tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19419531817461893452024-02-07T21:55:48.742-08:00Portrait of the Past: Blogging my NovelKate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-5134956965431847382010-08-09T06:28:00.000-07:002010-08-09T06:28:09.361-07:00Finished!The novel is done and now available in e-form from Smashwords, at <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21043">http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21043</a>. Enter coupon code ZR48C for a 100% discount off the purchase price. The coupon is good until September 8, 2010.<br />
<br />
I'm in the process of making paper versions available from Amazon's print-on-demand service Createspace, but that's a bit slower process. I'll let you all know when it's available.<br />
<br />
Thank all of you for your help and support.<br />
<br />
Especially Linda, whom I shall never forget.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-19955287186943284662010-05-17T20:02:00.000-07:002010-05-17T20:02:32.996-07:00How will it end?Looking back over this project, I see it needs some reworking and restructuring before I can bring it to a sensible close, so I'm going to start working on the rewrite. If you've been following along, I beg your patience. I would rather not slap something together merely in order to post to this blog.<br />
<br />
When the book is ready, I'll be distributing it on Smashwords and Feedbooks as a free ebook. Watch this space for an announcement. I hope to have it ready to publish by the end of the summer.<br />
<br />
I intend to make paper copies available through Amazon's print-on-demand service Createspace. I'll let you know when that is available as well.<br />
<br />
Please continue to comment if you haven't already - any and all feedback is welcome as I begin a new process. I hope the destination is worth the journey.<br />
<br />
Thank all of you - I don't know what I would do without you.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-80500109173295203202010-05-08T16:03:00.001-07:002010-05-08T16:03:09.607-07:00I got a new camera, and it's smarter than I am!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2dWUogfqyi8CFldpoe0YjdDt6Q1VT53fFfeMd2tEObLFnCARkXn2ThBnyz4-iULuPdGL6qjM425Jt5VUioRVa3X4oju3NxgWSLjoNmWhDlXZcrAphlC2pLMnl1J7KXo1ISi8qgHR8iws/s1600/Yaquina+Bay+bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2dWUogfqyi8CFldpoe0YjdDt6Q1VT53fFfeMd2tEObLFnCARkXn2ThBnyz4-iULuPdGL6qjM425Jt5VUioRVa3X4oju3NxgWSLjoNmWhDlXZcrAphlC2pLMnl1J7KXo1ISi8qgHR8iws/s320/Yaquina+Bay+bridge.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div>Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-62861362787590155122010-05-02T18:12:00.000-07:002010-05-02T18:12:13.541-07:00<strong>Chapter Nineteen</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For the third time in as many days, Clay Palmer rode his horse through the Gardners’ gate. Sarah was waiting for him on the porch this time. “He’s down to the orchard again.” She nodded her head in that direction. <br />
<br />
“He expecting me?”<br />
<br />
“I told him you’d be coming.” She squinted down at him. “Glad you didn’t give me the lie.”<br />
<br />
Clay’s heart had been in the pit of his stomach the entire morning – he guessed it showed. “I can’t live like this, Sarah. I have to have it settled, one way or the other.”<br />
<br />
She nodded and went back into the house. Clay walked to the back of the farm lot and down the winding path to the orchard. The bloom was past, but withered petals still littered the ground under the almond trees and the sound of bees buzzing in the hives filled the air. <br />
<br />
Jim was digging a shallow trench between the trees and he looked up at Clay’s footstep. His jaw tightened. “Well. You’ve certainly got nerve, I’ll give you that.”<br />
<br />
“Not nerve.” Clay walked closer. “I was never this scared, even before a battle.”<br />
<br />
Jim’s eyes flickered, but he hardened his glare. “Do you have any idea how much I want to hit you right now?” He dropped his spade and clenched his fists.<br />
<br />
Clay had never known Jim to hit anyone, even when they were boys. “Go ahead, if it will make you feel better.” It was with great surprise that he felt Jim’s fist connect with his jaw and found himself lying in the trench, mud seeping through his clothes. He felt his glass eye pop out and he covered the socket with his hand, gasping. <br />
<br />
“What are you trying to pull?” Jim said, breathing heavily. “I didn’t touch your eye.”<br />
<br />
“My glass eye,” Clay said. “It popped out. See if you can find it.”<br />
<br />
“I forgot you had a glass eye.” Jim unclenched his fists. “Damn you, don’t make me feel sorry for you.”<br />
<br />
“Not my intention,” Clay assured him. He sat up, still covering his eye.<br />
<br />
“Here it is.” Jim stooped down and picked up the rounded piece of glass. “It’s all muddy.” He reached down and grasped Clay’s wrist, pulling him to his feet. He put the glass eye into Clay’s hand. “You can’t put it back in like that. Better come up to that house and get cleaned up, I reckon.”<br />
<br />
“Can we talk first, Jim?” The fire seemed to have died down in Jim. Whether it was because the blow had provided a vent for Jim’s feelings, or whether it was pity, Clay did not much care.<br />
<br />
“I suppose.” Jim crossed his arms, then dropped them to his side. “How could you, Clay? How could you have thought such a thing of me? No one has ever done me such an injury before.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know what to do with this.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” Clay said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Lucy was unhappy; we were both unhappy. We had a big fight the night she died – I felt such guilt and shame, and then you told me about the baby, and it was like a mountain had fallen on me. It was more than I could bear, Jim. Can you understand?”<br />
<br />
Jim looked at him a long moment, reddening. “Yeah, I guess I can,” he croaked at last. “But you should’ve come to me, Clay.”<br />
<br />
“I should have,” Clay said. He paused. Might as well get everything out at once. “Except I wanted to kill you. I even came to your house one day, intending to do just that.”<br />
<br />
Jim looked startled. “What stopped you?”<br />
<br />
“Abigail.”<br />
<br />
There was another long pause while Jim considered this. “I’m not sure that would’ve stopped me.”<br />
<br />
Clay put his hands on his knees, weak with relief. “I think, deep down, I must’ve known it couldn’t be true.” He straightened. “Will you forgive me?”<br />
<br />
“Eventually, I guess,” Jim said. “You’ve got to give me some time, Clay. You hurt me powerful deep – I don’t think you can imagine how deep.”<br />
<br />
“I think I do, and I’ll do whatever you wish of me.”<br />
<br />
“Well, go up to the house, clean up, put your eye back in.” Jim unconsciously closed one eye. “Then grab a spade and come back and help me, if you’re serious.”<br />
<br />
Clay walked toward the house, his eye clutched in his muddy fist, his heart lighter than it had been for weeks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Marguerite wrestled the bulky portrait down the stairs. The stairs had seemed wide until she had tried to carry a four foot canvas down them. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and felt her burden lifted from her grasp.<br />
<br />
“Let me help you with that.” Alex carried the painting down the stairs and set it down to look at it. “Where are you going with this? It’s not finished.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite contemplated the empty space on her canvas, the central figure yet to be filled in. “And I can’t, not like this. I’m coming to realize that I don’t know my father at all.”<br />
<br />
“So where are you taking it?” Alex looked alarmed. “Not to dispose of it, I hope.”<br />
<br />
“There’s only one person who can help me fill in that blank.”<br />
<br />
“Ah,” Alex said approvingly. “Jacob. Good idea. Let me hitch up the buggy. Unless you’d like me to carry it for you?”<br />
<br />
Much as Marguerite would have loved to have the strong cowboy back her up, she knew she had to do this herself. “Thank you very kindly. The buggy, please. You understand?” She looked up at him under half-veiled eyes.<br />
<br />
He looked down on her warmly. “Yes, I think I do.” He put his hand on her arm. “And I’m proud of you.”<br />
<br />
She breathed in deeply. Oh, it had been such a long time since anyone had said that to her. She felt one petal on her heart open up, unfolding to the sun of his approval. “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
She reined in the buggy at Jacob’s gate and began to climb out. He must have heard her arrive, for before she could set foot to the ground he had stormed out of the house and through the gate. “How dare you!” he thundered.<br />
<br />
She said nothing, only turned the painting to face him. He froze in place, turning pale and not breathing for long moments. He clenched his fists. “What is it you want?”<br />
<br />
“Tell me about him, about my father. Clay’s told me some things, but I – ” she spread out her hands. “ – have such different memories. The last time I saw him – ” she gulped and touched her cheek as though she could still feel the bruise after all these years.<br />
<br />
Jacob looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since they had found each other. She held his gaze, for all that the intensity of it frightened her. Looking away would be a betrayal, and she had betrayed him enough.<br />
<br />
He glared at her for long minutes, then turned away. “Bring it in,” he said brusquely. He stalked toward the house, leaving her to struggle with the painting alone.<br />
<br />
Jacob took it from her inside the house and set it up on a chair in the parlor. He crossed his arms to regard it. “What are you trying to do here?”<br />
<br />
“This is what I had inside me, battling to get out.” She stood behind and a little to the side of him. Benjamin’s figure seemed to step out of the painting to embrace them both.<br />
<br />
“You think I should care?” His voice cracked.<br />
<br />
She looked up at him – he held his face stony with an effort, but his eyes were red-rimmed. “I think you do care,” she said quietly.<br />
<br />
“Do <em>you</em> care?” He whirled around to her. “All these years, the only word from you was that he’s dead. No word how, no word where he might be buried. Nothing. Then you bring me this, and I don’t know what to think of you.”<br />
<br />
“My heart turned to stone when he died. I’ve barely had a thought for myself, let alone anyone else.”<br />
<br />
Jacob grimaced, then gestured at the painting. “No stone heart painted that.”<br />
<br />
“I’m being. . .broken, is the only way to describe it. God has me on his anvil and He’s pounding me. It’s not a pleasant experience.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t have to let Him.”<br />
<br />
“I think I do.” She looked at the painting again. “For so long, I’ve been running away from all this, but the problem was that wherever I ran, I took myself with me.” She looked up at him. “If you wanted me to suffer for my sins, then I have. If that’s any comfort to you.”<br />
<br />
He turned from her, covered his face with his hands. “I don’t want to hate you, but I do. He was all I had, and you took him, and you never cared enough to come tell me about it.”<br />
<br />
She bit her tongue. <em>You still had someone to love you, many someones</em>. She tamped the unjust thought down. She was beginning to see how unlovely she was – if Jacob had earned the love of others and she had not, then that was no fault to cast against him. Against herself alone. “I’ll tell you now, if you want, but it will hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. Tell me what you want.”<br />
<br />
He wiped his eyes and turned back to her. “Yes, tell me. How did he die? Where is he buried? Did he have a Christian burial, at least?”<br />
<br />
She sat down on the sofa and he sat next to her. As she began her tale, she could feel the pounding of God’s hammer on her heart. She chose to endure it for Jacob’s sake, and for Benjamin’s. <br />
<br />
She told the story as simply as possible, an account of happenings, nothing more. She would leave it to him to judge her. He turned away from her, shoulders shaking, when she told of his son’s death. She reached out a hand toward him, but refrained from touching him. When she had finished, he still turned from her. “Please go now.”<br />
<br />
She stood and took the painting, but he stopped her. “Would you leave it? Just for tonight? You can come back and get it tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
Her heart raced. She could come back – the door was not slammed in her face, at least not yet. “Of course.” She put the painting back on the chair and let herself out.<br />
<br />
Clay was riding past but pulled up when he saw the buggy parked outside the gate. He was covered with dried mud and looked terribly weary, but smiled broadly. “What happened to you?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Penance,” he answered. He looked her over. “What happened to you?”<br />
<br />
“The same,” she said. “Odd that this is the day we both decide to take our medicine.”<br />
<br />
“Not so odd.” Clay tied his horse to the back of the buggy and assisted her into it. He took the reins. “Why the buggy to go half a mile?”<br />
<br />
“I brought the painting,” she explained. “It’s a bit awkward to carry.”<br />
<br />
“Ah. So that’s why he let you in.” He looked in the back of the buggy. “He kept it?”<br />
<br />
“For awhile. I told him what happened, when Benjamin and I escaped, how he died. He didn’t throw me out – I feel like it’s almost a miracle.”<br />
<br />
“He’s a good man. Very fair and honest. I know he’s been hurt, but he’ll treat you fairly for all that.”<br />
<br />
“I need more than fairness, Clay. I think you can understand that.”<br />
<br />
He nodded. “Indeed I do. We both need Grace, and it looks like we both got a piece today.”<br />
<br />
She contemplated this for the few minutes it took to drive to the ranch. When she had believed in those theological virtues, they had not seemed real. Now that she no longer believed, their reality was undeniable. She sighed. She had been a child then, a believer in fairy tales, as all children were. Harsh reality and her own choices had killed that child and she had allowed nothing to grow in its place. Until now. Why now? Nothing she had done in the ensuing years had earned her this Grace. Nothing. . .until she had chosen to stop running. And it hurt – oh, how it hurt, but she had never felt more alive. She glanced at the mud-spattered man next to her. She thought she might be beginning to understand that courage was the key to that door. The key to absolutely everything.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She felt silly driving the buggy back to Jacob’s house the next day, but she would need to transport the painting back – if he had not changed his mind and refused to see her. She put her hand to her head; she might be sick at soul, but she felt it in her body. Chest, head, stomach, even her knees, all felt weak and sick. She mustered up what courage she had and knocked on the door.<br />
<br />
Jacob answered it, not with a smile, but not with a cold, hard glare, either. He ushered her into the parlor where the painting still resided on a chair. He stood in front of it, arms crossed. “What will it take for you to finish this?” His voice, so hard when he had spoken to her before, was soft now.<br />
<br />
She spread her hands. “I don’t know. I know you and Clay see him as a hero, someone admirable. I can’t.” She touched her cheek again, absently. “The last time I saw him,” she gulped, “he struck me, cursed me. How can I forget that?” She turned to him, looked up into his eyes. “It’s not how I want to remember him. But it is.”<br />
<br />
Jacob frowned, staring at the canvas. “He was deeply ashamed of that, you know.”<br />
<br />
“Ashamed of me, you mean.” She looked at her hand, her dark skin. “That he had such a child.”<br />
<br />
He looked down at her. “No, don’t think that. He was proud of you.”<br />
<br />
She staggered back as though from a blow. “Proud of me? How can you say that?”<br />
<br />
Jacob sighed. “He was a sculptor – very gifted. Would have won great renown, I’m sure, if his father hadn’t died when he did. If he hadn’t left everything such a mess.”<br />
<br />
“Clay told me some about the mortgages, and such.” Her brow furrowed. “I never knew he was an artist.”<br />
<br />
“When your talent began to bloom, when he sold your first painting, he was proud enough to burst.”<br />
<br />
She bowed her head and murmured. “Ironic. That was the moment when I first felt my slavery.”<br />
<br />
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry. What he wanted for all of us and what he could do for all of us were so far apart. He had to take and use every resource at hand to keep from sinking. They call it being ‘underwater’ when what you owe is more than what you own. May as well call it drowning, because that’s what it was. For twenty years, he saved us all from drowning.” She looked up at him then. He spoke with such passion. “His death on the battlefield – well, he’d been a hero long before that. Every day, he sacrificed more and more of himself, of everything he cared about, to save us all from the auction block.”<br />
<br />
There were tears in her eyes, which she blinked back hurriedly. “I never knew.”<br />
<br />
“He never meant for you to. Nor for Pamela, although she figured it out, when she went to plead for you.”<br />
<br />
She was not sure that now was the time to ask, but she had to know. “Is that why he sold my mother?”<br />
<br />
“Wait here.” Jacob stalked off abruptly. She frowned and sat on the sofa to await his return. He came back a few minutes later carrying a small parcel wrapped in an oilcloth. He carefully unwrapped it and placed it gently in her hands. “I found this among Lucian’s effects after he died.”<br />
<br />
It was a bronze sculpture, about eight inches high. A young woman gazing down at the baby in her arms. Marguerite might have thought it was religious in nature, if Lucian had been Catholic, or if she had not recognized some of her own features in the woman’s face.<br />
<br />
“My mother?”<br />
<br />
Jacob nodded. “And you. It’s the only piece he could not bring himself to sell, apparently. Now do you believe that he loved you?”<br />
<br />
She could not stop the rush of tears this time, nor the choking feeling in her throat. She covered her face with her handkerchief for a few minutes until she could contain herself. “And her?” she asked at last. “Did he love her?”<br />
<br />
“He did. And he was ashamed that he did – he had such a horror of being like his father.” Jacob leaned forward. “But he meant to free her – when he bought her, he meant to free her. His father died the same day, and then we were all in the soup.”<br />
<br />
“Start at the beginning,” Marguerite said. “How he met her. He was married – surely he couldn’t have meant to make an honest woman of her.”<br />
<br />
Jacob shook his head. “I can only tell you what I saw – his feelings about her were not something he would speak to me about.<br />
<br />
“He had sold a large commission, his first major sale, in Louisville, and he was walking to the train station when he saw her, chained with a bunch of other slaves being taken to the docks to be sent South.<br />
<br />
“Lucian told me later that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and I have to concur. She was lovely – smooth skin, ripe as a peach, large brown eyes. He thought it was a sin for something so beautiful to be in chains. He was flush with money, so he negotiated with the slave trader right then and there and brought her home to find the house already in an uproar over Old Mr. Carr’s sudden death.”<br />
<br />
“How did he die?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Drink. The doctor said apoplexy, but it was excess of alcohol. He was an old reprobate,” Jacob said grimly. “I shed no tears over him – he’d already sold off all my other children, and if he hadn’t died when he did, we’d have all ended up sold for debt. I’m sorry Lucian was left with that burden, but it was certainly the lesser of two evils.<br />
<br />
“Lucian put Azalea into my care while he dealt with his father’s business. Cynthia, Mrs. Carr, chose that moment to have another attack, so things were quite disorderly for awhile.”<br />
<br />
“What sort of attack?”<br />
<br />
“I’m being unfair,” Jacob admitted. “Cynthia had what the doctor described as ‘delicate lungs’ and she always seemed to use her illness as a means to get her way. We had all come to believe that she wasn’t really ill until she was close to death.<br />
<br />
“Lucian’s marriage was complicated. It wasn’t an arranged marriage, as such, but his father had been the driving force behind it. Cynthia was pretty enough, her family had money, it seemed like a good match on the surface. If Lucian had any idea what she was really like, or what it felt like to be in love, he wouldn’t have married her.<br />
<br />
“And then she found herself suddenly poor, with a husband who was falling in love with a servant girl, and it must have been agonizing for her, and probably contributed to her death, but she shouldn’t have made Lucian give Azalea up.”<br />
<br />
“Why did he, if he loved her?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Honor.” Jacob’s voice grew grim. “She made him promise, as she was dying, that he’d sell your mother. And she made him promise to sell her to New Orleans, so he couldn’t go back and find her later. Maybe she did suffer because of it, but it was still a hateful thing to make him promise. Like a dagger to his heart, but he couldn’t go back on his word. That’s the kind of man he was.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite contemplated this, still fondling the figurine. Where lay honor? In keeping one’s word, or in doing right? If the two were at odds, how did one decide? She shook her head. What did she know of honor? Who was she to judge her father so harshly, when his entire life had been spent rescuing her and everyone she knew?<br />
<br />
She stood then. “May I keep this for awhile? It may help me focus.”<br />
<br />
Jacob put his hand on hers, curling her fingers over the statue. “I think – I think you should have it. Lucian would want that.”<br />
<br />
“But – “ she felt herself tear up again, “ – it’s yours. The only piece of his you have.”<br />
<br />
“It’s yours. Look at it, and tell me it’s not.”<br />
<br />
She stared down at it. The mother she never knew gazed down at the child she was no more, yet she felt herself somehow embraced. “All right,” she croaked. “I don’t know how to thank you.”<br />
<br />
Jacob nodded at the canvas. “Finish it. Do him justice.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded. “I’ll do my best.”<br />
<br />
“That’s all I ask,” Jacob said. He carried the painting out for her. She could feel his eyes on her as she drove away, clutching the statue to her chest.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-80376367668475280192010-03-28T19:03:00.000-07:002010-03-28T19:03:05.561-07:00<strong>Chapter Eighteen</strong><br />
<strong>Modesto: 1880</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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. “<em>You</em> 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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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. <em>Will there be no end to this crying?</em><br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“She’s been having a good cry, Mother,” Rory said. “I’ve been comforting her.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“You can tell, just from a painting?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“It’s more than ‘just a painting’,” Beatrice said. “I can practically see your heart beating there, on the canvas.”<br />
<br />
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. <em>Come back, my love, come back</em>. She felt her tears again, but these were different. Hopeful, for the first time in decades.<br />
<br />
Rory put an arm around her. “It will be all right, Marguerite.”<br />
<br />
“You can’t know that,” Marguerite responded.<br />
<br />
“I can believe it.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite could almost begin to believe it herself.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sarah walked out on the porch, allowing the door to slam behind her. “Didn’t expect to see you again.” She crossed her arms.<br />
<br />
“You told me not to give up, Sarah.” Clay looked at her with trepidation.<br />
<br />
“That was before I knew.” She leaned against the rail. “How <em>could</em> you, Clay?” He could hear the hurt in her voice. “Jim, of all people. And Lucy. To think that of your own wife.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
She turned and opened the door, holding it for him. “Why? Not gonna get me to side against Jim, that’s for sure.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I was her downfall,” Clay said. “I made her unhappy.”<br />
<br />
“Were you happy, Clay?”<br />
<br />
Clay sat back. “No. I wasn’t.”<br />
<br />
“Whose fault was that?” Sarah gazed at him intently.<br />
<br />
Clay cast his mind back to the years of his marriage. “No one’s. Or both of us, I guess.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t think you’re being fair to her, Sarah. Surely she wasn’t that. . .greedy.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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 <em>tell</em> me?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“Some. How could I not be? I was her husband – I should have paid her more attention.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“With my life, and my soul.” He looked up at her.<br />
<br />
“Then you’ll be happy,” Sarah said. “Love is grand, but I’ll take trust, any day.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“And I’ve missed you, you have no idea. When should I call again? I’m at your orders.”<br />
<br />
She thought for a moment. “Try tomorrow. I’ll let Jim know you were here today.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t get between us, Sarah. I think Jim and I need to have this out, man to man.”<br />
<br />
She nodded. “I agree.” She stood and showed him to the door. “But sooner is better than later as far as I’m concerned.”Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-26791145723471606762010-03-23T20:40:00.000-07:002010-03-23T20:40:33.349-07:00<strong>Chapter Seventeen</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Daisy was awakened two hours later by Benjamin’s return. Their small fire had died down, and although she was still damp, it was not the bone-chilling wet of before. Benjamin stank of rotten fish and Daisy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Where have you been?”<br />
<br />
“Laying a false trail, trying to confuse the dogs.” He turned to their sleeping companions, prodding Shadrach gently. “Get up. We have to go.”<br />
<br />
The two roused themselves, rubbing sleep from their eyes. “I want my knife back,” Shadrach said.<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. “I need it more than you do.”<br />
<br />
“I can take it from you,” Shadrach growled. Lily put a restraining hand on his arm.<br />
<br />
“You could,” Benjamin agreed, eyeing the larger man, “but then I wouldn’t lead you out of here, and you need me more than you need it.”<br />
<br />
“He’s right,” Lily urged. “Please, dear, let’s go.”<br />
<br />
Shadrach growled again, but did not argue the matter further. Daisy and Shadrach followed Benjamin out of the shelter as Lily struggled into a skirt. Benjamin turned to the right and Shadrach grabbed his arm painfully. “It’s the wrong way. We gotta go north.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin jerked against the man’s grip, but was unable to break it. “We’ve got to get away from the river,” he hissed. “West first, then we swing back north. We have to avoid the slave catchers who are surely after you.”<br />
<br />
Shadrach released him, giving his arm a violent twist as he did so. “You think you know so much. If we could find the Railroad, we wouldn’t need you.”<br />
<br />
“I am the Railroad,” Benjamin said, rubbing his arm.<br />
<br />
“You?” Shadrach said with a sneer. “You’re a boy.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve been an agent for more than a year,” Benjamin said. “And I know where the next station is. Now if you’re done fighting me, let’s get going. I don’t like hanging around here.”<br />
<br />
“A moment,” Daisy said. Lily had crawled out of the shelter behind them. Daisy broke some long thorns off the briars and pulled the rear hem of Lily’s skirt between her legs and fastened it to the woman’s waist with the thorns, creating rudimentary trousers.<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Lily said. “I’d have never thought of that.” She looked at Daisy’s denims. “I wish we’d had time to plan this better. It must be Providence that brought us to you.”<br />
<br />
The men were still eyeing each other warily. Daisy said, “Of course it was,” but she was beginning to be unsure of that. It seemed that gaining Shadrach’s trust would require a great effort, one they might not have time for. She took Benjamin’s hand as Lily took Shadrach’s, and the foursome headed out into the dark woods.<br />
<br />
Benjamin strode ahead, tugging Daisy along with him. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “If we’re taken, don’t put up a fight. Kneel down, put your hands in the air. Promise me.”<br />
<br />
“Shouldn’t we fight?” she asked, surprised.<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. He nodded back toward the couple who were following them. “<em>He</em> can get himself killed if he wants, but I want you safe. If you beg for forgiveness, Mr. Carr won’t harm you. He might beat me, but he won’t kill me. And if he sells you, I swear I will come find you and save you.”<br />
<br />
“What are you two whispering about up there?” Shadrach demanded.<br />
<br />
Benjamin strode back to him. “Keep your voice down!” he hissed. “Do you <em>want</em> to be taken?”<br />
<br />
Shadrach blinked and backed down. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to know what you were saying.”<br />
<br />
“It’s none of your damned business what I say to my wife,” Benjamin said. “Now keep quiet, damn you.” He strode back to Daisy and took her hand, then led them forward. There was no more talking until near dawn, when they found some dense underbrush to hide in. They were probably no more than two miles from the river – Daisy hoped it was enough. Benjamin still stank of the rotten fish he had used to mislead the dogs. She did not care, as she wrapped her arms around him. She had always thought he was smart and brave, but she had never realized how much. “Sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll watch. Don’t wear yourself out.”<br />
<br />
He shook his head. “You sleep. We should be at the station tomorrow night or the night after. I can hold out til then.”<br />
<br />
“You’re afraid I’ll steal my knife back,” Shadrach whispered.<br />
<br />
“You would,” Benjamin stated, “but I’m not giving you the chance.”<br />
<br />
“You’re right about that,” Shadrach said.<br />
<br />
“Please don’t quarrel,” Lily whispered wearily. She turned to Benjamin. “Thank you both for helping us. I know we’re a lot of trouble. Please forgive us.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing to forgive,” Daisy said. She looked at Shadrach. “We’re all in the same boat. We should help each other.”<br />
<br />
Shadrach grunted and rolled onto his side. Daisy lay down beside her husband, but only fell into an uneasy doze. She was aware of the passage of two or three hours when she roused at the sound of dogs barking, two or three miles off, near the riverbank. She cowered in the underbrush; they all did. Benjamin kept a hand on the knife. Shadrach stared at it hungrily, but knew better than to make a move, with the slave catchers so near by. They heard shouts, and a gunshot, which made them all jump. Daisy was rather proud of herself for not yelping, but they all maintained a frightened silence until the shouts and barks moved off, heading south along the river.<br />
<br />
Benjamin patted and hugged her. She could feel trembling – she was not sure if it was hers or his, probably both. None of them slept the rest of the day, sitting in nervous trepidation until after sunset, when Benjamin led them out of their hiding place and turned toward the north.<br />
<br />
“Why did they turn south?” Shadrach asked, this time keeping his voice low.<br />
<br />
“I spread enough dead fish around that the dogs would lose your scent,” Benjamin explained, “and, with any luck, they think you’ve drowned.”<br />
<br />
“So we’re safe?” Lily asked hopefully.<br />
<br />
“We’re not safe until we’re in Canada,” Benjamin said. “Don’t let down your guard.”<br />
<br />
They made a wide arc north and east back to the river. Aside from startling a young deer, and being startled by it, they had no adventures until striking the river. They once again followed it, and Benjamin began watching for the abandoned cabin where they were to find sanctuary.<br />
<br />
A white man stepped out of the trees in front of them and held up a hand. “Stop!” he hissed at them. “Go no further!”<br />
<br />
Shadrach leaped past Benjamin and Daisy and had a hand on the man’s throat before he could cry out. The man’s eyes bulged alarmingly but he managed to choke out the words, “drinking gourd!”<br />
<br />
“Stop it!” Benjamin commanded. “He’s our conductor!”<br />
<br />
“He’s white,” Shadrach said, not releasing his prisoner. “He’s not to be trusted.”<br />
<br />
“He is,” Benjamin insisted. “Let him go!”<br />
<br />
Shadrach let go of the man’s throat, but kept hold of his collar. The man coughed. “Which one of you is Benjamin?”<br />
<br />
“None of us,” Shadrach said, shaking him.<br />
<br />
“I am,” Benjamin said, “and this is Daisy. You’re expecting us.”<br />
<br />
“I’m Henry,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting out here to warn you – thank God I found you. There are slave catchers at the station. I’m afraid we’ve been discovered.”<br />
<br />
“You said your name was Daniel,” Shadrach said accusingly.<br />
<br />
“It doesn’t matter.” Benjamin flicked his hand. He turned to Henry. “What do we do?”<br />
<br />
“Who are these two?” Henry asked. “Although I bet I can guess.”<br />
<br />
“Shadrach and Lily,” Benjamin said. “We rescued them when their rowboat tipped over.”<br />
<br />
“So I thought,” Henry said. “The country is in an uproar about you two – there’s a reward of five hundred dollars each. But I heard you’d drowned.”<br />
<br />
“It’s what we wanted everyone to think,” Benjamin said.<br />
<br />
“I’ve got three horses stashed in the woods that way.” Henry pointed northwest. “You’ll have to ride double – I wasn’t expecting four of you.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Benjamin said. They followed Henry for about a hundred yards back into the woods, but were surprised to find a man standing by the horses holding a musket.<br />
<br />
“Hello, Johnson,” the man said, resting the barrel of his weapon in the crook of his arm. “I thought if I kept an eye on you, you’d lead me to the mother lode sooner or later.” He eyed the four escaped slaves. “And boy, have you ever.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin stepped protectively in front of Daisy as Henry stalked forward. “Out of the way, Edgmont,” Henry said. “You don’t scare me.”<br />
<br />
Edgmont leveled his musket at Henry. As Henry reached to brush the musket aside, Shadrach grabbed the knife from Benjamin’s belt, lunging at Edgmont with a defiant bellow. Benjamin fell to his knees as the musket went off. Daisy yelped and caught him as he hit the ground, blood spurting from a wound in his abdomen. Lily and Henry grabbed at Shadrach, but it was too late – Edgmont fell to the ground with the knife in his throat. Blood spurted in a shower over the two slaves and their conductor.<br />
<br />
“Help me!” Daisy cried, pressing on Benjamin’s wound with her bare hands.<br />
<br />
Shadrach pulled the knife from Edgmont’s neck as the man gasped out his last. Henry shook his head and sprang to Benjamin’s side. “Are you hit?” he asked.<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. “Knife,” he gasped.<br />
<br />
Henry ripped open Benjamin’s shirt. The razor sharp knife had cut deeply into Benjamin’s belly as Shadrach had ripped it free. Daisy turned away, sickened – the wound was too disgusting for her to look at, so she looked at her husband’s face, which was turning paler by the moment. “Benjamin,” she choked.<br />
<br />
“Be free, Daisy,” Benjamin said. <br />
<br />
She kissed his lips, already turning cold. “I love you,” she said, but it was too late for him to hear her.<br />
<br />
Henry stood. “I ought to turn you over to the sheriff,” he hissed at Shadrach. “It’s what you deserve.”<br />
<br />
Shadrach wiped the bloody knife and gestured at Lily. “I did it for her. No way is she going back.”<br />
<br />
Henry ground his teeth together. “And this boy? This brave boy? Have you no pity?”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry about the boy,” Shadrach said. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he should have given me back my knife when I asked him to.”<br />
<br />
Henry growled at Shadrach, then turned to Daisy. He gently took her by the shoulders. “Come on, my dear. We have to get out of here. That gunshot may not have gone unheard.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shook her head. “We can’t leave him.”<br />
<br />
“We aren’t going to,” Henry said. “Help me lift him,” he ordered Shadrach.<br />
<br />
The two men slung Benjamin’s body across one of the horses. Lily stood silent, pale as marble. Shadrach lifted her onto one of the horses and mounted behind her. Henry mounted the other and lifted Daisy in front of him, taking the reins of the horse carrying Benjamin’s body. Daisy looked down at Edgmont’s body. “Who was he?”<br />
<br />
“A neighbor,” Henry said, kicking his horse into a gallop. “A no-account, always looking for a quick dollar.” He glanced back at Shadrach, galloping behind. “He shouldn’t have killed him – I could have handled it.”<br />
<br />
“He’s afraid,” Daisy said dreamily, realizing the truth of it all at once. The horses’ galloping hoofs pounded out the rhythm, <em>my fault, my fault, my fault</em>.<br />
<br />
Henry frowned worriedly down at her. “We’re all afraid. That’s no reason to kill.”<br />
<br />
They rode across the bridge, then swung north, away from the town, in about half an hour arriving at a small farmstead. A young woman, not much older than Daisy, came out of the house, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She gazed up at them as they reined the horses to a halt, taking in their blood-spattered clothes and Benjamin’s body slung across the saddle. She turned pale. “What happened?”<br />
<br />
Henry swung Daisy down and leaped down beside her. “I’ll tell you later, Mary. This is Daisy – her husband’s been killed and she’s in shock. Will you take care of her, and this other lady? Her name is Lily.”<br />
<br />
Mary nodded, taking Daisy by the hand. “Of course. Where will you be?”<br />
<br />
“Taking care of the horses, and of this young man here.” He nodded at Benjamin. “He’ll need a proper burial.”<br />
<br />
“Are we to expect other visitors?” Mary asked, her lips pressed together.<br />
<br />
Henry shook his head. “I don’t think so. Edgmont is dead,” he talked on, ignoring Mary’s gasp, “but there’s nothing to tie us to it. Be alert anyway.”<br />
<br />
Mary nodded and led the two women into the house while Henry and Shadrach led the horses into the barn. Daisy was in a fog, but she made no attempt to clear it. She was afraid – the fog was comforting in its way. She wrapped herself in it, shivering.<br />
<br />
“Come,” Mary said. She led them into a bedroom with a double bed and began pulling clothing out of a large wardrobe. “Please be quiet, my brothers are sleeping in the next room.”<br />
<br />
Daisy began peeling off her bloody clothes as Mary poured wash water into a basin. Daisy plunged her hands into the basin, the water turning pink. There were dark red stains under her fingernails, and she stared at them in fascination until Mary seized the cloth and began washing her. <br />
<br />
“Can you tell me what happened?” Mary asked Lily. “I take it she saw her husband die, poor thing?”<br />
<br />
“I can’t,” Lily choked. “It was too horrible. I’m sure your father will tell you what he wants you to know.”<br />
<br />
“He’s my husband,” Mary said, toweling Daisy off, “but no matter, lots of people make that mistake.” She took the basin away, and returned a few minutes later with clean water. She began dressing Daisy as Lily washed and dressed herself.<br />
<br />
They heard Henry enter the house a few minutes later. He knocked softly on the bedroom door and Mary let him in. “Where’s the other one?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Digging a grave in the orchard.” Henry knelt down by Daisy, put a hand on her knee. “It’s a lovely spot, my dear. I’m sure he’ll rest quietly there.”<br />
<br />
Daisy nodded. She felt tears spring to her eyes as her fog began to lift. She shook her head, and retreated back into it.<br />
<br />
Henry frowned and turned to his wife. “She’s been like this the whole time. See if you can snap her out of it – she’s going to need her wits about her. It’s hard on her, I know, young as she is.”<br />
<br />
Mary took her husband aside, speaking low. “What happened, Henry? Did Edgmont kill him?”<br />
<br />
“No,” Henry said, nodding toward the back of the house. “That other one did, that Shadrach. He killed Edgmont, too.” He turned to Lily. “Your husband is a very dangerous man. I’d get away from him as soon as I was able, if I were you.”<br />
<br />
Lily covered her eyes, tears streaming down her face. “He did it to protect me. He didn’t mean to kill the boy, you know he didn’t.” Her large brown eyes gazed up at Henry. “You’re still going to help us, aren’t you?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll help you, my dear,” Henry said. “I’ll help that violent fool, too, if you insist, but it’s against my better judgment.” He took his wife’s hand. “Come, all of you. We need to get the boy buried before daylight – you must all be under cover before then.”<br />
<br />
Mary wrapped a shawl around Daisy’s shoulders and kept an arm around her as they went through the back door and down the path to the orchard. The trees were white with blossoms, and their scent filled the air. Henry was in the lead – he suddenly flung up an arm and waved the women back. “Keep them away, Mary! Keep them away!”<br />
<br />
Lily shrieked and ran forward, where a dark form swung from the tree branch. “Cut him down, oh cut him down!” she cried.<br />
<br />
Henry sprinted forward, pulling out a pocket knife, and began sawing at the worn belt-rope that tied Shadrach’s body to the branch. He and Lily lowered the lifeless body to the ground, Lily sobbing all the while. Mary approached and looked down. “Was he discovered? Is this a lynching?”<br />
<br />
“No,” Henry said. “He was worth five hundred dollars reward. No one would do this, no one could have done it, the way this man would fight.” He put an arm around Lily’s shoulders. “He did this himself.”<br />
<br />
“Why?” Lily sobbed. “Why? He fought so hard to be free. Why would he do this now?”<br />
<br />
Daisy heard her own voice, coming from far away. “He fought so hard for you to be free.” She looked down where Benjamin’s body lay beside the grave Shadrach had dug. “He couldn’t live with himself, now.” There was something hot and wet running down her cheeks, and she wiped it away.<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Henry said. He looked at his wife. “Help me, dearest. We’ll have to bury them together.”<br />
<br />
Mary nodded and the two of them tumbled Shadrach’s body into the grave. They were more gentle with Benjamin, lowering him on top of the man who had killed him. Henry took the spade Shadrach had left against the tree and began filling in the hole. Mary and Lily prayed, but Daisy found no prayer in her heart. She doubted she would ever pray again.<br />
<br />
Henry said a few religious words as they consigned the two men to whatever fate awaited them in the next world.<br />
<br />
They took the two women back to the house, Lily still quietly sobbing, Daisy silent and distant. Mary led them up a ladder to the attic. She moved aside a trunk against the wall to reveal a small cubbyhole. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through the mill, and I feel as though I’m locking you away, but you’ll be safe here. Stay until my brothers go to school, then you can come down.” She looked worriedly from one to the other. “Will you be all right?”<br />
<br />
Daisy nodded and crawled into the space. There was a mattress, chamberpot, some food and water, but no light. Lily crawled in after her, but Daisy threw herself on the mattress and turned her face to the wall, ignoring the other woman. She thought about Shadrach and his rope. It would be so easy. She clenched her fists as the last shreds of her fog lifted. No. She would not give God the satisfaction of driving her to suicide. She felt a great swelling of anger – everything she had ever believed was upside down. The anger felt good, a wall she could build between herself and her grief. Yes. That was the thing; never let go of it.<br />
<br />
Lily lay next to her, sobbing her heart out, but Daisy did not shed a tear, at least not as long as she lay awake.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mary let them out the next morning. Henry, she explained, was a teacher and had to appear at the school as though everything were normal. Daisy helped Mary burn their bloodstained clothing, helpfully if not cheerfully. Mary seemed much relieved that she seemed to be recovered from her shock, but kindly avoided discussing the previous night’s happenings. Lily was weepy, prone to bursting into tears, but she preferred such tasks as milking the cow or feeding the chickens.<br />
<br />
No one came by, no news came. If Edgmont’s body had been found, they did not know of it. The two women had to hide themselves again when Henry came home with the children until the three boys were fast asleep. Mary gave the two women a quick hug before they mounted up and rode to the north.<br />
<br />
They rode hard all night, changing horses two or three times at isolated farmhouses. The horses were always saddled and waiting for them, but they saw no one. They reached the banks of the Ohio half an hour before dawn, where a small steamer awaited to carry them across the river. By dawn they were in a free state, though still not free. They were met by their next conductor, like Willie a free black, and began the next stage of their journey.<br />
<br />
They had a little more freedom of movement once they were out of Kentucky. They were passed from conductor to conductor, sometimes traveling by day, sometimes by night. Daisy always did as she was asked, sometimes wondering why she bothered until she remembered Benjamin’s last words to her.<br />
<br />
They arrived at Detroit, the last stop on the Railroad. That night they would cross over the river to Canada, to freedom at last. She and Lily had continued to travel together, although they spoke little to each other. There were four other fugitives at the station – the stationmasters were an elderly Quaker couple named Dixon. They were all at dinner when they heard a clatter of hoofs approaching. The ‘passengers’ scattered to their hiding place, although they could still hear the conversation when the stranger knocked at the door.<br />
<br />
“Please, ma’am,” the stranger said politely when Mrs. Dixon answered the door, “I’m looking for a young lady named Daisy Carr.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Dixon said, equally polite, “but there’s no one here by that name. Just me and my husband.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not a slave catcher, ma’am,” the man said. Mrs. Dixon stiffened but said nothing. “I’m a detective, with Pinkerton’s.” He showed Mrs. Dixon a card. “Miss Carr’s sister hired me to find her and give her a letter. Neither she nor you are in any danger from me, I assure you.”<br />
<br />
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Dixon said haughtily. “If you’re accusing us of slave stealing, I’ll have the sheriff on you for slander.”<br />
<br />
The man held up his hands. “No such thing, ma’am.” He pressed the card into her hand. “Give Miss Carr this card. It has my hotel written on it.”<br />
<br />
Mrs. Dixon pressed her lips together and closed the door in his face, almost slamming it. They listened until he had ridden away, but kept a cautious watch. “What do you think, Nora?” Mr. Dixon asked.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” she said, “but we have to get them out of here now, before he comes back with the law.”<br />
<br />
“May I have the card?” Daisy asked.<br />
<br />
“You’re not thinking of going?” Mr. Dixon asked. “It’s almost assuredly a trap for you.”<br />
<br />
“Let me have it, please?”<br />
<br />
Mrs. Dixon frowned but handed her the card. “What can you be thinking, girl? That was a ridiculous story – sent by your sister, indeed. How would a slave go about hiring a detective?”<br />
<br />
“My sister is white,” Daisy said. “The daughter of my owner.”<br />
<br />
Mrs. Dixon frowned. “Scandalous.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe.” Daisy tapped the card. “You leave without me. I have to go, can’t you see?”<br />
<br />
Mr. Dixon shook his head. “No, I can’t see. You’ve traveled three hundred miles only to turn back now?”<br />
<br />
“I’m not turning back, but I don’t want to put the rest of you in danger. Just go – I’ll find my own way across the river. I have money, I can pay for passage.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t force you,” Mr. Dixon said, “but I will tell you that you’re being extremely foolhardy.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s my choice.” She gathered up her shawl and left the house.<br />
<br />
She had to ask directions twice, even though the hotel proved to be not far distant. She had never been in a hotel before – she had a little difficulty finding the room number written on the card, and she had a sense she was doing something terribly improper, but she did not care. She rapped her knuckles on the door.<br />
<br />
A young man opened the door, not tall, sandy-haired and with an innocent, boyish look on his face. “Mr. Jones?”<br />
<br />
The man’s face brightened. “You must be Miss Carr. Please, come in, come in.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shuddered, but she brushed past him as he stepped aside. “Not Miss Carr, please.” <em>Not Mrs. Butler either.</em> “Call me Daisy.”<br />
<br />
“All right, Daisy,” Mr. Jones said, offering her a chair. “Call me Johnny.”<br />
<br />
“You have something for me?” She looked around the room – her feelings were at odds with her expectations. She half expected to be arrested at any moment, yet something about this man made her feel entirely secure and safe. It was disorienting, but she tried to appear calm and in control.<br />
<br />
Johnny strode over to the desk and picked up a letter. “I didn’t think you’d come. Why did you?”<br />
<br />
Daisy held out her hand. “For that.”<br />
<br />
Johnny handed the letter to her and waited while she broke the seal and read it.<br />
<br />
<em>My dearest Daisy,</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Come home. I’ve thought and thought what I ought to say to you, what fine words, but they all come down to that. Please come home.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>I know I was awful to you, and Daddy has told me what he said to you, but everything has changed since you left. I’ve thrown Harold over, so you’re in no danger from him. I’m deeply sorry for what I said, and if you’ll come home, I’ll try to explain it to you and make it right. Daddy is deeply sorry, too, and promises not to sell you. I can’t believe I even have to write those words, they’re so terrible. They sicken me – I can perfectly understand that they would have frightened you half to death.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>We’re all at our wits’ ends about you and Benjamin. Mr. Butler tries not to show it, but I know he is heartbroken. I caught him weeping in the pantry. He is so worried and so sad – please, both of you, come home and make us all happy again.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Your loving sister,</em><br />
<em>Pamela Carr</em><br />
<br />
Daisy turned her head away from Johnny Jones. “How did you find me?” she asked.<br />
<br />
He shrugged. “I’m a good detective.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who killed Edgmont?”<br />
<br />
“He was found then.” She shuddered. “We met up with some more escaped slaves, and tried to help them. One of them killed Edgmont.”<br />
<br />
“Shadrach?”<br />
<br />
She looked up at him. “You know?”<br />
<br />
“Not hard to figure – he killed his owner, he was obviously headed north. Is he here, with you?”<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “He’s dead.” She gazed back down at the letter. <em>Mr. Butler is heartbroken.</em> Of course he was. She felt filled with shame – she had never considered for a moment how her actions would affect anyone else. Mr. Butler had been more like a father to her than her own father had. Always there, always kind, always showing her right from wrong. How could she have stolen his son from him, whatever the provocation might have been?<br />
<br />
“I can’t go back.” She looked up at Johnny. “Tell my sister I’m sorry. Tell her – “ she paused for air, “ – tell her Benjamin is dead. She’ll understand then.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?” Johnny said. “She was so. . .tender when she spoke of you. I’m from Indiana, so I don’t really understand these things, how Southerners can enslave their own kin, but I know she cares for you.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure.” She stood up. “What is your reward for my return?”<br />
<br />
Johnny drew himself up. “Nothing. I wouldn’t work that way. I was paid to find you, and I have. Oddly enough, I think you should go back, but I certainly wouldn’t force you.”<br />
<br />
She offered him her hand. “I thank you then.”<br />
<br />
He held her hand when she tried to withdraw it. “Where will you go?”<br />
<br />
“Canada. After that, I don’t know. France, maybe. I have some talent as an artist.”<br />
<br />
“I wish you well, then, Daisy.” He released her hand. “Go with God.”<br />
<br />
She pursed her lips and left the room. She might not know where she was going, but if there was a place where God was not, that would be the place for her.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-36103457470605448242010-03-14T21:17:00.000-07:002010-03-14T21:17:44.715-07:00<strong>Chapter Sixteen</strong><br />
<strong>Bourbon County: 1858</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Willie shaded his eyes against the glare of Benjamin’s lamp and set down the rucksack he was carrying. “What’s going on, Ben?” he asked. He looked Daisy up and down. “Isn’t that Miss Carr’s maid?”<br />
<br />
Daisy looked Willie up and down, too. She had often seen him in town – he was a freedman who sold work shoes in the marketplace. <br />
<br />
“She was,” Benjamin corrected. “Mr. Carr aims to sell her, so we’re going to Canada.”<br />
<br />
“I was wondering when you were going to make a run for it yourself,” Willie said, “but taking a slip of a girl along is plain foolishness. Do you know how valuable she is? The slave catchers’ll be after you before you can turn around.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin hugged Daisy’s waist. “She’s going,” he said stubbornly. “You think it’s better she be sold South?”<br />
<br />
Willie shuddered. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He looked at Daisy. “How do you know he’s selling you, honey?”<br />
<br />
“He said so. At least, he said he was selling me, he didn’t say where.” She looked up at Benjamin doubtfully.<br />
<br />
“I’m not taking that chance,” Benjamin said. “We’re going together. I’ll take care of her, Willie. Don’t you worry.”<br />
<br />
“It’s on your head, then,” Willie said reluctantly. He handed Benjamin the rucksack. “Follow me.”<br />
<br />
He took the lantern from Benjamin, and the two of them followed him out into the larger chamber of the cave, then through a narrow, low passage. The passage opened out into a chamber the size of a cathedral, with large stalactites hanging down from the roof, some so long they formed pillars. “Where are we?” Daisy whispered. Her voice rebounded off the walls and broke against the pillars, shattering into dozens of tiny echoes.<br />
<br />
“An old, old place,” Willie said quietly. Something about the place seemed to call for solemnity. He held the lantern higher. “The Indians used it for their burials, long ago.”<br />
<br />
Along the wall Daisy could see bodies, shriveled and warped into odd shapes. She cringed and huddled closer to Benjamin. He put his arm around her. “They can’t hurt you, dear,” he said, but his own voice was trembling. <br />
<br />
“No white man has ever set foot here,” Willie said proudly. “It was my discovery – I like to think they’d approve of my using it to foil the people who stole their land from them.”<br />
<br />
Daisy felt easier then, as though she had something in common with the ones who rested there. She straightened her shoulders and followed Willie, although she still clutched Benjamin’s hand.<br />
<br />
She touched a pillar as she passed it – she was surprised to find that it was damp. It took nearly half an hour to traverse the cathedral – it turned out to be much longer than it had first appeared. There followed many twisting passages, some so low they had to bend double. They scrambled over piles of fallen rock, or wended their way between low-hanging stalactites, no sound but the drip, drip, drip of water. As they followed Willie’s lantern, Daisy lost all sense of direction. She began to wonder, how well did Benjamin know Willie? What if Willie’s intent was to lose them here and rob them? <br />
<br />
She began to doubt the wisdom of her actions. If she went back and begged, perhaps Mr. Carr would relent. She touched the bruise on her cheek. No. Perhaps Pamela would fight for her? She recalled her sister’s words. No. She felt Benjamin’s hand, calloused, strong and warm in hers. Yes. She did not know how or where or how well their adventure would end, but as long as it ended with the two of them together, that would be all she would ask for. Besides, she could not find her way back now if she wished to.<br />
<br />
<em>Please, God, keep us safe.</em><br />
<br />
“Quiet,” Willie warned, although they had been making no noise. He held up the lantern before a narrow opening, barely large enough to crawl through. “You go through there, you’ll come out on the side of a hill overlooking Stoner Creek.” He bent down, drawing with his finger in the dirt. “Follow the creek north until it runs into the South Fork. Follow that north until it runs into the Licking River. Keep following the river, staying on the west side, until you come to Cynthiana. Just on the outskirts of town, there’s an old abandoned cabin, right by the river. You’ll find this sign carved on the door.” He made a figure like the Big Dipper. “Wait there, but if anyone comes, hide until they say the word, which is ‘drinking gourd.’ Got that?”<br />
<br />
Benjamin nodded. “I got it.”<br />
<br />
“You’re not going with us? I thought you were our guide,” Daisy asked.<br />
<br />
Willie shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t be gone for too long – if I’m missed, people might start asking questions I can’t answer. It’s past dawn – best to lay up here until dark, then stick to the woods. You’ve got several days, or rather, nights, travel ahead of you.” He looked at Daisy. “I hope you’re up to it.”<br />
<br />
“I have to be,” Daisy said. “I have no choice.”<br />
<br />
“There’s always a choice,” Willie said gravely, “but better men than I am have thought freedom worth dying for.” He offered his hand to Benjamin. “Good luck. I’ll send a message ahead to warn them you’re coming.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Willie,” Benjamin said.<br />
<br />
Willie nodded and turned away, taking the lantern with him. Daisy wanted to cry out that he was leaving them in the dark, but restrained herself. She was a woman now, better start acting like it. Willie’s lantern receded, leaving them in pitch darkness. “Are you scared, Daisy?” Benjamin asked.<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “No. Well, a little.” She snuggled up under his arm. “I’m trying to think of this as an adventure – there may be struggle and danger, but we’ll be well and happy at the end.”<br />
<br />
“That’s my girl,” he said proudly. “Get some sleep, dear. I’ll watch over you. We have a long way to walk – better save your strength.”<br />
<br />
“All right, but wake me in a couple of hours. I’ll watch over you – you need rest as much as I do.”<br />
<br />
Light began to leak into the cave from the opening and she could see his smile in the dimness, but he said nothing, merely wrapped himself around her. She put her head on his shoulder and fell asleep, safe for now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She awoke hours later after an uneasy rest. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up at Benjamin. “You didn’t wake me,” she protested.<br />
<br />
“You were sleeping so soundly.”<br />
<br />
“No, I wasn’t.” She frowned up at him. “Don’t treat me like a baby, Benjamin,” she said sternly. “If we’re going to make it, we have to work together.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “I’m your husband – it’s my job to take care of you.”<br />
<br />
“And mine to take care of you.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “How far is it to Cynthiana? And how far will we get if you wear yourself out because you think I’m useless?”<br />
<br />
“About sixty miles.” He looked down at her. “And I know you’re not useless. But, dearest, you’ve spent your whole life in the House.”<br />
<br />
“I know. So have you. Come now, let’s not fight. Lie down and sleep until dark, anyway. I’ll keep watch.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin smiled and kissed her. He gave her some of the bread and dried meat from their pack before laying down and resting his head on the pack for a pillow. She chewed the dry bread, longing for water. She could hear water trickling somewhere in the cave, but did not want to go in search of it. There would be plenty of water after dark once they headed down to the creek at the bottom of the hill – she would endure her thirst until then.<br />
<br />
She woke Benjamin at dark, as he had asked, although she knew he had not slept nearly enough. He rubbed his eyes and shouldered the pack. Daisy crawled behind him through the passage. He pushed aside the underbrush that hid the opening, and she felt the cool night air brush her cheek, filled with the warm aroma of earth after a rain. They paused for a moment to make sure no one was about, then cautiously made their way down to the creek. Daisy drank her fill, as did Benjamin. Now that they were above ground, she could see that they were no more than seven or eight miles from the Carr farm, even though they had walked almost all night. She hoped that their progress through the cave had thrown off pursuit, but it would still pay to be cautious. Neither of them were exactly wood-wise, but they had a clear path to follow, and the will to follow it. She clutched Benjamin’s hand as they began to make their way north.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Although Stoner Creek passed through many farms and pastures, the farmers allowed the woods to grow wild on either side as a preventative against flooding and erosion, so as daylight approached, the two runaways burrowed into the underbrush to sleep. Daisy insisted on taking the first watch this time, over Benjamin’s protests. He finally acquiesced, although angry at her stubbornness on the matter. It might have been their first fight except they were afraid to shout, so conducted the argument in whispers. <br />
<br />
There had been no sign of pursuit, which puzzled her. The route they were taking seemed so obvious, surely any slave catcher worth his hire would be watching for them. They had been careful, stealthy and quiet, but how long could their luck hold out? They had made barely ten miles that night, at that rate it would take them nearly a week to reach Cynthiana.<br />
<br />
She brooded on this until Benjamin awakened. “We should go another way,” she told him. “This way’s too obvious.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. “The road would be obvious, and too dangerous. Willie’s been doing this for twenty years – if there were a better way, he would have told us.”<br />
<br />
Daisy pondered this. “Do you trust him so much?”<br />
<br />
“I do. He’s risked himself countless times for our people.” He took her hand. “We can’t go back, we must go on. Will you trust me to get us there?”<br />
<br />
She squeezed his hand. “I will. I do.”<br />
<br />
“Now lie down and sleep,” he ordered her. “I’ll keep you safe.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The next night they found a rowboat tied to a tree and debated taking it. The fear of navigating an unfamiliar river, and the possible arousing of the law decided them against it. They had to deal with a light but soaking rain all that night and the next day, and huddled in the undergrowth miserably, barely sleeping.<br />
<br />
So they trudged on, night by night. Daisy was weary and in pain from the unaccustomed exertion, but she made no complaint. Benjamin’s work as a carpenter kept him in better condition, and she was determined not to slow him down, if at all possible. She was glad of the darkness, and she worked hard to keep her breathing steady and even.<br />
<br />
She heard a faint sound and paused to listen. Coming down the river, there was a faint splashing of water and the creak of oars. She tugged Benjamin’s hand and made him listen, too. He nodded and they retreated from the riverbank, withdrawing further into the underbrush. Who could be out boating in the middle of the night? At least there was no sound of barking dogs, but Daisy’s heart pounded as they waited and listened for the boat to pass.<br />
<br />
A woman screamed, and a loud splash brought them out of hiding. The rowboat they had passed by a few days ago had collided with a downed tree - one of the many snags that made the Licking nearly unnavigable - spilling its occupants into the river. Benjamin waded into the shallows, hanging onto the tree. “Here!” he called out.<br />
<br />
Neither he nor Daisy could swim, she knew, so she waited in anxious silence. The full moon shone hazily through the clouds, making it difficult to see what was happening. There were two people in the water, she thought. The boat had righted itself and spun lazily downstream, but one of the passengers seemed caught in the snag that had upset it.<br />
<br />
Benjamin pulled himself into deeper water. The flowing water dragged him under, and Daisy gasped until he surfaced, shaking the water out of his dark hair. He pulled himself hand-over-hand until he reached the woman who was caught in the snag. “Save my husband!” she said. She pointed. A dark figure lay face down in the water, spinning past them. In a moment it would be too late. Benjamin let go of the tree and kicked desperately to catch the man before he spun out of reach. He grasped the hem of the man’s trousers as the woman caught at him, pulling him back to the tree. Benjamin turned the man over so that his head was above water, then hesitated.<br />
<br />
“Benjamin?” Daisy called from shore. “All you all right?”<br />
<br />
“All right,” he called, “but he’s bigger than I can manage.”<br />
<br />
“Please try,” the woman said. She struggled against the branches that held her, only entangling herself further.<br />
<br />
“Hold still!” Benjamin demanded.<br />
<br />
Daisy took a deep breath, then waded out into the river as she had seen Benjamin do. “Go back, Daisy!” he hissed at her.<br />
<br />
“And leave you out there to drown?” she said. She clasped the tree trunk as the water tugged at her, more frightened than she had ever been, but she kept going until she reached her beloved. The man he held was barely breathing, and she was not sure they could save him, but she took him by the arm. “You take his leg, Benjamin, and we’ll haul him in that way.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin turned to the woman. “Will you be all right until I can get back to you?”<br />
<br />
The woman nodded, but Daisy could see how hard she was shivering. Daisy was beginning to shiver herself, so she turned and started back to the bank, tugging the man along by the arm as Benjamin followed, holding the man’s leg.<br />
<br />
She slid her hand along the tree, all the time fighting the pull of the river, until she at last felt mud under her feet. She was unable to pull the man ashore, so she held his head above water as Benjamin moved past her and they could pull him up together.<br />
<br />
Benjamin plunged back in the water after the woman. Daisy rubbed the man’s cold hands, although hers were not much warmer. They were all soaked to the skin, with no change of clothes and although the night was not particularly cold, it was not warm, either.<br />
<br />
The man was dark, as dark as a night with no moon. He must be an escaped slave, too, and so was the woman, probably. He had a long knife in his belt and there were cuts and bruises on his arms, as though he had defended himself from a beating. Daisy gnawed her lips as she contemplated him. Benjamin returned with the woman, who was swaddled in so many long skirts and petticoats it was a wonder they had not dragged her under. Daisy helped her out of them as Benjamin tended to the injured man. The woman was paler than Daisy, although whether it was from cold or the natural lightness of her skin was uncertain, and there were bloodstains on the back of her dress.<br />
<br />
“How is he?” the woman asked, teeth chattering.<br />
<br />
“Unconscious, but breathing,” Benjamin said.<br />
<br />
“Let me see,” the woman said, kneeling by her man’s side. “He’s so cold.”<br />
<br />
“We’re all cold,” Daisy said.<br />
<br />
“Let’s move him away from the riverbank,” Benjamin said. “Then we can start a fire.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?” Daisy asked.<br />
<br />
“We have to,” Benjamin said, “or all die from the chill.”<br />
<br />
Daisy agreed with that assessment, so she shouldered the pack and the woman’s wet clothes as Benjamin and the woman dragged the man further into the underbrush. Benjamin seized the man’s knife and hacked through the thickest briars, making a sort of cave for them to hide in.<br />
<br />
He took a flint from his pocket and used it and the knife to strike sparks into a pile of dry leaves. Daisy gathered sticks and twigs to feed the fire, and in a few minutes had a small flame to warm their lair.<br />
<br />
The woman chafed the man’s hands until he began to stir. He blinked his eyes, looking around the briar patch and at the fire. “What happened?”<br />
<br />
“The boat upset, dearest,” the woman said. “These nice people fished us out of the river.”<br />
<br />
The man looked them over warily. “Runaways?” he asked.<br />
<br />
Benjamin nodded.<br />
<br />
“Where from?”<br />
<br />
“I’d rather not say,” Benjamin replied. He held out his hand. “I’m Daniel. This is my wife, Rose.”<br />
<br />
Daisy raised her eyebrows at this blatant lie, but kept silent. Perhaps it was best not to tell too much. What was unknown could not be betrayed.<br />
<br />
“Shadrach,” the man said, taking Benjamin’s hand. “My wife, Lily.”<br />
<br />
“We’re a couple of flowers,” Lily said, with a weak smile.<br />
<br />
“Let me have one of those skirts,” Benjamin said.<br />
<br />
“What for?” Shadrach asked.<br />
<br />
“To throw in the river,” Benjamin said. “If someone comes looking for you, I want them to think you’ve drowned.”<br />
<br />
Lily nodded and peeled one of the petticoats out of the pile. Benjamin took it and crawled out of the briars, returning a few moments later, empty-handed. He squatted by the fire. “When did you escape?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“I’d rather not say,” Shadrach said.<br />
<br />
“You think I can’t read the signs?” Benjamin asked angrily. “You -” he pointed to Lily, “- were being flogged for some reason, and you -” he pointed to Shadrach, “- interfered. You got away, so it’s safe to say you either killed or wounded your attacker. Which means they’re after you, which puts my wife and myself in danger with you. Do I read it aright?”<br />
<br />
“You do,” Lily said. “I was a lady’s maid, and then my mistress died, and my owner. . .” she turned crimson. “When I rejected his advances, he started caning me, and Shadrach came to my rescue.” She looked at her husband glowingly.<br />
<br />
Benjamin held out the knife. “Killed?”<br />
<br />
Shadrach reached for it, but Benjamin snatched it back. “He oughtn’t to’ve touched my wife,” Shadrach said. “I’d kill any man who dared.”<br />
<br />
“So would I,” Benjamin agreed, putting the knife in his belt. Shadrach glared at him, but was too weak yet to argue.<br />
<br />
“And your plans?” Benjamin asked.<br />
<br />
“Head north,” Shadrach said. “Cross the Ohio, get to freedom.”<br />
<br />
“Freedom is farther than that,” Benjamin said, “or didn’t you know that the law allows them to come get you anywhere they can find you? Better head to Canada, if you know what’s good for you.”<br />
<br />
“Where’s Canada?” Shadrach asked, wrinkling his brow.<br />
<br />
“Further north,” Benjamin said. “A thousand miles.”<br />
<br />
Daisy did not think it was quite that far, but let it go. “We can take them with us, can’t we, B-dearest?” She hoped no one noticed her stumble. Lying was difficult enough; she was afraid that carrying on someone else’s lie was beyond her.<br />
<br />
“They killed a white man,” Benjamin said. “It’s too dangerous.”<br />
<br />
“We don’t need no help,” Shadrach said.<br />
<br />
Daisy put her arm through Benjamin’s and whispered. “Husband, they have no idea what they’re doing. We can’t just leave them here.”<br />
<br />
“I have to keep you safe,” Benjamin whispered back. “It’s the only thing that matters.”<br />
<br />
“Not the <em>only</em> thing,” she said. “If they’re caught, he’ll be hanged and she’ll be – well, I hate to think of it. Me getting sold pales in comparison.” She tugged on his arm. “We have to take them with us. It’s the Christian thing to do.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin pressed his lips together. “No.”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t ask you to,” Lily interrupted, “and we have nothing to pay you with if you do. All I can say is, I’d be grateful if you would. We came away with the clothes on our backs – I’m afraid we’ll die out here without help.”<br />
<br />
“Woman – “ Shadrach said warningly.<br />
<br />
Benjamin narrowed his eyes and regarded them both. “All right,” he said at last. “But you follow me and do everything I tell you, no questions. You got that?”<br />
<br />
Lily nodded. She took his hand and kissed it. “Thank you. God will reward you, I’m sure of it.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t care if He does,” Benjamin said, “as long as we make it to Freedom, that’s all I want.”<br />
<br />
Daisy hugged him. Maybe taking on Shadrach and Lily had placed them in more danger, but she had every confidence that Lily was right and God would reward them. She snuggled down under his arm and fell asleep, warm and happy.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-16101978745874832010-03-08T14:01:00.000-08:002010-03-08T14:01:21.080-08:00Getting it doneI'm having a hard time with chapter sixteen. It seems that Linda's death has taken the wind from my sails. Then today, I read <a href="http://stephenparrish.blogspot.com/2010/03/i-wrote-novel.html">this</a>.<br />
<br />
OK, I'm not giving up. Ch 16, which is pivotal, may take longer than I had planned, but I <em>will</em> get it done. Then the rest of the book, then on to the rewrite. Oy!<br />
<br />
So bear with me awhile longer - I hope to make it worth your time in the end.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-36562157427709880342010-02-21T12:58:00.000-08:002010-02-21T13:00:12.473-08:00A good friend goneThose of you who have been reading this blog may have noticed that my most faithful commenter was a woman by the screen name of nlindabrit. I have received word that she passed away this morning, and I am distraught.<br />
<br />
Linda Sherlock was an acquaintance of mine who I met on the Big Valley Writing Desk discussion forum on Yuku. She lived in the UK, so I have never met her in person, but I and many others have always experienced her online presence as one of grace, generosity and kindness. She has always been extremely encouraging of other writers, and I have greatly appreciated the faithfulness she has shown to this blog and my amateur attempts at my first novel.<br />
<br />
Three days before her death, she posted how excited she was that she had won a Western story contest. I'm glad she had this success, but am very sad that she will not be around to experience any more of the successes that I'm sure were ahead of her.<br />
<br />
I shall deeply miss her - one of the reasons I was so faithful to post a new chapter every week was because I was eager to see what she would say about it. It's going to be hard to keep this blog going forward - I shall feel her loss anew with every post. But I should be doing her memory a disservice to stop writing now. So the book when it is done will be dedicated to her memory.<br />
<br />
Farewell, Linda. You shall be sorely missed.<br />
<br />
Linda's blog can be found <a href="http://nlindabrit.blogspot.com/">here</a>.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-1120356908359527282010-02-14T15:55:00.000-08:002010-02-14T15:55:21.439-08:00Chapter Fifteen<br />
Modesto: 1880<br />
<br />
<br />
“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.” <br />
<br />
Marguerite lowered her eyes. <em>I was one of those griefs</em>. She turned away from the thought. “The men who were hanged? Were they ever found?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I would never have known that you had lost an eye,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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. <em>Not the first time, only the first time you’d admit it</em>.<br />
<br />
“Should I stay with you, or should I leave you alone to think?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Her hands clenched themselves. “I need to paint,” she said.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I know,” she said. “I’ve already been the recipient of it. All of you are.”<br />
<br />
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 <em>gone forever</em>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“No. But I wanted to tell you – there’s something I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the courage.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
She knitted her brow, trying to understand him. “What corruption?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you believe that will help?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
He smiled. “One reason I love you is because you don’t sugarcoat things. Will you lend me your courage, dear?”<br />
<br />
“All I have,” she said. “Do you want me to go with you?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Molly agreed and walked with him to his horse, kissing him warmly before he departed.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“He’s in the barn,” Sarah said. “Oh, he will be glad to see you!”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
Jim came out of the tack room. “Who’s there?” He squinted toward the door.<br />
<br />
Clay realized he was back lit, so he moved into the dimness of the barn. “It’s me, Jim. Clay Palmer.”<br />
<br />
Jim stood frozen a moment, then, “Clay! Oh, my word! Clay! I never expected to see you here again. What brings you?”<br />
<br />
“Are we alone?” Clay said. “I wish to speak with you privately, if I may.”<br />
<br />
Jim looked back over his shoulder and called, “You still up there, Abby?”<br />
<br />
Abigail Gardner peeked over the edge of the hayloft, book in hand, spectacles on her eyes. “Yes, Daddy. Do you need me for something?”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right, dear, go back to your book,” Jim said. “Just checking.”<br />
<br />
Abigail brushed straw from her pigtails and disappeared into the hay. <br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I have, to Miss Holt. She seems like a fine woman – I’ve heard a lot of good things about her.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
Clay felt himself getting angry at the man’s perversity. He clenched his fists, but schooled himself to speak calmly. “You know there was.”<br />
<br />
Jim shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”<br />
<br />
“You knew she was with child,” Clay said, barely contained. “Why would she tell you and not me?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
Clay could not breathe. <em>I was wrong, I was wrong. Such a simple explanation, and it never occurred to me.</em><br />
<br />
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “And so you thought what?”<br />
<br />
“That you. . .that she. . .” Clay was nearly choking.<br />
<br />
“That we?” Jim’s voice was stone cold.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I was wrong, I see that now.”<br />
<br />
“I think you’d better leave,” Jim said.<br />
<br />
Clay stood. <em>This is all wrong</em>. “If you wish, Jim. But. . .I was hoping our friendship might still matter for something.”<br />
<br />
“Our <em>friendship</em>?” 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?”<br />
<br />
<em>How could I, indeed?</em> “I was wrong,” Clay repeated, knowing how weak it sounded. He reached for the door. “I hope, one day, you can forgive me.”<br />
<br />
“In ten years,” Jim said tersely. “At least you’ll <em>know</em> why I cross the street when I see you coming.”<br />
<br />
“Fair enough,” Clay said. He opened the door and walked around the house to his horse. <br />
<br />
Sarah came out on the porch when she heard his step. “Will you stay for dinner, Clay?” she asked hopefully.<br />
<br />
Clay might have laughed if he had not been so close to tears. “I can’t, Sarah, but thank you for asking.”<br />
<br />
Sarah pressed her lips together. “It went wrong, didn’t it?”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded. “All my fault, Sarah. All of it, from the beginning.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“It’s what I <em>should</em> 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.”<br />
<br />
“Forgiving ain’t something anyone <em>deserves</em>,” 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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
He smiled wanly and rode away. <em>Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.</em> He had spent ten years holding a grudge against a man who had never harmed him. How could he expect to be forgiven himself?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Is Alex here? I need to tell all of you something, but I only want to tell it once.”<br />
<br />
“He’s upstairs freshening up,” Aurora said. “Shall I go hurry him up a bit?”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
Clay led Molly to the sofa and sat down, clenching her hand. “I’ve been to see Jim Gardner,” he began.<br />
<br />
“Ah,” Alex sighed. “It’s about time.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Wronged how?” Rory asked.<br />
<br />
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 <em>believed</em>, and believed with all my heart, that he and Lucy – that Lucy had been unfaithful to me. With him.”<br />
<br />
“And now you know it’s not true,” Beatrice observed.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Beatrice asked. “You evidently told Alex, and Molly.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“So what do we do now?” Rory asked. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll go,” Clay said. “I need to speak with her, anyway. Alex, will you entertain Molly for a moment?”<br />
<br />
“Gladly,” Alex smiled. “And Clay? I’m proud of you.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing to be proud of, Alex,” Clay said as Beatrice and Rory left. “I’m a wretch, but at least now I know it.”<br />
<br />
“Not a wretch, only mistaken,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Something else?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more at the moment.”<br />
<br />
“Not about you, or Lucian.” Clay sat down in one of the chairs. “About me. That story I told you about Lucy and Jim?” <br />
<br />
Marguerite frowned and sat across from him. “Yes?”<br />
<br />
“None of it is true,” Clay said, turning red. “Well, the story was true, but the conclusions I drew from it, all wrong.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
He told the tale over again. “So you see, I’m a wretch. I have much to atone for, and no idea how.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“An act of faith,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“More an act of compulsion.” She looked at him. “If you want me to advise you, you’ve come to the wrong person.”<br />
<br />
“No,” he shook his head, “but I didn’t want you to believe the lies I’d told you.”<br />
<br />
“You thought they were true.”<br />
<br />
“Still lies,” he said. “Maybe even worse because I believed them.” He stood. “I’ll find you that uniform after supper, which my mother <em>requires</em> you to attend. She says she won’t have you wasting away.” He offered her his hand to pull herself up.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Clay smiled at her. “I appreciate that, Marguerite, but in this case, the only one who can help me is myself.”<br />
<br />
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.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-75419862114497679152010-02-07T16:57:00.000-08:002010-02-07T16:57:53.108-08:00<strong>Chapter Fourteen</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Their only hope lay in stealth. The sun was sinking behind the woods as Lucian and Clay drew near Richmond. The rebels would have to stop for the night, and the moon would not rise until midnight. Darkness was their only ally.<br />
<br />
Clay prevailed on Lucian to stop until full dark – his friend was too pale and nearly stumbling on the road. They drew back a little way into the woods and sat on a log while Clay pressed food and whiskey, mixed with water from the nearby bayou, on his captain.<br />
<br />
They were surprised by a young rebel fleeing through the woods who nearly stumbled on them in the gloom. The soldier, hardly more than a boy, flung himself down at their feet. “I surrender!”<br />
<br />
Lucian would have laughed if he had not been so weary. “The battle’s over, soldier. Go home – we’re taking no prisoners tonight.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t,” the boy said, trembling. “I’ve deserted.” He shuddered. “I never seen anything like that before.”<br />
<br />
“Your first battle?” Clay said, offering the boy his flask.<br />
<br />
The soldier sat on the log next to Clay and drank thirstily. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Yeah, but it ain’t that. A man’s killed in battle, it’s kinda honorable, right? But stringing up prisoners ain’t no kinda honorable. It ain’t what I signed up for.”<br />
<br />
Lucian and Clay both froze. “The rebs strung up the prisoners?” Lucian asked icily.<br />
<br />
The boy nodded. “Coupla white officers, some of the niggers. It ain’t right. Even if they was niggers, they fought like men. It don’t do for them to die like dogs.”<br />
<br />
“Where? When?” Lucian demanded.<br />
<br />
The boy pointed over his shoulder. “There, about a mile back – not more’n twenty minutes ago. There was a powerful long argument about it. I didn’t think they’d do it, but they did.”<br />
<br />
Lucian leapt to his feet. He took the boy’s shoulders. Shook him. “Where exactly? Take us there!”<br />
<br />
The boy yanked himself away and shook his head. “Why? It’s done too late, don’t you see?”<br />
<br />
“One of them is his brother,” Clay explained. “It’s why we’re out here. Won’t you help us?”<br />
<br />
The boy’s eyes grew grave. “I’m sorry about that – it shouldn’t ought’ve been done. All right, I’ll take you close, but if we see any Confederates, I can’t go no further.”<br />
<br />
“We understand,” Clay said. “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
The young soldier led them through the woods, skirting the bayou until they came to the spot. There were, fortunately, no rebels in sight, the brigade having withdrawn to Richmond for the night. Six or seven bodies hung only inches off the ground, the executions done in haste. Clay and Lucian began the grim task of cutting the bodies down, only two good arms between them. The young rebel held back at first, but then grimaced and pitched in.<br />
<br />
“It’s Captain Heath, all right,” Clay said sadly, lowering the carcase of the brave and gallant captain to the ground.<br />
<br />
“This one’s Lieutenant Conn, of the Eleventh,” Lucian said, gently laying down his burden. “I didn’t think he was in camp.”<br />
<br />
“He wasn’t,” Clay said. “He was out recruiting. He must have gotten swept up on the way.”<br />
<br />
“This one’s still breathing!” the young rebel exclaimed.<br />
<br />
Clay and Lucian both gasped and ran over to the tree where the soldier had cut down one of the colored soldiers. “Saints preserve us!” Lucian cried. “It’s Jacob!” He knelt down by his brother’s side, loosened the crudely tied rope, and poured whiskey from his flask into the unconscious man’s mouth.<br />
<br />
The liquid spilled from Jacob’s mouth. Lucian raised his head and tried again. This time Jacob sputtered, coughing up the dark liquid. He opened his eyes. “Lucian?” he said hoarsely, squinting into the darkness.<br />
<br />
“Don’t talk, Jacob,” Lucian cautioned. “Everything’s all right now.” He looked up at Clay. “Hurry, there might be more still alive.”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded and went back to cutting down the soldiers. The young rebel assisted him, but all were dead. “<em>That’s</em> his brother?” the rebel nodded over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
Clay nodded.<br />
<br />
“Who’d’ve thought?” the soldier said, disgusted. “I thought you were out here after the white men.”<br />
<br />
“Does it matter?” Clay asked. “We all fought together. Many of us died together.”<br />
<br />
“No offense meant,” the soldier said. “We thought you all were gonna be easy pickings, and we got our hats handed to us. But you both are taking a mighty big risk.”<br />
<br />
“It’s worth it,” Clay said. He walked back to where Lucian attended to his brother. “Can he walk? We need to get out of here, Lucian.”<br />
<br />
Lucian nodded and helped Jacob to his feet. Jacob swayed. Clay swung Jacob’s arm around his shoulder, steadying him.<br />
<br />
Lucian turned to the young rebel. “What’s your name, soldier?”<br />
<br />
“Bickers, sir. Lemuel Bickers. My friends call me Lem.”<br />
<br />
“I owe you many thanks, Lem,” Lucian said. “I’d like you to go ahead of us to Milliken's Bend. Be careful, and if you run into any of our pickets, tell them that Captain Carr sends you to speak to Colonel Lieb. He’s a good man, you can trust him.”<br />
<br />
“All right, sir.” Lem hesitated. “Will the Yankees retaliate?”<br />
<br />
“Hang prisoners?” Lucian asked. “No fear of that, Lem. But I doubt we’ll be exchanging any if this goes unanswered.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t want to be exchanged,” Lem said. “They’d shoot me for a deserter, and a traitor, too, I guess.” He saluted. “You be careful, too, sir.”<br />
<br />
“We will,” Lucian said. “Now go.”<br />
<br />
Clay nearly carried Jacob through the woods, not daring to risk the much easier road back to the Bend. Lucian followed, but lagged behind as the night wore on, causing Clay to pause frequently in order for him to catch up. Finally, he set Jacob down on a log and turned to his captain. “Are you all right, Lucian?” he asked worriedly.<br />
<br />
“I feel rather light-headed,” Lucian admitted. He sat down on the log beside his brother. “Give me some of that whiskey – I’ll be all right in a minute.”<br />
<br />
But he had no more swallowed than he turned his head and vomited. “Lucian?” Jacob croaked. “What’s wrong?”<br />
<br />
“My head,” Lucian said, clasping it with both hands. “It hurts.” He slumped to the ground, unconscious.<br />
<br />
“Lucian!” Clay and Jacob cried together. They gathered around him, Jacob chafing his hands. Clay was afraid to give him more whiskey, so he merely slapped his cheeks until he regained consciousness.<br />
<br />
“Jacob?” Lucian said groggily. “I think I’m dying.”<br />
<br />
“You’re not dying,” Jacob said, struggling with tears, with the pain in his throat. “You’ve worn yourself out is all. You’ll be fine with a good rest.”<br />
<br />
Lucian shook his head, wincing. “I want you to do something for me, brother.”<br />
<br />
“Anything,” Jacob said, “only don’t worry.”<br />
<br />
“Two things,” Lucian said. “Take care of my daughter, and take the name, Jacob. Take the name of Carr.”<br />
<br />
“I will, Lucian. Rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, brother,” Lucian said. He closed his eyes and died.<br />
<br />
“Lucian?” Jacob whispered. He shook his brother. “Lucian?”<br />
<br />
“Stop, Jacob,” Clay said gently. “He’s gone.”<br />
<br />
“He can’t be,” Jacob said. “He was all right a few minutes ago. How can he be dead?”<br />
<br />
“He is,” Clay said. “If it matters why, we’ll ask a doctor when we get back.”<br />
<br />
“He shouldn’t have come,” Jacob said.<br />
<br />
“Don’t say that!” Clay said harshly. “Don’t make his death worthless.” He sighed. “Rest a moment, then we’d better make tracks.”<br />
<br />
The gibbous moon was rising as they made their way into camp – they gave the countersign to the pickets, who were expecting them, and carried Lucian’s body into his tent, laying it out upon the cot. Jacob knelt down beside it as Clay went to find Colonel Lieb.<br />
<br />
He returned with the colonel after giving his report, Lieb limping on a cane. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Lieb told Jacob. “He was a good man.”<br />
<br />
“He was more than that,” Jacob said.<br />
<br />
“I know,” Lieb said. “He told me.”<br />
<br />
“Then you’ll understand why I wish to change my name on the army rolls, if it’s possible, sir.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll see to it,” Lieb said. “Can I do anything for you?”<br />
<br />
“Send word to his daughter,” Jacob said. “She’s at the hospital in Memphis.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll go,” Clay volunteered. “She shouldn’t hear of this from a stranger.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Jacob said. “Now, if I could be alone with him for awhile?”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Lieb said. He withdrew and Clay went to his tent to prepare for his journey. He tossed his belongings into his pack, but before he could leave, found himself overwhelmed. He sat down on his cot, burying his face in his hands. Tears leaked out between his fingers, but in a few minutes he stood, dried his eyes, and walked down to the dock to catch a riverboat for Memphis.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The hospital was in a large house in the middle of the town. Clay announced himself to the hospital steward, who sent for Pamela. She came rushing down the stairs, smiling. “Clay!” She pulled up when she saw his face, blanching. “Oh, no. It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded. “I’m sorry, Pamela.”<br />
<br />
“What happened? We’ve been receiving soldiers from the Bend all day – they all said he’d been wounded, but not seriously.”<br />
<br />
“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” Clay asked. “Privately?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll get my shawl,” she said. “There’s a pavilion in the park – we can walk there.”<br />
<br />
Clay was surprised that she seemed to be taking it so calmly, but he escorted her to the park and they sat in the shady pavilion while he told her his tale. Pamela frowned. “Was he hit on the head?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“I don’t believe. . .” He paused. “Why, yes, now that I think of it, he was. He was only unconscious a few seconds. I thought his bullet wound far more serious.”<br />
<br />
“We had a boy here last week die that way. He seemed all right right up until a few minutes before he died. Bleeding into the brain, the doctors said.”<br />
<br />
“Why so calm and dispassionate, Pamela?” Clay asked. “It doesn’t seem like you.”<br />
<br />
She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m all wept out, Clay. I’ve seen so much death – blood and disease and some unexplained. I cried over the first dozen or so. I have nothing left for myself.”<br />
<br />
He took her hand. “I’m sorry – you should have stayed home.”<br />
<br />
“No.” She took her hand back. “I wanted to be here. I had no home to stay at, anyway.”<br />
<br />
“What will you do?” Clay asked. “Where will you go when this is all over?”<br />
<br />
“Does it matter?” she asked wearily.<br />
<br />
“It matters to me,” he said.<br />
<br />
She smiled up at him. “You’re a good friend, Clay. I’m glad we met you, glad you could be with Daddy when he died.” She stood then. “I’ll go get my things – we should be able to catch a boat to the Bend and be there by morning.”<br />
<br />
Clay escorted her to her lodgings, waited for her to pack, then walked her down to the dock. They caught a boat going south, and as they leaned against the rail, the dark water scent of the Mississippi wafted up to them. “Come home with me,” Clay said. “After the war, come to California.”<br />
<br />
“Why, Clay,” she said, “I had no idea you felt that way.”<br />
<br />
Clay blushed. “I’m sorry, I said that wrong. I’m engaged, Pamela, but I hate to think of you and Jacob with nowhere to go. My family will welcome you, I promise.”<br />
<br />
Pamela blushed, too. “No, I’m sorry for misunderstanding.” She wrapped her shawl around her. “I never intend to marry, anyway.” She was silent a long moment. “What’s your family like?”<br />
<br />
Clay was glad to tell her. “My mother’s one of those strong pioneer women you read about, very stoic, yet very caring at the same time. My father’s a big man with a big laugh and a hearty appetite for living. I have a brother a couple of years younger than me, and I hope to God this war is over before he’s old enough to fight. And a little sister five, no, six years old. She looks like you, all blonde curls and big eyes.”<br />
<br />
“They sound lovely,” Pamela said, her eyes darkening. “I had a sister – I lost her, too, a few years ago.”<br />
<br />
Maybe she could not cry, Clay thought, but her grief was an arrow that pierced his heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
They spent the night on the deck of the riverboat, neither sleeping, speaking little. The boat glided into the dock at Milliken's Bend, and Clay carried Pamela’s bag as he escorted her to her father’s tent. Jacob was there, sitting, watching. Pamela went to him and put her arms around him, and Clay saw that she could cry, after all.<br />
<br />
He went to report to Colonel Lieb. Lieb looked at him, frowning. “Have you seen a doctor, Lieutenant?”<br />
<br />
“No, why?” Clay asked, dumbfounded.<br />
<br />
Lieb pointed. “Your eye. You’ve bled through the bandage. Report to the regimental surgeon at once. That’s an order.”<br />
<br />
Clay made his way to the surgeon’s tent, alarmed. He had not even noticed his eye before, but now it began to pain him. The surgeon removed the bandage and examined him.<br />
<br />
“Hm,” the surgeon said. “This happen during the battle?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Clay said. “A rifle went off too close to my face. It’s only a powder burn.”<br />
<br />
“Your eye is suppurating, Lieutenant.” He began to rebandage it. “I’m sending you to the hospital in Memphis on the next boat.”<br />
<br />
“We’re burying Captain Carr and Captain Heath today,” Clay protested. “Can’t it wait?”<br />
<br />
The surgeon frowned. “I suppose, but only until after the funeral. And not Captain Heath – the detail sent to recover the bodies found nothing. If not for the damage to Sergeant Butler’s throat, I’d have thought you made it all up.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing?” Clay said. “How can that be?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” the surgeon said. “Maybe the rebs decided not to leave any evidence behind. Any road, I’m sending both you and Sergeant Butler to Memphis. Complications from strangulation can be deadly.”<br />
<br />
“Sergeant Carr,” Clay corrected him.<br />
<br />
“Ah, yes, I forgot,” the surgeon said. “Odd, that.”<br />
<br />
“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “Not odd at all.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Captain Lucian Carr was laid to rest with full military honors, or as full as his devastated regiment could supply. There was no bugler to play, but the men managed a seven gun salute, and Lucian Carr was lowered into the grave and covered over, far from his Kentucky home.<br />
<br />
Clay offered to take Pamela to find lodgings in the town, but she refused. “I need to get back to Memphis.”<br />
<br />
“You should take a few days off,” Clay protested.<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “I’d rather work. Besides, Jacob’s being sent to the hospital there.”<br />
<br />
“So am I,” Clay admitted. “For my eye.”<br />
<br />
“Well, then,” Pamela said, “we’ll all go together.”<br />
<br />
And so they did. Pamela developed a cough on the boat – too much fresh air, she explained, but Clay thought she looked feverish as well. He determined to see to it that she saw a doctor in Memphis along with the rest of them. The three of them were hustled off the moment they arrived, and Clay found himself in a ward with Lieutenant Cornwell while he awaited the doctor’s examination.<br />
<br />
“That’s too bad,” Cornwell said when Clay apprised him of his activities since the battle. “We knew what the Johnnies had promised to do to white officers – too bad Heath bore the brunt of it. We’ll miss him and Captain Carr, both.”<br />
<br />
Clay looked him up and down. “You’re still in one piece, I see.” He observed Cornwell’s limp right arm.<br />
<br />
“They wanted to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let them,” Cornwell said proudly. “The ball’s still in there, too.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe you should. . .” Clay began.<br />
<br />
“No,” Cornwell said firmly. “I’m not going home a cripple.”<br />
<br />
“If you say so,” Clay said. Just then the doctor sent for him, and he went to the examination with some trepidation.<br />
<br />
The doctor looked grave as he examined Clay’s infected eye. “You have two choices, Lieutenant,” he said. “Either I cut it out, under anesthesia, or it rots out, taking you with it. I might have saved it if you’d come in when it happened.”<br />
<br />
“I had more important things to do,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“More important than your eye?” the doctor asked sternly.<br />
<br />
“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Infinitely more important.”<br />
<br />
“Well, whatever you were up to, it’s cost you an eye. I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”<br />
<br />
“It was,” Clay asserted. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen men die from better cases than yours.”<br />
<br />
Clay considered a moment. A one-eyed lawyer was still a lawyer, and he was sure his family would rather have him come home than not, no matter how many pieces he might be in. Cornwell might be ready to risk death over dismemberment, but Clay found he was not. “If your eye offends thee, pluck it out,” he murmured. “All right, doctor. When?”<br />
<br />
“Now,” the doctor said, reaching for a bottle of chloroform. He looked up as Clay started in surprise. “There’s no time to waste, soldier.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Clay said, quavering. The doctor pushed him back on the table, placed an odd-looking contraption over his nose and mouth and began dripping chloroform into it. In a few moments, Clay knew nothing more.<br />
<br />
He awakened in the ward, with Pamela and Jacob looking down on him. He touched his eye, but all he could feel was bandage. “If you have pain, we have laudanum,” Pamela said.<br />
<br />
She still looked feverish. “I’m all right,” Clay said. “It’s no more than I can stand. You should be in bed.”<br />
<br />
“It’s a cold,” Pamela said. “I’ll be fine.”<br />
<br />
“A cold in June?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“I’m <em>fine</em>,” Pamela said testily. “You’re the one who’s lost an eye.”<br />
<br />
Clay gave up for the time being and turned to Jacob. “And you?”<br />
<br />
“He wants to keep me for observation, but he found nothing significantly wrong,” Jacob said huskily. “He thinks I’ll recover, in time.”<br />
<br />
“We all will,” Pamela said, her voice almost as husky as Jacob’s.<br />
<br />
Clay sat up, too suddenly, for he felt suddenly light-headed. “Jacob, make her see a doctor,” he said. “Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”<br />
<br />
“You <em>don’t</em> get to order me around,” Pamela said.<br />
<br />
“Please, Pamela,” Clay pleaded, taking another tack, “for my peace of mind. If there’s nothing wrong, you’ll be back at work in a trice.”<br />
<br />
Pamela pressed her lips together stubbornly. “All <em>right</em>,” she said at last. “But only because you’re injured. Don’t think you get to do this all the time.”<br />
<br />
“I won’t,” Clay said, lying back down. “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
Jacob and Pamela were gone for some time – it was more than an hour before Jacob returned, and Clay feared his worst premonitions were coming true. Even so, he was alarmed when Jacob returned alone. “It’s as bad as you feared, Clay,” Jacob said. “It’s scarlet fever.”<br />
<br />
Clay turned his face to the wall, and in his exhausted state, found he could not stop crying.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-11144081421200965572010-01-31T20:04:00.000-08:002010-02-08T16:00:02.329-08:00<strong>Chapter Thirteen</strong><br />
<strong>Milliken's Bend, Louisiana: 1863</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
The small town of Milliken's Bend lay embraced on three sides by the Mississippi river. Clay arrived in the middle of May with Lucian and Jacob, and were assigned to Company G of the Ninth Louisiana Infantry, Lucian as captain and Clay as his first lieutenant. Lucian, prohibited by Army directives from promoting him any higher, gave Jacob the rank of duty sergeant.<br />
<br />
There were four black regiments forming at the Bend – the Ninth Louisiana, commanded by Colonel Hermann Lieb, a Swiss formerly of the Eighth Illinois Infantry; the Eleventh Louisiana, commanded by Colonel Chamberlain; the Thirteenth Louisiana and the First Mississippi. Colonel Lieb, being senior officer, was in command of the garrison.<br />
<br />
The Ninth was full of Illinois men – Company B, especially. Captain Corydon Heath was from the Second Illinois Light Artillery, as was his First Lieutenant, David Cornwell. Cornwell had started his army career as a private in the Eighth Illinois Infantry along with Colonel Lieb, and technically he was still a private, as neither he, nor any of the other officers, would be officially promoted until the regiment was mustered in, and the regiment could not be mustered in until it had filled the ranks.<br />
<br />
And that might be a problem – the officers were responsible for recruiting soldiers from the nearby abandoned plantations and from ‘contraband’ – escaped slaves who had made their way to the Union lines. These men, only recently released from lives of forced labor, were reluctant to take up arms and needed much persuasion.<br />
<br />
At this, Lieutenant Cornwell seemed to excel. Accompanied by his duty sergeant, Big Jack Jackson – a giant of a man that Cornwell had befriended after the battle of Corinth, Mississippi – he sometimes returned from recruiting with more than a dozen men in tow, whereas the other officers seemed lucky to recruit more than one or two, if any.<br />
<br />
Lucian had more success than most. Leaving Clay in camp to drill what recruits they had, he and Jacob would travel by horseback to the neighboring plantations and talk to the slaves whose masters had abandoned them to the Union advance. Although impressed by the uniforms, the servants were mistrustful of Lucian, and only somewhat less so of Jacob’s mulatto complexion. The Southern caste system that moved light skinned slaves into the comparatively easy life of the house and left the dark skinned slaves in the fields certainly took its toll here, but the two men’s trust and reliance on each other eventually won some of them over.<br />
<br />
Milliken's Bend had been General Grant’s base before he left to attack Vicksburg, and he left behind the black regiments to garrison the town and guard his supply lines. However, it was obvious that the army had yet to take the black regiments seriously, for they were left with the worst of everything – shoddy uniforms and outdated Austrian muskets.<br />
<br />
Still, the officers made do with what they had – poor equipment and the greenest possible recruits, men who had never even held a rifle, much less knew how to shoot one. Lucian and Jacob returned from recruiting one day to find Lieutenant Cornwell engaged in drilling the regiment in target practice.<br />
<br />
Colonel Lieb had moved the garrison from the town to an open field two miles away. The camp was defended by a levee about six feet high and wide enough to drive a wagon on. In front of the levee was a twelve foot high hedge of osage orange, a shrub the Louisianans called ‘bodarc’, with long sharp thorns. Cornwell had cut a few narrow gaps in the hedge and set up targets on the other side for the men to shoot at. They were no good at it, as was to be expected, and Lieutenant Cornwell was letting them know it. “Get it right next time, you woolly headed nincompoop,” he was yelling at one recruit, “or I will kill you!”<br />
<br />
Lucian raised his eyebrows, but did not remark on it. It would not do to undermine a fellow officer’s authority in front of the recruits, but he took it up with him later in the officer’s mess. “I’m not sure you should be speaking to the men that way, Cornwell. Many of them have been abused on the plantations – you should speak to them with more respect.”<br />
<br />
Cornwell appeared nonplussed. “Just what are you objecting to, Captain?”<br />
<br />
“Threatening to kill them, and calling them ‘woolly headed’.”<br />
<br />
Cornwell tutted. “They know I’m not going to kill them, and by ‘woolly headed’ I meant they weren’t thinking. They’re pretty useless now, but don’t worry, I’ll make them sharpshooters inside a month.”<br />
<br />
“It’s funny,” Clay pointed out as he and Lucian enjoyed an after dinner cigar in Lucian’s tent, “but the more Cornwell yells at the men, the more they seem to like it.”<br />
<br />
“He’d yell the same way at white men,” Jacob said, “because he believes they can be real soldiers. It may look like he shows them no respect, but the opposite is true. He’ll be in command of this place before long, you mark my words.”<br />
<br />
However, Cornwell was never to get his chance to turn the Ninth into sharpshooters. The next day Colonel Lieb got word that several brigades of rebels had moved into the area, and he called out the Ninth to reconnoiter. General Dennis, in charge of the area, had also sent down two companies of the Tenth Illinois Cavalry for the purpose, and as the Ninth marched southwest toward the village of Richmond, Louisiana, the cavalry followed some distance behind. Coming up on the rail depot at Tallulah, the Ninth was fired upon by rebels from behind a levee. Colonel Lieb ordered a charge which drove the rebels back, and the regiment was very proud to have survived its first skirmish without a loss and with this small victory. However, they were warned by a freedman that the rebels were nearby in force, so Lieb turned the regiment back toward Milliken's Bend. As they marched back up the road, the cavalry passed through them, and they could overhear the white cavalrymen muttering. “Niggers won’t fight. See how they’re running already.”<br />
<br />
After the cavalry had passed, Lucian and Clay turned to their company. “Don’t you listen to them, men,” Lucian said. “You’re as good as they are, you’d better believe it.”<br />
<br />
They had a chance to prove it in a few minutes, for the cavalry soon dashed back up the road, pursued by Confederates on horseback, with cries of, “Save us! For God’s sake, save us!”<br />
<br />
The Ninth hid behind a house that was near the road, and as the rebel cavalry drew near, let off a volley that surprised and frightened them into turning around and heading back to Richmond. Lucian and the rest of the officers thought it was fortunate the rebels had no idea how green the regiment was, and that none of them could hit the broad side of a cotton gin. Still, they were all proud of their men for the way they had fought that day.<br />
<br />
The Union cavalry was grateful, and said so. “No one can tell me now that colored men can’t fight,” one of them said. There was general agreement to this sentiment, and the two regiments went back to Milliken's Bend in happy camaraderie.<br />
<br />
The Tenth Illinois Cavalry had made camp about a quarter mile from the levee that demarcated the camp of the African Brigade, so the two regiments parted ways a little distance from the Bend. Lieb and the other officers were horrified to find that someone had ordered the bodarc hedge cut down, and about thirty yards of it were gone on the left side of the levee. The men of the Eleventh Louisiana had done the cutting down, but none of their officers would own up to having ordered it. With a rebel attack apparently imminent, Lieb hailed a passing riverboat and sent a message to General Dennis at Helena, Arkansas, to send reinforcement. The number of men in camp able to fight numbered about eight hundred, and Lieb figured there were two to three times as many rebels in the brigade to the south.<br />
<br />
That evening a gunboat, the Choctaw, arrived with one company of infantry from the Twenty Third Iowa, numbering only one hundred men, and Lieb had to hide his dismay at this small reinforcement. The Mississippi was fifteen feet below its banks, so the gunboat did not have a clear shot at the field, and did not seem to be of much use. What was needed was artillery, and they had none.<br />
<br />
Colonel Lieb put his battallion into place behind the levee well before dawn, the Ninth holding the left, the Eleventh holding the right, and the other three regiments spread out along the middle. Lucian and Clay, standing with Jacob near Captain Heath at the corner of the levee, had a moment to reflect on the irony. Once again they were fighting with green troops near a town called Richmond. Would these men, many of them only days out of slavery, fare any better than the privileged whites who had deserted them at Big Hill only a few months before?<br />
<br />
About three o’clock in the morning, the rebels attacked. The first volley from the defenders surprised them, and the cavalry troops that were in front of their line turned and retreated, some being shot by their own side in the confusion. The Confederates soon righted themselves, however, and met their first obstacle, the bodarc hedge. Flowing around the missing left side, they gained the levee and tried to swarm over it, crying, “No quarter!” but met more resistance than they were expecting.<br />
<br />
The Ninth, being nearest the missing hedge, bore the brunt of the assault. Lieutenant Cornwell had been given two companies to command in reserve, and he brought them into action now, shouting, “Now bounce them bullies!”<br />
<br />
It was bayonet work and using muskets as clubs after the first, nearly useless volley. Big Jack pounced on the top of the levee, clubbing every rebel he could find, yelling, “Come and get me!”<br />
<br />
The rebels cried, “Someone shoot that big nigger!” and several of them did, but it made no difference to Big Jack, who fought like a tiger until he finally took a bullet to the head and fell full length on the levee.<br />
<br />
It was not much better behind the levee – soldiers were falling left and right. Lucian was clubbed with a musket and fell, but Jacob bayoneted the offending rebel and drove him back. A musket shot too near Clay’s face blinded him momentarily, and he was only saved from death by the quick action of Captain Heath, standing nearby.<br />
<br />
The hand-to-hand fight lasted about fifteen minutes, but it seemed like hours before the rebels withdrew behind the hedge. As the sun rose, the two sides continually shot at each other, but as the green Union soldiers could not shoot, and did not know enough to keep their heads down, many were killed during the next couple of hours, although they continued to hold the levee.<br />
<br />
Colonel Lieb, on his horse, was shot in the hip during the first attack, but he stayed in the saddle and in command. Colonel Chamberlain of the Eleventh Louisiana rowed himself out to the gunboat before the attack, leaving his regiment to his Lieutenant Colonel, who was also nowhere to be seen during the battle. The Twenty Third Iowa and most of the Eleventh deserted the field, except for two companies who managed to hold their end of the levee until the rebels tried a second attack, sweeping through the cleared hedge and around the end of the levee, where they laid down a heavy fire, targeting the white officers especially. It was then that Colonel Lieb gave the order to retreat to the riverbank. Lucian was hit, sprawling along the side of the levee, and Clay and Lieutenant Cornwell were also hit, but managed to make it to the riverbank in safety.<br />
<br />
The rebels might have finished them off then if they had followed them quickly, but most of them paused to rifle through the Union camp, taking whatever they could steal. Once secure behind the riverbank, however, the Union soldiers were able to signal to the gunboat where to fire, and although they could not accurately hit anything, the shelling was enough to cause the rebels to retreat back to Richmond.<br />
<br />
Clay wrapped up his wounded arm and ran back to the levee. Dead and wounded lay in great confusion. Nearly a quarter of the Ninth had been killed in the attack, even more wounded, and the flies were already beginning to gather in the oppressive Louisiana heat. He looked for his friends – Lucian lay in a pool of blood, but his eyelids fluttered, and Clay pulled him away from the levee and examined him. He’d been shot in the shoulder and was pale with shock, so Clay called for help. The wounded were being moved to the gunboat for treatment, and Clay sent Lucian off before taking stock. As remaining ranking officer, it was his duty to assess his losses, and he set about this grim task.<br />
<br />
He could not find Jacob, or Captain Heath. After counting up the dead and wounded, it seemed that the rebels had taken around twenty prisoners from the Ninth. This was grim news indeed. Jefferson Davis had decreed that any white officer found commanding black troops would be treated as an insurrectionist and executed, and any black troops captured would be returned to slavery. That Jacob was not a slave would not matter to them much, he thought.<br />
<br />
He went to the gunboat to make his report to Colonel Lieb and found Lucian conscious but pale from loss of blood. Clay hated to give him such grim news, and Lucian turned even paler. Although Lucian had lost a lot of blood, his was only a flesh wound and should not turn fatal, so he got up from his cot and sought out Colonel Lieb while Clay had his own wounds tended.<br />
<br />
Colonel Lieb was in the gunboat captain’s cabin being harangued by Lieutenant Cornwell. “Where was the Tenth Cavalry?” Cornwell demanded. “We saved their lives yesterday, and today they watch us get slaughtered and don’t lift a finger to help us!”<br />
<br />
“Where is Colonel Chamberlain?” Lieb retorted. “I’m more concerned about my own battalion. The Eleventh was left alone, hardly an officer in sight – it’s no wonder most of them deserted.”<br />
<br />
“And the Twenty Third!” Cornwell continued. “They were no help at all, either. It’s a poor show when untrained blacks fight harder than battle seasoned whites!”<br />
<br />
“May I interrupt, sir?” Lucian asked.<br />
<br />
“Cornwell, go find Chamberlain and bring him to me,” Lieb ordered. Cornwell left, not saluting as his right arm hung limply from his shoulder. “What do you need, Captain?” Lieb asked.<br />
<br />
“Lieutenant Palmer reports that the Ninth has had twenty one men taken prisoner, sir,” Lucian began.<br />
<br />
“I know,” Lieb replied. “I’ve just had his report.”<br />
<br />
“You know what the rebs have promised to do,” Lucian said. “I think we should go after them.”<br />
<br />
“With what, Captain?” Lieb asked testily. “We may have won today, but this was a slaughter. It’s only through the hand of Providence that we’re here now.”<br />
<br />
“I understand that, sir,” Lucian replied. “But they’ve taken Captain Heath, and Sergeant Butler.”<br />
<br />
Lieb squinted at him. “I can understand wanting to go after a captain, but a sergeant?”<br />
<br />
Lucian paused. “He’s my brother. Sir.”<br />
<br />
Lieb regarded him a moment. “I see,” he said quietly. “Nevertheless,” he said sternly, “you are not to leave camp, do you understand?” He paused. “And if you do, I don’t want to know about it.”<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled grimly. “Understood, sir.” He saluted, turned on his heel, and walked out.<br />
<br />
He went back to camp to find his tent rifled and many of his belongings missing. Fortunately, he had his pistols and his rifle with him, and it was merely a matter of scrounging up some cartridges and food before setting out. Clay found him as he was stuffing his few supplies into his rucksack. “You’ve lost too much blood, Lucian,” he scolded. “Stay here, I’ll find him for you.”<br />
<br />
“What could you do all alone?” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“What could <em>you</em> do all alone?” Clay retorted. Both his right arm and right eye were bandaged, and both men looked a sight - bandaged, dirty from the fight, weary and haggard.<br />
<br />
“He’s my brother, my responsibility,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“He’s my friend, as are you,” Clay said. He sighed. “There’s no talking you out of it, I see. Well then, we’ll go together. We can prop each other up.”<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled. “I’m ordered to remain in camp.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not,” Clay said. “When do we leave?”<br />
<br />
“Now,” Lucian said. He took up his rucksack and walked out of the tent. A detail was digging a long trench behind the levee and burying the dead. Both Clay and Lucian shuddered as they walked past the levee and down the road toward Richmond.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-34046279553937854472010-01-24T18:07:00.000-08:002010-01-24T18:09:45.407-08:00<strong>Chapter Twelve</strong><br />
<strong>Paris, Kentucky: 1862</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Seventh Kentucky Cavalry's camp outside Paris was nearly deserted. Workmen were digging trenches and setting up tents, but there was not a soldier in evidence. Lucian reined in the mules and assisted Pamela down from the wagon. “Hello?” he called. “Hello the camp.”<br />
<br />
A young soldier came out of one of the tents. He looked familiar – Lucian recognized him as one of the men who had come to the farm to inspect the horses. He also remembered that the young man had regarded him with disapproval, although he was uncertain why. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Carr?” the young man said. He looked at Pamela and the men crowded around the pair. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the mules. “Your horses?” He swore softly. “Morgan raided you, didn't he?”<br />
<br />
Lucian nodded. “He took all my horses, even the brood stock. May we speak to whomever's in charge, Corporal. . . ?”<br />
<br />
“Palmer,” the young man said. “And I'm in charge right now. Everyone else is out chasing Morgan. I'm on the convalescent list, so I got left behind.” He held up a tent flap. “We can use the Colonel's tent for the moment while I take your report.”<br />
<br />
Lucian, Pamela and Jacob followed Corporal Palmer into the large tent. Palmer raised his eyebrows at this, but did not remark on it. “We want to do more than report it,” Lucian said. “We're here to join up – myself in the army, my daughter as a nurse, and my men as laborers.”<br />
<br />
Palmer frowned. “We can't accept slaves as laborers, Mr. Carr,” he said sternly.<br />
<br />
“I've freed them,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
Palmer raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, there was a clatter of horse hoofs in the yard. A few moments later, Colonel Leonidas Metcalfe strode into the tent, his craggy face looking haggard. He stopped short at the unexpected sight that met his eyes, then commenced to pull off his mud-spattered gloves. “What are you doing here, Carr?” He bowed to Pamela. “Miss Carr.” He frowned at Jacob, then turned to Lucian.<br />
<br />
“Hello, Lon,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“Morgan raided them,” Palmer explained. “I was taking a report.”<br />
<br />
“Carry on then, Corporal,” Metcalfe said. He strode over to a basin, rolled up his sleeves and washed his face and hands as Lucian told of Morgan's raid.<br />
<br />
“Damn,” Metcalfe exclaimed. He bowed to Pamela. “Pardon me, Miss Carr. We really need those horses. Morgan got three hundred of ours after that brutal fight in Cynthiana.”<br />
<br />
“He had a lot of wounded,” Pamela said.<br />
<br />
Metcalfe snorted. “Not nearly as many as we did.” He frowned. “I lost a lot of good men two days ago. We aren't even mustered in yet. Damn Morgan. What does he think he's doing, attacking his own state?”<br />
<br />
“Liberating it, he says,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“Apparently the 'good people' of Paris agree,” Metcalfe said, disgusted. “They went out on the road to meet him and surrendered the town without a fight. Although that didn't keep him from high-tailing it out of here the moment we got near him.”<br />
<br />
“I take it you didn't catch him,” Palmer said.<br />
<br />
“No,” Metcalfe said shortly. “General Smith has brought up a brigade from Lexington – Morgan's his problem now.” He ran his hands through his graying hair. “I do wish I knew how Morgan keeps eluding us – it's as though he knows our every move.”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” Pamela said. “I know how.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe regarded her skeptically. “You do?”<br />
<br />
“While I was tending the wounded, one of the men was bragging about it. He said he was tapping into the telegraph lines – intercepting messages and sending out false ones. Morgan's men called him ‘Lightning’.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe pounded his knee. “Of course! It makes sense, now. Palmer, go send one of the men to notify General Smith – he's on his way to Winchester.”<br />
<br />
Palmer left hurriedly and Metcalfe took Pamela's hand. “Thank you, Miss.” He bowed over it. “We may catch the rascal yet.” He turned to Lucian. “Thank you for your report, Carr. Should I detail a few men to escort you home?”<br />
<br />
“No, Lon,” Lucian said. “We're staying. We want to join up.” He indicated Pamela and Jacob. “All of us.”<br />
<br />
Corporal Palmer returned and stood by the flap of the tent as Lucian detailed his reasons. Metcalfe sat behind his desk, tapping his log book with a pencil. “I remember your father, the old reprobate, but I didn't realize he'd left you in such straits. You don't have to do this, you know. The law allows me to levy funds from sympathizers for all of Morgan's depredations. I'd already begun before we were called up to Cynthiana – the list keeps getting longer,” his voice was grim, “but I'll collect it all, never fear.”<br />
<br />
Lucian shook his head. “Rob my neighbors because Morgan robbed me? No, Lon, I think a man should be punished for what he does, not what he thinks.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe leaned forward. “That's where you're wrong, Carr. It's a short step from thinking to doing. These people are financing the rebellion – the quicker we bankrupt them, the shorter the war will be. None of them would hesitate to rob you if the situation were reversed.”<br />
<br />
“I hope they would,” Lucian said, “but even if they wouldn't, I have to do what I think is right. We're joining the army, if you'll take us.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe grimaced. “I know you can ride, and I know you can shoot, so we'll take you, if you can pass the physical, and almost anyone can pass it nowadays. What was it you took in college?”<br />
<br />
“Art,” Lucian answered, reddening.<br />
<br />
“Art,” Metcalfe repeated drily. “That'll come in handy on the battlefield. You can paint a picture – be sure to use lots of red.”<br />
<br />
Lucian drew himself up. “I'm no warrior, I'll admit, but I hope to be able to do my duty.”<br />
<br />
“I hope so, too,” Metcalfe said. “Although. . . ,” his eyes narrowed, “now that I think of it, aren't you and Morgan related?”<br />
<br />
“By marriage,” Lucian said. “He's my wife's cousin. And how <em>is</em> your son Henry these days?”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe winced. “So you heard about that? Just because my boy runs off and joins the rebels. . .” He paused. “All right, you have a point. If I were to suspect everyone who had rebel ties, I'd have to suspect the entire state, including myself.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Forgive me – I'm tired and frustrated and I shouldn't be sparring with you like this.” He stood and offered his hand. “Welcome to the Seventh Cavalry, Second Lieutenant Carr. You're assigned to Company D, under Captain William Bradley. He's still up in Cynthiana, but you will report to him when he returns – as soon as he recovers sufficiently from his wounds. Palmer, will you escort Carr's men to the Quartermaster? I'll escort Miss Carr and her father to the surgeon's tent.” He looked at Jacob. “You may have one servant, Lt. Carr, but you won't be drawing a salary until we're mustered in. The officers are responsible for their own rations and uniform – do you have any money?”<br />
<br />
Lucian shook his head. “Very little, but I'll manage. About the men – they're all skilled laborers: carpenters, machinists, blacksmiths, stonemasons. My head groom knows more about horses than any ten men.” He hesitated. “And they can all read and write.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe started. “That's illegal.”<br />
<br />
“So it is.” Lucian raised his chin.<br />
<br />
Metcalfe considered him a moment. “It seems I may have underestimated you, Carr. Palmer, see that the Quartermaster is informed of the quality of what we're sending him.”<br />
<br />
“I'd rather you did, Colonel,” Lucian said. “It will carry more weight coming from you.”<br />
<br />
Metcalfe frowned, but waved a hand. “All right. We need good men. I'd hate to lose them by not treating them properly. Palmer, you escort the Carrs to the surgeon.” He stood. “I'll see to these men, then I'm not to be disturbed unless Morgan himself rides into camp.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, sir,” Palmer saluted. <br />
<br />
Jacob accompanied them out of the Colonel's tent and began to follow Lucian and Pamela. “Go with the Colonel, Jacob,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“I don't believe you get to tell me what to do anymore,” Jacob replied. “I'm going with you. The Colonel said you could have a servant.”<br />
<br />
“I don't want a servant,” Lucian said testily. “I'm sick of servants.”<br />
<br />
Colonel Metcalfe watched them, fists on hips. “Yes, you're a free man now, Jacob, is it? You may go where you please.”<br />
<br />
“I please to go with Mr. Carr,” Jacob said stubbornly.<br />
<br />
Metcalfe laughed. “Looks as though you have a servant whether you want one or not, Carr.” He sobered. “Although whether you deserve such devotion is another matter.” He motioned to the other men who were waiting. “Come with me. I'll get you signed up and accommodated.” He strode off, the men following.<br />
<br />
Jacob persisted in following Lucian, Pamela and Corporal Palmer to the surgeon's tent. The soldiers they passed looked at them with vacant eyes, haggard and worn. “What are you thinking of, Jacob?” Lucian asked.<br />
<br />
“We'll discuss it later,” Jacob said firmly. Palmer raised his eyes at this, but said nothing.<br />
<br />
Pamela noticed that Palmer was limping. “Are you wounded, Corporal?” she asked.<br />
<br />
Palmer grinned ruefully. “No, ma'am. I was thrown from a horse. I'll be able to ride in a week or so. I'm only sorry I missed the fighting.”<br />
<br />
“You'll have ample opportunity for that,” Lucian assured him. “The South wants Kentucky, the North wants to keep us. I'm sure we haven't seen the last of Morgan, either.”<br />
<br />
“I expect you're right, sir,” Palmer said. “Here we are.” He pushed back the tent flap and called for a surgeon. He turned his charges over to the hospital steward, then turned to Lucian. “May I visit you in your tent later, sir? I would like to discuss a few things with you, if I may.”<br />
<br />
“Of course, Corporal,” Lucian said, then put himself into the hands of the surgeon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
His tent was near the corral which stood more than half empty due to Morgan's raid. His things had already been moved into the small tent, and Jacob had arranged them comfortably. “What is all this?” Lucian demanded. “You know I've never liked you waiting on me. I only allowed it before because of appearances.”<br />
<br />
“I figured if I signed on to the army,” Jacob said, “I could be sent anywhere. If I sign on with you, then I go where you go.”<br />
<br />
Lucian frowned. “True enough. But I don't want you as a servant, Jacob. You've done enough of that sort of thing. You're an intelligent, talented man. You deserve better.”<br />
<br />
“I'll make you a deal,” Jacob said. “If the war continues much longer, it's quite likely the army will enlist black soldiers. When they do, then you go where I go.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Lucian agreed. “I suppose none of us are where we should be, in a perfect world. But you're my servant in name only, you hear? I can look after myself.”<br />
<br />
Jacob smiled. “We'll look after each other.”<br />
<br />
“Hello? Lt. Carr?” Corporal Palmer called from outside the tent. “May I come in?”<br />
<br />
“Come in, Corporal,” Lucian said. “Make yourself at home.”<br />
<br />
There were no chairs in the tent. Palmer handed Lucian an envelope and sat on one of the cots. “Colonel Metcalfe sends his compliments and has authorized the paymaster to give you an advance on your salary.” Clay grinned. “He says a starving officer does no one any good.”<br />
<br />
“That's very good of him,” Lucian said. “Better than I would have expected.”<br />
<br />
“Have you known the colonel long?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“All my life, casually,” Lucian said. “We don't run in the same circles, but you'll find that pretty much everyone in Kentucky knows everyone else, and can figure kinship to the tenth degree.”<br />
<br />
“He killed a man in a duel a couple of months ago, did you know that?”<br />
<br />
“I heard about it,” Lucian said. “To be fair, he was challenged, and it was intended to be a political killing. Lon's not popular with the secessionist element. Nor they with him – they tried to get him out of the way and failed.”<br />
<br />
“I see,” Palmer said. He clasped his knees. “The reason I wanted to talk to you, sir, was that I feel that I owe you an apology.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever for?” Lucian asked, sitting down across from Palmer. He looked up at Jacob. “For Pete's sake, Jacob. Sit down.” Jacob sat on the cot by Lucian. “I hardly know you, Corporal,” Lucian continued.<br />
<br />
“Please, call me Clay, at least when we're alone,” Palmer said. “I have to apologize for misjudging you. When we came out to your ranch the other day, and I saw all those slaves, well. . .”<br />
<br />
“It's a farm, not a ranch,” Lucian corrected. “You're not from here, are you? You don't talk like a Kentuckian.”<br />
<br />
“I'm from California,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“I didn't think anyone was from there,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“My parents were early pioneers,” Clay explained. “I was even born in a log cabin.”<br />
<br />
“Why not join a California regiment, then?”<br />
<br />
“The California regiments are Indian fighters, sir. I joined the army to fight rebels, not Indians,” Clay said grimly. “I grew up with Indians. They're my friends.”<br />
<br />
“How old are you, Clay?”<br />
<br />
“Eighteen.”<br />
<br />
“Your parents let you come all the way out here to fight?”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded. “They’re both abolitionists, and neither one are happy about Washington’s Indian policy either, so they understand. And Kentucky does seem to be the heart and soul of the matter.”<br />
<br />
“But it's a might jarring to find yourself in a slave state, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I knew it was a slave state before I came, but yes, it's far more. . .disgusting than I thought it would be.” He leaned forward eagerly. “But I learned something today – I didn't think an honorable man could own a slave. It never occurred to me that a slaveholder might be trapped as well as a slave is.”<br />
<br />
“I don't know how honorable I am,” Lucian said. “All my life, at least since my father died, it's always been a choice between two evils. It certainly would have been easier for me to have let the creditors seize the whole kit and caboodle – I wouldn't have spent twenty years throwing money down a deep, dark well.”<br />
<br />
“Why didn't you?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“Corporal Palmer, allow me to introduce my brother, Jacob,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“Your. . .brother.” Clay paused a long moment, looking at the two men, one light, one dark. “I see.”<br />
<br />
“Are you shocked, boy?”<br />
<br />
“I suppose I would be, if I didn't have a half-brother myself,” Clay said. “I can understand doing nearly anything for his sake. The way he got here might be shameful, but I don't care about that. Anymore than you do, apparently.”<br />
<br />
“Would you allow your brother to be your servant?” Lucian asked.<br />
<br />
“It's not up to you,” Jacob said. “I go where you go.”<br />
<br />
Clay looked from one to the other. “I wouldn't want to, no. But if it were the only way to stay together, I guess I would. Reluctantly.”<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled. “As you say.”<br />
<br />
“So will you accept my apology?”<br />
<br />
“You got nothing to apologize for. If every man had to apologize for what he thought, we'd be doing nothing else.”<br />
<br />
“There's something else I'd like to discuss with you, if I might be so bold, sir?”<br />
<br />
“Don't call me 'sir', Clay, at least when we're alone. Call me Lucian.”<br />
<br />
“It's about your daughter, sir. I mean, Lucian. She shouldn't be here.”<br />
<br />
“Pamela may be young, but she's a strong woman.”<br />
<br />
“I'm certain she is.” Clay shifted uncomfortably. “But – I've only been in the army a few months, but I've seen far more soldiers die of disease than from wounds. The boys from these rural districts are always hit the hardest. We men, we all take our chances, of course, but a young woman. . .couldn't you send her to a relative or something?”<br />
<br />
“Daddy?” Pamela's voice called from outside the tent. “Do I have the right tent?”<br />
<br />
Lucian stood and opened the tent flap. “Come in, dear. We were just talking about you. Corporal Palmer is concerned for your welfare.”<br />
<br />
Clay stood as Pamela entered. “I'm afraid nursing is much more dangerous than you might realize, Miss Carr. Have you had scarlet fever, measles, smallpox? I've seen young men die from all these diseases in the last few months. The hospital is far more dangerous than the battlefield.”<br />
<br />
Pamela sat down on the cot. “I appreciate your concern, Corporal, and no, I haven't had any of those diseases. I was schooled at home. But I would scorn to shirk my duty as much as you would.” She turned to her father. “They want to send me to the hospital in Lexington, Daddy. They don't allow women nurses to travel with the regiments. I've convinced them to let me stay and tend the wounded from the battle in Cynthiana, but after that, they're sending me away.” A tear crept down her cheek. “I don't want to leave you, Daddy. I didn't expect this.”<br />
<br />
Lucian sat down on the cot beside her and took her hand. “There, there, dear. I'm sorry – I didn't expect it either. You don't have to be a nurse, but then I don't know what we'd do. Clay here has suggested you go to a relative, but you still wouldn't be with me.” He raised her chin. “Cheer up – Lexington's not far. We can still see each other.”<br />
<br />
She wiped her eyes. “I know, forgive me. I'm acting like a little girl. But so much has happened in twenty four hours – I'm a bit overwhelmed.”<br />
<br />
“You lost your home,” Clay said. “That's enough to upset anyone. I would shed a few tears about it, too.”<br />
<br />
Pamela smiled up at him. “Thank you. Well, I'll be here for awhile, anyway. Who knows what will happen? 'Sufficient unto the day,' right?”<br />
<br />
“That's my girl,” Lucian said, approvingly. “Perhaps Clay is right, though – maybe you should go to a relative.”<br />
<br />
“They're all secessionists, Daddy, you know that. They'd take me in, but with you fighting for the Union. . .I'd rather be fighting with you, in my own way.”<br />
<br />
“As do I,” Jacob said. “We have a little bourbon left – shall I break it out? We have much to mourn, but also much to celebrate.”<br />
<br />
“I'll do it,” Lucian said. He looked around the tent. “Where is it?”<br />
<br />
Jacob laughed. He stood and opened a trunk. “You'll have to do better than that.” He took out a bottle and glasses, set the glasses on top of the trunk and poured out the liquor. He handed around the glasses.<br />
<br />
“I've never had bourbon before,” Pamela said.<br />
<br />
“You'll want to join the toast,” Jacob said. He raised his glass. “To Freedom!”<br />
<br />
“To Freedom!” they all agreed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lucian's captain, William Bradley, had been shot through the leg at the battle of Cynthiana. He returned to Paris in a few days, but was unable to attend to this duties for several weeks. As a First Lieutenant had not yet been recruited, the duties of drilling and training the recruits fell onto Lucian's shoulders, a task for which he was ill prepared. The Captain of Clay’s company, Company C, Thomas Vimont, allowed the two companies to be combined for the purpose of drill, and also took Lucian under his wing while Captain Bradley was incapacitated.<br />
<br />
Colonel Metcalfe was often absent, intent on his task of raising funds to pay for Morgan's depredations. In this he was zealous – many thought over-zealous – and since nearly all of his men were friends or relatives of the secessionists he levied by threat of imprisonment, he aroused much ill-feeling both in the town and in his own regiment.<br />
<br />
In August, the regiment was mustered in, but a few days later Generals Bragg and Kirby Smith invaded Kentucky from Tennessee, moving through the Cumberland Gap and north toward Richmond, Kentucky. All the Union regiments in eastern Kentucky, as well as many from the neighboring states of Ohio, Indiana and Tennessee, were rushed to defend Richmond.<br />
<br />
Only a week after muster, the Seventh Kentucky Cavalry was attacked by Confederates at Big Hill, just south of Richmond. Colonel Metcalfe ordered his troops forward, but at the first cannon shot from the Confederates, three-fourths of his four hundred men mounted their horses and fled the battlefield. Of the hundred men left, ten were killed and forty wounded. They were rescued by the Third Tennessee Infantry, and the fleeing soldiers were stopped by a brigade moving down from Lexington and returned to the regiment. <br />
<br />
In the battle, Lucian was wounded and Clay was captured, so neither were present a week later when the Confederates defeated the Union at the battle of Richmond, when Colonel Metcalfe's troops once again deserted him. He resigned from the army in disgust and retired to Cincinnati, quitting both the army and his native state.<br />
<br />
The Confederates took Richmond, capturing over four thousand Union prisoners, and quickly captured Lexington and the capitol city of Frankfort, installing their own Governor. There were many battles throughout the state for the next several weeks, but at the small town of Perryville, the Confederate advance was finally stopped. The rebels withdrew into Tennessee and, once more, Kentucky belonged to the Union.<br />
<br />
After the battle of Big Hill, as was the custom, Clay was paroled, giving his word not to fight until an official prisoner exchange was made, and he accompanied the wounded Lucian to the hospital in Lexington. Although the hole in Lucian’s shoulder was only a flesh wound, he developed a fever and there was some doubt that he would survive. Nursed day and night by Jacob and Pamela, Lucian did finally recover, although it was some weeks before he regained his strength and he and Clay returned to their regiment.<br />
<br />
Now under command of Colonel Faulkner, the Seventh Kentucky spent that fall and winter reforming. Those men who had not run during the battle found themselves promoted. Clay became a Second Lieutenant, while Lucian became a First. Clay's captain Vimont was made Lieutenant Colonel, while Lucian's captain Bradley was promoted to Major.<br />
<br />
In December the regiment was sent to Tennessee, leaving Pamela behind in Lexington, much to her dismay. The unit was in several skirmishes before the end of the year, but no large battles.<br />
<br />
In the spring, as Ulysses S. Grant continued his quest to control the Mississippi River by marching on Vicksburg, it was decided in Washington to recruit black regiments. All commissioned officers in these regiments would be white, which, while unfair, did allow Lucian and Clay to apply for transfers to the regiment that Jacob ultimately joined. Kentucky raised no black regiments, so it was necessary for the three of them to travel to the Mississippi to join Grant's army. Pamela took the opportunity to transfer to a hospital in Memphis as her father, uncle and friend transferred to the Ninth Louisiana Infantry, African Descent, that was then forming at the small town of Milliken's Bend, Louisiana.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-74485926674193254892010-01-10T18:00:00.000-08:002010-01-11T20:11:15.675-08:00<b>Chapter Eleven<br />
Bourbon County: 1862</b><br />
<br />
It was a sweltering July afternoon. Pamela Carr sat on the porch with a glass of sweetened tea, fanning herself with a newspaper from the pile she had been reading. The War for the Preservation of the Union – or the War for Southern Independence, depending upon one’s point of view – had been raging for more than a year now, with no end in sight. At present, the Kentucky papers were full of John Hunt Morgan’s daring raids across the state. Capturing towns, destroying supplies and railroad bridges, Colonel Morgan had caused much consternation among the Union troops gathered in the Commonwealth and divided reactions from the citizenry. Even Pamela was divided, whether to be proud or ashamed of her mother’s cousin. Bold hero or shameless brigand? Like the War, it seemed to depend on one’s point of view.<br />
<br />
She wondered that he had not approached Lexington, his home town, or Paris, the home of many of his relatives, but last reports had him headed north with a thousand men, apparently intending to cross the Ohio towards Cincinnati.<br />
<br />
It was nearly sundown – she would have to go prepare supper soon, one of the many tasks she had taken over after Aunt Elsie’s death two years ago. She dreaded cooking in this heat, but all-in-all, she much preferred housekeeping to the spoiled life she had led before learning of her father’s straits. She felt. . .real now. Solid.<br />
<br />
As she stood, she heard the pounding of horses’ hoofs on the road leading up to the farm. As they grew closer, the din became nearly deafening. She had never heard so many horses galloping at once. She flung open the front door and called shrilly, “Daddy! Come quickly! Something’s happening!”<br />
<br />
Lucian dashed out to the porch at her call, arriving at the same time that a cavalcade of men, horses, wagons and buggies tore down the road to the farm. A tall man in shirtsleeves and gray trousers, carefully groomed mustaches framing a pointed beard, led the troop almost up to the farmhouse steps. Lightly springing from his horse, John Hunt Morgan swept Pamela a low bow. “Greetings, cousins,” he grinned broadly.<br />
<br />
Lucian crossed his arms as Pamela stood flabbergasted. “Why are you here, John?” Lucian asked.<br />
<br />
“I’m in need of horses,” Morgan said, stroking the neck of the sorrel gelding he had ridden. “I had to leave Black Bess behind – and, well, you do raise the finest horseflesh in the Bluegrass.”<br />
<br />
Another man, disheveled yet handsome, rode to Morgan’s side. “Are we stopping, John? We need to care for the wounded.”<br />
<br />
“Hello, Basil,” Pamela greeted Basil Duke. “We haven’t seen you since Rebecca’s funeral.” Rebecca Duke Morgan, who had died the previous year, was Basil’s sister and Morgan’s wife.<br />
<br />
Basil nodded curtly. “Well, Morgan?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll help,” Pamela offered. “You men discuss your business.” She threw her father a glance – he had not uncrossed his arms and was glaring at Morgan sternly. “They’re hurt, Daddy,” she offered by way of explanation.<br />
<br />
Lucian nodded. “Of course, dear. I suppose it’s the Christian thing to do.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Come in, John. Best not to discuss matters out here.”<br />
<br />
Pamela escorted Basil to the pantry to gather supplies for tending the wounded as Lucian led Morgan into the study. Lucian summoned Mr. Butler to serve the Confederate officer a drink. “How about some of our whiskey?” Morgan asked. “I haven’t tasted a good Kentucky bourbon for months.”<br />
<br />
Lucian nodded as Mr. Butler poured. “It’s not ‘our’ whiskey, anymore, John,” Lucian said. “The Federals seized the distillery the moment you began your little campaign.”<br />
<br />
“’Little’?” Morgan fumed, seating himself. He threw one muddy leg over the arm of the chair and sipped his whiskey. “Ah, that’s fine,” he sighed. “I’ll have you know that I’ve taken five towns, destroyed over a hundred thousand dollars worth of supplies and ammunition, and raised more than three hundred men for the Southern cause. I’d hardly call that little.”<br />
<br />
Lucian waved a hand. “I don’t intend to get in a quarrel with you, John. Why have you come here?”<br />
<br />
“I told you, I need horses. I’ll pay top dollar, of course.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t let you have them, John.” Lucian seated himself behind the desk. “They’re promised already. The buyer will be here to pick them up in a day or two.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure they’ll do more good with me than with the Federals,” Morgan said drily.<br />
<br />
Lucian jerked erect. “How did you know?”<br />
<br />
“Let’s just say I keep an ear to the ground,” Morgan said. “Now what will it be? Me or the Yankees?”<br />
<br />
“They’re not Yankees,” Lucian said. “It’s the Seventh Kentucky Cavalry – a good Kentucky regiment of good Kentucky men.”<br />
<br />
“Traitors!” Morgan bellowed, slamming down his glass. “Fighting for those who have invaded our homes!”<br />
<br />
“Might I point out,” Lucian said mildly, “that Kentucky was neutral until the <i>Confederacy </i>decided to breach our neutrality? And that some good men might feel that the Union is worth fighting to preserve?”<br />
<br />
“You may,” Morgan said, “but no one can be neutral in this fight – you must know that by now. So which side are you on, <i>Cousin</i>?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Slaveholder.”<br />
<br />
Lucian winced. “Why are you doing this to me, John? You know that if I sell you those horses, I’ll be branded as a sympathizer. There’ll be reprisals.”<br />
<br />
“Then I shall take them,” Morgan said, “and save you the trouble, since that’s what you fear so much.”<br />
<br />
Lucian gasped. “You’ll ruin me, John. You know how close to the brink I am. Leave your wounded – we’ll do that much for you, but take your men and ride out of here. Leave us in peace, please.”<br />
<br />
Morgan tapped his fingers on the desk. “That’s something I’ve never understood – you’ve a positive genius for business. Everything you put your hand to thrives, yet you’ve been up to your ears in debt as long as I’ve known you. Do you gamble? I’m fairly certain it’s not drink.”<br />
<br />
Lucian began to laugh weakly, then threw back his head and roared. “Genius? That’s rich. There’s only one thing I’m good at – I’ll show you your genius.” He waved a hand at Mr. Butler, standing in the corner like a statue. “There’s your genius.”<br />
<br />
Morgan turned around and regarded the dark servant. “I haven’t time for your jests, Lucian.”<br />
<br />
“It’s none of your business how I found myself in this hole, or what I’ve had to do to try and dig myself out,” Lucian said. “Losing the distillery is as big a blow as I can absorb right now. I can’t let you have those horses.”<br />
<br />
Morgan stood, straightening his collar. “You leave me no choice, then, Coz. Tell the Federals I stole them – it’ll be true enough.” He strode out the door.<br />
<br />
Lucian leapt up to follow him. “John!”<br />
<br />
Morgan whirled. “That’s General Morgan to you!” he snapped.<br />
<br />
“General? You’re a General already?”<br />
<br />
“Brigadier General. Acting,” Morgan conceded. “Never mind. This discussion is over.” He strode out to the porch. “Where’s Basil?” he demanded.<br />
<br />
Basil Duke appeared as if by magic. “Here, General,” he said.<br />
<br />
“Round up the horses,” Morgan ordered. “All of them.”<br />
<br />
“Not my brood stock,” Lucian protested. “And the foals. . .”<br />
<br />
“All of them,” Morgan snapped. He mounted his horse and rode off toward the pastures.<br />
<br />
“Baz,” Lucian said, grabbing Basil by the arm before he could mount. “Can’t you stop him?”<br />
<br />
Basil shook his head. “It would be like trying to stop a comet.”<br />
<br />
“You’re worth ten of him,” Lucian said. “Why do you follow him?”<br />
<br />
Basil stared at him. “Don’t you know? Can you really not see it?”<br />
<br />
Lucian shook his head. “No. He’s a popinjay.”<br />
<br />
“He’s a man above all men,” Basil said. He gestured toward the horde that followed Morgan. “Any of us would give our lives for him. Many of us have.” He mounted then. “I begin to pity you, Lucian.”<br />
<br />
Pamela returned then. “Will you leave the wounded, Basil? Many of them are too weak to travel.”<br />
<br />
“General Morgan has ordered that we take everyone with us. We can’t risk letting anyone fall into the hands of the Federals.”<br />
<br />
“Why?” Pamela asked. “They don’t make war on the wounded.”<br />
<br />
Basil reached down and squeezed her chin. “So charmingly innocent. Too bad none of us may remain so.”<br />
<br />
Pamela jerked away, frowning. “I’m no baby.”<br />
<br />
“No, you’re the full flower of womanhood,” Basil said gallantly. “Many thanks for your aid, dear.” He rode off to join Morgan.<br />
<br />
“What’s happening, Daddy?” Pamela asked. Mr. Butler had joined them on the porch, and soon the grooms and field hands had gathered around as well.<br />
<br />
“We’re being raided, Pammy,” Lucian said wearily.<br />
<br />
“By John? But, but, he’s family!”<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid I’m not Gray enough to suit him.”<br />
<br />
Pamela looked up into his face, thinking he had never looked so gray before, but she understood what he meant.<br />
<br />
“What are we going to do, Mr. Carr?” the head groom asked. “They’re taking the horses.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing,” Lucian said. “We’re no match for a thousand armed men.”<br />
<br />
They could only stand and watch while Morgan and his men stole the life’s blood of the farm. Morgan turned and waved his bullet-riddled hat at them as he left, riding Lucian’s prize stallion, and soon the deafening hoof beats had died away.<br />
<br />
“Go to your cabins,” Lucian said to the men. “I’ll be out to talk to you later.” He looked so weary and old that no one had the heart to argue.<br />
<br />
Pamela and Mr. Butler followed him into the study. He sat down behind the desk and laid his head on his arms. Pamela was afraid, not for herself – well, not much, she admitted – but her father’s despondency was like a deep dark well.<br />
<br />
“We’ll manage somehow, won’t we, Mr. Butler?” she asked. “We’ve been in dire straits before.”<br />
<br />
“There’s no money,” Lucian muttered, his words muffled in his arms. “The mortgage payment is due at the end of the week. The sale of the horses would have more than covered that. Now, there’s nothing. It’s a house of cards – it will all collapse now.”<br />
<br />
Pamela bit her lip. “All?” she whispered.<br />
<br />
“Tell her the truth, Lucian,” Mr. Butler said. “If you won’t, I will.”<br />
<br />
“What truth?” Pamela demanded. “What don’t I know? Daddy?”<br />
<br />
Lucian was silent, so Mr. Butler spoke. “It’s not your father’s fault, Miss Pamela. Your grandfather left the estate heavily in debt. Underwater. Far, far, far underwater. It was only your father’s promise to pay that kept the creditors from seizing everything after the will was read.”<br />
<br />
“And I’ve paid and paid and paid, and it all comes to nothing,” Lucian said. He looked up then, eyes reddened. “I’m sorry, Butler – I know I promised you.”<br />
<br />
“And you’ve done your best, I know,” Mr. Butler said gently.<br />
<br />
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Pamela demanded.<br />
<br />
“I didn’t want to sully Father’s memory for you,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
Pamela snorted. “You’d rather I think you were profligate instead of him? Sometimes you’re too honorable, Daddy.” She pounded the desk. “We have to do something. We can lose the farm, but we can’t let them take the people.”<br />
<br />
Lucian looked up at her and smiled sadly. “Now you do understand. It always was about the people.” He looked at Mr. Butler. “May as well tell her the rest.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Butler waved his hand. “If you wish.”<br />
<br />
Pamela raised an eyebrow. “<i>More </i>secrets?”<br />
<br />
“Butler here is. . .” he hesitated, “. . .my brother.”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” Pamela said weakly. “I see. And you promised him. . .that he’d never be sold?”<br />
<br />
“That none of them would be sold.”<br />
<br />
“Well, then, we must keep that promise,” Pamela said. “We must think of a way.” She furrowed her brow. “You could free them.”<br />
<br />
“They’d be seized,” Lucian said. “Or I would have freed them a long time ago.”<br />
<br />
“Not if they join the Army. The Union Army, I mean. Not as soldiers, but they’ll protect freed laborers. I read it in the paper.” She brightened. “We could all join the Army. I could be a nurse.”<br />
<br />
Lucian stared at her a long moment. Then he jumped up and kissed her on the forehead. “You are brilliant, my dear.” He opened the desk drawer and took out a stack of paper and began writing. “If ever there was a time for bold action, this it it.” He looked up at his brother. “Butler, here’s your chance to choose whatever name you please. I know you’ve always hated the one my father gave you.”<br />
<br />
“Butler, will do,” Mr. Butler said. “Jacob Butler.”<br />
<br />
“Not Carr?” Lucian asked, disappointed. “And why Jacob?”<br />
<br />
“From the Bible, Daddy,” Pamela said. “He had a son named Benjamin.”<br />
<br />
Jacob’s face grew grave at the name of his lost son, but he merely nodded. “It’s what suits me, sir.”<br />
<br />
“Stop calling me ‘sir,’” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“All right, Lucian,” Jacob answered.<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled and finished writing the writ of manumission. He handed it to Jacob with a flourish. “You’re a free man now. If we can make it stick.”<br />
<br />
“We will,” Jacob said firmly, tucking the writ away inside his shirt.<br />
<br />
Lucian turned his hand to writing out more writs. When he had finished, he picked up the papers and bottle of ink, motioning Pamela and Jacob to follow him out to the slave cabins behind the house.<br />
<br />
The men were loitering about the yard, silently, with hangdog expressions. Lucian paused a moment, then strode into the midst of them. “Men.” He stopped and cleared his throat, uncertain where to begin. “Men, we’ve been together a long time – you’ve all served me well and I hope you have no complaints of me.”<br />
<br />
There was a murmur among the men. “No, sir, you been right kindly.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I hope so,” Lucian said. “I’ve tried.” He raised his voice. “Morgan’s raid today has dealt us a severe blow. The truth is – the truth is – that my father left me deeply in debt. So deep that in almost twenty years of trying, I haven’t managed to climb out of that hole.”<br />
<br />
“Are we gonna be sold?” the head groom asked. “Because if we are, you can stop with the speechifying.”<br />
<br />
“Bear with me,” Lucian pleaded. “No, I am not going to sell you. In fact,” he waived the pile of writs, “I intend to free all of you. Right here and now.”<br />
<br />
There was an even more excited murmur from the men. Lucian held up his hand. “There is peril in this – my creditors are likely to try to seize you, but my daughter,” he grinned at Pamela, “has come up with what I think may be the only possible solution. Tomorrow – “ he looked around at the gathering twilight, “she and I are going to go join the Union Army. The Union has promised protection to any freed slave who signs on to work for them, so I recommend that all of you go with us. I know some of you have wives and children at neighboring farms – what you do after today is your decision, but if you want to keep your freedom, I see no other choice.”<br />
<br />
The men took a minute to consider this. “You’re sure there’s no other way?” the head groom asked.<br />
<br />
“I see none,” Lucian said. “The truth is that we live in uncertain times – Morgan’s raid today has brought it home to us. If the South wins this war, it’s likely that you will all be enslaved again. I intend to do my part to see that that doesn’t happen. But I have no guarantees. None of us do.”<br />
<br />
“What is Mr. Butler doing?”<br />
<br />
Jacob spoke up. “I throw my lot in with Mr. Carr. I’ll be joining the Army as well.”<br />
<br />
“Would someone bring me a table and chair?” Lucian asked. One of the field hands did so, and he sat down to write. “One more thing,” he said hesitantly, “Mr. Butler here is my brother.” He looked around at the men, who exhibited no surprise. “It’s likely that some of you could make the same claim. I know these things are not usually spoken of, but I want you to know that I am not ashamed of it. Of you. All of you will be able to choose what name you want put on these writs, and if any of you will take the name of Carr, I will consider it an honor.”<br />
<br />
The men filed by as Lucian put their names to the writs – some few took the name of Carr, some took names such as Washington, Jefferson or Adams, one even took the name of Lincoln. <br />
<br />
“You’re all free now,” Lucian said. “You may go visit your wives and children – you may go do whatever you wish. All I ask is that anyone who is going with us pack your belongings and be ready to go at sunrise.”<br />
<br />
“We should harvest the kitchen garden,” Pamela said, “and there’s the smokehouse – I hate to think of it all going to waste. Perhaps we could have a feast?”<br />
<br />
“Good idea,” Lucian agreed. “If anyone would help my daughter, it would be greatly appreciated. Bring your families back here if you wish. There’ll be plenty for everyone.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Butler and the head groom helped Pamela harvest the vegetables from the garden while others of the men raided the smokehouse and built a fire in the yard. Some men left and returned later, wives and mostly grown children in tow. They gathered around the fire and partook of smoked ham, beef and fresh tomatoes and squash from the garden. After supper, some of the men took out instruments and began playing – soft, plaintive, wistful songs.<br />
<br />
Pamela felt a wave of melancholy wash over her. The men were free, for which she was happy, but the life she knew was over. Her father put an arm around her waist and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Pammy. I wanted to do much better for you.”<br />
<br />
She wrapped an arm around him. “Don’t be sorry. I only wish you had told me all the truth a long time ago.” She gazed into the fire. “May I ask you something?”<br />
<br />
“Of course, dear.”<br />
<br />
“You seemed so proud to acknowledge Mr. Butler – Jacob – as your brother. Why was it so hard to acknowledge Daisy?” She nodded at Jacob across the fire. “I don’t like to speak of it in front of him, I know how it still pains him. But I wondered.”<br />
<br />
“You still miss her, don’t you?”<br />
<br />
“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder where she is, what she’s doing, if I’ll ever see her again.”<br />
<br />
Lucian breathed in deeply. “Jacob being my brother – well, that’s my father’s shame. For all I tried to shield him, it’s not the same. Azalea – she was my shame. And Daisy the remembrance of it. I so wanted not to be like my father.” Lucian clenched his fists. “I have no idea how many of the slaves born on this farm were his children, but a good number, I’m sure. It’s shameful enough to own a woman, much more so to use her in such a fashion. I swore I never would, and then I did. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve wondered why we didn’t own any women – except for Aunt Elsie, and Daisy, of course.”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t want to be a breeder of slaves, Pammy. The women that were left me, I tried to find reasonably good homes for, nearby so they wouldn’t be separated from their husbands, but I wanted no more slaves born on this farm.”<br />
<br />
She looked up at him. “Are you an abolitionist, Daddy?”<br />
<br />
Lucian snorted. “No. At least not the pamphlet-waving sort. But I do think it’s wrong – look at Jacob. He’s a better man than I am. It was a sin to own him.” He straightened his shoulders. “And now I don’t anymore. Whatever happens, I’m no longer a slaveholder. And that is some cause for rejoicing, even if it’s not the way I wished for it to happen.”<br />
<br />
The head groom approached them. “The men were wondering if you would favor us with a song, Miss Pamela,” he said shyly.<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Pamela said. She walked to the center of the yard, lifted up her head and began to sing.<br />
<br />
<i>“The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,<br />
'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;<br />
The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,<br />
While the birds make music all the day.<br />
<br />
“The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,<br />
All merry, all happy and bright;<br />
By 'n' by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,<br />
Then my old Kentucky home, goodnight.<br />
<br />
“Weep no more my lady<br />
Oh! weep no more today!<br />
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,<br />
For the Old Kentucky Home far away.”<br />
</i><br />
Her voice broke and she could not continue. She went and stood beside her father. Lucian had tears in his eyes, too, but neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.<br />
<br />
No one slept that night. When the fire burned down, they all went to pack their belongings. At dawn, they loaded everything they were bringing with them onto a wagon and hitched up the plow mules. None of the men chose to stay behind – as Lucian had said, what other choice did they really have?<br />
<br />
Lucian and Pamela climbed aboard the wagon, the men walking alongside as they set out on the road to Paris. Pamela did not look back. It was better so.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-50621149661341215762010-01-09T15:02:00.000-08:002010-01-09T15:02:20.710-08:00DisclaimerBeginning with chapter eleven, we are going to be spending some time with some actual historical personages, as historical events begin to impinge on our characters. With that in mind, I wish to post the following disclaimer:<br />
<br />
<b>All historical persons and events are used in a fictitious manner, and neither insult nor glorification are intended. For the most part, I have striven for historical accuracy, but have also taken the liberty of some creative license for the sake of the story.</b>Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-50958358219998668352010-01-05T19:08:00.000-08:002010-01-05T19:08:50.548-08:00<b>Chapter Ten<br />
Modesto: 1880</b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
There was a soft tap at the door. “Come in,” Marguerite called.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded. “As I last saw her.”<br />
<br />
“She looks just like you,” Rory noted.<br />
<br />
Marguerite’s forehead wrinkled. “Do you think so? I was thinking she looked something like you.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps I’m too close to it,” Marguerite frowned.<br />
<br />
“Perhaps. You must both resemble your father, then.”<br />
<br />
<i>That must have been how I knew</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
“She’s holding sheet music.” Rory said. “Was she a musician?”<br />
<br />
“A pianist,” Marguerite said. “A very gifted one.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m all right,” Marguerite said, frowning.<br />
<br />
“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>I’m an artist, this is what I do – why did I not see it before?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. “Come in.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Marguerite felt her own throat tighten. She shook her head.<br />
<br />
Clay took the other wing chair, clasping his hands on his knees. “I truly hate to be the one to tell you,” he began.<br />
<br />
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Marguerite said, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. “How do you know? Did my father talk about her?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
She wiped her eyes and steeled herself to listen.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-73213672455889569542010-01-01T22:23:00.000-08:002010-01-04T06:06:06.925-08:00<b>Chapter Nine<br />
Bourbon County, Kentucky: 1846 – 1858</b><br />
<br />
Pamela Carr seldom spoke of her mother, and when she did, it was with a note of disdain. Often ill, seldom kind, Cynthia Hunt Carr’s death left barely a shadow on Pamela’s young life.<br />
<br />
Unlike Daisy, Pamela remembered when the house had been filled with beautiful things, and how most of them had disappeared over time. The remains, while fine, were merely serviceable, and although well taken care of, the rugs were never replaced and the furniture grew shabby with age over the years.<br />
<br />
But she little cared. All she wanted was someone to love, and to love her. Her father’s frequent absences left a much larger hole in her life than her mother’s death, so she used all her budding feminine wiles to obtain the child of her nurse when her nurse had been sold.<br />
<br />
She poured all her maternal care into her ‘Itty Bitty.’ Although surrounded by slaves, she had no concept of slavery until she was in her teens. She clung to Daisy as a drowning man clings to flotsam.<br />
<br />
She was incensed when her father sold Daisy’s paintings without her leave. Incensed enough to beard him in his den, which sanctum she had never before violated.<br />
<br />
“It’s not fair, Daddy,” she said. “She’s worked so hard.”<br />
<br />
“So do the men work hard when I hire out their labor,” her father said. “It’s no different.”<br />
<br />
Pamela considered this. “Do they get paid, or does it all go into your pocket?”<br />
<br />
“They get a share,” Lucian conceded. “I intend Bitty to get a share, too. Everyone works better if there’s some reward.”<br />
<br />
Pamela’s eyes narrowed. “How much reward?”<br />
<br />
“I give the men ten percent.”<br />
<br />
“Twenty percent,” Pamela haggled.<br />
<br />
“Are you her agent?” Lucian smiled.<br />
<br />
“Does she need one?” Pamela countered.<br />
<br />
“I thought I was acting in that capacity,” Lucian said. “Very well, but don’t bruit it about. It’s a small enough sum at this point, and I concede that her work will probably become more valuable as she progresses. I’m willing to pay her a bit more for it.”<br />
<br />
This victory had been all too easy – perhaps she should have asked for more. Perhaps she had been too afraid of her father up until now. “Are we poor?” She blurted the question that had been nagging her for some time.<br />
<br />
“Nothing to worry yourself about, dear,” Lucian said, reddening. He glanced up at Mr. Butler, who was playing at dusting.<br />
<br />
“You haven’t answered my question,” Pamela pointed out.<br />
<br />
“We’ve had some. . .setbacks. But everything is well in hand. Believe me.”<br />
<br />
She crossed her arms. “If that’s so, then I want something for my eighteenth birthday.”<br />
<br />
“What would that be, my dear?” Lucian asked warily.<br />
<br />
“Bitty. I want her freed.” Pamela’s heart pounded with fear. Mr. Butler paused in his dusting, her father stared at her. The room was silent except for the loud ticking of the clock.<br />
<br />
Lucian leaned forward, resting his forehead on his hands. “I wish I could, dear, but I can’t.”<br />
<br />
“You can,” Pamela argued. “All you have to do is write out a piece of paper. I checked.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t,” Lucian sighed. “She’s mortgaged.”<br />
<br />
“Mortgaged?” Pamela reeled with horror. “Why would you mortgage her?”<br />
<br />
“Everything’s mortgaged, all right!” Lucian exclaimed bitterly. “You asked, I’ve answered. Are you satisfied?”<br />
<br />
“What did you do with all of Grandfather’s money, Daddy?” she asked, stunned.<br />
<br />
“Nothing,” Lucian said, hiding his face. “I was never cut out to be a manager.”<br />
<br />
Pamela touched his arm. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything nefarious, Daddy,” she apologized. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”<br />
<br />
Lucian lifted his face and looked at her. “I was hoping you’d never have to know,” he whispered.<br />
<br />
“What can I do?” Pamela asked.<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled and patted her hand. “Please don’t trouble yourself – I’ll pay everything off, I promise you. Eventually.”<br />
<br />
Pamela wrinkled her forehead. “Everything?” She looked at Mr. Butler. “Everyone?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Lucian admitted. “But keep it to yourself, Pammy. None of the servants must know. Consider their feelings, please.”<br />
<br />
“Mr. Butler knows,” she said.<br />
<br />
“Butler,” Lucian looked over at him, “is my good right hand. We would be in much direr straits without him. He has a sounder business head than mine.”<br />
<br />
Pamela looked at the old servant with new eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Butler,” she said sincerely.<br />
<br />
Mr. Butler smiled. “You’re welcome, Missy.”<br />
<br />
She turned back to her father. “If I can find a way to pay Bitty’s mortgage, may I have her?”<br />
<br />
“What do you have in mind, Pammy?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I need to think about it. How much is it?”<br />
<br />
“Eight hundred dollars,” her father said.<br />
<br />
“Eight hundred. . .” she blanched. “So much?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, dear,” her father said sadly.<br />
<br />
“Shouldn’t the price of her art go toward her mortgage?”<br />
<br />
“It does, and every cent I can scrape together, believe me,” Lucian said. “But most of that goes toward interest. Paying down the principal is a long, torturous process.”<br />
<br />
“We’re making some headway,” Mr. Butler said, coming to stand by Lucian and giving up on the dusting.<br />
<br />
Pamela frowned. “Well, then, give her ten percent, and give the other ten percent to me. It’s a start.”<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled. “It seems my daughter is a better businessman than I am, Butler.” He opened the desk drawer and took out a ten dollar gold piece. “Here’s your agent’s share, then, Pamela. It’s a long way to eight hundred dollars.”<br />
<br />
She clasped the gold piece in her fist. “Thank you, Daddy.” She stood, walked around the desk and kissed his cheek. She stroked his head affectionately. “Now I understand why you work so hard. Forgive me for being such a demanding little miss. I promise never to be again.”<br />
<br />
He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re hardly that, dearest. On the contrary, I’ve always found you the most amiable of daughters.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not, but thank you,” she laughed. “Will you speak to Bitty? I want her to feel encouraged – she’s taken the loss of her paintings much to heart.”<br />
<br />
“Of course, my dear. Please send her in.”<br />
<br />
<br />
When Daisy emerged from the study, Pamela could see her disappointment, for all she tried to hide it. So that night, Pamela invited her into bed and spun her a pretty tale of the future, knowing it could not be true, but wishing herself it were so.<br />
<br />
As Daisy slept by her side, Pamela pondered. Even though she was now aware that everything she knew, everyone she loved, was in peril, she felt no fear, only frustration. If only she had some marketable talent, like Daisy did. There was her music, of course, but a woman performing in public was considered shameful. It was different in Europe, she had heard, but she could hardly run off to France and leave everyone behind.<br />
<br />
She had a tenderness for her father she had never felt before – she had never known the burdens he bore, and she was glad he had finally confided in her. Well, if she could not earn money, at least not yet, she could endeavor to practice better economy. No new dresses, she resolved. She and Daisy could make over, let out, or otherwise alter anything she already owned. And she would apply herself to her crocheting and her knitting. With this good resolution, she snuggled next to the girl lying beside her. Poor Daisy. Pamela also resolved that, no matter what befell, they should never be parted.<br />
<br />
She felt so maternal – toward Daisy, toward her father, toward all the servants. She began to regret her decision not to marry, if this was how a mother felt. Marriage. . .<br />
<br />
She pondered. Perhaps an alliance with one of the Bluegrass’s wealthy families might solve all her problems. Marriage might not be such a bad thing if it rescued her father and provided her with children.<br />
<br />
<br />
She began to cultivate the young men of her acquaintance, and also the young men of their acquaintance. When Harold Pike began to press his suit, she encouraged him, especially when she discovered that his father was one of her father’s creditors.<br />
<br />
She felt nothing for him, but she did not expect to, nor did she think that he did, either. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until that awful day.<br />
<br />
She was not sorry when Harold’s horse threw a shoe and he returned to the farm – she much preferred Belinda’s company, anyway – but she had no apprehension of anything untoward. It was with great surprise and alarm that she returned home and found him being administered to by Mr. Butler, his face still red, bleeding and angry.<br />
<br />
In a near panic at the almost certain failure of her plans, she dealt with Daisy in a high-handed manner, which she later much regretted. Pleading a headache, she sought refuge in the drawing room until her father came home.<br />
<br />
Apprised of the situation by Mr. Butler, Lucian Carr parked Harold in the study with a whiskey while he went upstairs to deal with Daisy.<br />
<br />
When he came downstairs afterward, he found Harold, Belinda and Pamela assembled in the front hall, attended by Mr. Butler. “I hope you’ll have her whipped,” Harold said venomously. Three long red welts marred his face, although they no longer bled.<br />
<br />
Lucian frowned. “She’ll be dealt with,” he said, covering Pamela’s gasp. He turned to Belinda. “My apologies, Miss Pike, but I think it is best if you and your brother terminate your visit. You’ll understand, I’m sure. Pamela will help you prepare for your departure.”<br />
<br />
Belinda nodded and offered her hand. “I know my brother will not apologize for his boorish behavior, but I do hope you’ll accept my apologies in his stead.”<br />
<br />
“Bel. . .” Harold said warningly.<br />
<br />
Belinda flipped her hair disdainfully and started to climb the stairs.<br />
<br />
“Another drink, Mr. Pike,” Lucian said, ushering him into the study. “Butler will summon your carriage.”<br />
<br />
As the study door closed and Mr. Butler left, Pamela stopped on the stairs. “Do you mind awfully packing by yourself, Belinda?”<br />
<br />
“Going to listen at keyholes?” Belinda laughed as Pamela blushed. “I would, if I were you.” She held out her hand. “I do hope that we can remain friends after this, Pam.”<br />
<br />
“Well, of course we will,” Pamela said. “You’ll be my sister-in-law.”<br />
<br />
“Will I?” Belinda said doubtfully. “I know <i>I</i> wouldn’t marry Harold for a million dollars.”<br />
<br />
Pamela frowned. “Wouldn’t you?”<br />
<br />
“No, dear, I wouldn’t. Now scurry along. Be sure to tell me later what you hear. I know Harold will lie manfully. Don’t let him get away with it.”<br />
<br />
“All right.” Pamela gave her friend a quick hug and scurried down the stairs to the study door. She carefully turned the knob and opened the door the tiniest crack, only enough to hear what was said inside.<br />
<br />
“The little minx enticed me,” Harold was saying. Pamela could almost hear him pout. “It wasn’t my fault. This is what comes of coddling niggers.”<br />
<br />
It was all Pamela could do to keep quiet. That word had never been uttered in this house, though she had often heard it in town. Hearing it from the lips she had once kissed made her stomach churn.<br />
<br />
Lucian’s voice was tight with controlled fury. “That’s not the tale my butler tells me.”<br />
<br />
“You gonna take a nigger’s word over mine?” Harold said belligerently. <br />
<br />
“Even if your tale were true,” Lucian said, side-stepping, “it was most unchivalrous for you to enter my daughter’s bedroom before your marriage.”<br />
<br />
“Why are you berating me?” Harold asked. “It’s that that little quadroon you should be berating.” Pamela heard him shift in his chair. “And don’t be getting on your high horse with me. Everyone does it, even you.”<br />
<br />
Pamela heard her father’s sharp intake of breath and decided this was the moment to make her entrance. She rattled the doorknob to announce herself, then opened the door. “Daddy?” she said.<br />
<br />
Harold came unsteadily to his feet. It was obvious that he had been making free with his host’s whiskey even before Lucian had returned home.<br />
<br />
“Come on in, Pamela,” Lucian said. “Mr. Pike is just about to make his apologies.”<br />
<br />
“Am not,” Harold mumbled under his breath, but Pamela overrode him.<br />
<br />
“No need.” She pulled the ring off her finger. “I’m sorry, Harold, but I’m calling off our engagement.”<br />
<br />
Harold stood stupefied a moment, looking down at the ring she put in his hand. “My father will have something to say about this,” he said.<br />
<br />
Lucian opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.<br />
<br />
“This is between you and me, Harold,” Pamela said. “I don’t believe you show me the respect due your fiancée. I doubt you’ll show me the respect due your wife.”<br />
<br />
Harold clutched the ring in his hand, and stormed toward the door. He turned and said, “You’ll be sorry, Pamela.”<br />
<br />
“No doubt,” she replied. “I’ll probably die an old maid.”<br />
<br />
He slammed the door behind him. Pamela sighed and turned toward her father. <br />
<br />
“Are you sure about this, Pammy?” Lucian asked.<br />
<br />
Pamela nodded. “I thought I could go through with it, but I can’t. I’m sorry, Daddy.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t be sorry, dearest,” Lucian said. “I would have tried to talk you out of it.”<br />
<br />
“Will Mr. Pike call in your note, do you think?” she asked worriedly.<br />
<br />
“Probably,” Lucian said. “He’s a spiteful old cuss. But you’re well out of it, my dear. I’m sorry I encouraged you in the first place.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Butler came in then. “They’re gone, sir,” he announced.<br />
<br />
“Stop calling me ‘sir’,” Lucian said, wearily, as though not for the first time.<br />
<br />
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Butler said, a vague smile on his lips.<br />
<br />
Pamela looked from one to the other at this byplay. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “If Mr. Pike calls in your note, are we ruined?”<br />
<br />
“Not necessarily,” Mr. Butler intoned.<br />
<br />
“I hate to do it,” Lucian said. “You know I do.”<br />
<br />
“Do what?” Pamela asked.<br />
<br />
“Your mother’s cousin Morgan wants me to go partners in a whiskey distillery,” Lucian said. “There’s certainly money in it, but I hate to profit from vice.”<br />
<br />
“Cousin John?” Pamela asked.<br />
<br />
“Or ‘Captain Morgan’ as he styles himself these days,” Lucian said. “Playing with his private rifle regiment down there in Lexington.”<br />
<br />
“I think he’s very dashing,” Pamela said, eyes brightening.<br />
<br />
“So does he, more’s the pity,” Lucian said. <br />
<br />
“How can we go partners if we haven’t any money?”<br />
<br />
“Mortgage the hemp crop to Morgan,” Lucian explained. “That’s his offer.”<br />
<br />
“He does own a hemp factory, so that would make sense,” Pamela said thoughtfully. “What choice do we have?”<br />
<br />
Lucian looked from her to Mr. Butler. “None,” he conceded. “It’s the lesser of two evils again. Just once, I’d like to be able to choose a positive good, instead.”<br />
<br />
Pamela gazed at him, her eyes full of sympathy. She shook herself. “I’d better go let Bitty out. She’s probably cried herself to sleep by now, poor dear.”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Lucian said, reaching into his pocket and handing her the key. “Let her know she has nothing to fear.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure she knows <i>that</i>,” Pamela said, taking the key. She left, but returned a few minutes later, looking suddenly frazzled. “She’s gone!” she said. “I don’t know how she got out, but she’s not there!”<br />
<br />
The three of them pounded up the stairs to Pamela’s bedroom. A hurried search was made, in the wardrobe and under the beds, but no Daisy was to be found.<br />
<br />
“The window’s closed, and the door was locked.” Pamela said. “How could she have gotten out?”<br />
<br />
Lucian opened the window and examined the sill. His lips grew tight. “There’s the mark of a ladder here. See? It’s all scuffed.”<br />
<br />
“Who. . . ?” Pamela began, but was interrupted by Mr. Butler leaving the room in a hurry. <br />
<br />
He returned a few minutes later. “He’s gone, too.”<br />
<br />
“Benjamin?” Pamela said. “Of course. But, then again, why? I know I was unkind to her, but not enough to make her want to leave, I’m sure.”<br />
<br />
Lucian hung his head. “Not you, my dear. Me. I struck her.”<br />
<br />
“You!” Pamela’s eyes filled with shock. “You couldn’t have – you’ve never – I mean. . .” Her voice trailed off. “Why?”<br />
<br />
“She was. . .saucy,” Lucian said, shamefaced. “I was sorry as soon as I’d done it. I should have said so, it seems.” He pounded his fist on the sill. “Rash, young, romantic fools! What do they think they’re playing at? Don’t they know what happens to runaways?”<br />
<br />
Mr. Butler had collapsed on the edge of Pamela’s bed. Always upright and dignified, he looked now like a rag doll with half its stuffing missing. Pamela put an arm around him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Butler. They can’t have gone far. We’ll find them, won’t we, Daddy?”<br />
<br />
“It’s raining, and it’s dark,” Lucian pointed out. “Unless you have some idea where they would go, we’ll have to wait until morning.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t,” Pamela said. “I can’t imagine either one of them wanting to leave. But to let them stay out all night, in the cold. . .”<br />
<br />
“It’s not cold,” Lucian said, “only wet. They’ll suffer no hurt, and they might learn a lesson.”<br />
<br />
“Please don’t call out the slave catchers,” Mr. Butler pleaded.<br />
<br />
“Of course not, Butler,” Lucian said. “What do you take me for? We’ll have the men search in the morning. Pammy’s right – they can’t have gone far, even if they walk all night. I’d better go down and make sure none of the horses are missing, now that I think of it.”<br />
<br />
No horse was missing, but search as they might next day, no sign of the fugitives could be found. Pamela hoped that in a day or so the two of them might straggle in, but two days passed without a sign.<br />
<br />
“What do we do, Daddy?” she pleaded. “We can’t call the slave catchers, we can’t advertise a reward – I won’t have bounty hunters after my Bitty, not to mention Benjamin.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know, dear,” Lucian said. “I’m as worried as you are, and Butler’s practically prostrated.”<br />
<br />
Pamela thought. “Perhaps Pinkerton’s? Finding people is what they do, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
“Among other things,” Lucian said. “But, Pamela, if they wanted to come home, they already would have. And how would we pay for it, anyway?”<br />
<br />
“Wait a moment.” Pamela ran upstairs to her bedroom and returned bearing a hinged box. “We can sell the jewelry Harold gave me.”<br />
<br />
“A proper young lady would return those,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“He cost us two perfectly good servants,” Pamela said firmly. “He can pay for their recovery.”<br />
<br />
“And how will a detective convince them to come home? If you’re expecting him to bring them against their wills, you might as well hire a slave catcher.”<br />
<br />
Pamela shuddered. “Never. I’ll write a letter – I’ll apologize for the things I said, and for you striking her, and promise her all will be as it was. She’ll come home,” she said confidently.<br />
<br />
Lucian grimaced. “Sit down, Pammy,” he said. “There’s something you have to know – the real reason Bitty ran away, and why Benjamin would feel the need to rescue her.”<br />
<br />
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Pamela said, taking the proffered chair. “I thought there must be – she wouldn’t run away because of one blow.”<br />
<br />
Lucian nodded, seating himself across from her. “You’re a woman now, Pamela. There’s some family history you need to be made aware of, for all that it shows me in a horrible light.”<br />
<br />
“Go on,” Pamela said, warily.<br />
<br />
Lucian leaned back. “Well. First of all, Bitty is your sister. Your half-sister.”<br />
<br />
“I knew that,” Pamela said.<br />
<br />
Lucian’s eyebrows flew up. “You did? How? When?”<br />
<br />
“Azalea told me, practically the day Daisy was born.”<br />
<br />
“Daisy?” Lucian said, stunned.<br />
<br />
“Benjamin gave her that name, years ago. It fits her better, don’t you agree?”<br />
<br />
“Daisy it is then,” Lucian agreed. “You knew?” he asked again, not quite grasping it. “You never told me.”<br />
<br />
“I was sure <i>you </i>knew,” Pamela said. “And I didn’t grasp at the time what it all meant. Why else did you think I begged you for her when you sold Azalea? And why did you sell her, anyway?”<br />
<br />
“Your mother begged me to, on her deathbed,” Lucian explained.<br />
<br />
“I see,” Pamela said tersely. “She would.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t be unkind to your mother’s memory, Pamela,” Lucian warned. “She suffered terribly because of me. And then there was the child – it was a slap in her face.”<br />
<br />
Pamela frowned. “All right, maybe I do see, a little. But this is ancient history – what does it have to do with Daisy running away?”<br />
<br />
“Because it looked like history was about to repeat itself, dear, don’t you see? You, and Harold, and Daisy? I couldn’t let you suffer the things your mother suffered, so I told Daisy I would have to sell her.”<br />
<br />
“Sell her? Daddy, you didn’t!” Pamela’s chair rocked from the force of her shock.<br />
<br />
“I did,” Lucian said in a rush, “and she begged me not to, and she called me ‘Father’ and I was so filled with the shame of it all, that I struck her.” He turned his head away. “And there you have it. All of it.”<br />
<br />
Pamela sat quietly for several minutes. “I want to understand, Daddy, but I’m afraid I don’t.”<br />
<br />
Lucian sighed. “And I hope you never do, dearest. I would hate for you to have to sink to that level, to understand what sort of man I was. Am.”<br />
<br />
She reached out and touched him. “I don’t have to understand to know that you’re a good, honorable man, Daddy. I loved Azalea – I’m sure you must have, too. She was sweet, and warm. . .”<br />
<br />
“And the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” Lucian said, distantly. “But that doesn’t excuse me, Pammy. I’ve made a mess of things, as you see.”<br />
<br />
“Then let me help you clean it up,” Pamela said. “Let me borrow your desk to write that letter to Daisy. I’ll explain it all – if she can be found, she’ll come home, you’ll see.” Her eyes darkened. “And you will free her?”<br />
<br />
“As soon as I’m able,” Lucian promised. “But you realize that if I try to before her mortgage is paid, she’ll be seized and sold.”<br />
<br />
Pamela nodded. “Society might not acknowledge that she’s our family, but we do. Won’t you, Daddy?”<br />
<br />
“If that’s what it takes to make this right, then yes, dear. At least to you,” Lucian promised. <br />
<br />
He rose to leave her alone, and she sat down at the desk, taking pen in hand and began to write.<br />
<br />
<i>“My dearest Daisy. . . ,</i>Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-88317319787032479042009-12-26T12:16:00.000-08:002009-12-26T12:16:45.329-08:00<b>Chapter Eight<br />
Modesto: 1880</b><br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I did,” Molly said. “Several times. I’ve never seen anyone so engrossed. May I?” She indicated the canvas.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“I was happy then,” Marguerite said. “The only time in my life when I ever was.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite shook her head. “Not happy that I was a slave, but happy because I was with people who loved me. Who I loved.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“No. Never. Those happy days were over, no matter what anyone did. Although. . .” Her voice caught.<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Marguerite whispered.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Marguerite said. “No one can blame you. Benjamin told me it was dangerous before we started.”<br />
<br />
“Then why do you blame yourself?”<br />
<br />
“Because I didn’t consider anyone else – how it would affect those we left behind, what might happen to. . .anyone.”<br />
<br />
Molly considered this. “I see,” she said at last. “Then what you seek is forgiveness.”<br />
<br />
“Do I?” Marguerite said. “Perhaps I do. But how can anyone forgive me? I can’t forgive myself.”<br />
<br />
“That’s the first step then.” She looked at the canvas. “Is this your attempt at understanding?”<br />
<br />
“I suppose. I haven’t analyzed it – I only know I need to do it.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I am thirsty,” Marguerite admitted. She drank down the milk, although it was warm and the cream had already risen.<br />
<br />
“I’ll leave you to freshen up,” Molly said.<br />
<br />
“Has anyone seen Jacob since yesterday?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Alex has, and Aurora’s taking his meals over. Don’t worry, he’s not neglected, by any means.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded, and went to her room to freshen up for supper.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Enough for two,” Rory said. “No reason he should have to eat alone.”<br />
<br />
“No indeed,” Clay agreed. He kissed her cheek and went to saddle his horse.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Am I not welcome, Jacob?” Clay asked. “I brought your supper.”<br />
<br />
“Rory’s already brought over enough food to last a week,”<br />
Jacob said. He held the door open. “But come on in.”<br />
<br />
Clay followed Jacob to the kitchen and set the basket on the table. “Am I not welcome?” he repeated.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“Yes!” Jacob smacked his hand down on the table. “Do you have any idea – do you have <i>any </i>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.”<br />
<br />
“The last?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I had no idea,” Clay said gravely. “But at least Lucian kept his word.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Clay blanched. “What do you mean?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“She better not show her face around here,” Jacob said.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Jacob pressed his lips together. “All right then. May as well sit down – I do hate to eat alone.”<br />
<br />
“As do I, old friend.” Clay pulled out a chair. “As do I.”<br />
<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Ooh, look,” Rory said excitedly, “here’s my first rosebud.”<br />
<br />
“So it is.” Alex reached for it.<br />
<br />
“Don’t pick it,” Rory admonished.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“That might work better if it were a daisy,” she observed drily.<br />
<br />
“All right, I’m not very good at metaphors,” Alex admitted. “You understand me.”<br />
<br />
“I do. I’m glad you have faith I’m about to blossom. I don’t.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“How do you judge what’s right, when you have no idea what the outcome will be?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Which is why we have to be ready to forgive, and accept forgiveness,” Rory said.<br />
<br />
“Some things are unforgivable,” Marguerite said darkly.<br />
<br />
“Not to God,” Rory said.<br />
<br />
Marguerite shuddered. “God.” The word was like ashes.<br />
<br />
“You ready to tell us what you got against Him?” Alex asked.<br />
<br />
“I fell on my knees and prayed for deliverance.”<br />
<br />
“And He delivered you, it appears,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“At too great a price,” Marguerite argued. “I’d never have asked if I’d known what the price would be.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“It was common, Sis,” Alex said quietly. “All too common.”<br />
<br />
“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 <i>that</i>, Marguerite.”<br />
<br />
“Her father was one of them,” Alex pointed out. “Let’s be fair.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t understand,” Rory said. “He owned slaves. He would have sold Marguerite. Yet he fought against slavery.”<br />
<br />
“And died for it,” Alex said. “Men are complicated, sometimes. Sounds like there’s a lot we don’t know.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
Alex put a brotherly arm around her shoulder. “Give him time, my dear. Give him time.”Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-43574794421212746182009-12-17T09:04:00.000-08:002009-12-17T09:04:27.491-08:00Taking a breakHa ha.<br />
<br />
No, really, I broke my arm, so the writing is going to have to take a pause until I'm in a new splint at least.<br />
<br />
Thanks to everyone who is following and commenting - will try to have the next chapter as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience!Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-44318877789628023652009-12-14T13:55:00.000-08:002009-12-14T13:55:41.468-08:00<b>Chapter Seven<br />
Bourbon County, Kentucky: 1846 – 1858</b><br />
<br />
<br />
“She’s such a pretty little thing. Daddy, can’t we keep her?”<br />
<br />
These were the first things she could remember. Pamela, six years old, all golden curls and doe eyes, begging her father for a gift.<br />
<br />
“She has to go, dear,” Lucian said. “She needs her mother.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll take care of her,” Pamela begged. “Please, Daddy, please?”<br />
<br />
Lucian Carr’s dark eyes regarded his daughter. His brow wrinkled. Finally, he relented. “I suppose you will need a ladies’ maid when you’re a little older, Pammy. Will you let Aunt Elsie help you care for her until she’s big enough?”<br />
<br />
Pamela clapped her hands and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Yes, yes, thank you, Daddy! Can I name her?”<br />
<br />
“May I, Pamela,” her father corrected.<br />
<br />
“<i>May </i>I name her?”<br />
<br />
Lucian smiled. “All right, dear, what shall you name her?”<br />
<br />
“Itty Bitty!” Pamela declared.<br />
<br />
“She won’t always be so ‘itty bitty’, dear. Perhaps another name would suit her better?”<br />
<br />
“Itty Bitty,” Pamela said stubbornly, crossing her arms.<br />
<br />
“How about a compromise? Would ‘Bitty’ do?”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Pamela agreed. “So she’s mine?”<br />
<br />
“She’s yours,” her father assented, but his brow darkened even as he agreed.<br />
<br />
<br />
At first, she was more Pamela’s doll than her maid or her playmate. Dressed in Pamela’s cast-offs, sometimes changed several times a day at Pamela’s whims, given the minimum of attention by ‘Aunt’ Elsie, the ruler of the kitchen, Bitty showered all her babyish affections on her mistress. The ‘children of the house’ – Bitty, Pamela and Benjamin – formed an alliance, with Bitty an anchor to their triangle. In ordinary circumstances a colored boy and a white girl would never have formed a friendship, except that Bitty, being a bit of both, was the bridge.<br />
<br />
The farm was their world. They fed handfuls of hay to the horses, or ran through the hemp fields, playing hide-and-seek with each other and the ten or twelve field hands who worked there. It was a long time before Bitty realized what a slave was, or that she was one, as well as every colored face she saw around her.<br />
<br />
And they were all colored, except for Pamela and her father, who was often absent. The field hands; the six or seven grooms who raised and bred the horses; Aunt Elsie; and Mr. Butler, Benjamin’s father, who ran the farm in Mr. Carr’s frequent absences. Always ‘Mr.’ Butler, never ‘Butler’. She never thought of this as odd until much later. Even Pamela called him ‘Mr. Butler’.<br />
<br />
When she was three and Pamela seven, Mr. Carr hired a governess for Pamela’s education, a development Pamela met with some resistance. The sewing and knitting lessons she did not mind, since she was clever with her hands and these were activities that Bitty could join, but she went into hysterics at being separated from her ‘baby’ for actual lessons. Mr. Carr intervened, and allowed that it would do no harm to let Bitty occupy herself in the classroom while Pamela was instructed, so the governess supplied the younger girl with paper and pencils for drawing while Pamela had her lessons.<br />
<br />
She often wondered in after years if this had been an underhanded way around the laws that forbade educating slaves, for, of course, she could not fail to learn while present in the classroom, for all that she was more interested in drawing than in reading or writing.<br />
<br />
Governesses came and went – the farm was several miles north of Paris, too out of the way for many of them, and many more showed extreme discomfort at being the only white woman in the house. Pamela’s mother had died when she was six, and although some of the young women may have taken the job with the romantic notion of becoming the next Mrs. Lucian Carr, it did not take long for them to find that their hopes were misplaced and to seek a recommendation, which Lucian was only too happy to provide.<br />
<br />
Between governesses, the children reveled in their freedom. It was Benjamin who bestowed Bitty’s nickname upon her, one summer afternoon when she had bedecked all three of them with daisy-chains. “You’re a daisy, yourself,” he said, plucking a bright yellow flower from the garland around his neck. “If I count the petals, will they say you love me?”<br />
<br />
“Of course I love you, Benjamin,” she had replied, for all that she was five years old and he only seven. <br />
<br />
“Would you marry me, Daisy?” he teased.<br />
<br />
“I might,” she said in all seriousness.<br />
<br />
Pamela laughed at both of them. “I’m never getting married,” she asserted. She slapped Benjamin’s shoulder. “You’re it!” and the three of them ran through the pasture and into the hemp field.<br />
<br />
But Bitty was ‘Daisy’ to the three of them after that.<br />
<br />
<br />
Of course, sunny childhood days soon end for all of us. As the years passed, the relations between the three changed, as did they. Benjamin was apprenticed to a carpenter in town, and resided at the farm only on Sundays for a year, returning at age fifteen a strapping young man, with skills that could be, and often were, hired out to neighboring farms and businesses.<br />
<br />
When Lucian took note of Daisy’s artistic talents, for she had continued to draw even after the need for that fiction had passed, he made sure that the next governess was qualified to teach the skills of drawing and painting.<br />
<br />
This development did not please Pamela at all, and the next time he was home, she taxed her father with it. “It’s not fair, Daddy,” she argued. “I’ve been positively <i>begging </i>you for a piano for months, and here you spend money teaching Daisy to draw, which she already does well enough.”<br />
<br />
“It’s the same reason I have the men learn skills,” Lucian explained patiently. “I can sell art, the same as I can hire the men out, dear. It’s an investment.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t believe you’d rather <i>invest </i>in my maid than in your own daughter,” Pamela pouted.<br />
<br />
Daisy might have been embarrassed to witness this scene, if she had not seen so many like it before. She wondered why Mr. Carr bothered to argue since Pamela always got her way when she wanted it. Not so much spoiled as neglected – for even when home, her father spent much time closeted with Mr. Butler in the study – Pamela always knew the way to play upon her father’s guilty conscience.<br />
<br />
A few days later a second-hand spinet was delivered to the house, and both girls were happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
Pamela threw herself into practicing, which freed Daisy’s time for drawing and her new passion, painting. Not that she found her usual duties in any way onerous – Pamela was no stylish miss. Although well-dressed as suited her station, she looked down her nose at those vapid girls of their acquaintance who boasted the latest Paris, France, fashions. She always said that Paris, Kentucky, fashions were quite well enough for her, thank you. Daisy’s needle was more than enough to keep her modest wardrobe in good state.<br />
<br />
For Pamela’s seventeenth birthday, Daisy presented her with a miniature portrait of herself. “It’s charming, dear,” Pamela proclaimed, “but what shall I do with it? I know what I look like.”<br />
<br />
“Give it to a beau, when you have one,” Daisy said. “That’s what most people do.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t want a beau,” Pamela asserted. “I shall be an old maid, then I may do as I please.”<br />
<br />
Daisy was shocked. “But Miss Pamela, isn’t it shameful to be an old maid?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t care,” Pamela said. “<i>I’ll </i>never ask a man for permission.” She looked down at the miniature. “You take it, Daisy. Have something to remember me by, when we’re grown up.”<br />
<br />
Daisy took it, reluctantly, puzzled at Pamela’s words. Did she believe that Daisy would ever leave her, no matter how ‘grown up’ they became? If Miss Pamela never married, wouldn’t she need Daisy more than ever?<br />
<br />
<br />
Daisy sat painting in the pasture, trying to capture the strength and essence of the horses that grazed there. Benjamin worked nearby, repairing a broken gate. He strolled up to her, looking over her shoulder as she worked. “That’s good. You’ve become quite an artist, Daisy dear.”<br />
<br />
“Who thought I’d have to study anatomy to do it?” Daisy complained. “Muscles, bones.” She glanced at Benjamin’s shirtless torso, then hurriedly turned back to her canvas. “In order to paint something’s outsides, I have to understand its insides.”<br />
<br />
“People, too?” he inquired.<br />
<br />
She smiled. “Yes, of course. But there’s more to a person than skin and muscle.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “You want to go into town?” he asked abruptly.<br />
<br />
“Can’t. Don’t have a pass, and Mr. Carr’s out of town again.”<br />
<br />
“I have one,” Benjamin said. “I’m doing a job for Mr. Hunt later. I doubt anyone would ask for yours if I show them mine.”<br />
<br />
“Too risky.” Daisy shook her head. “What do you want to go into town for?”<br />
<br />
“Want to show you something, since you’re interested in people’s insides.”<br />
<br />
She was intrigued. “What?”<br />
<br />
“There’s an auction on the courthouse steps today.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shivered. “Why do you think I’d want to see that?”<br />
<br />
“Because it’s real, Daisy,” Benjamin said heatedly. “It doesn’t bother you that you, or I, or anyone like us, can be bought and sold like so much cattle?”<br />
<br />
“Mr. Carr wouldn’t sell us. He doesn’t sell slaves. He never has, you know,” she said primly.<br />
<br />
“He might have to someday.” His tone was grim, now.<br />
<br />
“Whatever do you mean?”<br />
<br />
“The auction today is for debt.”<br />
<br />
Daisy laughed. “Mr. Carr would never go into debt. He’s too careful with money.”<br />
<br />
“Bad things happen, Daisy,” Benjamin said angrily. “If not to you, then to others. But if you’re too cold-hearted to care. . .”<br />
<br />
“What is it you want?” Daisy said, growing angry herself. “Yes, it’s terrible slaves are sold. But what can I do about it?”<br />
<br />
“What’s terrible is that we’re property in the first place,” Benjamin said.<br />
<br />
“Maybe,” Daisy said, wrinkling her brow. “But, again, what can I do about it?”<br />
<br />
“You can start thinking, for one thing.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “And it’s not true that Mr. Carr has never sold a slave.”<br />
<br />
“Not since I’ve been here,” she asserted.<br />
<br />
“Bury your head in the sand, Daisy. See what it gets you.” He stalked off to finish repairing the gate.<br />
<br />
Daisy turned back to her work. Ever since Benjamin had come back from his apprenticeship, he had been like this – it terrified her sometimes. The world outside the farm seemed to be a wild and frightful place. If that was what became of those who went out into it, she would have none of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Her paintings were gone, two of them – the one of the horses in the pasture, and another she had sketched out that same day, of Benjamin working on the gate. She had been rather proud of that one – she felt she had captured something of his fire in it. Now it was missing and she could not think where it might have gone.<br />
<br />
She asked Pamela. “Daddy took them,” Pamela told her. “He said they were good enough to sell – you should be proud, dear.”<br />
<br />
“They were mine,” Daisy said, wrinkling her brow.<br />
<br />
“Now, dear, Daddy told you he intended to sell your work when it was good enough, right from the start, didn’t he?” Pamela’s attempts to soothe her seemed half-hearted, but she spoke the truth.<br />
<br />
“I reckon,” Daisy agreed, but she went to the small room she inhabited next to Pamela’s bedroom and sat down, thoughtful. <i>Nothing I have is my own</i>, she realized. She looked down at her hands. <i>Not even these</i>. She wondered if she would even desire to paint anymore, if nothing she did was hers, and yet the thought of that nearly crushed her soul. <i>If I have nothing, not even myself, then who am I?</i><br />
<br />
Mr. Carr came home a few days later, closeting himself as usual with Mr. Butler. Pamela stalked into the study unannounced, and was there some time. When she came out, she was red-faced, but she smiled at Daisy. “Daddy wishes to speak with you, dear.”<br />
<br />
Daisy quailed. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right.” Pamela patted her shoulder. “It’s good news. Go on in.”<br />
<br />
Daisy opened the door, quaking, but Mr. Carr smiled at her and offered her a chair. “Sit down, Bitty. I have some good news for you.”<br />
<br />
“So Miss Pamela said,” she said, sitting. Mr. Butler was busying himself dusting the bookshelves, and she took no further notice of him.<br />
<br />
“I’ve sold your paintings to a dealer in Louisville,” Mr. Carr said, “and he’s asked for more. Congratulations, my dear.”<br />
<br />
“Sold?” Daisy said weakly.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Mr. Carr said cheerfully. “And you’re to have some of the proceeds.” He gave her a ten dollar gold piece. “And there’ll be more, if you keep doing the same kind of work. I’m very proud of you.”<br />
<br />
The coin weighed heavily in her hand. “Some of the proceeds?” she said.<br />
<br />
Mr. Carr reddened. “Well, yes.” He leaned forward. “Consider this your apprenticeship – I am due back the money I’ve spent on you, aren’t I? For lessons, and supplies?”<br />
<br />
“Of course, sir,” Daisy said. “I thank you very kindly.” She rose to go.<br />
<br />
“This is only the beginning,” Mr. Carr said. “You’ll be a fine artist someday.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Daisy said, stunned. “May I go now?”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Mr. Carr said, seeming somewhat disappointed. Did he expect her to be grateful? Perhaps he did.<br />
<br />
Pamela was waiting for her in the hall. “Well, isn’t it wonderful?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes, wonderful,” Daisy said, pretending an enthusiasm she did not feel. She showed Pamela the coin. “So much money. What do I do with it?”<br />
<br />
“Why, whatever you like,” Pamela laughed. “It’s yours.”<br />
<br />
Daisy clenched her fist over the coin. <i>Well, something is my own, it seems. For now.</i><br />
<br />
It suddenly struck her – she doubted that Mr. Butler spent all his time in the study dusting. What <i>did </i>he and Mr. Carr do in there? Going over accounts, she supposed, but she did not reckon the bookkeeping could be so extensive. She shrugged. She had other things to think about. <i>What did Benjamin mean that Mr. Carr sold slaves?</i><br />
<br />
That night, Pamela called her into the bedroom. “Come sit by me, Daisy.” She patted the bed. Daisy clambered up and Pamela wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so excited for you, love,” Pamela said. “This is the beginning of great things for you, I know it.”<br />
<br />
Daisy’s heart began to lift. “I wish he’d asked me,” she confessed. “I would have liked to have kept one of them.”<br />
<br />
“I know.” Pamela gave her a squeeze. “Don’t think I don’t know how you feel about Benjamin. It was a good picture, but there’ll be lots more. And one day, you can keep or sell your paintings any way you’d like.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t see how,” Daisy said. “I’m a slave.”<br />
<br />
It was the first time those words had been said aloud, and it caused Pamela’s eyes to turn grave. “I know, dear,” she said, “but Daddy says the day is coming when all the slaves will be free. It’s one reason he makes sure all the servants have some skills, so they won’t be destitute when that day comes. And in the meantime, you’ll have money to spend, and when I turn eighteen, I’ll ask Daddy to give you to me, and we can go to Paris, the one in France, and you can sell your paintings and I can play my music, and we’ll be oh, so happy, won’t we, Daisy?”<br />
<br />
Mollified by this happy vision, Daisy smiled, and the two girls talked and planned until they fell asleep in each others’ arms.<br />
<br />
<br />
But when Pamela did turn eighteen, neither the hoped for transfer of ownership nor the promised trip to France materialized. Instead, Pamela began to entertain a suitor.<br />
<br />
Harold Pike was tall, reasonably handsome, and the son of a wealthy landowning neighbor. He and his sister Belinda began to pay calls on Pamela and, at her father’s insistence, she received them.<br />
<br />
There was no spark there, that Daisy could see. Harold was far from unattractive, but it was obvious that Pamela did not care for him, yet within a month of her eighteenth birthday, the engagement was announced.<br />
<br />
Daisy was distraught, but hid it for Pamela’s sake. Her own future was in doubt – she did not wish to be separated from Pamela, but neither did she want to become that man’s property. Her fears were vague and unfounded until the night she was forced to run away.<br />
<br />
Pamela had gone out riding with Belinda and Harold, and Daisy was repairing a piece of lace on one of Pamela’s dresses when she heard the front door open downstairs. There was a brief exchange of words, a tread on the stair, then Pamela’s bedroom door was flung open by Harold.<br />
<br />
Daisy jumped up from the settee. “Mr. Pike! What are you doing here? I thought you were out riding.”<br />
<br />
“My horse threw a shoe,” Harold replied, closing the door behind him. “I thought we might get to know each other better, Bitty.”<br />
<br />
Daisy’s heart leapt into her throat. “In the parlor?” she choked out.<br />
<br />
“Here’s fine,” Harold said. “After all, you will be living in my house, once I marry your mistress.”<br />
<br />
“Not married yet,” Daisy pointed out. “You shouldn’t be here, in Miss Pamela’s bedroom. It’s most improper.”<br />
<br />
“What does a nigger know about propriety?” Harold said, grasping Daisy’s wrist. “I’ve seen the way you look at me – you’re all alike.”<br />
<br />
Daisy gasped. That word had never been spoken in that house before – neither Mr. Carr nor Mr. Butler would allow it. But there were matters more important than the insult she had just been dealt. <i>That’s my painting hand</i>. Calming herself, she said steadily. “What is it you want?”<br />
<br />
“A little kiss, is all.” He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Do it!” he commanded.<br />
<br />
She would rather kiss a copperhead, but she steeled herself. “All right, please don’t hurt me.”<br />
<br />
“That’s more like it.” He grinned and yanked her close, covering her mouth with his, hungrily. Disgust filled her, but she allowed the indignity, as long as he held his grip on her wrist.<br />
<br />
“So sweet, my dear, so sweet,” he murmured. He cupped her breast in one hand, then dropped her wrist to tug at her skirt with the other.<br />
<br />
Daisy saw her chance and took it, raking her nails across his face as hard as she could. <br />
<br />
Harold cried out, jerking back and covering his bleeding face with one hand. He drew back the other to strike her, when the door was opened behind him. “Do you require assistance, Mr. Pike?” Mr. Butler asked quietly.<br />
<br />
“No, damn you!” Harold said. “Get out of here!”<br />
<br />
“You’re bleeding, sir,” Mr. Butler insisted. “Come with me and I’ll attend to you.”<br />
<br />
Harold growled, stymied. “All right.” He turned to Daisy. “You’ll pay for that, I’ll see to it!”<br />
<br />
Daisy rearranged her skirt as Mr. Butler escorted Harold out of the room. Mr. Butler cast her a significant look as he shut the door behind him, and Daisy heard the key turn in the lock. <i>Am I locked in, or is he locked out?</i> Either way, she was safe, for the time being.<br />
<br />
She tried to still herself and work on Pamela’s dress, but her hands were shaking. She paced back and forth until she heard Pamela return from her ride. Her heart pounded until she heard her mistress sprint up the stairs and unlock the door.<br />
<br />
“Whatever has been going on here, Daisy?” she asked testily. “It’s not like you to misbehave.”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t,” Daisy said. <br />
<br />
“Harold says you enticed him up here,” Pamela said, frowning.<br />
<br />
“You know I didn’t,” Daisy said. “Would I do that to you? With your fiancé? You know me better than that.”<br />
<br />
“Then what did happen?” Pamela asked gently.<br />
<br />
“He came up here, threatened me, demanded a kiss, then he. . .” Daisy covered her face, “. . .tried to ravish me,” she said weakly.<br />
<br />
“You’re a child,” Pamela scoffed. “What do you know of ravishing?” She patted Daisy’s shoulder. “Now, admit it, Daisy. You tried to flirt, perfectly harmlessly, I’m sure, but things got out of hand. Apologize and promise not to do it again, and everything will be all right.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not all right,” Daisy said. “I told you what happened. Why won’t you believe me?”<br />
<br />
“He’s going to be my husband, Daisy. I have to take his part.”<br />
<br />
“You’re not going to marry him, after this?” Daisy asked, horrified.<br />
<br />
“I have to,” Pamela said weakly. “I gave my word.”<br />
<br />
“Girls break engagements all the time,” Daisy said.<br />
<br />
“It’s not like that,” Pamela said. “I can’t explain, please don’t ask me. I’m doing this as much for your good as anyone’s.”<br />
<br />
“You can’t,” Daisy pleaded. “Please, Pamela, say you won’t.”<br />
<br />
“<i>Miss </i>Pamela,” Pamela corrected sternly. “You forget yourself, Daisy. Now do be a good girl, and say you’re sorry.”<br />
<br />
“I won’t,” Daisy said stubbornly.<br />
<br />
Pamela sighed. “Daddy’s coming home tonight – I don’t know what he’ll have to say about all this. Very well, I’ll let him handle it. He’ll know how to deal with you, I daresay.”<br />
<br />
Pamela left Daisy alone, locking the door behind her. Daisy went into her closet and threw herself down on her cot, choking back the wails that wanted to escape her. Pamela might be spoiled, but she had never been so unjust before. She could only hope that when Mr. Carr found out what had happened, that he would send Harold packing.<br />
<br />
She waited until dusk, when she finally heard the carriage and then the front door slamming. A babble of voices, and then her owner unlocked the bedroom door and called to her. “Yes, sir,” she answered, drying her face with her hands.<br />
<br />
“Now, now, Bitty,” Lucian Carr said, patting her shoulder. “Come sit on the settee and tell me what happened.”<br />
<br />
Daisy related her tale, all the while Lucian frowned. “You do believe me, don’t you, Mr. Carr?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid I do,” Lucian answered. “You do see that there’s only one thing I can do?”<br />
<br />
“Send Mr. Pike packing?”<br />
<br />
Lucian laughed wearily. “Oh, if only I could. No, Bitty, I shall have to find another home for you.”<br />
<br />
“You mean sell me,” Daisy said, horrified.<br />
<br />
“Since you put it like that, yes,” Lucian said.<br />
<br />
“Why? I’ve done nothing wrong!”<br />
<br />
“It’s to protect you, and Pamela.” Lucian shook his head. “I’m certainly not going to supply her husband with a mistress the same time I supply him with a wife.”<br />
<br />
“Supply him. . .” Daisy was struck speechless.<br />
<br />
“Come now, it’s a pity this had to happen, but surely you can’t believe you’re the first slave to be ravished by her owner,” Lucian said bitterly. “I’ll preserve you from that, if I can.”<br />
<br />
Daisy was beyond horror now. The future opened before her, a black pit at her feet.<br />
<br />
Lucian stood. “It’s for the best, you’ll see.” He turned toward the door.<br />
<br />
Daisy cried out, “Father!”<br />
<br />
She hardly had time to think, <i>how did I know? when did I know?</i> before the back of Lucian’s hand smacked her across the cheek and she fell off the settee. “Don’t you dare call me that!” he shouted. “You may be of my getting, but you are none of mine! Don’t forget that! You are nothing to me, nothing!”<br />
<br />
She could only whimper in reply as he stormed out of the room, once again locking the door. Daisy fell to her knees and clasped her hands, praying to God for her deliverance. <i>Heavenly Father, I go to Church every Sunday, am always obedient, have never harmed another. If you love me at all, please deliver me from my bondage.</i><br />
<br />
She did not know how long she prayed, but she was interrupted by a rattle of gravel against the window pane. She rushed to it and flung up the sash. “Daisy?” she heard Benjamin call. “Are you all right?”<br />
<br />
“No,” she said, unable to hold back a sob. “Mr. Carr is going to sell me!”<br />
<br />
“Is he now?” Benjamin said grimly. “Wait there.”<br />
<br />
She did not have much choice, but hope began to spring in her heart. Benjamin returned shortly bearing a ladder. He set the ladder against the wall and climbed up, clambering over the sill. He took Daisy in his arms. “Sh. It’ll be all right, I promise.”<br />
<br />
She let herself sob now. “What are we going to do?”<br />
<br />
“Why, escape, of course,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.<br />
<br />
“How can we? They’ll have the slave catchers on us in a jiffy.”<br />
<br />
“Trust me,” Benjamin said. “Do you have any money?”<br />
<br />
“A little,” Daisy said. She went into her closet and took a small purse from under the mattress. “About fifty dollars.”<br />
<br />
“That’s fine,” Benjamin said. “Bring it, but nothing else. We must travel light.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure, Benjamin? It’s awfully dangerous.”<br />
<br />
“It is, and you must be brave,” Benjamin answered, “but it will be all right.”<br />
<br />
“I do trust you,” she said. “I’m ready.”<br />
<br />
“Better change into trousers, and boots,” Benjamin said. “It’s going to be a rough road.”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Daisy said. “Give me a minute.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin went out into the bedroom while Daisy changed. When she opened her trunk, she found the miniature of Pamela she had given her the year before. She almost crushed it in her fist, but decided to bring it along. Perhaps they could sell it if they needed to.<br />
<br />
Benjamin helped her down the ladder. He carefully closed the window before climbing down himself. He replaced the ladder behind the stables, then took Daisy by the hand and led her into the darkness.<br />
<br />
It began to rain, and Benjamin smiled broadly. “Good,” he said. “This will help keep the dogs off our trail.”<br />
<br />
“Dogs?” Daisy said. “They won't set the dogs on us?”<br />
<br />
“We're runaways, Daisy,” Benjamin said. “Mr. Carr might be a gentleman, but the slave catchers aren't. If you have no stomach for it we'd better turn back now, before you're missed.”<br />
<br />
Daisy paused, then shook her head. “I don't know where we're going, but I can't go back.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin nodded. “Come on then.”<br />
<br />
They ran through the pastures, and into the woods. They ran for what seemed like hours but was probably less than one. Benjamin guided her down into a steep gully, and they waded through the creek that lay at its bottom, nettles and briars tearing at their clothes until they reached the end. Benjamin tied a thread around one of the briars, then pushed aside the undergrowth to reveal an opening barely large enough to squirm through. He urged Daisy through into the darkness, then followed her, carefully covering the opening behind them.<br />
<br />
The darkness was thick and black as ink. There was a smell of oil and the flick of a match, and Daisy opened her eyes to find herself in a small cave. Benjamin held a lantern aloft and said, “Follow me.”<br />
<br />
There was room enough to stand, and Daisy followed him through a narrow opening into a much larger cavern. Mica and quartz embedded in the walls caught the flickering lamplight and dazzled her eyes. “What is this place?” she asked.<br />
<br />
Benjamin grinned. “This is your first stop on the Underground Railroad.”<br />
<br />
“Railroad? I don’t see a railroad.”<br />
<br />
“It’s only a metaphorical railroad.” Benjamin laughed aloud, “but it will take us to Canada, if we’re lucky.”<br />
<br />
“If you use words like ‘metaphorical’ around white folks, you’ll get in trouble for sure,” she chided.<br />
<br />
Benjamin led her into another, smaller chamber. Here were blankets, food, water – every necessity. “Come sit, Daisy,” Benjamin said. “we may have a while to wait. I don’t know how often Willie checks for the signal.” He stroked her cheek, frowning. “Who struck you?”<br />
<br />
“Mr. Carr.” The thought of it almost brought tears to her eyes.<br />
<br />
“Why?”<br />
<br />
She hung her head. “Because I called him ‘Father’.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin clenched his fists and turned his back on her. “Benjamin?” she said timidly.<br />
<br />
He turned back around, his cheeks livid. He did not speak while he took a moment to calm his rage. “How dare he? It’s shameful.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry. But he shouldn’t have struck me.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t apologize – you’re not the one who should be ashamed. After the way he treated your mother. . .”<br />
<br />
“What do you know about my mother?”<br />
<br />
Benjamin smoothed a blanket over a straw-stuffed tick that lay on the floor of the cave. Taking Daisy’s hand, he pulled her down next to him. “What do you remember?”<br />
<br />
“Nothing really. Only vague impressions.” She stretched out on the blanket and Benjamin lay down beside her, wrapping a protective arm around her.<br />
<br />
“He sold her,” Benjamin said grimly. “Bought her, used her, sold her.” He hugged her tightly. “Just like every other white man.”<br />
<br />
Daisy’s life was shattering about her, everything she had believed about herself and the world dissolving. Before today, she would never have believed it of Mr. Carr. Now she could believe anything. “And kept me?” She contemplated this for a long moment. “Do you know where she is? What happened to her?”<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. “Sold down South, I believe. No one ever hears from any one again. Not from there.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shivered. “How do you know of this place? How did you know I needed you?”<br />
<br />
“Aunt Elsie can’t keep anything to herself. She said you’d been locked in, although she didn’t know why. Do you want to tell me?”<br />
<br />
“He tried to ravish me.” Daisy stomach roiled in turmoil to think of it.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Carr?” Benjamin’s voice could barely contain his rage.<br />
<br />
“Oh, no! Mr. Pike. But Pamela wouldn’t believe me, and Mr. Carr said he would sell me. I begged him not to, and that’s when I called him Father, and that’s when he struck me.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin relaxed, but only a little bit. “Well, that’s bad enough. Lucky for you I’m an agent on the Railroad.”<br />
<br />
“What’s an agent?”<br />
<br />
“When I hear of a slave who might want to run away, I help him find this place. A thread on the briar is the signal, and then the conductor comes to help him to the next station.”<br />
<br />
“You’re a slave stealer!” Realization dawned.<br />
<br />
“So the whites call it,” Benjamin agreed. “Now I’ve stolen myself, and you.” He turned to look into her eyes. “This is your last chance to change your mind.”<br />
<br />
Daisy shuddered. “No, I can’t go back.” She stroked his cheek. “Would you do something for me?”<br />
<br />
“Anything,” he said. “Surely you know that by now.”<br />
<br />
She felt suddenly shy. “Would you kiss me?”<br />
<br />
He hesitated. “Daisy. . .”<br />
<br />
“I need to rid myself of the taste of him.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Daisy. Not for that. . .” He frowned. “I can’t take advantage of the situation.”<br />
<br />
She snuggled closer to him. “Are we going to be married? When we get to Canada?”<br />
<br />
“Ah, Daisy. You’ll see – you’ll be the prettiest girl in all of Canada. You’ll have your choice of beaux. Don’t fix on me because you’ve known me all your life.”<br />
<br />
“Loved you all my life, you mean. If you think there’s anyone else for me, you don’t know me very well, Benjamin.”<br />
<br />
Benjamin looked down tenderly at her. “You’re sure?”<br />
<br />
Daisy nodded, suddenly shy. She reached up and kissed him, softly, but warmly. He pulled her closer to him, caressing her gently. “You touch me the same way,” she said. “Why is it so different?”<br />
<br />
“Because I love you, Daisy. I’ve always loved you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
It was some hours before Willie finally arrived. Benjamin pulled Daisy to her feet. “Willie,” he said proudly, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Daisy.”Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-35137112869470503742009-12-04T07:29:00.000-08:002009-12-25T16:49:33.540-08:00Chapter 6<b>Chapter Six</b><br />
<br />
“I don’t understand,” Aurora said plaintively. “How do you know Jacob? I thought you were from France.”<br />
<br />
“I have a French passport,” Marguerite said, “but – “ she looked at Molly, “I was born in Kentucky.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“’Marguerite’ in French,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“Now you two know each other?” Rory asked.<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded. “I think. . .’Molly’ is a pet name for Mary, is it not?”<br />
<br />
Molly nodded. “But only Henry called me ‘Mary.’ I shed that name, too, when I took back my maiden name.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite shuddered. “And your married name was?”<br />
<br />
“Johnson,” Molly said.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“If God brought you here,” Rory said, “it was probably to free you, not trap you.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice looked at her daughter approvingly. “What are you going to do, Marguerite?”<br />
<br />
“Pack my bags,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
“Benjamin’s death was not your fault,” Molly said. “It was tragic, yes, but he knew what the danger was.”<br />
<br />
“He was trying to save me,” Marguerite said. “If if weren’t for me, he’d still be alive.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
<i>Run, run, run</i>. Marguerite shivered, but found she could not argue with Beatrice’s statement. “I suppose,” she said weakly.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Why would you do that?” Marguerite said. “He’s ‘almost one of the family.’ Why would you side against him?”<br />
<br />
“There are no sides here,” Rory said. “Only a world of hurt, that I can see.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“You shouldn’t have let that woman into this house!” Jacob was shouting.<br />
<br />
“Now, Jacob,” Alex said calmly, “how were we to know – you never said anything about her. Still haven’t, for that matter.”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right,” Marguerite said, leaning on Molly for support, “I will.”<br />
<br />
“Are you all right?” Alex took her other arm and led her to the sofa. “Do you need some brandy?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Butler?” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“My slave name,” Jacob explained. “This one was no ‘Marguerite’, either. Hello, Bitty,” he said tersely.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“How dare you!” Jacob exclaimed. “How dare you invoke my son’s pet name for you!”<br />
<br />
“May we begin at the beginning?” Clay said. “I take it you both belonged to Captain Carr?”<br />
<br />
“Captain?” Marguerite asked. “You knew him?”<br />
<br />
“We three,” he nodded at Jacob, “served together in the War. I told you I was with a black regiment.”<br />
<br />
“Mr. Carr fought for the <i>North</i>?”<br />
<br />
“He fought for the <i>Union</i>,” Jacob said tautly. “He may have been a slaveholder, but he loved his country. He didn’t want to see it torn apart.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite paused to digest this information – it was completely unexpected. “What happened to him? Captain Carr?”<br />
<br />
“Died in my arms,” Jacob said. “After saving my life.”<br />
<br />
“My father,” Marguerite whispered, “died a hero?”<br />
<br />
“He was your father?” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“Not that he would ever acknowledge that,” Marguerite said bitterly, “but, yes, he was.”<br />
<br />
“If you were Lucian Carr’s daughter, then that makes you – “<br />
<br />
“Nothing,” Jacob cut him off. “It makes her nothing.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite recoiled. It was not the first time those words had been said to her.<br />
<br />
Alex interceded. “So you grew up together? In the same house?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
Jacob snorted, but let her continue.<br />
<br />
“When I was fourteen, Mr. Carr decided to sell me - “<br />
<br />
“Sell you!” Alex took umbrage. “His own daughter?”<br />
<br />
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jacob muttered.<br />
<br />
“If you’re telling me Lucian Carr was in the habit of selling his own children, I will not believe you,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“No, but his father was,” Jacob said.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” Clay said, reddening. “Go on, Marguerite.”<br />
<br />
“Benjamin helped me escape, but he was killed.” She turned to Alex. “It was my fault, you see. I was selfish – ”<br />
<br />
“Selfish? To not want to be sold?” Alex said. “What an abomination.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, it was,” Molly said. She looked at Jacob. “It was not Marguerite’s fault, Jacob.”<br />
<br />
“What do you know about it?” Jacob snapped.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Rory said, dismayed.<br />
<br />
“Neither have I,” Marguerite said. “He was always the soul of kindness.” She stood. “I’d better go pack.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, gesturing to Clay to follow her. They followed Marguerite up the stairs to the guest room.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Let’s go throw some sandwiches together,” Rory suggested. “Although I doubt anyone feels like eating.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“It’s only half a mile,” Jacob pointed out. “And I don’t need anyone talking at me.”<br />
<br />
“I was more of a mind to listen,” Alex said. “I don’t think you ought to be alone right now.”<br />
<br />
Jacob regarded the younger man for a moment. “All right, but leave the buggy. It’s a fine day for a walk.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite went into the studio to begin gathering her things. “I’ll find someway to repay your advance,” she promised.<br />
<br />
Molly took her hand. “Come sit on the sofa, Marguerite. Let’s talk for a bit.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing left to talk about,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“It was. If he hadn’t tried to save me. . .”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Molly,” Clay cautioned.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“He’s not my family – we lived on the same farm, is all.”<br />
<br />
“Molly,” Clay said. “Jacob stopped me from telling her, didn’t you notice?”<br />
<br />
“I noticed, but it’s not a <i>secret</i>, Clay. I’m surprised she doesn’t know already.”<br />
<br />
“Know what?” Marguerite asked, although she was beginning to suspect.<br />
<br />
“Your father and Jacob were brothers,” Clay said, surrendering. “Half-brothers. Which makes him your uncle.”<br />
<br />
“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 – .”<br />
<br />
“He was entitled to it,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve always run,” Marguerite admitted.<br />
<br />
“So have I,” Molly said, “until I found a reason not to.”<br />
<br />
“But Jacob? He’s refused to enter your house – I can’t believe you’d want me to stay.” Marguerite turned to Clay.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“I’ll go ask her, but I’m sure she’ll agree,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
After he had gone, Marguerite turned to Molly. “May I be alone for awhile? I need to sort this all out.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Alex returned a couple of hours later to find his family in the parlor. “Where have you been?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Leave it to you, Brother,” Clay said appreciatively.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Good idea, dear,” Beatrice said. “We’ll send his meals over for awhile.”<br />
<br />
“Where’s Marguerite?” Alex asked. “She isn’t gone, is she?”<br />
<br />
“No, Molly talked her into staying,” Clay said. “We all agreed it was for the best. Where are you going?”<br />
<br />
Alex was already heading for the door. “To talk to her.”<br />
<br />
“She asked to be alone,” Molly said.<br />
<br />
“I won’t be long.” Alex bounded up the stairs.<br />
<br />
Marguerite was kneeling on the floor of the studio, stretching a canvas. “May I help?” Alex asked.<br />
<br />
Marguerite looked up at him. “Yes, I suppose you can. I’ll stretch it, then you tack it where I tell you. Thank you.”<br />
<br />
“My pleasure,” Alex said, taking up the hammer. They worked in silence for several minutes. “May I ask you something?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite frowned. “What?” she asked rudely.<br />
<br />
“About your name. You aren’t French, so what’s with the ‘Marguerite’ and especially the ‘Dumas’?”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“Sure,” Alex said. “Three Musketeers.”<br />
<br />
“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.’<br />
<br />
“Dumas was colored? I didn’t know that.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t think you’re a failure. That portrait of Molly was something special.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite sighed. “A fluke. My. . .<i>beau </i>in Paris said it was because all that touched the canvas was paint. No soul, you see.”<br />
<br />
“Because you’ve been wadded up into a tight little ball ever since you left Kentucky.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“You can’t run from yourself, no how,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“I gave it my best shot, anyway,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
They worked in silence until the canvas was done. Alex helped Marguerite to her feet and she put the canvas on the easel.<br />
<br />
“I wanted you to know,” Alex said, “that we’ve got something in common.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t imagine what,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t. . .” Marguerite began. She stopped. “No one treats you any differently, but that must have been quite an upheaval.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t understand,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t want to,” she said, “but I don’t seem to have any choice.”<br />
<br />
“Have a little faith,” Alex said. “It’s no good living without a soul.”<br />
<br />
“Faith,” Marguerite winced. “In what? In God? Where was He when I needed Him?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
Alex smiled and squeezed her hand. “Good enough, my dear. I’m starving. Have you eaten yet?”<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry. You go get something – I need to work. Not for Clay and Molly, for myself.”<br />
<br />
“All right, then,” Alex said, “but you can’t stay cooped up in here forever.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Come in?” Marguerite said hesitantly. She was seated on the sofa surrounded by sketches. “Oh, Mrs. Palmer, I’m sorry. Was I disturbing you?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“It’s how I remember him.” Marguerite shuffled the pile of sketches together. “Today seems to have opened the floodgates.”<br />
<br />
“May I?” Beatrice asked, holding out her hand.<br />
<br />
“I’d rather not,” Marguerite said, “not to seem ungrateful. . .”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I know,” Marguerite sighed. “I’m sorry – it was not my intention.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry.”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Allow me,” Marguerite said. “One thing I did learn in France was how to make a proper omelet. Do you have milk?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“I’m must admit I’m surprised you have no servants,” she said, dishing up the omelet.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Tell about this house,” Marguerite asked. “You must have been one of the original pioneers. When did you come? Eighteen forty nine?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Indians?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, dear, I had no idea,” Marguerite said. “One hears such tales. . .”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite cleared her throat. “Well, what about the rest of the house?”<br />
<br />
“This part,” Beatrice indicated the kitchen, “we built when Clay was little, in anticipation of a larger family. Which did not happen.”<br />
<br />
“I wondered,” Marguerite said. “There’s such a large age difference.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“And then Alex came,” Marguerite said. Beatrice raised her eyebrows, startled. “He told me himself,” Marguerite explained.<br />
<br />
“Did he now? You should feel honored – he doesn’t tell that tale to just anyone.”<br />
<br />
“Was it a shock?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“So. . .you just took him in?” Marguerite asked tremulously.<br />
<br />
“There was no ‘taking in’,” Beatrice asserted, “he was ours as much as Clay or Rory were.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite sat silent for a moment. “I think he told me because he didn’t want me to feel alone.”<br />
<br />
“And you aren’t alone.” Beatrice put a hand on Marguerite’s arm. “We’ll help you in any way we can.”<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“In here,” Beatrice touched her chest, “and in here.” She touched her temple. “Do you think you’re the only one with regrets?”<br />
<br />
“No, I know I’m not, but I don’t know how to go on from here.”<br />
<br />
“Sometimes you have to put your foot down in the dark, if you have no light,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
Marguerite thought a moment. “You’re talking about faith,” she said, “and I have none.”<br />
<br />
“Then let us lend you some of ours.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded, wordless.<br />
<br />
“Then the two in back must be Jacob and Benjamin. Am I right?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. I know it’s not what we agreed. . .”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Marguerite said. “Thank you for understanding.”<br />
<br />
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.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-84204929538815439222009-11-27T10:06:00.000-08:002009-11-27T10:06:05.863-08:00Chapter 5Modesto, 1880<br />
<br />
<br />
Molly smiled and squeezed Clay’s hand. “Of course, that’s not the whole story, but everything began there, that night in the buggy. Mrs. Laven recommended me for the job at the orphanage, so I was able to stay in Modesto.”<br />
<br />
“We’d have managed that, somehow,” Clay said. “I’d never have let you go.” He turned to Marguerite. “You understand, I’ve only told two people about Jim and Lucy – Molly and my brother. Not even my mother, and absolutely not my sister.”<br />
<br />
“I understand,” Marguerite said. “I’ll respect your confidence, certainly.” She gathered up her sketches – she had used almost an entire pad while their story was told. “We’ve done enough for today – I’ll need to assimilate all this. Let’s have another session tomorrow, with the clothes you wish to wear.”<br />
<br />
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Beatrice said, standing in the doorway. “I hate to interrupt, but the steaks are getting tough, and if you don’t come to dinner now, it’ll be ruined.”<br />
<br />
Clay pulled out his watch. “I’m sorry, Mother. We lost track of the time.”<br />
<br />
They followed her down to the dining room. “I know you’re here to work, Marguerite,” Clay said as they were seated, “but we don’t expect you to do so on the Sabbath.”<br />
<br />
“Will you be joining us for Church?” Beatrice asked.<br />
<br />
<i>Here it comes</i>. “I don’t attend Church,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, but all she said was, “Very well. Spend the day as you wish. We’re attending the theater tonight – I’d be pleased if you would join us for that.”<br />
<br />
“There’s a theater?” Marguerite asked in surprise.<br />
<br />
“And a concert hall,” Clay said proudly. “Modesto may be small, but we pride ourselves on our culture. What’s the play, Mother? ‘Much Ado About Nothing’?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, but no jokes from you,” Beatrice said, mock severely. “So would you like to join us, Marguerite?”<br />
<br />
“I’d be delighted. I adore Shakespeare.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice smiled. “I had a telegram from Jacob, Clay. He’ll be home on the noon train tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
“Did he get a good price for the wheat?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“He thinks so. I’ll leave you two to discuss that,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“Do you ride?” Alex asked Marguerite. “We could pick out a horse for you for tomorrow, if you’d like.”<br />
<br />
“It’s been awhile,” Marguerite said, “but yes, I know how. Thank you.”<br />
<br />
“My pleasure,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
<i>That was easier than I expected</i>. Marguerite recalled how Molly had confessed to a lack of, but a desire for, faith in God. <i>And I’m the opposite</i>. Still, as she regarded Molly over the dinner table, she felt a sort of kinship.<br />
<br />
She accompanied Alex to the stables to pick out a horse after dinner. “I hear there are atheists in France,” Alex said in an exaggeratedly casual tone.<br />
<br />
“Are you asking if I’m an atheist?”<br />
<br />
Alex shrugged. “Guess so. Never met one before.”<br />
<br />
“And if I were? Would you try to convert me?”<br />
<br />
Alex held the stable door for her as she stepped into the warm, dark interior, pausing a moment to savor the aroma of horse. “Don’t reckon I’d know how,” Alex said. “I mean, God seems obvious to me – if He’s not to you, it’d be like trying to explain blue to a blind man.”<br />
<br />
Alex led her to a stall. “This is Missy.” The sorrel mare lifted her head and whinnied. She butted her head against Alex’s chest. “There’s my pretty girl,” he said, offering her some sugar he had swiped from the sugar bowl.<br />
<br />
Marguerite looked up at the tall mare. “I don’t know, she might be a bit more than I can handle.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, she’s docile as a kitten,” Alex said. “She likes the ladies, too.” He handed Marguerite some sugar. “Come on, get acquainted.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite stepped up to the stall half-door and fed Missy some sugar while she stroked her nose, sighing pleasurably. “I’m not an atheist,” she blurted, unsure why she felt the need to justify herself. “I just don’t attend Church.”<br />
<br />
Alex smiled, relieved. “Well, then, I don’t guess it’s a requirement. Do you mind me asking why not?”<br />
<br />
“It’s a long story,” Marguerite said. “Too long.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t mean to pry,” Alex said. “How about a few turns around the paddock so you two can get to know each other?”<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring riding clothes,” Marguerite said regretfully.<br />
<br />
“Rory can fix you up, I’m sure,” Alex said. “You run and ask her while I get Missy saddled up for you, all right?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite smiled. “All right.”<br />
<br />
She returned a few minutes later in a too-big riding skirt pinned and belted to fit her. Alex had saddled another horse as well, and the two of them trotted around the paddock until Marguerite felt comfortable with her mare. <br />
<br />
She went back into the house to find Clay and Molly in the parlor. “I do need to work on the sketches I made today,” she said. “So we’ll have another session on Monday, then?”<br />
<br />
“After school,” Molly said. “I do have to work.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Marguerite said. “I’m working to your schedule, after all.”<br />
<br />
She went upstairs to the studio and laid out the sketches on the table. She had drawn pages and pages of eyes, she found. Clay’s particularly compelled her, the joy in them as he looked at Molly, the sorrow as he told of Lucy’s betrayal, the horror of his attempt at murder. How was it possible for one person to contain so much that was dark and so much that was light all at the same time? To contain both sorrow and joy? Remorse and hope? <i>Their sorrows haven’t crushed them</i>. She frowned. <i>Why not</i>?<br />
<br />
She suspected that a more pertinent question was, <i>Why have mine?</i> but she repudiated that thought. She hardened her heart – it was the only way she knew, the only way that had ever worked. Was this more of God’s doing? She suspected it was, but was determined that He would not win against her. He had refused her prayers when she needed Him, there was no way He would ever win <i>her </i>back into the fold. Try though He may, her soul – poor thing that she knew it was – was her’s and no one else’s.<br />
<br />
She opened another sketchpad – she would have to send for more at this rate – and began putting her ideas together.<br />
<br />
She worked all afternoon, and after an early supper, accompanied the Palmers to the theater. Clay escorted his mother and Molly, Alex his sister and Marguerite. As Marguerite took his arm, she hesitated – her race had not seemed an issue until this moment, but if she walked into a public place on the arm of a white man. . .<br />
<br />
She squared her shoulders. Let them look – she cared for their approbation no more than she cared for God’s.<br />
<br />
Still, she took a moment to observe whether anyone noticed. There was a stir when they entered the theater, but as the Palmers did not react to it, Marguerite surmised that this was not unusual where they were concerned. She was not by any means the only colored person at the theater, and as they settled into their seats, she relaxed and enjoy the play.<br />
<br />
She had seen better, she thought, but the actors who played Beatrice and Benedict were good, playing off each other with wit and verve, so she was glad she had come. The Palmers stopped to chat with some of their friends afterward, introducing Marguerite to them. No one seemed to find anything remarkable about her presence there, so she breathed a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
The next morning, after an early breakfast, the Palmers left for Church, leaving Marguerite alone in the empty house. She felt. . .bereft. She did not understand why – she had spent most of the last five years alone, it should not bother her now. She shook herself, changed into her borrowed riding gear and went to saddle Missy.<br />
<br />
Not knowing the area, she chose to stick to the road, spurring Missy into a trot in the direction away from town. She soon came to a neat white clapboard house, with a picket fence and gate. The sign on the gate read ‘J. Carr’, at which Marguerite started, then shrugged. There were many Carrs in the world, and she had never met one named Jacob. She assured herself there could be no relation, but still she felt seared to the bone.<br />
<br />
She kicked Missy into a gallop, hoping to cool the fire in her heart. Strange how a single word, coming from nowhere, could so unnerve her. She bent low over the mare’s neck, not daring to close her eyes at this pace, and strove to clear her mind.<br />
<br />
She finally pulled up her winded horse and dismounted, allowing Missy to graze. She looked around her – newly plowed fields surrounded her, and she could see a house around a bend in the road. Hoping to water the horse there, she led the mare around the bend. Another clapboard house, this one painted a merry yellow. No one was home, as she would expect on a Sunday morning, and the name on the gate was ‘Gardner.’ So this must be the home of Clay’s betrayer. Strange, to have them so nearby. She felt calmer as she contemplated the sign – she found solace in the fact that pain was common. Even the wealthy had their share.<br />
<br />
She opened the gate, found the trough and allowed the horse to drink. She walked the mare down the road until she was well cooled down, then remounted and headed back to the ranch house at a canter, arriving well ahead of her hosts. She tended to the horse, then went inside to change and freshen up.<br />
<br />
She heard the Palmers and Molly return from church – the chatter of familiar voices and the rumble of an unknown deep bass voice. She hurriedly finished dressing and headed down the stairs.<br />
<br />
Beatrice looked up as she came into the parlor. “There you are,” she smiled. “Marguerite, I’d like you to meet Jacob Carr.” She gestured toward the gray-haired man sitting beside her.<br />
<br />
<i>No one told me he was colored</i>. The Palmers’ nonchalance about her race suddenly made sense. Jacob stood and she smiled up into the strong dark face and offered her hand.<br />
<br />
Jacob took it, and stopped, stunned. “You!” he shouted.<br />
<br />
Recognition seized her at the same moment. “Mr. Butler?” she said weakly.<br />
<br />
Marguerite had never fainted in her life, but she did so with gratitude now.<br />
<br />
<br />
She came to on the sofa in the parlor, surrounded by the women. She could hear muffled shouting coming from the library and she groaned aloud.<br />
<br />
“Are you all right, dear?” Beatrice asked, putting away the vial of smelling salts. “Did you hurt your head?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite shook her head. “No, I’m not hurt.” She wished she could disappear. <i>Oh, that this too, too solid flesh should melt</i>. She covered her face with her hands. She could almost laugh – God had outmaneuvered her after all – the one person in this world who still had the power to break her heart.<br />
<br />
She laughed sardonically, remembering her Bible lessons. “Jacob. Of course – the father of Benjamin.”<br />
<br />
“Who is Benjamin?” Molly asked with a frown.<br />
<br />
“His son,” Marguerite said, still unable to show her face. “Oh, Lord, save me. I killed his son.”Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-80689166606319063662009-11-22T09:13:00.001-08:002009-11-22T09:16:40.717-08:00Chapter 4Modesto, 1879<br />
<br />
Darkness was gathering as Clay Palmer looked up from his law books in frustration. He rubbed his brow, sighing. He was getting nowhere. As he paused to light the office lamp, there was a knock at his office door. His secretary had gone home for the day, so he answered the door himself. <br />
<br />
The woman who stood there looked familiar, but he could not place her. “Yes?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Palmer?” the woman said. “I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I would like to consult you, if I may.”<br />
<br />
“All right, Miss. . ?” he asked, his tone cool, but stepping back and opening the door for her to enter.<br />
<br />
She handed him a pasteboard card. He took it and read the fine, Copperplate script. “’Mary K. Holt.’ Ah, yes, Molly Holt. I’ve seen you at Church – my mother speaks very highly of you.”<br />
<br />
She walked, rigid as a board, back erect, to the chair he offered her. She was darkly dressed, Clay noted, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and smoke-tinted spectacles on her eyes. <br />
<br />
“Recently?” she asked, stiffly.<br />
<br />
“I’ll be frank with you, Miss Holt,” Clay said, perching on the edge of his desk, “I have heard some nasty rumors about you, but I am far too busy a man to listen to malicious gossip. My mother’s not the sort to do so, either. On what matter do you wish to consult me?”<br />
<br />
Miss Holt looked down at her hands and folded them neatly on her lap. “Well. You know, then, that I was a governess for the Nagle family.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, my mother’s known Cora Nagle for years. She was very impressed with the way you turned those boys around – they were once the terror of the county.”<br />
<br />
A ghost of a smile crept across Miss Holt’s face, then vanished. “They aren’t bad boys, really, but they’ve had the misfortune to be raised by parents who don’t know the difference between discipline and punishment.”<br />
<br />
“Too many of those, unfortunately,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“All I did was to show Jim and Aaron how to use their energies more constructively.”<br />
<br />
“That can’t have been as easy as you make it sound.”<br />
<br />
She shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. I’ve certainly had worse jobs.” She looked up at Clay. “I really miss them. I’m sorry I had to leave them as I did. But it wasn’t as you’ve heard.”.<br />
<br />
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”<br />
<br />
Miss Holt looked down at her hands again. Fidgeted. Clasped her hands together. “One evening a month ago, Mr. Nagle came home drunk, which wasn’t unusual, but this time. . .” she paused unhappily.<br />
<br />
“Did he assault you, Miss Holt?” Clay asked gently.<br />
<br />
She smiled now, grimly. “He tried, Mr. Palmer. But I know how to take care of myself. I made sure he wouldn’t try anything like that again, and it should have ended there, but the next thing I know Mrs. Nagle is giving me the sack.”<br />
<br />
Clay shook his head. “I can’t believe you would have stayed there after that.”<br />
<br />
She shrugged. “I would have stayed for the boys. My problem is now that I find that it’s my name that’s being dragged through the mud. I can’t find another position because my reputation has been tainted. So I ask you, Mr. Palmer, do I have any legal recourse?”<br />
<br />
“Do you wish to press charges against Mr. Nagle?”<br />
<br />
“It’s too late now, isn’t it? I might have been able to prove something if I’d done so when it happened, but he’s had time to heal, now.” She shifted in her chair. “I understand the burden of proof is much less in civil court.”<br />
<br />
Clay raised an eyebrow. An informed client, evidently. “Well, yes, but the burden of proof is still on the plaintiff, the accuser. There are two possible briefs we could file. ‘Wrongful dismissal’ is one – but I have to tell you that the law comes down pretty heavily on the side of the employer. We’d have to prove gross misconduct, and as you’ve pointed out, that would be difficult to do. Or we could sue for slander, but that’s even more difficult – we’d have to prove both that it was one or other of the Nagles who are spreading these rumors, and that the rumors are untrue.”<br />
<br />
“And you believe that to be impossible.”<br />
<br />
Clay sighed. “Not impossible, but very difficult. Another lawyer might take it on, but if you’re seeking my advice. . .”<br />
<br />
“I am.”<br />
<br />
“. . . Then my advice would be to let it drop. Not only do you have a very poor chance of winning, but filing a suit would keep the scandal alive.”<br />
<br />
Miss Holt sat thoughtful for a long moment. “Very well, since I have asked your advice, I should not be such a fool as not to take it.” She stood. “How much do I owe you?”<br />
<br />
“Nothing, Miss Holt. I cannot help you.”<br />
<br />
“You do charge a consulting fee, do you not?”<br />
<br />
Clay walked behind the desk. “Generally, yes, but I often waive it.”<br />
<br />
“I pay my debts, Mr. Palmer,” Miss Holt said severely.<br />
<br />
“I’m sure you do, but you haven’t incurred one here.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve sought your professional advice, and I have taken it. In what way have I not incurred a debt?”<br />
<br />
“I can’t help you. I won’t charge you,” he repeated.<br />
<br />
Miss Holt removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, which were green and surprisingly soft. “Mr. Palmer. Please. I have very little in the way of dignity left. Please don’t take away what little I do have.”<br />
<br />
Clay leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. “Miss Holt. Molly. How much money do you have? I know it can’t be much.”<br />
<br />
Molly replaced her spectacles. “That’s none of your concern.”<br />
<br />
“Do you have any family, anyone who can help you?”<br />
<br />
“That’s also not your concern.”<br />
<br />
“I take that to mean ‘no,’” Clay said. “What kind of man do you think I am, to think that I’d take money from you now?”<br />
<br />
Molly glanced down. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be a debtor, and I’ve never been a debtor.”<br />
<br />
Clay sighed. “Very well, I’ll suggest a compromise. I’ll send you a bill, but you have to promise not to even think about paying it until you’ve found decent work. Fair?”<br />
<br />
“Fair,” Molly said, giving him her hand. “You may send it to Mrs. Ephraim’s Boarding House.” She turned to go, then turned back. “I’ve always heard you were an honorable man, Mr. Palmer.”<br />
<br />
“Clay,” he said. “For what it’s worth, Molly, I believe you to be an honorable woman.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Molly said quietly. “That is worth something to me.”<br />
<br />
Clay walked her to the door and saw her out. He went back to his desk, sat, feet on top of the law books, unheeding. He lit a cigar, smoking pensively, then stamped it out. He put on his jacket – he was already late for dinner. He blew out the lamp, closed the shades, and went home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He lit an after-dinner cigar and stared into the fire in the Palmer parlor. His brother sat reading a book while his sister knitted some unidentifiable charity garment. His mother put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Is something wrong, Clay? You’ve hardly spoken a word all evening.”<br />
<br />
Clay kissed her cheek. “No, nothing wrong, Mother. At least, not with me.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve been working hard on the railroad negotiations – I’m sure you’ll find an equitable agreement.”<br />
<br />
“No, it’s not that, either, although I am going to have to work a lot harder on it tomorrow. I. . .well, once again I seem to have hit the limits of legal justice.”<br />
<br />
“Do you want to tell me about it?”<br />
<br />
“Just. . .someone whose only possession was her good name and who’s had it stolen from her. There’s no restitution for that,” he said, bitterly.<br />
<br />
“Someone like Molly Holt,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
Clay raised an eyebrow. “Now why do you mention her?”<br />
<br />
“Because she’s been on my conscience. I’d like to do something for her, but for the life of me I can’t think what.”<br />
<br />
Alex raised his head. “Molly Holt? Isn’t she that governess the Nagles got after their boys got kicked out of the school?”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded.<br />
<br />
“Woman should get a medal for taking on that lot,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“How can you say that, Alex?” Rory asked. “After what she did?”<br />
<br />
“What did she do?” Alex asked.<br />
<br />
“Really, Alex,” Rory said. “Everyone knows what she did.”<br />
<br />
“‘Everyone,’ Sis?” Alex asked. “How could ‘everyone’ know? Was ‘everyone’ there?”<br />
<br />
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Rory said.<br />
<br />
“Out on the range, yes,” Alex said, “but you’ll find, Rory, that what ‘everyone’ knows is almost never so. It’s vile.” Alex pounded the arm of his chair. “You soil a poor man’s name, that’s bad enough, but soil a poor woman’s, and you might as well rob her and leave her in a ditch.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, really, Alex,” Rory said. “No one ever died from a bad reputation.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve seen it, Rory,” Alex said. “I’ve seen women pushed to starvation, or worse. All for the sake of a little ‘harmless’ gossip.”<br />
<br />
“What’s worse than starving?” Rory asked.<br />
<br />
“Think about it. If a woman who needs to work can’t get decent work, she’ll either starve or take indecent work.”<br />
<br />
“That’s. . .horrible,” Rory said. “You mean Molly could end up like that?”<br />
<br />
“The world can be a very cruel place, Sis, especially for a woman alone,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“Can’t we help her, Mother?” Rory asked.<br />
<br />
Alex snorted. “You sure change your tune in a hurry.”<br />
<br />
“Well, even if she did do. . .what everyone says she did, she doesn’t deserve that. No one does.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t offer her money, whatever you do,” Alex said to Beatrice.<br />
<br />
“Amen to that,” Clay muttered.<br />
<br />
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Beatrice said. “I should pay her a call, though. That’s the least I can do.”<br />
<br />
“Actually, Mother,” Clay said, thoughtfully, “that in itself might go a long way toward solving her problem, if you make sure you’re seen doing it.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think so?” Beatrice thought for a moment, then smiled. “You may be right at that.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“Maybe. Let me talk to Molly first.”<br />
<br />
“See, Clay,” Alex said, “you helped your client after all.”<br />
<br />
“Now, Brother, I never said Molly Holt was my client. I can’t say that I’ve ever met Molly Holt.”<br />
<br />
“You can’t say it, Brother, but we can think it.”<br />
<br />
“Think whatever you like,” Clay said. “Now, I’ve had a tiring day, so I think I shall retire with a good book, and not a law book, either. Good night, Mother,” he said, kissing her.<br />
<br />
“One more thing,” Beatrice said. “If I’m to pay a call on her, do any of you know where she went after she left the Nagles?”<br />
<br />
“Well,” Clay said, “I do believe that I have heard she was staying at Mrs. Ephraim’s Boarding House.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Clay. Good night, dear.”<br />
<br />
Clay fairly bounded up the stairs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Molly struggled with the pump in front of the boarding house. The pump was rusty, and sweat stained her back. Her wiry black hair had escaped its ribbon, and long tendrils straggled along her cheeks and forehead. She looked up at the sound of a buggy approaching, and with some surprise recognized Beatrice Palmer. She shoved her hair back from her face and wiped her hands on her apron.<br />
<br />
“Good morning, Mrs. Palmer,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”<br />
<br />
“Good morning, Molly,” Beatrice said. “I’m sorry it’s so early, but I wanted to be sure to catch you at home.”<br />
<br />
“You did?” Molly frowned slightly. “Whatever for?”<br />
<br />
“Is there someplace private we could talk?” Beatrice asked, descending lightly from the buggy.<br />
<br />
“There’s my room,” Molly said, “but there’s nothing to sit on except the bed and a couple of trunks.”<br />
<br />
“I can sit on a trunk. When my husband and I first came to California, we lived in a tent with nothing but a couple of apple crates and a straw tick full of bedbugs.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I can’t offer you any bedbugs, but if you want to come up, you may. Let me take this water to the kitchen first.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll help,” Beatrice said, putting a hand to the bucket.<br />
<br />
“I can manage it,” Molly said, pulling the bucket away.<br />
<br />
“I’m sure you can, but why should you when I’m here to help?”<br />
<br />
Molly gave Beatrice a hard stare from behind her spectacles. “Come on, then,” she said.<br />
<br />
There was barely space in Molly’s room for the narrow bed, bureau and two trunks pushed up against the wall. Beatrice ran her hand over the spines of Molly’s books, which were carefully arranged on the bureau, before perching herself on a trunk, seeming entirely at her ease. <br />
<br />
Molly sat down on the bed, smoothed back her hair and said, “I suppose Mr. Clay Palmer sent you to talk to me?”<br />
<br />
Beatrice shook her head. “Clay told us that he’d had a client he wished he could have helped, but he didn’t mention names or particulars. It was my own bad conscience that brought you to mind.”<br />
<br />
“Bad conscience? Why? You don’t owe me anything. Cora Nagle is your friend – it’s only natural for you to take her side.”<br />
<br />
“Is it? If you think that we should be against you, then why did you consult my son?”<br />
<br />
“I know his secretary – we’re in the same sewing circle. Generally, when people discuss their employment, it’s to complain, but Annie never did. She only spoke of his kindness, and his integrity. I thought I could trust him.”<br />
<br />
“You can. I do, better than anyone in the world.”<br />
<br />
Molly clasped her knee. “Why did you come?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve known Cora Nagle for years. I know her follies as well as her strengths, but this is far beyond folly. I ask you, if a friend of yours had done someone a grievous injury, and was either unable or unwilling to put it right, what would you do?”<br />
<br />
Molly thought. “I would try to put it right myself.”<br />
<br />
“So we do understand each other,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“But, Mrs. Palmer, most people don’t think that way.”<br />
<br />
“If you do, and I do, what does that matter? And please call me Beatrice.”<br />
<br />
Molly hesitated. “I don’t think I’m ready to do that yet.”<br />
<br />
“Very well. When you’re ready. Now, as to your situation, I think I may know how to help you, if you’ll let me.”<br />
<br />
“I’m proud, Mrs. Palmer, but I’m no fool. If you can help me, I won’t argue.”<br />
<br />
“Then it’s my pleasure to invite you to accompany myself and my family to Church tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
Molly gasped, shocked, then threw back her head and laughed. “Mrs. Palmer! What a bold person you are!”<br />
<br />
“I’ve invited Rev. and Mrs. Laven to the ranch for Sunday dinner, and I’d like you to come as well.”<br />
<br />
Molly strode two steps across the room and clasped Beatrice’s hands in hers. “Thank you. All I need is a chance to redeem myself, and you’re giving it to me. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay such kindness.” She hesitated. “Beatrice.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice smiled. “By passing it on, of course. I’m merely repaying the many kindnesses I’ve received myself.”<br />
<br />
“I will. Thank you, you won’t be sorry.”<br />
<br />
“No, I won’t. One of my sons will call for you tomorrow. I believe Clay is the only one you know?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, barely.”<br />
<br />
“Well enough,” Beatrice nodded. “He’ll call for you around ten thirty.”<br />
<br />
“Everything all ’right and proper,’ Beatrice?”<br />
<br />
“Of course. We want to show that we respect you.” Beatrice stood. “I shall see you tomorrow at worship.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll walk you down.” As Molly watched Beatrice drive away, she considered what had just happened. The Palmers, the first family of Stanislaus County, were taking her disgraced self to Church. It was almost too funny to bear.<br />
<br />
She ran back up to her room, threw herself on the bed and laughed until she cried.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Aurora pulled on her gloves as she descended the staircase. “Really, Mother, I don’t know why you had to invite her to Church with us.”<br />
<br />
“Now, Rory,” Beatrice said, “we all agreed to help her.”<br />
<br />
“But this, Mother! I don’t know how I’ll ever raise my head again.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice turned at the bottom of the staircase and glared up at her daughter. “Then stay home, Aurora!”<br />
<br />
“Mother, you don’t mean that.”<br />
<br />
Clay emerged from the library at the sound of raised voices. “I do,” Beatrice said. “I won’t have you taking such unchristian thoughts into the Lord’s house. Perhaps you’d do better to stay at home and contemplate what company Our Lord kept.”<br />
<br />
Rory hid her face in her hands. Clay moved to comfort her, but Beatrice held his arm. Rory dropped her hands and wiped her eyes. “All right, Mother. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”<br />
<br />
“Will you be kind to Molly?”<br />
<br />
“I will try. I’ll not be unkind to her, at least. I promise.”<br />
<br />
“Very well,” Beatrice said, kissing Rory’s cheek. “Please go tell Alex that we’re ready.” Rory fled back up the stairs.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you think you were a little rough on her, Mother?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“My only daughter,” Beatrice sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve overindulged her. She’s become altogether too spoiled and selfish.”<br />
<br />
“But she always ends up doing the right thing.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice smiled and kissed Clay’s cheek. “I’m glad you have faith in her. Now go call for Molly – we’ll meet you at the Church.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Molly watched from the window of her room. As soon as she saw the Palmers’ buggy turn the corner, she grabbed her shawl and dashed down the stairs. She was standing, breathless, on the porch as Clay reined in. “Good morning, Molly,” he said, climbing down and assisting her into the buggy. “Are you ready for this?” He climbed in beside her.<br />
<br />
Molly nodded. “I have to be, don’t I?”<br />
<br />
“It may be difficult,” Clay said, “but keep your head high. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”<br />
<br />
Molly smiled and squared her shoulders. “Is this better?”<br />
<br />
Clay gave her chin a tiny nudge upward. “Now it is.”<br />
<br />
Molly chuckled. Clay flicked the reins.<br />
<br />
He pulled the buggy up in front of the church and helped Molly to alight. Offering her his arm and an encouraging smile, he led her into the church. His brother and sister were waiting in the foyer. “Miss Molly Holt, I’d like to introduce you to my sister Rory. . .”<br />
<br />
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Rory said, subdued.<br />
<br />
“. . .And my brother Alex.”<br />
<br />
“The pleasure is all mine,” Alex said, taking Molly’s hand.<br />
<br />
“Where’s Mother?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“Here she comes, now,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
Beatrice bustled into the foyer. “Molly, how good to see you,” she said, kissing Molly’s cheek. “Marjory is ill today, so I have to play the organ, but I’ll rejoin you before the sermon.” She took in all her children in one glance. “You know what to do,” she said and hurried up to the choir loft.<br />
<br />
“What are we doing?” Molly asked.<br />
<br />
“We’re supposed to stand here looking conspicuous and make sure that anyone who wants to talk to us has to talk to you, too,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“I feel like a prize cow at the fair,” Molly said.<br />
<br />
“Now that’s not so bad,” Alex said consolingly. “If you saw the way we pampered our prize cattle, you’d be glad to be one.”<br />
<br />
“Alex,” Rory said, “don’t be talking about cattle in Church.”<br />
<br />
“Why not? If God made cattle, I don’t see why He’d mind us talking about them.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not very uplifting is all.”<br />
<br />
Molly smiled wistfully. How nice it would be to have brothers again. Suddenly, she felt small arms thrown around her from behind.<br />
<br />
“Miss Molly! Look Aaron! It’s Miss Molly!” Jim Nagle buried his face in Molly’s waist. Molly looked up to see his parents swooping down on her – she gave Jim a quick hug.<br />
<br />
“It’s good to see you, Jim, Aaron.” She reached out and touched Aaron on the shoulder.<br />
<br />
“Git away from her, boys,” Fred Nagle hissed, barely controlled. <br />
<br />
Cora tugged at his arm, futilely. “Fred, please.”<br />
<br />
Fred glared around at all the Palmers. “I don’t know what the likes of you are doing with the likes of her!”<br />
<br />
“My mother invited Miss Holt to worship with us,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“And if the likes of you doesn’t like it, you can come talk to the likes of me!” Alex hissed.<br />
<br />
“Come along, boys, Fred,” Cora pleaded. “Let’s find our pew. The service is about to start.” As the Nagles traipsed up the aisle, each one looked back at Molly: Fred glaring, Jim longingly, Aaron wistfully, Cora with such a look of mortification that Molly found herself longing to run and comfort her.<br />
<br />
“That’s one unhappy woman,” she whispered. She did not realize that she was weeping until Clay handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes. “That was hard.”<br />
<br />
“Let’s find our pew,” Clay said gently. He escorted Molly into the sanctuary, the others following.<br />
Molly enjoyed the hymns, as she always did, but she barely heard the sermon. She assumed it was about Love and Forgiveness – Rev. Laven’s sermons generally were. She was grateful for Beatrice’s presence – she found the older woman’s strength and self-assurance comforting. One final hymn and she was filing out of the church, shaking hands with the minister, climbing into the surrey with Alex and Beatrice while Clay and Rory went ahead in the buggy to see to dinner. “Are you all right, Molly?” Beatrice asked.<br />
<br />
“We had a run-in with Fred Nagle,” Alex said. “It shook her up a mite.”<br />
<br />
Molly took a deep breath – she could finally feel her heart beating again. “No, it wasn’t that. It was Cora and the boys. It’s hard to see people you care about so miserable.”<br />
<br />
“I see why you might care about the boys, but Cora?” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“Apparently so,” Molly said. “I didn’t think I did, but seeing her face today. . .I find I can’t be angry with her anymore.”<br />
<br />
“Good, Molly, good,” Beatrice said, patting Molly’s hand.<br />
<br />
“Maybe so,” Alex said, “but if Fred Nagle ever bothers you again, you come tell me, Molly, you hear?”<br />
<br />
“He doesn’t bother me,” Molly said, leaning back and staring at the passing scenery. Brothers. It would be so nice to have brothers again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
At dinner, Molly found herself seated between Clay, at the foot of the table, and Rev. Laven to her left. Mrs. Laven was to Clay’s right, across from Molly and next to Alex. At least Beatrice was at the head of the table, as Molly expected. Molly was relieved that the food was served family-style, so she wouldn’t have to spend the entire meal wondering which fork to use.<br />
<br />
“So, Molly,” Alex asked, passing the food around, “how did you manage to tame those Nagle boys? Because if those two weren’t headed for jail, I’m not Alexander Palmer. I know their father beats them – I can’t imagine what punishment you could use that would get through to them.”<br />
<br />
“I never hit them,” Molly assured him. “They’ve already been hit far too much. There’s a big difference between discipline and punishment.”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean, Miss Holt?” Rev. Laven asked.<br />
<br />
“Punishment only instills fear of getting caught. Discipline instills conscience, a desire for good. Punishment is certainly a lot easier to administer – discipline takes time and a lot of patience.”<br />
“Weren’t you tempted?” Alex asked.<br />
<br />
“Not really. I admit I’ve had to use force a few times, especially at the beginning, to keep them from hurting themselves or each other, but never violence. How can you trust someone who hurts you?”<br />
<br />
“But what did you do? That’s what I want to know.”<br />
<br />
“I helped them find ways to put their energies to constructive use. Aaron, for instance, likes to take things apart. . . ”<br />
<br />
“Destructive little menace,” Rory muttered.<br />
<br />
“. . .But I showed him that putting things together is far more interesting. Whatever money he came by ended up buying tools and parts. He’s built some amazing contraptions – all perfectly useless, of course – but he can take them apart and put them back together in quite creative ways.”<br />
<br />
Rev. Laven nodded. “Admirable. But what about Jim? His mother is always despairing that she cannot get him to stop lying, to save her soul. How do you make a seeming natural-born liar stop lying?”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t. I made him write them down and embellish them.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t get it,” said Alex. “You get him to stop lying by encouraging him to tell better lies?”<br />
<br />
“Jim has a very active imagination. If he can learn to use that constructively, and learn the distinction between fiction and lies, then that is a good thing. Didn’t Our Lord use stories to show the truth? Jim’s real problem right now is that lying is very useful to him as a way of avoiding his father’s violent punishments. I wasn’t able to do anything about that, unfortunately. Once Jim learned to trust me, he never lied to me. But that’s the best I was able to accomplish in the time I had.”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Rev. Laven said. “I’ve tried to curb that violent temper of Mr. Nagle’s, and his drinking. Many a time, to no good purpose.”<br />
<br />
“You seem very wise about children, Miss Holt,” Mrs. Laven said. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience with them?”<br />
<br />
“Not as much as I would like. I raised my four brothers after my father died, and was studying at a ladies seminary to be a teacher when the War intervened. I was never able to achieve my certificate.”<br />
<br />
“Why not?”<br />
<br />
“Because the Union Army burned the seminary down.”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” Mrs. Laven said. She paused. “But after the War? Couldn’t your brothers have helped you to find a way to finish?”<br />
<br />
“They might have. If any of them had come home.”<br />
<br />
Rory gasped. Molly stared down at her plate. I will. Not. Cry.<br />
<br />
“Perhaps we should stop plaguing Molly with questions and let her eat her dinner,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“No,” Molly looked up. “I’d like to finish answering the question, if I may.”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“After the War, I drifted. I worked my way downriver and westward in whatever employment I could find. I tried to always be honest, though I admit I was not always respectable.”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Laven asked.<br />
<br />
“For instance, I worked for a while as a costumer for a traveling Shakespeare troupe. I know that working in the theater is not considered ‘respectable,’ but I’m not ashamed of it.”<br />
<br />
“So you could be a dressmaker,” Rory said.<br />
<br />
Molly touched her spectacles. “Not anymore. My eyes are too weak for anything but plain sewing. One of the jobs I had, four or five years ago, was as cook at a lumber camp. Many of the lumbermen had also had their educations cut short, so I taught several of them to read and do arithmetic.”<br />
<br />
Clay looked startled. “Dick Shalot?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Dick was one of my pupils,” Molly said, crinkling her brow. “A quite good one, too. He went through all the Readers in about six months, and was almost ready for Algebra when winter closed in. How did you know?”<br />
<br />
“Because it was our lumber camp,” Clay laughed. “You might be pleased to know that we’re sending Dick back East in a couple of weeks to study engineering. He’s one of our best men, smart as a whip.”<br />
<br />
“He told me once he’d learned to read from a cook,” Alex said. “I’d never thought I’d meet her.”<br />
<br />
“It looks as though the Palmers owe you a debt, Molly,” Beatrice said.<br />
<br />
“Not really,” Molly said. “Dick was very eager to learn. I don’t think anyone could have stopped him.”<br />
<br />
“Never underestimate a good deed, Miss Holt,” Rev. Laven said. “It’s possible that someone else might have come along to change that young man’s life, but you were the one who actually did.”<br />
<br />
“Now, I really think it’s time we let Molly eat, don’t you?” Beatrice said. “That was an interesting sermon today, Reverend. . .”<br />
<br />
Under the chatter of conversation which ensued, Clay leaned over and whispered, “Brava!”<br />
<br />
“I hadn’t intended to tell the entire life history,” Molly said.<br />
<br />
Clay merely smiled and ate his dinner.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, Beatrice,” Rev. Laven said, after dinner, “but I need to stop by the orphanage and we have several ill parishioners to call on.”<br />
<br />
“Quite all right, Reverend,” Beatrice said. “I’m so glad you could come.”<br />
<br />
“Miss Holt,” Rev Laven said, “it’s been a pleasure to deepen our acquaintance.”<br />
<br />
“Molly,” Mrs. Laven said, pressing her cheek against Molly’s, “so good to get to know you.”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps I should go, too,” Molly said as the Lavens made their departure.<br />
<br />
“Nonsense,” Clay said. “You’ve been working like a stevedore. It’s time for you to relax and be a guest.”<br />
<br />
“Come sit down, Molly,” Beatrice said, taking her arm. “Why, you’re trembling. Sit down, dear. Alex, fetch her a brandy.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I’ve been under such a strain the past month.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t apologize,” Beatrice said. “Here, drink this. Slowly now. Perhaps you’d better lie down. Rory, could you please show Molly to the guest room?”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m all right,” Molly said, clutching her glass. “If I could sit quietly for awhile?”<br />
<br />
“Come into the library,” Beatrice said, “it’s quiet in there.” Clay took Molly’s elbow and they followed his mother. “Here’s a sofa, there’s a lamp - I noticed you like George MacDonald,” Beatrice continued, “and we have several of his books, too, but feel free to help yourself.” She plumped up a pillow on the sofa. “Relax and no one will bother you for an hour.”<br />
<br />
Molly smiled, and mother and son left her. “Where’s Aurora?” Beatrice asked Alex who was still sitting in the parlor.<br />
<br />
“She went upstairs a little while ago,” Alex said. “Didn’t say why.”<br />
<br />
“That’s not like her,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps I’d better check on her.”<br />
<br />
“Let me, Mother,” Clay said. “She may still be feeling awkward from your tiff this morning.”<br />
<br />
“Tiff?” Alex asked.<br />
<br />
“It was nothing,” Beatrice assured him. “All right, Clay – see if she needs anything.”<br />
<br />
Clay climbed the stairs and stood outside Aurora’s room, listening a moment, hearing nothing. He rapped a knuckle on the door. “Rory?”<br />
<br />
“Go away, Clay,” Rory said through the door. Clay heard her sniffle, then she said, “No. Wait. You may come in.”<br />
<br />
Clay opened the door to find Rory sprawled across the bed, eyes red and streaming. “Rory, what’s wrong?” Clay asked, although he had an idea.<br />
<br />
Rory sprang up and threw herself into her brother’s arms. “Oh, Clay. She’s so goodhearted and kind and she’s had such a hard life and I’ve made it worse!”<br />
<br />
“Now, Sunny, how could you have made her life worse?”<br />
<br />
“I gossiped about her, Clay. All the trouble she’s in, I helped to make. I’m so ashamed. I’ve been so mean.”<br />
<br />
Clay sat on the bed and put his arm around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept. “Yes, you’ve done wrong, dear, but you’re deeply sorry for it, aren’t you?” Rory nodded against his shoulder. “Then you’re a better person today than you were yesterday. That’s all any of us can do, is try to be better today than we were yesterday.”<br />
<br />
“Bless you, Clay,” Rory said. “You always know the right thing to say.”<br />
<br />
“If it’s any comfort to you, Sunny, I misjudged her myself when I first met her. I thought she was stern and prim and stiff. But what she really was, was frightened.”<br />
<br />
“She won’t need to be frightened anymore, will she, Clay? Not with you and Mother looking after her.”<br />
<br />
“Not with all of us looking after her. When did you know the Palmers to all agree on something and not be able to do it?”<br />
<br />
“Never,” Rory said.<br />
<br />
“Don’t worry, Sunny. I have very good feelings about Molly Holt.”<br />
<br />
“So do I.” Aurora smiled, wiping her eyes. “You haven’t called me ‘Sunny’ since I was a little girl.”<br />
<br />
“I know,” Clay said. “Guess I felt like playing at Big Brother.” He kissed her nose. “Better?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, but I think I’d like to stay here and think and pray for awhile.”<br />
<br />
“All right, Sunny, but I’m here if you want me. Shall I send Mother up to you?”<br />
<br />
Rory nodded. “Yes, please, if you think she won’t be angry with me anymore.”<br />
<br />
“No, dear, she won’t.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Molly read for awhile, and when Beatrice returned for her, found she felt much better. She enjoyed spending the rest of the day with the Palmers – Alex showed her is favorite horse, Rory showed off her prize rose garden, Beatrice and Clay had both read many of the same books that she had and enjoyed talking about them, and all the Palmers endeavored to make her feel at home.<br />
<br />
Clay drove Molly back to Modesto after supper. The night was moonless, and Molly leaned back in the buggy, looking up at the stars. “I wonder why the sky seems so much bigger here than it does back East? Look, there’s Mars. And I think that’s Jupiter. And over there are the Pleiades.”<br />
<br />
“That’s the Seven Sisters, right?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes, except you can only see six stars with the naked eye. With a telescope you can see hundreds.”<br />
“May I ask you a personal question, Molly?” Clay hesitated. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”<br />
<br />
Molly stiffened, then forced herself to relax. “Of course. You’ve earned the right.”<br />
<br />
“Why did you stay in Modesto?”<br />
<br />
“I’m not sure. Part stubbornness, I think, not to be run off when I’d done nothing wrong. But this is the third time I’ve been to this part of California, in a life where I’ve never been to the same place twice. I guess I wanted to find out why.”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps you’re finally ready to settle down.”<br />
<br />
“I hope so. I’m nearly forty – it would be nice to have a home of some sort. I’ve been a feather on the wind for so long.”<br />
<br />
“Or perhaps a feather on the breath of God.”<br />
<br />
Molly cocked her head. “Would you be shocked if I told you I didn’t believe in God?”<br />
<br />
“Surprised, certainly, given your taste in books.”<br />
<br />
“I read MacDonald because he believes in God.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t understand,” Clay said.<br />
<br />
“I’d like to believe. I could wish there was a loving Father who looked after us and guided our feet, but I don’t. If I have no fire of my own, I can at least warm myself at others’ fires.”<br />
<br />
Clay turned and scrutinized her, but there was sympathy in his eyes. Molly seemed to struggle with herself. Finally she said, “Clay? There’s something I left out of that life story I told at dinner. May I tell you?”<br />
<br />
“If you wish to, of course.”<br />
<br />
Molly held her breath, closed her eyes. “I lost my husband in the War, too.”<br />
<br />
“I’m so sorry, Molly.” Clay calculated. “You must have been very young.”<br />
<br />
“I was twenty when the War began. Henry was twenty years older than me – he’d been a friend of my father’s, so I had known and loved him all my life. He insisted that I finish my education, even after we were married. He believed that the world would be a better place if everyone, man or woman, was educated to as high a level as they could achieve.”<br />
<br />
“He sounds like quite a man.”<br />
<br />
“He was a visionary. He saw the world as it could be, and he spent his life working for that. He’d been a long-time abolitionist. . .” she paused, “no, more than that. He was part of the Underground Railroad. He was always putting himself in danger for others, the War was no different. He was old enough to be exempt, but he felt he couldn’t stay out while others died for what he believed in.”<br />
<br />
“I was in the War, too,” Clay said. “I was a lieutenant in a colored regiment. At least your husband died fighting for what he believed in.”<br />
<br />
“He died, that’s all I know,” Molly said bitterly.<br />
<br />
Clay pulled back on the reins. He turned to Molly. “Would you rather he’d had a senseless death?” he asked angrily.<br />
<br />
Molly was taken aback. “I’d rather he’d not died at all.” She touched Clay’s arm. “I’ve offended you – I’m sorry, but I don’t know why.”<br />
<br />
Clay flicked the reins again. “It’s nothing. Not your fault.”<br />
<br />
Molly released his arm, shook her head, then took his arm again. “It’s not nothing. Will you let me make it right, whatever I did wrong?”<br />
<br />
Clay reined in the horse once more. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It’s. . .my wife, Lucy, died in a buggy accident. We’d had a fight, she ran out – she always drove too fast, this time – well, it was my fault, you see.”<br />
<br />
“All married couples fight, Clay – it’s not your fault.”<br />
<br />
“It was.” Clay shifted anxiously. “Lucy and I grew up together – she was the belle of the county. She could have married anyone, but she waited for me to finish law school. And I neglected her. She wanted us to live in Sacramento or San Francisco, but there are plenty of lawyers there. These are my people, Molly – I grew up here, I know them, they know me. And I worked hard. Too hard to suit Lucy. She was right, I guess. She spent more time with our friends Jim and Sarah Gardner than she did with me.”<br />
<br />
“You were trying to establish yourself,” Molly said, “she understood that, I’m sure.”<br />
<br />
Clay shook his head. “No, she didn’t. And I didn’t understand her, or weigh her needs enough in the balance, and so she died. But that’s not the worst of it.” He turned to face her. “At the funeral, Jim Gardner condoled with me how terrible it was to lose Lucy and her baby both.”<br />
<br />
Molly put her hands to her face. “She was with child?”<br />
<br />
Clay nodded. “Yes, only I didn’t know it. And Jim did.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, dear.” Molly turned pale.<br />
<br />
“I walked away from him that day, too shocked to utter a word, but it ate at me, Molly. Day after day, like a cancer. Until the day I loaded up my gun and rode to his farm, intending to make an end of it – it was going to be either him or me.”<br />
<br />
Molly shook her head. “You never talked to him about it?”<br />
<br />
“What was there to talk about? Lucy would never have told him before me if it had been mine – it didn’t bear thinking of.”<br />
<br />
“What happened? You didn’t kill him,” Molly said hopefully.<br />
<br />
“No,” Clay slumped, “I didn’t. I didn’t even go through the gate. His daughter Abigail was sitting in the yard making mud pies, and I looked at her, and I couldn’t go through with it. Whatever might have happened between him and my wife, I couldn’t make his daughter an orphan. I turned around and went home and haven’t spoken to him since. But I had murder in my heart, Molly. I can never forget that – that I’m capable of murder. It’s a black place in my soul that I’ll never be rid of.”<br />
<br />
Molly frowned. “I don’t think that’s so, Clay. You were in pain, and very angry. It was your pain and anger that wanted to kill, not your heart. If not Abigail, you’d have found some other reason. You’re not a killer.”<br />
<br />
“I’m glad you think so.” Clay began to flick the reins, but Molly tightened her grip on his arm and he let them drop.<br />
<br />
“Henry came home for a week, before he was killed,” she said. “We had an awful fight. My brothers were all gone, I begged him to stay with me, but he refused to desert. And then three weeks later he was dead, with no way for me to take back the hateful things I’d said.” Clay nodded in sympathy. “When I got the word, I didn’t even pack – left with the clothes on my back and what little money I had in my purse. I went to Louisville and got a job on a riverboat, and somewhere around Natchez I had a miscarriage.” She covered her face with her hands. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant. Three years married before the War, and it had never happened - I thought I couldn’t, but – if I’d stayed home, I might have. . .” She looked up at him, her face tear-stained. “I might still have something of Henry. So you see, I do know how it feels to be responsible for someone’s death.” She hid her face again, weeping.<br />
<br />
Clay put his arms around her. “Molly, Molly dear, don’t cry,” he said. “I’m here, it’s all right,” and then he was kissing her, and it was, somehow, all right.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-75113862738913221362009-11-17T21:20:00.000-08:002009-11-18T19:20:04.651-08:00Chapter 3 Reworked<b>Reworked portion in BOLD</b><br />
<br />
<b>Modesto, 1880</b><br />
<br />
True to Marguerite’s belief, she did not go back. She bought her paints, canvas, brushes and other necessaries and set to work. It had been years since she had painted a proper portrait, and she was uneasy about this commission, but she set to with a will. She used part of her advance to hire one of her fellow roomers as a model, a not-yet-faded dance hall girl, and gave her as much attention as she would have a fine lady in a mansion. The girl was flattered by the result, and although it did not approach the heights Marguerite had reached with Molly’s miniature, it was with an increased confidence that Marguerite set out for Modesto on the thirteenth of April.<br />
<br />
There was no railroad line to San Diego yet, so it was a long stagecoach ride to Los Angeles, then a much swifter and more comfortable rail journey to Modesto. As she got off the train, she was greeted by a tall, strongly-built man. “Miss Dumas?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” she said, offering her hand. “You’re Mr. Palmer?”<br />
<br />
“Alex Palmer,” the man agreed. “My brother Clay asked me to pick you up – he’s tied up in court. I hope you don’t mind.”<br />
<br />
“Not at all,” Marguerite said. “It’s most kind of you.” She had been somewhat confused – Molly had said her <i>fiancé </i>was a lawyer, but this man was pure cowboy, from his hat to the worn boots on his large feet. He even smelled like a cowboy, as Marguerite noted when he offered her his arm to assist her along the platform. Not that she objected; not in the least. She had known the Palmers were ranchers, but she had assumed they were gentleman ranchers. She was pleased to learn the contrary.<br />
<br />
There was a surrey and a buckboard loaded with supplies waiting in front of the station, attended by another cowboy. “Give Pedro here your baggage tickets, and he’ll take your luggage out to the ranch for you,” Alex instructed her. “We’ll be picking up Molly on the way – your things might even arrive ahead of us.”<br />
<br />
She handed over her tickets, and Alex handed her up into the surrey as Pedro tipped his hat and went off to collect her baggage. As they drove down the street, Alex pointed out the courthouse, an unimposing wood frame building. Indeed, Modesto itself was singularly unimposing. Like many Western towns, the streets were of dirt, with wooden sidewalks. The most imposing structures in town were the two large water towers in the center of it. Although the area was blessed with a river and many streams, little rain actually fell and the inhabitants were forced to make the most of what rainfall there was. <br />
<br />
Alex spoke little on the drive out of town, for which Marguerite, not an admirer of empty pleasantries, was grateful. She spent the time studying her companion – his hair was sandy and damp from sweat under the worn hat. His skin was nearly as leathery as his vest, but the blue eyes that peered out from under the heavy eyebrows were keen, and the lines around them were humorous ones. Aurora had said he was ten years older than herself, so he must be a year or two younger than Marguerite.<br />
<br />
“Gonna draw a picture?” Alex asked eventually.<br />
<br />
“I might,” Marguerite said coolly, although caught off-guard. She was glad that her complexion would hide the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks. “Would you mind?”<br />
<br />
Alex shrugged. “Don’t see why you’d want to, but it wouldn’t hurt me in any way.”<br />
<br />
“How much further to your ranch?” she asked in order to change the subject.<br />
<br />
“About another half hour to the ranch, about that far again to the house.”<br />
<br />
“How big is your ranch?” Marguerite asked, doing a quick calculation.<br />
<br />
“Twenty two thousand acres, and a bit,” Alex replied.<br />
<br />
Marguerite whistled. “That’s enormous.”<br />
<br />
“It’s big for out here, but there are larger spreads up and down the valley,” Alex said. “Mostly wheat farms or nut orchards around these parts, but we’re the largest ranch in the county. Several counties.”<br />
<br />
He lapsed into silence again – not an uncomfortable silence, Marguerite thought, merely that he was a man who, when he had nothing to say, did not fill up the air with empty words.<br />
<br />
“This here’s our ranch,” he said as they passed an invisible boundary and turned down a rough track. “The orphanage is just off here a piece.”<br />
<br />
They pulled up in front of a white clapboard house. Several children, apparently just released from school, clattered down the stairs and began playing in the yard. Marguerite spotted Emily’s red head among them as the girl began tossing a ball to some younger children. Molly tripped lightly down the steps, and Alex sprang from the surrey to assist her aboard.<br />
<br />
“Admirable timing, Alex,” Molly congratulated him.<br />
<br />
Alex grinned. “The train was on time.” He looked at Marguerite. “Would you like to move to the back with Molly? I’m sure you ladies have more to talk about than I do.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Marguerite agreed. She hopped down and accepted Alex’s aid in stepping up into the rear seat of the surrey.<br />
<br />
Molly greeted her warmly, taking her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Dumas. I’m so excited about this portrait.”<br />
<br />
“Please, call me Marguerite.” She once again felt drawn. What <i>was </i>it about this woman? Marguerite wondered. Had she met her somewhere on her many travels? She did not think so, and surely Molly would have remembered her if that were so – it was unlikely that the woman numbered many colored women painters among her acquaintances.<br />
<br />
“All right, then you must call me Molly.”<br />
<br />
As they emerged from the track onto the main road, a horse and rider passed them at a gallop. The rider was already reining in his horse when Molly stood, hitting her head against the canopy of the surrey, waving her hand and calling, “Clay!”<br />
<br />
Clay Palmer turned his horse and met the surrey, bending down and taking Molly’s hand. He planted a hearty kiss on her lips. “No need to shout at me, dearest,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “I could see you well enough.”<br />
<br />
Although dark-haired instead of blonde, Clay had the same vivid blue eyes as his brother and sister. Regular, somewhat chiseled, features – Marguerite recognized a classical profile when she saw it. She understood Molly’s qualms now. Wealthy, handsome, Clay Palmer surely <i>could </i>have any woman he wanted. That he evidently wanted the rather plain, middle-aged woman he was currently lavishing his affections on made Marguerite look upon him with a growing respect.<br />
<br />
“Dearest,” Molly gently pushed Clay away, “this is Miss Dumas.”<br />
<br />
“I had gathered that,” Clay said, reaching across Molly to offer Marguerite his hand. He dismounted, looped his horse’s reins to the back of the surrey, and leapt into the seat beside his brother. “Forgive me for missing your train, Miss Dumas. I know Silent Alex here is hardly fit company for a lady.” He punched his brother in the arm and Alex grinned back at him.<br />
<br />
“He was admirable company,” Marguerite said. “I find him quite pleasant.”<br />
<br />
“What?” Clay raised his eyebrows comically. “Alex has never been known for his gift of conversation.”<br />
<br />
“He converses very well,” Molly joined in, “after you get to know him. He just doesn’t speak unless he has something meaningful to say.”<br />
<br />
“You’re in high spirits, Brother,” Alex said. “You must have won your case.”<br />
<br />
Clay grinned. “That I did – justice was served at long odds.”<br />
<br />
Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, Clay! That’s wonderful! We’ll have to celebrate.”<br />
<br />
“We would be anyway, because Miss Dumas is here,” Clay pointed out.<br />
<br />
“A double celebration, then,” Alex said.<br />
<br />
“As you wish. I won’t argue.” Clay reached back and took Molly’s hand. “Plenty of reasons to celebrate,” he said warmly.<br />
<br />
Marguerite felt a pang of – what? Envy? It should be nothing to her whether others were happy when she was not. Still, she did wonder what had brought these two together – the plain, poor schoolteacher; the handsome, accomplished landowner. Well, part of painting a portrait was getting to know one’s subjects. She would ask, and at the first opportunity.<br />
<br />
They arrived at the ranch house, and an odd construction it was. Another large water tank loomed over it from behind. The front, obviously newer, portion of the house was two-story brick, but the back was wood-frame, and even whole logs. Evidently, the house had been added to at need over a period of decades – Marguerite appreciated a house with a history, and was curious to learn this one’s.<br />
<br />
They were greeted in the front hall by Rory and her mother. “Miss Dumas,” Clay introduced her, “you already know my sister Aurora, this is my mother, Beatrice.”<br />
<br />
“So pleased to meet you, Miss Dumas,” Beatrice Palmer said, taking her hand. She was gray-haired, but the children had obviously inherited their eyes from their father, for their mother’s eyes were a warm hazel. “Your things have arrived ahead of you,” Beatrice continued. “Rory, perhaps you’d care to show Miss Dumas to her rooms?”<br />
<br />
“May we, Mother?” Molly asked, a gleam in her eye. “Clay and I?”<br />
<br />
“If you like,” Beatrice acceded with a smile. “It was your idea, after all.”<br />
<br />
Molly took Marguerite by the hand and led her up the broad staircase, Clay following behind. Molly threw open the door to a large room and stood back proudly to let Marguerite enter. An easel stood in the corner; a long, narrow table along one wall for Marguerite’s supplies, and a sofa and two wing chairs pushed against the wall. But the highlight of the room was the large window facing north that admitted just the right sort of soft light an artist needed.<br />
<br />
“Oh, my, this is wonderful,” Marguerite said. “A perfect studio.”<br />
<br />
“Your bedroom is next door,” Molly said, “but I was sure you’d want to see the studio first.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you – it’s very thoughtful,” Marguerite smiled. “I’ll set up right away.”<br />
<br />
Clay laughed. “Tomorrow, <i>mademoiselle</i>. Tonight you rest and refresh yourself.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Marguerite said, “but I am eager to get started. What is this room? It’s not usually a studio, I presume.”<br />
<br />
“It was the nursery,” Clay said, putting his arm around Molly. “Someday it will be again.” Molly looked up at him and smiled, somewhat wistfully. “Soon, we hope,” Clay continued, smiling down at her, wistfully as well.<br />
<br />
There was an uncomfortable pause, which Molly broke. “Let me show you which room is yours, then you can freshen up and relax a little before dinner.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite’s bedroom was comfortably furnished, although somewhat small. Hot water and towels awaited her on a stand by the dresser, and her trunks had already been brought up, but not unpacked. The Palmers apparently lacked servants – in a more fashionable household, her things would have already been put in the wardrobe and dresser.<br />
<br />
Molly and Clay left her to her ablutions, and she was changing her dress when there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Rory,” came the reply. “I thought you might need some help getting ready.”<br />
<br />
“Come in.” Marguerite hastily gathered the back of her unbuttoned dress together. “Thank you,” she said. “I can button myself, but some help would be appreciated.”<br />
<br />
“No problem at all,” Rory said, stepping behind Marguerite and tugging at the buttons. She spoke not a word at her task, and although their acquaintance was sparse, Marguerite knew that taciturnity was not a trait Rory shared with her brother.<br />
<br />
“Something’s bothering you,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
Rory sighed. “Why didn’t you come call on us? You said you would.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” Marguerite said. “This is the first portrait commission I’ve had in a long time. I needed to practice – the time passed more quickly than I was aware of.” <i>See? I can lie without telling a single falsehood</i>.<br />
<br />
“Well,” Rory said, fastening the last button, “I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to do a good job. I can see this is very important to you.”<br />
<br />
“It could open a lot of doors for me,” Marguerite agreed.<br />
<br />
“I wish you success, then.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” Marguerite turned around. “Have you talked to your family about what we discussed?”<br />
<br />
Rory brightened, her eyes flashing. “Yes!” she said. “I’m going to have tutoring over the summer, then enroll in college in the fall – so I’ll be going back to San Diego. I’ll miss my family, but I’m very excited about it.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure they’ll miss you, too, but you’ll make friends quickly. You’ll have a string full of beaus before you know it.”<br />
<br />
Rory wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want a string full of beaus. I’m an heiress – do you have any idea how hard it is to tell if someone likes me for myself, or for my money?”<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, indeed I do</i>. “I see your problem – I’m sorry I spoke out of turn. You’re embarking on your own adventure, and I’m truly happy for you.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” Rory turned to go. “Mother said to tell you that dinner is in half an hour. We don’t ring a bell or anything, so come down when you’re ready. We usually gather in the parlor before going in to dinner.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll be down soon,” Marguerite said as Rory left.<br />
<br />
She finished freshening up, then went downstairs to the front hall. Which of these doors led to the parlor? She opened one to discover the library, and was about to close it when she was arrested by a large portrait over the mantelpiece. A man and woman – the woman dark-haired and hazel-eyed, the man blue-eyed and blonde. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, she surmised. She walked in to study it more closely. Yes, the children did get their eyes from their father. She tilted her head as she gazed at it. It was a fair enough likeness of Mrs. Palmer, but unless the lady had changed a lot in the years since the picture was painted, it was all wrong. Both subjects looked prim and stolid – not the sort of people who had raised the easy-mannered and confident men and young woman Marguerite had met.<br />
<br />
“It’s not very good, is it?” Marguerite started as Beatrice Palmer entered the room behind her. “I’m sorry to startle you,” Beatrice apologized. “You left the door open – the parlor is across the hall.”<br />
<br />
“I wasn’t sure, then I saw this,” Marguerite explained. “It’s a good enough likeness, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem to capture you.”<br />
<br />
“I hope not,” Beatrice said. “I look like a marm-ish spinster.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite laughed. “I’m afraid that’s true.”<br />
<br />
“And my husband had a big laugh and a bigger temper. He threw everything he had into everything he did.” Beatrice turned to Marguerite. “We were all very impressed with your painting of Molly – most people only see her plainness. It takes a keen eye to see her beauty.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite was flustered for a moment. “I’m glad you think so.”<br />
<br />
There was a noise of chatter from across the hall. “Time for dinner.” Beatrice took Marguerite’s arm. “Let us go in together, shall we?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite was led into the dining room and seated at Beatrice’s right hand, Alex across from her. Clay sat at the foot of the table, between Aurora and Molly. “We’ll have to put in the leaf when Jacob gets back,” Alex observed.<br />
<br />
“Who is Jacob?” Marguerite asked.<br />
<br />
“Father’s business partner,” Rory supplied. “He manages our business affairs as well as his own now, since Father died. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”<br />
<br />
“He has a house about half a mile further down the road,” Beatrice said, “but he takes his meals here. He and my husband generally worked late, so it became a habit.”<br />
<br />
“More than that,” Aurora said. “He’s practically one of the family.”<br />
<br />
“So he is,” Beatrice agreed. “Clay, would you say grace, please?”<br />
<br />
The food was plentiful, well-prepared if somewhat plain. Clay was still ebullient from his victory, so Marguerite had no trouble deflecting personal questions, for which she was grateful. After dinner, they all adjourned to the parlor. Alex was pleased to find that Marguerite could take Jacob’s place at the chess table, and although he did defeat her, it was not by much.<br />
<br />
That night, Marguerite lay in bed, thinking. These people were all so nice, it was worrisome. Although she found she longed to know them better, particularly Molly, she did not want them to get to know her. Too much past, too many easy lies - she did not know how long she could maintain her <i>façade</i>.<br />
<br />
After breakfast, Molly and Clay joined her in the studio. She sat them together on the sofa and pulled out one of the wing chairs to face them while she sketched in pastels.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you want us to dress?” Clay asked.<br />
<br />
“Not today,” Marguerite said. “Today I want to concentrate on your faces. I need to capture your expressions, and your eyes, and what you feel for each other. Why don’t you tell me how you met, how you came to love each other?”<br />
<br />
<b>Clay shifted uneasily. “I’d rather not.”<br />
<br />
“Why not?” Marguerite asked, nonplussed.<br />
<br />
“Because it’s not all sweetness and light,” Clay replied. “There are dark corners it’s best not to pry into.”<br />
<br />
Of course, this only made Marguerite more curious. “I don’t think that portrait of your parents is very good, do you?”<br />
<br />
“What does that have to do with it?” Clay asked tersely.<br />
<br />
“Painting a portrait is more than just capturing a likeness - a camera can do that better than an artist can. It’s about capturing the soul. This is your wedding portrait - I need to put your love on the canvas.”<br />
<br />
Molly clasped Clay’s hand. “Clay,” she said gently.<br />
<br />
Clay looked at her as though she had spoken volumes. “If she captures you the same way she did the miniature, then I’ll be satisfied.”<br />
<br />
“And when I look at it in years to come, I want to see you, Clay,” Molly said. “The man I love. Not some whitewash.”<br />
<br />
Clay pursed his lips. “You know there are places in my soul I don’t like to revisit, Feather.”<br />
<br />
“Mine, too,” Molly said. “Perhaps telling a disinterested party will help us with it.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite listened eagerly to this exchange. Perhaps the Palmers were not pure and simple as they seemed. This was certainly getting interesting.<br />
<br />
Clay sighed. “You’re sure, dearest?”<br />
<br />
Molly nodded. “If we want it to be honest, we should. If not, then let’s go down to the photographic studio in town and have done with it.”<br />
<br />
“I guess you’re right,” Clay said reluctantly. He turned to Marguerite. “None of this is to leave this room, you understand?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Marguerite said. “My lips are sealed, of course.”<br />
<br />
Clay stood paced, hands behind his back, and with Molly supplying occasional details and corrections, began to tell their story.</b>Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941953181746189345.post-81979035276520156702009-11-12T07:07:00.000-08:002009-11-17T20:47:55.564-08:00Chapter 2<b>San Diego, 1880</b><br />
<br />
Marguerite went about her old habits - selling her miniatures on the docks and in the market. She never again painted as she had for Molly, and she did not try, doing her best to push that experience to the back of her mind. Her little nest egg grew slowly, but surely.<br />
<br />
Roughly six weeks later, she was approached by a young woman accompanied by two children. The woman’s elegant attire spoke of money, her long-legged gait spoke of someone accustomed to riding horses: money and horses - Marguerite pegged her as belonging to one of the wealthy ranches that dotted California. The children were a puzzle - they were ten or twelve years old and the woman seemed no older than twenty-four or -five. The boy was dark-haired and -eyed, the girl redheaded and fair, both contrasting with the young woman’s golden curls and large blue eyes. <br />
<br />
The woman turned to the two children, handing them her shopping basket and a list. “You two go do the shopping while I speak with this lady,” she said, indicating Marguerite. “I’ve written down what things should cost, so don’t let anyone cheat you.”<br />
<br />
“No, Miss Rory,” the boy said, grinning, “we won’t.”<br />
<br />
The woman smiled at them, then turned to Marguerite, offering her hand. “Miss Dumas?”<br />
<br />
“Yes?” Marguerite said, taking it.<br />
<br />
“I’m Aurora Palmer. You painted a miniature for my brother’s fiancée, Molly Holt, a few weeks ago. Do you remember?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite felt no surprise - she had been half expecting that shoe to drop, and here it was. “Yes, I remember. Is everything satisfactory?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes,” Aurora smiled. “My brother has sent me with another commission, if you’re interested.”<br />
<br />
“I’m always interested,” Marguerite replied. “What does he have in mind?”<br />
<br />
“Do you paint portraits? I mean, full-size portraits?”<br />
<br />
“Not for several years,” Marguerite said. “But yes, I have, of course.” Her heart began to pound, and she unconsciously put her hand to her chest.<br />
<br />
“Clay simply adored the miniature of Molly, and he would like you to paint their wedding portrait, if you’re available.”<br />
<br />
“He’s seen it already?” Marguerite asked, wondering why she picked at the inconsequential.<br />
<br />
“Molly was so pleased with it, she couldn’t wait to give it to him,” Aurora explained. “Would you come to dinner, and we can discuss the terms? We’re staying at my family’s beach cottage. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I promise not to poison you.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite smiled. “Of course you won’t. I’d be happy to come.”<br />
<br />
“Good.” Aurora gave her directions and the time, then rejoined the children who had finished their shopping.<br />
<br />
Marguerite contemplated. It seemed that the God she no longer loved was conspiring to send her to a place she had no desire to go. She pressed her lips together in a grim smile. God wanted to trifle with her, after all this time, did He? She dared Him to try.<br />
<br />
She would take that commission, if it was at all profitable, and she was sure it would be. Let God do His worst - she was ready for Him.<br />
<br />
<br />
She put on her best dress and pinned her best hat atop her carefully coiffed hair. The Palmer cottage was a mere mile or so from her rooming house, so she walked the distance, her chin lifted defiantly.<br />
<br />
Aurora Palmer stood on the porch, barefoot, attired in rolled-up denim trousers and a pink shirt knotted at the waist. “Hello,” she greeted Marguerite with a smile. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called loudly, “John! Emily! Time to come in!” She took in Marguerite’s attire. “I suppose we’d better dress for dinner.”<br />
<br />
“No, don’t bother,” Marguerite said as the children ran along the beach toward the cottage. “You’re on holiday. Don’t dress up for me, Miss Palmer.”<br />
<br />
“Not holiday, exactly,” Aurora said, “and call me ‘Rory’ - everyone does. I should have thought of it before - it’s been so long since we had company, except for the family. But if you don’t mind - we won’t be here much longer and I want the children to enjoy what time we have left.”<br />
<br />
“Of course, don’t give it another thought,” Marguerite said as the children arrived.<br />
<br />
“Say ‘hello’ to Miss Dumas,” Rory commanded, "then wash up at the pump and come in to dinner.”<br />
<br />
“Hello,” the children said cheerily as they headed around the cottage to the pump at the back.<br />
<br />
“Come on in,” Rory said, opening the door for Marguerite. She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, then led Marguerite into a small parlor. “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea, perhaps? We have ice if you’d like it cold.”<br />
<br />
Ice tea sounded refreshing after her warm walk. “Yes, please, that would be lovely.” Marguerite took the opportunity to gaze around the parlor as Rory went to fetch the tea - three doors opened off the room, two at the back, evidently the bedrooms, and the door that Rory had vanished through, obviously the kitchen. The room was well and comfortably furnished - clean, if not altogether tidy. Books, papers and drawings lay scattered about in a welcoming tumble. Certainly a room for living in.<br />
<br />
Rory returned with two glasses of tea on an enameled tray. Marguerite heard the two children laughing and splashing at the pump. “Nice children,” she remarked, taking her glass and sipping it. “Yours?”<br />
<br />
Rory laughed. “Heavens, no! I’m not nearly old enough. They belong to the orphanage where Molly works.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I didn’t know.”<br />
<br />
“She didn't tell you?”<br />
<br />
“We didn't discuss it,” Marguerite said. “We didn't really have that much time to talk.”<br />
<br />
Rory nodded understanding. “There was a scarlet fever outbreak there a few months ago. My mother and brothers went to help with the nursing, but I couldn't, as I've never had scarlet fever. I had to stay home and run things at our ranch,” she said with a sigh.<br />
<br />
“Which I'm sure your family greatly appreciated,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
“I guess,” Rory said, “but I wanted to do something to help, so when it was over, I offered to bring Em and John, who were the sickest, down here to complete their recovery.”<br />
<br />
“They certainly seem healthy now,” Marguerite observed.<br />
<br />
Rory smiled. “They are. The doctor says we can go home as soon as it's warm enough back in Modesto, so we should be leaving in two or three weeks. It's been fun, but it will be good to get back home.”<br />
<br />
Emily and John tumbled in the door then, laughing and still damp from the pump. “Don't want to go home!” John chimed, catching Rory's last remark.<br />
<br />
“I do,” Emily said. “I miss all my friends. I'm glad we came, but I'll be glad to get home, too.”<br />
John frowned at this. “Ah, well, I guess you're right. As long as we don't have to go right away.”<br />
<br />
“Which we don't,” Rory said, standing. She led the way into the kitchen, where the meal was spread out on the table. “It's just some cold steamed crab and salad - it's too hot for hot food, if you don't mind.”<br />
<br />
“Sounds perfect,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
“I caught the crab,” John said proudly.<br />
<br />
“Found it in a tide pool,” Emily corrected.<br />
<br />
“I still had to catch it, didn't I?” John said defiantly.<br />
<br />
“Yes, you did,” Rory said, “and we all appreciate it. Marguerite, if you'll sit here, next to me,” Rory indicated, “and Emily, would you please say grace.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite bowed her head along with everyone else, although she certainly did not pray.<br />
<br />
The food was good, simple and refreshing, and decidedly not poisonous. After dinner, Rory dismissed the children to play on the beach. “Only until sunset,” she warned, “then you have to come in and finish your lessons. And don't turn your back on the ocean.”<br />
<br />
“You say that every time,” John complained good-naturedly. “We remember.”<br />
<br />
“See that you do,” Rory smiled. She turned to Marguerite. “It's a nice evening to sit on the porch and watch the sunset, if you'd like.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” Marguerite agreed, following her out to the porch and seating herself in the proffered rocking chair while Rory sat on the porch rail, stretching out her long legs in front of her.<br />
<br />
“Well,” Rory said, “Down to business, I guess. The wedding is the first of June. How long will it take you to paint a portrait?”<br />
<br />
“Depends on the size, and the subject,.”<br />
<br />
“Well, of course it will include both my brother and Molly,” Rory said. “Clay thought it should be about three feet by four.”<br />
<br />
“No animals or props?” Marguerite asked. “He doesn't have a favorite dog he wants included?”<br />
<br />
Rory laughed. “No, why?”<br />
<br />
Marguerite shrugged. “Some people do. In that case, four to six weeks ought to do.”<br />
<br />
Rory nodded. “It's the middle of March now, so if you go up the middle of April, that should give you enough time. That should also give you enough time to buy supplies and finish up whatever projects you have here. That reminds me - wait just a moment.” She hopped down off the rail and went into the cottage, returning in a few moments carrying a small reticule. “Clay wanted me to give you an advance to buy supplies with.” She shook out a few coins and offered them to Marguerite. “Is a hundred dollars enough to start?”<br />
<br />
<i>Much more than enough</i>. Marguerite's eyes grew wide but she was too stunned to do anything but nod. Rory handed her five twenty-dollar gold pieces, the coins weighing heavy in her hand. She had never earned so much at once.<br />
<br />
“Now as to your price,” Rory said, “Clay said I could go as high as five hundred.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite laughed nervously. “You're a very poor negotiator to give away your bargaining position like that,” she observed.<br />
<br />
Rory shrugged. “We have plenty of money; it's never been our way to short shrift people.”<br />
<br />
“It's a wonder you do have so much, then.”<br />
<br />
“Well, the West was completely open when my parents came here,” Rory said. “They had to fight for what they earned, but they didn't do it by abusing people. Father always thought the way to get the best workers was to offer the best wages, and he was right. 'You get back what you give away,' he always said, and I've never known him to be wrong about that.” She grew sober for a moment. “At least, not until he was killed.”<br />
<br />
“How?” Marguerite asked quietly.<br />
<br />
“You don't know?” Rory asked. “I thought everyone around here knew how Barclay Palmer died.”<br />
<br />
“I'm not from here,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
Rory shook her head. “No, of course you aren't. Forgive me. Well,” she shifted uncomfortably, “in addition to our family businesses, Father was elected to the State Senate a couple of years before he died. He was working on legislation to rein in the railroads, as well as to end child labor and grant equal rights to the Chinese workers. He was gunned down on the street in Sacramento - his killer has never been caught, but it's obvious that it was a political murder.”<br />
<br />
“I'm so sorry,” Marguerite said, her stomach clenching.<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Rory said. “It's been five years and it still seems fresh, sometimes.” She shook her head. “But back to you - will five hundred be enough?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Marguerite said. She paused, then said sincerely, “I'll certainly try to make it worth that much to you.”<br />
<br />
“I'm certain you will. Molly showed me the miniature - it was quite a work of art. If you can do the same on a larger scale, we'll all be very happy.”<br />
<br />
The sun was beginning to set, so the children returned from their explorations. Rory excused herself for a moment to settle them to the day's schoolwork, returning a few moments later carrying a pair of leather-bound journals. She lit a lamp that hung beside the porch rail. “Would you mind giving me your artistic opinion about something?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Not at all,” Marguerite replied, prepared to flatter this wealthy patron for all she was worth. She opened the first journal, but sat nonplussed for a moment, unable to tell just what she was looking at.<br />
<br />
“It's a sea anemone,” Rory supplied. “I've been drawing the tide pools. It's not very good, is it?”<br />
<br />
The drawing now resolved itself, and Marguerite turned the pages, filled with similar drawings of anemones, limpets, crabs and other creatures she had seen but did not know the names of. Many of the pages had notes alongside the drawings, written in a pretty feminine hand.<br />
<br />
“No, actually, they're rather good. You might want to take some drawing instruction, but you certainly have ability,” Marguerite said sincerely.<br />
<br />
“There's a Natural History Society here in San Diego,” Rory said. “I've been to a few meetings, and a couple of the young men there have taught me and helped me with my observations.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite glanced at the girl's golden head and sweet face and smiled to herself.<br />
<br />
Rory swept her arm out toward the ocean. “I'm so drawn to that,” she explained. “There's so much about it we don't know; we're barely dabbling at the edges of it at the moment.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite considered her with more seriousness now. “You're saying you want to be a scientist?”<br />
<br />
Rory nodded. “I haven't been to college yet. I've been waiting until I knew what I wanted.” She hugged the journals closer. “I'll have to talk to my family about it first, of course, when I get home.”<br />
<br />
“Will they make difficulties for you?”<br />
<br />
Rory shook her head. “Of course not. Both my parents were big supporters of education. My mother has founded three schools. It's just that - “ she gazed out over the ocean, “well, I've been rather spoiled. I'm afraid they might not take me seriously.”<br />
<br />
“I would have said you were completely unspoiled,” Marguerite said.<br />
<br />
Rory laughed. “Thank you. I've grown up a lot the few months I've been down here, I think. Taking care of the children has been fun, but it's also been a big responsibility. I'm the youngest, you see. The younger of my two brothers is ten years older than I am, and I'm the only girl. Father, especially, doted on me.” Her eyes clouded for a moment. “But I know what I want to do with my life now. I'm sure they'll support me once I convince them I'm serious.”<br />
<br />
“If it's what you love, then of course you should pursue it. With all your heart,” Marguerite said, well aware of the hypocrisy of her words.<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Rory said. “I shall. Oh dear, I've kept you past dark. Would you like me to see you home?”.<br />
<br />
“No need, you'd only have to come back in the dark, too. I'm used to these streets. I'll be all right.”<br />
<br />
“All right, then,” Rory said, not arguing. She handed Marguerite a small slip of paper and shook her hand. “Here's Clay's address in case you need to telegraph him directly. Do pay us another call when you have the chance.”<br />
<br />
Marguerite nodded and said, “I will,” but as she walked away she knew that she would not.Kate Halleronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097028157969058637noreply@blogger.com3