by Ann Moore
“Let’s go, my friend.” Père Leon tugged at his arm. “We’ve miles to go before dark.”
Morgan took one last look at the camp, knowing he would never see such a thing again, nor people like these, and then he turned and followed the priest into the wilderness. As they walked, he became aware of a shadow flitting among the trees behind them, though he could never quite see it, however fast he turned around. A trick of the light and snow, he told himself, but finally Père Leon turned around, laughing.
“It is the boy,” he said quietly. “He will follow us a while longer and then he will turn back. It is how he sees you safely on your way.”
They walked an hour, the boy’s presence felt behind them, and then came the eerie sound of a whistle or pipe. Morgan turned, and Nacoute stepped out from behind a tree, the small pipe in his hand. This was good-bye now, and Morgan knew it. He raised his hand and kept it in the air until the boy raised his, as well.
“Good-bye, son,” he called, his voice ringing out in the wilderness, but the boy had already turned toward home.
Fourteen
It was not a long process, daguerreotypy, but holding still once the artist had disappeared beneath his great canvas hood was absolutely necessary, and so it was a feat of heroic endurance for Jack, who seemed to think that it also required the holding of his breath.
“Done!” William Shew reemerged, looking pleased. “That will be a very nice portrait, if I say so myself.” He patted his mussed hair back into place.
“Phew.” Jack blew out a long stream of air and shook himself all over like a dog just out of water. “Is it over, Mam?” he asked, panting.
“It is for you and your sister,” Shew told him. “But I’d like one of your mother alone. I’m willing to spring for chocolates next door, if you’ll mind your sister the entire time?” He turned and nodded encouragingly at Grace, soliciting her acquiescence.
“That’s very kind, Mister Shew, but you’ve already been so good to us and we’ve taken up so much of your time.” She shot Jack a warning look and the protest he’d been about to utter died on his lips.
“It’s my pleasure, Missus Donnelly, really. They’ve been simply delightful, and it will give them something to do while I arrange you. Children?” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a half-dollar, which he pressed into Mary Kate’s hand. “That should cover just about anything you’d like. When you’ve chosen your treats, you can enjoy them on the bench right out front there until we’re done in here.”
“Thank you, sir,” they both uttered with barely suppressed, wide-eyed delight.
Jack was quite certain that Mister Shew was now the best man he’d ever known. Next to Mister Litton, of course. And Doctor Wakefield. Those three were the best. His mouth was watering.
“Off you go, then.” Shew ushered them out the door, laughing, then returned immediately to Grace. “I wanted some privacy,” he confessed. “To make something really splendid. Stay seated for just a moment, will you?” He disappeared into a small closet, and Grace could hear him rummaging around.
She swallowed hard. Oh, please don’t let him ask me to take my clothes off, she prayed. He’d been so good to them all and she liked him so very much, but now she was anxious and wondered if she’d been naive in accepting his offer of making a family portrait. He’d told her he intended to display it in his next exhibition, after which he’d make a gift of it to her; she’d been excited about that—it would be the first and only image she had of her family, a record of who they were: Irish Americans in San Francisco, state of California, November 1852.
“Here we are!” Several silk cloths were draped over his shoulder, and he carried a mirror in each hand.
“Oh, please, Mister Shew,” she began.
“It will be magnificent,” he said, ignoring her feeble protest. “It is my gift to you, Missus Donnelly, in thanks for sharing your unique gift the last time you visited my gallery. Do you know,” he continued, “I have been quite inspired by your insight. I am recording the city still, yes, but not just its prominent citizens. Emigrants, Missus Donnelly, I am recording the flood of emigrants that wash up on this shore. For posterity!” He lifted a finger in the air to make his point. “And I haven’t forgotten what you said about the Indians, either,” he added. “I’m planning a journey to the interior even as we speak. Their ways shall be recorded so that we might always know how they lived before they joined the rest of civilization.”
“Well, that’s not exactly what I said, Mister Shew, though I’m happy you’ll see them for yourself.”
Grace shifted on the hard stool. She had brought Mary Kate with her to the exhibition, knowing the child shared something of her own gift of vision. In New York, except for Mathew Brady’s gallery, it had seemed to leave her—too crowded, she’d thought, for visions of passing spirits—but on the trail from Kansas to Oregon, she’d seen them almost everywhere she looked. The first time had been when she thought their wagon train was simply catching up to another, but when they began passing through it, passing through the very people who walked and the animals who pulled their wagons, she knew that no one else was seeing what she saw. Though mile upon mile separated one wagon train from another, Grace’s experience was of one long trail of humanity, peopled by the spirits of those who had died along the way. She was not afraid of these spirits—she’d been allowed glimpses beyond the veil for as long as she could remember.
She learned, too, not to comment on the Indians that rode past, be they hunting parties, war parties, traders, or migrants, nor could she trust Mary Kate, who saw them sometimes, as well; only after Jack whooped and pointed them out could Grace know that these were living Indians and not the spirits of those gone on ahead. The prairies were full of such spirits—the woods sheltered them, the hills were alive with their rustling energy—and they were generous, pointing out to her the hidden creeks and bubbling streams that saved her children from drinking muddy, sulfurous water; they led her to rabbit and gopher holes when she needed fresh meat, showed her hidden nests full of eggs, warned her of snakes and quicksand, prairie fire and thunderstorms, guided her across scorching desert, and helped her cross the dangerously swollen rivers. She had garnered something of a reputation among the hundred others of their party, had known they whispered suspiciously about her uncanny luck. Only Lily had known what it was Grace could see, and Lily had told no one, though she’d followed Grace implicitly.
San Francisco was not so full of souls, though Grace suspected the hills and desert land beyond were more heavily occupied. She and Mary Kate had not been able to resist Mister Shew’s gallery, and both had learned the stories of the Chinese people in those images, not from Shew himself—who knew nothing—but from the eyes that bespoke their souls.
Letting Mister Shew believe that the insight she gained came directly from the artistry of his images, she shared with him the importance of recording human beings in all their diversity. He had already begun such work by taking images of the Chinese, and these were invaluable, she’d told him. And there were still so many others, she’d pointed out—the Californios on their rancheros, those whose land was being taken from them now even as they had first taken it from the Indians; the exotic Chileans, Peruvians, South American Indians; the Negroes, especially the Negroes who were tasting freedom in a way their parents had never dreamed, though their acceptance even in the Free States would be generations in the making; the American Indians in their spectacular dress, so many different tribes—the Paiute, Nez Percé, fierce Sioux and Apache, Shawnee. This time was passing more quickly than any other time in history, and it would be gone, lost to mankind forever, if it were not recorded by a sensitive and dedicated artist.
True enough, she told herself then, listening to her own internal voice. He was an artist unlike any other, and she would trust that what he wanted for her was important for reasons she had yet to understand.
“Would you take off your jacket, please, Missus Donnelly?” he asked, his equipme
nt ready and waiting.
Grace bit her lip but unbuttoned the jacket and allowed him to help her out of it.
“And now—” He hesitated, his hands hovering though he knew that touching her would be inappropriate. “What I want, Missus Donnelly. I mean, what I envision for your portrait, is …”
“You’d best just have out with it,” Grace told him, “before we both jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“You are a very beautiful woman,” he began.
Grace’s hands went to either side of her face and she shook her head. “When I was young—”
“I can only imagine, Missus Donnelly,” Shew interrupted. “How breathtaking you must have been. But it is not youth that interests me so much as it is a life farther along the path of experience. To me, the smooth perfection of youth pales in comparison to the depth of beauty that can only arise through the very act of living.”
Grace let her hands fall to her lap, where they worried one another anxiously.
“The lines you have accumulated upon your face—those across your forehead and here, at the corners of your eyes …” He reached out gently with one finger and touched the spot. “And here, by your mouth. These are more alluring to the artist because they speak of a life hard won—the mixture of elation and grief and every emotion in between, of marriage and childbirth, affirmation and disappointment, struggle and triumph.” He touched her cheek now, and she looked up into his eyes. “There is a history etched upon your face, Missus Donnelly, that is unlike that of anyone else, and it fascinates me. I catch a glimpse of it, there, in your eyes, but I can never know all you have experienced. I can only honor it in the way I know best—by recording it, as it is today, in this moment of your life, a moment that is suspended between the past and the future. This will be one of my finest portraits ever recorded, Missus Donnelly. Please trust me to do you justice.”
Grace nodded imperceptibly, moved by the grand sweep of his speech.
“Because I wish to portray you as a woman of her century in a way that is also timeless, I will ask you to take down your hair and let it fall freely about your shoulders. And then to remove your blouse to the waist of your skirt, so that you sit only in your chemise.” He paused to gauge her reaction. “I am asking more than I have a right to, I know that.”
Grace studied his face for a moment, intent upon understanding him and not being played a fool, and then she nodded.
“The buttons are in the back,” she said quietly. “I’ll need help.”
He came around behind her and started at the top, sliding each button out of its catch with a delicate dexterity. How long since she’d felt the touch of a man upon her body? Grace closed her eyes and willed her heart to settle itself; William Shew was not a lover, nor did she wish him to be.
“All undone.” His breath upon her neck brought every nerve in her body to attention; the feeling intensified as he gently pushed the blouse forward off her shoulders, watching as she slipped her arms from the sleeves, the garment falling in a pool of gentle folds at her waist. He rested his hands on her shoulders, which were bare but for the straps of the simple white cotton chemise. “Shall I take down your hair?” he said so quietly she barely heard him.
“I will,” she murmured. “I can do it.”
He left her side and returned to his camera obscura, though his eyes never left her face and the warmth of his hands remained upon her skin. Grace kept her own eyes lowered as she raised her arms and felt in her hair for the pins that held it in place, removing them carefully, one by one, dropping them into her lap. When she had done, she shook her head gently, letting the heavy hair drop down upon her shoulders, feeling its cool weight against her flushed neck and back. Finally, she allowed herself to meet his gaze.
“Exquisite,” he breathed. “The shade of your hair in this light, your skin, those eyes … if only I could capture you in all your colors, if only I could paint.” He shook his head. “But it would not do you justice.”
He gathered up his mirrors and selected a piece of dark green silk, which he then hung on the wall behind her, positioning the mirrors so that her head and shoulders were illuminated by additional light. He stood back and surveyed her with an artist’s impartiality, and then he was behind her once again. Grace found that it was hard to breathe as he turned her sideways, his hand again on her shoulder, the other on her thigh. Next, he lifted the hair away from the front of her face, settling it behind her shoulder; on the other side, he brought the hair forward, his fingertips brushing the bare skin of her bosom just above the low neckline of her top. It was excruciating, and she wondered if he realized how terribly he stirred her. Finally, he was satisfied and bid her not move a single muscle until he was through. Twice he recorded her image, and twice she felt a surge of light pass through her.
Grace felt as if her blood ran hot, pulsing from one part of her body to another, and that this heightened state must surely be visible to the man who studied her now, who approached as if to warm himself near the emanating glow. Again he stood behind her, and again she felt herself become weak, though instead of touching her, he gathered up the folds of her blouse and held it in such a way that she might easily slip into it, after which he brought it together in back and began to do up the buttons. He had nearly reached the top when he paused for just a moment, then lowered his mouth to the side of her neck, pressing his lips there for the most brief of tender moments. It was over so quickly that Grace wondered whether she had imagined it, so stirred did she find herself, and completely overwhelmed.
Without a word, he gathered up her hair and plaited it, then reached into her lap for the pins and secured it to the back of her head. And then he was done. When he had lifted the shade and taken a seat on the stool near his instrument, Grace finally found the courage to meet his eyes, though she was still without words.
“It will be remarkable,” he pronounced soberly. “You are remarkable.” When Grace did not reply, he peered at her more closely, concerned. “Are you all right, Missus Donnelly? I do apologize most sincerely if the experience has left you in any way troubled.”
“No, Mister Shew.” Grace found her voice but felt herself near tears for some reason she could not explain. “’Tis exhausting, though. I’d no idea ’twould be like this.”
“Actually”—he regarded her for a moment, a smile at the corners of his lips—“I have never experienced a sitting quite like this. I hardly know what to say, Missus Donnelly, except to thank you. I do believe we have created a masterpiece.”
“That will be your doing,” she said, beginning to relax. “You’re the artist, Mister Shew. I’m honored to be included in your work.”
He was still looking at her with a slightly dazed expression. “I took two,” he told her. “Two portraits. One of them, I will give to you with the portrait of your children. The other …” He paused. “The second one, I’d like to keep for myself. For my private collection. If you’ve no objection.”
“None,” Grace said immediately. “You’ve charged me nothing a’tall for this, and I know the value of your time and talent. I’d be pleased to know you have it.” She felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder and winced. “Could I stand up now, do you think? I’m getting a bit stiff.”
He jumped to his feet. “Oh, of course! Please,” he proffered a hand to assist her. “You must be more than ready to retrieve your children and go home.”
She nodded, feeling more than a little light-headed, and held fast to his arm as he escorted her to the front door, grateful for the fresh air that swept through the room when he opened it. She stuck her head out and was happy to see that Mary Kate and Jack sat dutifully on the bench, heads together over a bag of peppermints, feet swinging merrily. She turned back to her host and extended her hand.
“Thank you, Mister Shew,” she said warmly. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing them when you’ve done setting them up.”
He nodded but did not release her hand. He glanced up and down the sidewalk, then pulled he
r just inside the doorway.
“Missus Donnelly,” he began, his eyes searching hers. “Do you think you might accompany me to dinner one night? Delmonico’s is very fashionable; we could even hear a concert afterward—if that pleases you.”
Grace bit her lip, loath to admit even to herself that she was tempted.
“I do understand your situation,” he continued. “Wakefield has said you’ve formed an attachment but that the gentleman in question is currently away. If it is not a formal engagement, does that not leave you free to accept a social invitation?”
“I am free,” Grace allowed. “But, that said, I don’t think it would be right somehow.”
“I can promise that I will not press any case other than friendship. I would so much like to know you better.” He did not step any closer, but Grace felt the intimacy between them increase.
“Perhaps if there were others in our party,” Grace conceded. “Perhaps if the children came along, or even just Mary Kate. I’d be more agreeable to such an outing as that.”
Shew nodded, relieved, and kissed her hand before releasing her. “The theater, then,” he suggested. “Your daughter would enjoy that, I think, and I know I would enjoy attending with the two of you. I shall arrange it and send word to you at Wakefield’s.”
Grace’s smile was a little unsteady, unsure as she was whether or not she had just entered into something more than she should have. She said good-bye to him politely and left him standing in the doorway, watching as she collected her happy, sticky children and shepherded them down the street. She was distracted all the way home, and the children took full advantage, pausing in front of every window that interested them, darting to the corners ahead of her, surprised when she did not call them back. What had happened to her this morning? she asked herself, reliving each minute of her time in the studio. Why had it unsettled her so completely that she now felt unalterably changed? She looked around her at the city, at the sunlight reflected in a hundred windows, up at the gulls tossing overhead, down into the animated faces of citizens who hurried about their business, and then she realized what it was—suddenly, she did not feel old and tired, as if all her life lay behind, the future for her children alone; suddenly, she felt lovely again—truly lovely, desirable even, with every hope of a future to call her own.