held his stirrup. “I know you did us wrong, Clay, whatever that wrong may be. But ‘forgive us our trespasses’ - if we can’t find it in our hearts to forgive you, with you here willing to make amends, then we got no right to call ourselves Christians. So I say again, don’t give up.”

He smiled wanly and rode away. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. He had spent ten years holding a grudge against a man who had never harmed him. How could he expect to be forgiven himself?

He almost turned in at Jacob’s gate, in need of confession, but there were others who should hear it first. He kicked his horse into a gallop, riding for home. After giving his horse to one of the ranch hands, he walked to the house, feeling as though he were trudging through molasses.

Molly was there, in the parlor with his mother and sister. She looked up when he came in, stood and put her arms around him wordlessly. “Something wrong, Clay?” Beatrice asked. “You look white as a sheet.”

“Is Alex here? I need to tell all of you something, but I only want to tell it once.”

“He’s upstairs freshening up,” Aurora said. “Shall I go hurry him up a bit?”

“If you would, Rory,” Clay said. He buried his face in Molly’s hair as his sister left. Beatrice respected his silence until his sister and brother returned.

Clay led Molly to the sofa and sat down, clenching her hand. “I’ve been to see Jim Gardner,” he began.

“Ah,” Alex sighed. “It’s about time.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, but did not speak. “I never did understand why you cut him off, Clay,” Rory said. “You two used to be such friends.”

“That’s what I have to tell you,” Clay said, “but it’s hard. I thought he had wronged me, but I find it’s the other way around. I’ve wronged him terribly, and I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Wronged how?” Rory asked.

Clay looked at his younger sister – it was still so easy to consider her a child, and she still held onto a childlike innocence, but she was a full-grown woman, and not at all naïve, much as he would like to think her so. “I thought, no, I believed, and believed with all my heart, that he and Lucy – that Lucy had been unfaithful to me. With him.”

“And now you know it’s not true,” Beatrice observed.

Rory gasped in horror. “Clay! How could you have thought such a thing in the first place. Lucy? And Jim? I can’t imagine such a thing of either of them, much less both together.”

Clay noticed that Molly’s hand was turning white, and he loosened his grip. “It’s my shame, but I think you should know.” He related the same tale he had earlier told Molly, and why he had felt driven to finally confront Jim Gardner. “I have to bear the disgrace of it, now,” he finished.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Beatrice asked. “You evidently told Alex, and Molly.”

“Molly’s about to become my wife,” Clay said. “I couldn’t honorably keep it from her. And Alex – well, I had to confide in someone. He tried to set me straight, but to no avail.”

“So what do we do now?” Rory asked. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

“Thank you, Sis,” Clay said, “but this is my doing, and it’s up to me to try to set it right. I don’t know how, but I have to try.”

Beatrice stood, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “You’ve quite a row to hoe, my son. I don’t envy you, but if I can help you in any way, please ask.” She looked over at Rory. “We’d better go start supper, it’s late as it is. Will someone go fetch Marguerite? That girl is wasting away to nothing, and I can’t have that in my house.”

“I’ll go,” Clay said. “I need to speak with her, anyway. Alex, will you entertain Molly for a moment?”

“Gladly,” Alex smiled. “And Clay? I’m proud of you.”

“Nothing to be proud of, Alex,” Clay said as Beatrice and Rory left. “I’m a wretch, but at least now I know it.”

“Not a wretch, only mistaken,” Alex said.

Clay smiled wanly and went upstairs. Marguerite was before the easel, contemplating it. She had finished Jacob’s face, but his body was still only roughly sketched in. “Oh, Clay,” she said, “I’m having difficulties. I want to paint Jacob in uniform, but I was in France during the war, and I only have a vague idea what it should look like.”

“I still have my old uniform,” Clay said. “I’ll dig it out for you. Marguerite, could you sit down a moment? I have something to tell you.”

“Something else?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more at the moment.”

“Not about you, or Lucian.” Clay sat down in one of the chairs. “About me. That story I told you about Lucy and Jim?”

Marguerite frowned and sat across from him. “Yes?”

“None of it is true,” Clay said, turning red. “Well, the story was true, but the conclusions I drew from it, all wrong.”

“I see.” She considered him carefully. It was not only his face that was red – the man had shame and remorse practically shooting out from him in sparks. “If it’s any comfort to you, I drew the same conclusions. How do you know differently?”

He told the tale over again. “So you see, I’m a wretch. I have much to atone for, and no idea how.”

“As do I,” she said. She looked over at the painting. “I keep working at this, but I don’t see what good it will be once it’s finished.”

“An act of faith,” Clay said.

“More an act of compulsion.” She looked at him. “If you want me to advise you, you’ve come to the wrong person.”

“No,” he shook his head, “but I didn’t want you to believe the lies I’d told you.”

“You thought they were true.”

“Still lies,” he said. “Maybe even worse because I believed them.” He stood. “I’ll find you that uniform after supper, which my mother requires you to attend. She says she won’t have you wasting away.” He offered her his hand to pull herself up.

“All right,” she said, taking it. “I don’t know how I could help you, Clay, but if I can, I hope you’ll ask me.”

Clay smiled at her. “I appreciate that, Marguerite, but in this case, the only one who can help me is myself.”

He walked out and she turned to contemplate the painting again. The only one who could help her was herself, and she was nobody. A phantom, a fiction. Even her name was not her own, but was stolen from her betters. She shuddered. She would finish Jacob soon, and then she would have to face what she most dreaded, for she could not paint Benjamin without reliving how he died, and her responsibility for it. She cleaned her brushes and put away her paints, in fear and trembling.