To Capture the Sky (Choices of the Heart, book 2)

by Jennie Marsland

  And it seemed Isobel and Walter liked it that way. Beth found that rather sad. She couldn’t imagine feeling that detached as a mother.

  Walter topped up her wine glass. “We want to hear more about you. How did you meet your husband? Through your cousin?”

  “No, we met by chance.”

  “How long has he been in Colorado?”

  “He settled there right after the war.”

  “There’s more than a few here in New York who should have done the same thing in my opinion. Immigrants who signed up to fight for a few dollars and came back to roam the streets. We certainly don’t need them here.”

  Walter spoke with casual contempt. It was on the tip of Beth’s tongue to say, “Did one of them fight in your place?” She knew he hadn’t served during the war, and it wasn’t unusual for affluent young men to pay substitutes to serve for them.

  Be fair, Beth. You don’t know he was one of them.

  “Trey was very lucky. He came out of the war healthy and with enough money to give him a fresh start, and he grew up on a farm. He’s used to the life.”

  Isobel wore the same tolerant expression Beth had seen in the carriage, when her friend mentioned love. “He sounds nothing like the kind of man you used to prefer.”

  Isobel and Beth had critiqued each other’s suitors in a teasing way since men first started to pay attention to them, but Beth didn’t intend to spend the whole evening explaining herself. And she didn’t think she could bear any more questions about Trey at the moment. “He isn’t. Now, tell me about this dinner tomorrow night, and about Mr. Hickstead. Are my paintings all back from the framer’s?”

  Beth’s crisp tone wasn’t lost on Isobel. She went along with the change of subject. “The last one will be finished late next week, I hope. The people I’ve invited to the dinner are all people Walter and I have met since we married. We attend openings and fundraising events together. Mr. Hickstead is a male version of Mother, really. He collects art, and he makes a hobby out of sponsoring young and little-known artists. He’s one of the people critics here talk to.” Isobel flashed a sly grin. “It will be amusing to see what happens when everyone finds out you’re a woman. I didn’t intend to keep it from them at first, but when it didn’t come up right away, the temptation grew overwhelming.”

  That was so like Isobel. “You think Mr. Hickstead has a poor opinion of female artists?”

  Isobel frowned and drew her fork through her mashed potatoes. “I’ve never heard him say so, but I have heard him say he thinks the field has become overcrowded since the war, and women have been flooding the art schools since then. There’s even some woman here in town, Candace Wheeler, promoting classes in design for working class women as a way for them to make a living.”

  “And you think that’s a bad thing?”

  “Not at all, if they have talent. As for Mr. Hickstead, it would be rather embarrassing for him to change tacks when he finds out you’re a woman, now that he owns one of your paintings. I wouldn’t worry, Beth. You’ve been to Mother’s dinners. You’ll be fine.”

  Beth couldn’t help worrying. She’d taken private lessons rather than going to art school, and she’d never tried to get her work into the exhibitions that were the usual route to sales and a reputation. Could she really hope to be taken seriously here?

  As soon as she decently could, Beth pleaded fatigue and retreated to her room. Isobel had good reason to be proud of her home. It wasn’t as ornate as the Underhill home in Philadelphia had been, which suited Beth’s taste. Her room had red toile-patterned wallpaper, a fine oriental rug on the polished hardwood floor, a dark-stained cherry bed and dresser, and a free-standing full-length mirror in a matching cherry frame. She wouldn’t have chosen much differently herself.

  Isobel’s maid had already put Beth’s things away. Yawning, she got into her nightgown, hung her dress in the wardrobe with the others, and sank into the feather bed. When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Trey’s breathing as she heard it every night from the cabin loft. Thinking about him would only make her more miserable, so she turned her mind to Isobel.

  In some ways she was the same friend Beth remembered, but in others she seemed very different. There’d been a lot of water under the bridge since then. Isobel had married into a class a step above the one in which she and Beth had grown up. Beth wasn’t sure what she thought of Isobel’s marriage. She hadn’t sensed any of the unspoken communication that existed between Maddy and Logan or John and Hannah. How much of the change she felt was in Isobel, and how much was in herself?

  * * *

  Trey rode into the yard just at moonrise. He dismounted and stood still beside Cloud for a moment, listening. Except for the faint yipping of a coyote somewhere near the river, everything was quiet.

  He unsaddled Cloud and put him in the corral, then walked quickly into the house and lit the lamp, eager to banish the emptiness he’d felt at the sight of the dark windows reflecting the moonlight. He’d gone into town to see if Beth’s wire had come in yet, telling him she’d arrived in New York. It had. She’d had a safe trip back to her old world.

  Trey put the chimney on the lamp, turned down the wick, and went out to sit on the doorstep in the sweet-scented night air. The moon was high enough now to shine into the yard. The barn and corral cast crisp shadows across the cool glow.

  Being so cold to Beth before she left was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and one of the most necessary. She’d realize that once the hurt faded. He’d left her free, able to choose her own future without any emotional ties to him. Hell, she might be thanking her lucky stars already.

  It had all happened so fast, it still felt like a bad dream. Trey couldn’t get used to not having Beth to come home to at night, not having her to look forward to all day. It wasn’t getting easier, but it would only have made things worse if she hadn’t gone right away. Quick and clean was best.

  Restless, he got up and walked over to the corral. Cloud came to the fence and sniffed Trey’s shirt pocket, looking for a handout. Trey obliged him with a piece of dried apple. “We’ll get along, Cloud. She’s where she needs to be, and so are we.”

  Cloud nudged him again, then wandered off when no more treats appeared. Trey leaned on the fence, waiting for the tightness in his chest to subside before he went back to the house. It didn’t. He gave up, rode out to the river, and managed to fall asleep there just as the moon was setting.

  * * *

  Morning came soon enough. Beth allowed herself the luxury of a lazy hour in bed before going downstairs. On the homestead, she and Trey would have finished breakfast and done the chores by now.

  As she passed the nursery, a small boy darted out to collide with her knees. The nurse, a dark-haired girl who looked to be a few years younger than Beth, was right behind him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s just learned to open the door this minute.”

  Beth laughed and got down on one knee. “And you’re going to have your hands full because of it. Hello, Michael.”

  The little boy reminded Beth strongly of Isobel’s father. He looked up with dark blue eyes full of mischief, then scooted away, laughing. The nurse darted after him. “Not so fast, young man.” She caught Michael and brought him back.

  Beth reached out for him. He seemed quite content to have her pick him up. “What a charmer you are. He’s just turned two, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he has. He knows how to twist you around his finger already.”

  The nurse took Michael from Beth’s arms, stepped back inside the nursery, and closed the door. Beth went down to breakfast thinking of Holly working in a house like this in a few years’ time, spending most of her waking hours confined to one room, looking after small children. If Holly wanted vocal training badly enough it might be worth it to her, but it certainly wouldn’t be easy.

  Walter had left to spend the day with his parents. Isobel waited in the breakfast room, with a table nicely spread for two.

  Beth sat down and reached for a mu
ffin. “I just met Michael upstairs. Isobel, he’s adorable.”

  “Isn’t he?” Isobel poured coffee for them both and handed Beth her cup. “I hope you slept well. We have plenty to do today, or at least I have. You’re under no obligation to help, of course. You’re the guest of honor.”

  “I want to help if I can. If I sit around doing nothing all day, I’ll be a nervous wreck by evening. What can I do?”

  They spent the rest of the morning making sure the house would be ready for the evening, then paid a call on the framer’s. Afterward, Beth snatched an hour to play with Michael while Isobel held a council of war with the cook and saw to the flowers. Before Beth knew it, it was time to dress for dinner.

  She gave her reflection a last critical glance. Her watered silk gown was her favorite shade of blue, but she thought she liked the dress she’d made for the Wallace Flats dance better. She’d certainly enjoyed wearing it more, dancing with Trey under paper lanterns and a clear June sky.

  Isobel introduced Beth to the guests while Walter mingled. At the discovery that she was E.M. Underhill, one face after another registered surprise, quickly covered by politeness – in some cases, icy politeness. It puzzled her to see that coming from the women as often as from the men. Isobel had previously shown Beth’s work to some of her friends and she got a few guarded compliments, but most of the guests seemed more interested in hearing about life in Colorado Territory than in talking about art.

  When another guest arrived, Beth recognized him as Vance Hickstead from Isobel’s description. Of medium build, with a long, clever-looking face, and blue eyes that went well with his impeccably cut russet hair, Mr. Hickstead carried himself like a man assured of his own importance. He glanced around the room, spotted Beth and came toward her. Likely he knew everyone else here.

  “Mrs. James appears to be occupied, so we’ll have to introduce ourselves.” He smiled and extended a hand to Beth. “Vance Hickstead.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hickstead. I’m Beth McShannon, an old friend of Mrs. James’ from Philadelphia.”

  “Oh. Have you met Mr. Underhill yet?”

  His slightly patronizing manner prodded Beth to mischief. He hadn’t heard the news yet. She looked down to hide her smile. “No, I haven’t met him.”

  “I wonder where he is. I’ve been looking forward to meeting him. You’ve seen his work, I suppose.”

  Beth managed to meet Mr. Hickstead’s gaze with a straight face. “Actually, I haven’t.”

  His tone became a bit more patronizing after a glance at Trey’s ring on Beth’s finger. “Perhaps you haven’t much interest in art, Mrs. McShannon. I purchased one of Mr. Underhill’s paintings recently through Mrs. James. It’s a hobby of mine. Very interesting use of color and a gift for interpreting a subject, I think. He has real potential.”

  Beth decided she didn’t dare take the game any further. “I’m glad you think so. You’ll have to forgive me a joke, Mr. Hickstead. I’m E.M. Underhill. I became Mrs. McShannon this past spring.”

  Mr. Hickstead didn’t look at all amused, but before he could say anything, Isobel joined them. “I see you and Mr. Hickstead have made each other’s acquaintance, Beth.”

  “Yes, and I’ve also introduced him to E.M. Underhill.”

  “Oh.” Isobel put on her most charming smile. “I’ll have to ask your forgiveness, Vance. I just couldn’t help myself. I hope you’re pleasantly surprised.”

  Beth laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “I hope so, too, Mr. Hickstead. You’ll have to pardon us both.”

  Mr. Hickstead recovered his good temper, or at least his good manners. “There’s nothing to pardon, ladies. Mrs. James, may I have the honor of taking Mrs. McShannon in to dinner?”

  “Certainly.”

  A few minutes later, when dinner was announced, Beth took Mr. Hickstead’s arm. A slight stiffness told her he was still angry. It would be her luck that the man didn’t seem to have a sense of humor. At the table, she took a deep breath and started trying to repair the damage. “I only arrived yesterday. I’m looking forward to exploring the city. It’s been several years since I’ve been to New York.”

  Mr. Hickstead sipped his water and glanced around the room before replying. “There have been a lot of changes since the war. Did you study art here?”

  “No, I took private lessons in Philadelphia.”

  “What made you decide to send your work to New York?”

  Mr. Hickstead’s tone made Beth feel that she’d done a very presumptuous thing. She met his gaze and held it. “Because I thought it might do well here. I understand that in France there are some younger painters doing landscapes in an informal style similar to mine.”

  “Yes, in oils. A more robust medium, you might say. I was in France this past winter. They call themselves impressionists. Your work has less weight.”

  Beth read him easily. Obviously, with a woman’s hand on the brush. “But you thought it significant enough to buy, until now.”

  Mr. Hickstead’s gaze turned cool. “My opinion of your talent hasn’t changed, Mrs. McShannon. And I’m sure that if you were able to stay here in the city and promote your work for a few years, you could carve out a niche in the market. But you have other responsibilities, and the market is becoming very competitive. Of course, the most important thing is that you enjoy painting.”

  I see. A married woman needs a little hobby of some sort. You narrow-minded, prejudiced creature. Beth smiled sweetly. “When Mrs. James wrote that you’d purchased Meadow at Sunset, she mentioned that you suggested a gallery that might be interested in a small showing while I’m here.”

  “Oh, yes. I can’t make any promises of course, but Mrs. James has the name and address. You can only try.”

  The snub couldn’t have been more obvious. Beth gave Mr. Hickstead another sweet smile. If I kicked you under the table, would you be too polite to yell? “I intend to. I wouldn’t have made the trip otherwise.”

  The annoyance in Mr. Hickstead’s tone became more than an undercurrent. It seemed he didn’t take kindly to being challenged. “To be frank, I’m surprised your husband allowed it. If one can believe the newspapers, Colorado Territory is no place for a lady to travel alone – or for a gentleman, for that matter.”

  Wouldn’t it be worthwhile to see what would happen if you said that to Trey? Or John. Or Logan. Beth answered with a strong touch of venom. “I’m curious, Mr. Hickstead. Exactly what is your definition of a gentleman? Mine includes keeping your word.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing his face redden before he turned to speak to the woman seated at his other side. Beth’s other neighbor had apparently overheard enough of the conversation to make him uncomfortable. He studiously avoided speaking to her for the rest of the dinner. Beth refused to care. She had a pretty good idea what Vance Hickstead would amount to in Wallace Flats.

  All in all, she couldn’t have been more grateful when the last guest left and she could slip off to bed. Morning would be soon enough for Isobel and Walter to hear how Beth’s evening had gone. Maybe then, she’d be able to put it in perspective. Right now, her head and her heart both ached too much.

  Is this what I came here for? Beth had worked toward this, dreamed of it for years. Even if the dream looked a little tarnished at the moment, she couldn’t afford to give it up now.

  * * *

  “Oh, Beth,” was all Isobel could say when she heard the tale of Beth’s evening at breakfast.

  “That just about sums it up.” Beth put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “I lost my temper. It wasn’t so much what I said as how I said it. Well, there’s no point in crying over spilt milk.”

  Beth wouldn’t have blamed her friend for being angry. After all, Isobel had gone to a lot of trouble and more than a little expense, but she looked more chagrined than annoyed. “I had no idea Vance felt that way about female artists.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he minds female artists, as long as they
know their place and don’t take their work seriously.” The mention of women and work brought Lena Carter to Beth’s mind and a smile to her face. Just how quickly would Lena cut a man like Vance Hickstead down to size? “Is he married?”

  “No, but it isn’t for lack of opportunity,” Walter said. “Vance comes from an old New York family and he’s very comfortably off. He’s considered quite a catch.”

  “By whom, I wonder?” Beth sat back as the maid placed a bowl of porridge in front of her. “Anyway, I suppose we can forget about the Caldwell gallery without his backing.”

  Isobel shrugged. Beth had never known her to waste time regretting what was already done. “If it turns out that way, I’ve got some other possibilities in mind. In the meantime, eat some breakfast, Beth.”

  Beth started on her porridge. Why let Mr. Hickstead upset her digestion as well as her temper? “I’m going to call on the Caldwell gallery this afternoon, and I’m going to use Vance Hickstead’s name. Why don’t we take Michael and go to the park this morning? I could use some fresh air.”

  Walter checked his watch and got up. “You might as well, Isobel. Frank Graves asked me to go with him to call on Hugh Putnam this morning.”

  Isobel lifted a delicate brow. “I see.”

  Walter returned her significant look with one of his own. “I don’t know what Frank thinks we can accomplish. Of course, his wife is putting him up to it. I probably won’t be back till lunch time.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then, dear. Bring in the mail on your way out, please. It just arrived.”

  Walter left the table.

  Isobel sighed as she watched him down the hall. “It’s become far too fashionable for young wives to court attention, and for single young men to pay it. It’s usually harmless, but not always.”

  Beth couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound as naïve as she felt.

  With a sweep of her fingers, Isobel brushed some toast crumbs and Hugh Putnam’s peccadilloes aside. “You won’t be meeting any of the involved parties anyway. They’re all part of Walter’s old set. The park it is, then. Let’s get Michael and go.”