Chapter Eighteen
Modesto: 1880


Marguerite’s brush fell to the floor, spattering paint on the drop cloth and on the hem of her dress. It was quickly followed by her palette as the waters she had so long dammed up burst forth. She fell onto the sofa, her hands over her face. She heard sounds she had never uttered before escape her, but she was drowning in the sea of her sorrow and had little mind for them.

She felt warm arms envelope her, golden hair brush her face. For a moment she thought it was Pamela who embraced her, and the full weight of her sister’s death fell upon her. She turned and buried her face in Aurora’s shoulder and wailed – she could not help herself. She was a boil that had burst, spewing corruption.

She thought she would cry forever, but of course she did not. She was desiccated, drained, arid. For now. She was afraid the torrent would renew itself the moment she was refreshed. “I’m sorry,” she said to Rory. “This isn’t like me at all.”

“It’s all right,” Rory said. “I cried worse than that when my father died.” She looked at the painting. “If I were painting a picture of him I’d probably bawl my eyes out, too.”

Marguerite was pulled up short by the idea that there was nothing unusual about her grief – that this simple girl had borne sorrow and still maintained her simplicity, her openness. “You weren’t responsible for his death,” she pointed out, defensively. “Not like I was, with Benjamin.” She felt hot tears run down her cheeks – not dried up yet, after all.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Rory asked. “They say confession is good for the soul, and I can see how your soul is wounded.”

Marguerite thought she would rather do anything than tell this innocent girl her sins, but she found herself saying, almost vindictively, “We found two other escaped slaves. Shadrach had killed their owner when he had tried to ravish Lily, Shadrach’s wife. Benjamin thought it was too dangerous to take them with us, but I prevailed on him. We were set on by a bounty hunter, and when Shadrach attacked, he killed Benjamin, too. Not intentionally, but we knew he was dangerous from the beginning.”

“How awful,” Rory said. “But I don’t see how you can blame yourself – you did the Christian thing. It’s not your fault it turned out badly.”

Marguerite stood, turning on the girl with her fists clenched. “It’s not supposed to happen that way! You do good, good is supposed to happen. Either I was wrong, or God plays games with us. But no matter who’s to blame, Benjamin died, and I don’t think you can understand what a loss to the world he was. He was special. It shouldn’t have ended like that.”

Rory furrowed her brow. “I don’t think it works like that. My father was a good man, doing good – special, as you would say. And he was murdered. I don’t think God promises that nothing bad will happen to us if we do good. Quite the opposite, if I read my Bible correctly.”

Marguerite did not want to get into a theological argument with this girl, partly because she was too angry, but mostly because she was afraid she would lose. She turned her back on Rory, yet she felt an odd sympathy. As she stared at the painting, and the emptiness in the middle of it, she realized that ever since she had crossed the threshold of this house, the absence of its builder had been an almost palpable thing. It was apparent in the house itself, and in all who dwelt in it. And yet, Barclay Palmer’s felt absence was also his felt presence. She stared at the portrait in front of her. In denying herself Benjamin’s absence, had she also been denying his presence? Denying all her dead? She felt hot tears sting her eyes again. Will there be no end to this crying?

Rory stood up and looked over her shoulder at the painting. “That’s very good – I almost feel as though I know him. There’s a lot of Jacob in him.”

“Yes, there is.” Marguerite turned around at the sound of Beatrice’s voice. The older woman joined them in front of the portrait. “You’ve had a breakthrough, I can see.” Marguerite tried to hide her red, puffy eyes, but it was too late. “Are you all right, my dear?” Beatrice asked gently.

“She’s been having a good cry, Mother,” Rory said. “I’ve been comforting her.”

“Which you do very well,” Beatrice said. She looked at the portrait again. “I can see why you would need to, Marguerite. What a terrible loss.”

“You can tell, just from a painting?” Marguerite asked.

“It’s more than ‘just a painting’,” Beatrice said. “I can practically see your heart beating there, on the canvas.”

As Marguerite examined the portrait, she felt the widow in her step aside and the artist take her place. Yes, she had to agree, it was good. Benjamin gazed warmly from the canvas, intelligence and love in his eyes, and then the artist stepped aside and the wife moved to embrace him. For a moment, he was there, but only for a moment. She shivered. For a moment, she realized why other people could know sorrow and yet be happy. Come back, my love, come back. She felt her tears again, but these were different. Hopeful, for the first time in decades.

Rory put an arm around her. “It will be all right, Marguerite.”

“You can’t know that,” Marguerite responded.

“I can believe it.”

Marguerite could almost begin to believe it herself.



Clay dismounted in front of the Gardners’ porch. It was midday – Abigail should be in school. He hoped she had not stayed home for some reason.

Sarah walked out on the porch, allowing the door to slam behind her. “Didn’t expect to see you again.” She crossed her arms.

“You told me not to give up, Sarah.” Clay looked at her with trepidation.

“That was before I knew.” She leaned against the rail. “How could you, Clay?” He could hear the hurt in her voice. “Jim, of all people. And Lucy. To think that of your own wife.”

He spread his hands. “She was unhappy, Sarah. My fault, entirely, I know now. But it wouldn’t be the first time an unhappy wife fell into the arms of someone more sympathetic. I was wrong, I admit it. I want to atone. Will you help me?”

She huffed for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron. “Jim’s down to the orchard, but he’s still fairly riled. Might want to give him another day or two.”

Clay breathed a silent prayer of thanks. “I intend to. It was you I wanted to talk with today, if you have time for me.”

She turned and opened the door, holding it for him. “Why? Not gonna get me to side against Jim, that’s for sure.”

“Of course not.” Sarah led the way into the kitchen and pointed to a chair which Clay accepted while she filled a teakettle. “But what I had wanted to talk to Jim about in the first place – I’m getting married, did you know?”

“I’d heard.” Sarah stirred up the fire in the stove and put the teakettle on to heat. She began to fuss with cups and saucers. “That lady that works at the orphanage. Seems like a good woman. Not pretty, like Lucy, though.”

“She is where it counts,” Clay said firmly. He tamped down his ire at this slight against Molly. “Anyway, I had hoped that Jim could help me understand what I did wrong with Lucy, but I think I probably should have come to you instead.”

“For that, you should have,” she agreed. She turned to face him. “But if you thought what you did about Jim, it’s as well to have it out, I suppose.” She sat at the table across from him while she waited for the water to boil. “I meant no slight against your lady – to the contrary. I think prettiness was Lucy’s downfall.”

“I was her downfall,” Clay said. “I made her unhappy.”

“Were you happy, Clay?”

Clay sat back. “No. I wasn’t.”

“Whose fault was that?” Sarah gazed at him intently.

Clay cast his mind back to the years of his marriage. “No one’s. Or both of us, I guess.”

“So don’t put all the blame for Lucy’s unhappiness on your own shoulders.” The teakettle whistled and Sarah got up to make the tea. Clay watched her bustle about for a few minutes, considering her words. She set the tea tray down on the table and poured. “Lucy wanted too much from you, Clay,” Sarah continued. “You were the prince who was supposed to whisk her away to a life of ease and gaiety.”

Clay frowned. “Was I? But – she knew how hard my mother and father worked, how hard we all worked. Why do you say that, Sarah?”

“I grew up with her, remember. Even when we were girls she would prattle on about how she would marry you and live in a big house with lots of servants and all the pretty dresses she would wear.”

“I don’t think you’re being fair to her, Sarah. Surely she wasn’t that. . .greedy.”

“Not greedy,” Sarah corrected, “but she’s one of the few people I’ve ever met who really believed in fairy tales. She looked in the mirror and saw Cinderella, and she cast you for the prince.” She looked down at her hands. “I’d hoped she’d grow out of it before you married, but your absence during the war just seemed to increase the illusion. Made you more dashing, in her eyes. Perhaps motherhood would have matured her enough to learn to be happy with what she had.”

“Why didn’t she tell me, Sarah?” Clay asked, feeling the icicle that still pierced his heart. “About the baby? Why did she hide it from me?”

“She was going to tell you, that night.” Sarah clutched the teacup. “She had it all planned out – a romantic dinner, what she would wear, what she would say, what you say. You say she didn’t go through with it?”

Clay rubbed his hands over his face. “I worked late, came home. Apparently dinner was ruined, we had a big fight, she ran out – oh, God, why didn’t she just tell me?”

“Because that’s how she was. Everything had to be important. Big news needed a proper setting. I swear, she should have been an actress, shameful as some think that is. She needed the drama, she needed the glamor, the illusion.” Sarah gulped down the tea and poured some more. “Still think you’re responsible for her being unhappy?”

“Some. How could I not be? I was her husband – I should have paid her more attention.”

“Maybe you should have,” Sarah conceded. She leaned back in her chair. “I’m very fortunate in my marriage, I’m happy to admit. I would have liked more children, but I certainly can’t complain about the one I have.” She smiled softly, then leaned forward. “But Jim and I have our share of fights, even now. No two people can agree on everything, no matter what the storybooks, or the sermons, say. But we love and trust each other, and neither of us holds the other responsible for making us happy. That seems to me to be a sure road to resentment.”

Clay stared down at his empty cup, wishing he could read the future, or even the past, in the tealeaves. “Did she love me?” he whispered.

Sarah reached across the table and took his hand. “As much as she was capable of, yes. You were capable of more, and I believe the woman you’re marrying is, too. Do you trust her?”

“With my life, and my soul.” He looked up at her.

“Then you’ll be happy,” Sarah said. “Love is grand, but I’ll take trust, any day.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” He stood and bent down, kissing her cheek. “Thank you, Sarah. For the tea, and your insight, and for forgiving me.”

She huffed, then smiled. “You always could get around me, Clay Palmer.” She patted his cheek. “I’ll be glad when this is all fixed up between you and Jim. We’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve missed you, you have no idea. When should I call again? I’m at your orders.”

She thought for a moment. “Try tomorrow. I’ll let Jim know you were here today.”

“Don’t get between us, Sarah. I think Jim and I need to have this out, man to man.”

She nodded. “I agree.” She stood and showed him to the door. “But sooner is better than later as far as I’m concerned.”