Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  If Rut was the apple of his mother's eye, it was plain to see that the apple of his father's was Rut's sister, Pallas. Tall, dignified, more arresting than beautiful, Pallas was unlike the other southern ladies Hart met in Savannah; she was as straightforward as her brother—as smart and capable, too, from what he could observe.

  She didn't flutter and fuss over men, as seemed to be the custom there. Pallas was cool and collected as the goddess she'd been named for; she handled life with an aplomb that would have done justice to a general. But what intrigued Hart most about her was the knowledge she had of the history of art, and the books she owned on the subject... books printed in Europe with colored plates so exquisite, they took his breath away.

  Like her brother, Pallas seemed good at everything she attempted; but at twenty-five she was already considered an old maid by the standards of the ladies of Savannah—and, therefore, a failure. Southern men, Rut told Hart very seriously, looked for docility and flirtatiousness in prospective brides and Pallas was an unlikely candidate on both counts.

  She was tall, lean, and long-boned like her brother, with strong, sinewy muscles, more like a man's than a woman's for all her slenderness. What seemed almost prettiness in him verged on handsomeness in her, and the planes of her face were too sharply drawn to be thought pretty. She had a squarish jaw that hinted determination and intense brows too straight to be coquettish, yet Hart thought her a fine figure of a woman. It was apparent she was a tree in a garden of hothouse flowers, and as such would never be accepted.

  It was Pallas whom Hart escorted to the Christmas Ball, and Pallas who introduced him to Rene Dusseault. She'd lived in Paris and studied art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Hart had a sense that perhaps she and Rene had been lovers, but that seemed so implausible an idea, in the strait-laced setting of Eden, he would never have suggested it to Rut for fear of being challenged to a duel over his sister's honor.

  Dusseault was shorter than Pallas and slightly built, yet there was unmistakable muscle to the man's litheness. He had a black mustache and a shapely goatee on a pointed chin; indeed, all the planes of the man's face were angular, his nose long, thin, and arrogant. He had flaring nostrils like a jungle beast and there was about him the aura of a predator held under tight rein by civilization. His clothes were elegantly European in cut; he exuded both education and breeding, yet there was a barely bridled sensuality Hart had never encountered in an American man. Rut tolerated the man because of his credentials, but Hart could see he didn't like him. Pallas, on the other hand, was an entirely different person when she was with Rene—less constrained, less the ice-goddess, more the woman. Hart watched them together, observing the language of their bodies; there was a clear intimacy between the two. He wondered if Rut saw it, too.

  "My dear Rene," Pallas said in her breathy low voice that Hart found the most enchanting part of her. "I have someone very special for you to meet." She tugged on Hart's arm to extricate him from the circle of men with whom he'd been talking.

  Dusseault appraised the big westerner intently. He clicked his heels gracefully and bowed a little when the inspection was done. Hart inclined his head and reached out a hand to shake Rene's manicured one, and found the handshake surprisingly strong for one who looked so effete.

  "My pleasure, monsieur," Dusseault said in a voice designed, Hart thought, to beguile women. "I understand from Mademoiselle Canfield that you are a major new talent."

  "Not a bit of that, I'm afraid, Mr. Dusseault. Somebody's been pulling your leg."

  The dealer smiled, smoothly in control. "Do not be modest, Monsieur McAllister. Both Mademoiselle and Monsieur Canfield have said otherwise and I have not yet known them to be mistaken about talent."

  "I'm just a beginner."

  "If the gift is genuine, beginnings and endings are the same— merely necessary parts of the process. Cezanne considered his own early work so far inferior to that of Delacroix that he destroyed many of his first pieces." Dusseault seemed genuinely distressed by this, but as Hart had never seen the work of either Cezanne or Delacroix, he couldn't comment. Pallas, sensing his ignorance, squeezed his arm and insinuated herself into the conversation.

  "My brother assures me that even the great Mireau has conceded Mr. McAllister's superior gifts."

  Hart laughed aloud at that. "Mireau has conceded me nothing at all but a begrudging place in his life class, I'm afraid." He felt shy and ill at ease in this heady company. What would Chance and Bandana and Fancy think if they, could see him now?

  "He is charmingly modest, Rene, but I've seen his drawings— Rut brought some home with him. There's a primitive dynamism in them, and a raw sensuality that is really quite heroic. You'll want to keep your eye on Mr. McAllister." She chose her descriptive words with care and Hart saw that Dusseault listened respectfully to what she had to say. The Frenchman reached inside his coat when she was done and extracted a calling card.

  "My card, Mr. McAllister. One day I feel certain we shall meet again—perhaps in Europe? I will remember what I have heard." Pallas smiled like the proud mama. Dusseault reached for her hand and kissed it, but he lingered longer than was strictly necessary and Hart saw the knowing look that passed between them before the man clicked his heels and moved off into the festive crowd.

  Pallas opened the verandah door to Hart and motioned the servant with the breakfast tray to place it on the white wrought-iron curlicue table. "I'll come right to the point, Hart," she said. "I like you and I like your work." She waited for Hart to respond. He didn't, simply waited to see where she was headed. The corners of her fine but determined mouth twitched a bit in amusement at his restraint.

  "You may have noticed that I don't plan to lead my life like others of my gender," she said with the pugnacity of one who expects to be rebuffed. Hart's smile was gentle.

  "My mother manages to cope with my oddity mainly because my father and brother are enlightened men. They knew early on that I lacked the docility of temperament necessary for the life expected of a woman. And," she continued, smiling so that the frosty set of her face melted just enough, "I believe they rather like me."

  "So do I," Hart said, and Pallas, caught off guard, leaned forward and clasped her hands on the little table. It was a gesture for a boardroom.

  "I shall not marry. At least not here. Not now. Frankly, I don't give a damn if I ever reproduce. Rut will carry on the family name and Mama and Papa will be satisfied. I fear my maternal instincts are limited and I shouldn't like to inflict a careless motherhood on some poor unsuspecting child." Pallas was trying to sound callous, but Hart saw uncertainty in her eyes. She'd chosen her path, but she wasn't as sure as she'd have him believe of where it would leave her at the end.

  "I am more European in my soul than American," she said, softening a little. "I've had lovers, I intend to have more. I've seen and done things that would give the nice ladies of Savannah the vapors. I like life, Hart. All of it. And I have a talent for art. Not like yours, of course. Just an instinct for what's good. I can differentiate the merely fashionable and showy from the timeless. I know what will endure."

  Pallas took a breath, poured coffee into both their cups. Her hands were beautifully cared for and beringed, but they were not the hands of a dilettante. They were vibrant with energy and competence; if they wouldn't cosset babies, they would most assuredly accomplish something equally worthwhile.

  Hart watched Pallas carefully as she spoke- he wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, but one thing he intuited with certainty—she wanted him for a friend and perhaps something more. Not a lover, he thought, that unheard-of word she used so casually.

  "Where I come from, Pallas, competent women are respected, admired. On a farm, in a mining town, a woman works beside her husband dawn to dusk, maybe beyond. Division of labor is all it is —the men I respect wouldn't know what to do with some of the useless decorations I've seen in Savannah." Hart took a gulp of his coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup, his eyes warm and merry. />
  "Whatever you're capable of being, Pallas, I'd say you should just go ahead and be it. Be the best you can be, and for God's sake, don't let any code of conduct that demands uselessness of its women stand in your way."

  Pallas looked at Hart, really looked at him with her strange pale eyes. The glacial facade dissolved. Could it be that her coldness was a means of protecting herself from a world she knew must disapprove of who she was?

  "I'm going to be an important power in the art world, Hart," she said finally. "Not here. I can't do it here. In Paris or London maybe. When that happens... when you're ready, I want you to come to me. I'll make certain the world has a chance to see Hart McAllister's work." Her eyes were shining and Hart wondered if she held back tears, or if it was simple relief at being understood.

  "I'll try to be ready for you," he told her with a good-natured smile.

  She looked to see if he might be laughing at her, but he wasn't. He was just thinking it was real nice to dream big dreams.

  PART VIII: DUST IN THE WIND

  The Legacy... The 1880s Leadville and Denver

  "Friends come and go... but enemies accumulate."

  Bandana McBain

  Chapter 69

  Fancy was only eight months pregnant when her labor started; she timed the pains, trying to keep her fears submerged. Magda was nowhere near and she had never known a baby born so early to survive. She'd lulled herself that the pregnancy had gone so well, the delivery would, too, but it was hard to be optimistic as the pain clawed at her belly and undermined her confidence.

  Why had Chance gone to Washington knowing she was so close to term? Even if he couldn't do anything to help, just knowing his luck was near at hand would have soothed her. She felt the disappointment of his absence viscerally... it brought back bad memories.

  She gripped the banister and made her painful way upstairs. She'd best call a servant to make preparations, just in case this was not false labor. Antiseptic, water, scissors, bandages, twine for the cord. Another wave hit her, low and encircling, and she barely made it to the bed; there was no longer any doubt in her mind about whether or not her time had come.

  Fancy pulled the bell cord sharply and wondered if she'd best call the doctor or the midwife; the real work tonight would be her own, as it had been for all women, in all time, but if there were complications because of prematurity, perhaps the doctor would be best.

  Fancy drove the memory of Aurora's birth back—she needed courage tonight, not memories. She struggled to change into the nightdress she would wear for her ordeal. The water that trickled down her leg was hot as tears.

  Fancy's daughter entered the world five miserable hours later, just as Chance's train pulled into the Leadville station.

  He was shaken by Fancy's appearance when he entered their bedroom. She looked ravaged, frail and gray, her eyes as sunken as her belly, and she took his hand listlessly. "I needed you tonight, Chance," she whispered when he bent to kiss her clammy cheek. "Where do you go, each time I need you?" She drifted off to sleep before he could reply.

  Dear Bro,

  Fancy and I have a brand-new daughter. We've named her Franchise after her mama, but I think I'll call her Fan. She came a month early and she's just a little bitty wisp of a girl because of it—you could hold her in the palm of your hand. The name Fan seems ethereal enough to suit her—I sure do hope she's stronger than she looks, not that I have much experience of babies, but she seems so damned fragile to me. I guess I'll need to take real special care of her.

  I failed Fancy, I'm afraid, bro, by not being there when her time came, but the baby arrived early and I was off on a business trip. In some ways, I confess, I was relieved not to be there; I'm not sure I would have had the courage to see her suffer for all the pleasures we've had together.

  Hart put down his brother's letter, and rested his chin on his hands as he stared off into space; he wasn't sure why the words disturbed him so. Chance's letters were always straight from the heart; he seemed able to express on paper a vulnerability he would never have voiced aloud.

  Fancy's strong, but she's fragile, too, bro, and I had this awful premonition about losing her because of our love. I guess I feel guilty about a lot of things where Fancy's concerned, although I try hard not to show it. And, truth be known, she's a real handful. Fancy's not a woman like Mama, satisfied to help her husband build a life, and take good care of her kids. Fancy wants the world at her feet, and she has the goddamnedest willingness to go right on out there and try to get it for herself. Maybe the best bet is for me to grab it first and just hand it over to her... whatever it takes to make her happy, I'm sure as hell planning to try.

  I've bought more property and I'm cultivating a relationship with the powers-that-be—there've been three trips to Washington so far, this year, for the Silver Alliance. Sometimes I'm sorry I started the damned thing, it eats up time like a pocket watch that's wound too tight.

  Hart noted there was again no mention of the mines; he made a mental note to write Caz.

  Come home one of these days, bro. I'm real lonely sometimes.

  Your loving brother,

  Chance

  Françoise McAllister was never called anything but Fan—the airy name seemed a perfect metaphor for her wispiness. Her hair was the platinum of fairy wings, despite the dark hair of both parents, and her delicacy frightened Fancy from the first moments of life.

  "She's nearly see-through, Chance," Fancy said worriedly, as she held her tiny daughter to her breast. "And she scares me to death when I nurse her. She just stares up at me with those elfin eyes that are older than I am and I swear she doesn't suck enough for a mouse."

  "She's delicate, sugar. Just because you and Aurora are so robust, you can't think every female is. She's cut from silk instead of velvet, that's all." Chance found he couldn't let himself think that Fan might be endangered.

  He adored his daughter and displayed inordinate patience with her when he was at home, playing with her, cosseting, talking with the tiny doll-like child as if she understood each word. He'd tried so hard to reach Aurora, but her cold, hard knot of resentment was tied too tight for him to loose it, and his failure as a father hurt and puzzled him. He'd never before known a female of any age he couldn't get around, and his own memories of childhood were of a family of intense love and loyalty.

  But this newborn baby was a clean white blotter ready to soak up all the love he sought to give. Her fragility made her all the more precious. He found he liked protecting what was his.

  Fancy marveled at Chance's devotion to Fan and sometimes even felt irritated by it for some reason she didn't quite understand. She wondered, later, if she let herself get pregnant only three months after her daughter's birth because she resented losing Chance's attentions to the baby, or because it delayed, for yet another year, the question of what to do about his opposition to her working.

  She said it was because she was so happy as a wife and mother, and because she wished to get all childbearing over with quickly, so she could resume life and get her figure back. But Magda merely raised a disbelieving eyebrow at that explanation and Fancy saw in the Gypsy's relentless mirror her own self-delusion.

  There was only one reason Fancy became pregnant so soon after Fan's birth... it was to erect a bulwark of life, against the mortality she read in her daughter's fragile countenance.

  Chapter 70

  Fancy watched her newborn son in his cradle with pride and satisfaction. Tiny perfect toes and fingers, arms and legs in constant motion, unfocused blue eyes with a fringe of lashes like her own, shining dark hair like Chance's. There were no signs of frailty in this robust nine-pound boy, born only a year after his sister Fan. She'd tried to fight the feeling down, but Fan's frailty made her feel guilty, as if she'd failed some great unspoken test of motherhood.

  John Charles McAllister's arrival had been as easy for Fancy as both his sisters' had been difficult. The new mother couldn't help but think that from the start, boys were easie
r and probably more fun than girls.

  "Blackjack," Chance named his son, standing proudly over the cradle, looking at the mass of gleaming black hair that framed the perfect baby face.

  "Blackjack McAllister, that's what we'll call him. He'll have my luck and your looks," he said, turning to Fancy still in her lying-in bed, and she'd laughed contentedly. "Better that, than the other way around," she replied.

  "With that combination, Fancy, and the money from the mines, my son will rule the world."

  Chance had made their home the finest in Leadville, he'd made it clear to everyone that Fancy was the queen of his empire, Aurora and little Fan, the princesses—now there was a prince to complete the tableau. Safe, secure, rich beyond fear, Fancy told herself—as it had been at Beau Rivage a thousand years ago....

  A twinge of sadness moved through her, as it always did when she thought of her childhood; how she wished her mother could be here to see her fine new son and growing daughters. She fingered the golden locket at her throat; Chance had had it commissioned by Louis Comfort Tiffany, to house the preciously hoarded strands of hair that were her mother's, for he knew that they, and the salvaged music box and banjo, were Fancy's icons. Someday Aurora or Fan would wear the locket; meantime, all three of her brood would have the childhood she'd been robbed of, a childhood full of the safety of "having."

  Fan McAllister failed to prosper. From the baby's infancy, Fancy knew she was damaged in some subtle way, for even at the breast Fan suckled barely enough to stay alive. Eight months was just not enough time for a baby to stay in the womb; she was incomplete and some of the component parts she lacked were essential ones for life. She had an extraordinarily joyous disposition, far too good-natured for humanity and that, too, filled Fancy with foreboding, for she thought Fan entirely too angelic for this world.