to the hem of her blue lace dress. Charles smiled. "We were all glad to see General Jackson cleared in Congress."
"Yes, it did him a world of good. And I believe he will pass through Philadelphia soon on his way to New York."
"Yes, I know," Charles said. "He visited Baltimore. My son Rembrandt was commissioned by the mayor of Baltimore to paint his portrait." As Charles talked, Sarah looked up and saw Raphaelle coming toward them.
"Rembrandt is painting Jackson?" Raphaelle said. "How fortunate!”
"Yes," Charles answered. "Rembrandt wrote that he was getting a good likeness. Everyone who'd seen it said it was his best painting yet."
"General Jackson is that kind of a subject," Richard said.
"I believe it," Raphaelle said. "I've seen the portraits Father and Anna took of him. He looks like a man who could be driven by some God of Glory to most noble heights. I envy such a man.""He is worth our envy," Richard replied.
Raphaelle's eyes glittered, and Charles looked at him askance. But Sarah laughed gaily and, to divert Charles, suggested that Richard would love to see Uncle Charles's marvelous farm at Belfield. "You have never seen lovelier gardens, I promise you," she said. Charles beamed and launched into a discussion of his gardens. Sarah excused herself and went to Titian's side.
"I'd love to be going with you," Tom Sully said to Titian. "But painting porcupine in the brush is not for me."
"It seems a dangerous thing," Sarah interjected, "to capture the likeness of a wild grizzly bear or whatever else roams the west. I think you will come back to us a genuine hero."
"This is to be a scientific expedition," Titian protested. "We will gather samples and take notes. It should be valuable to the Government, but we're not going to be doing anything heroic."
"We'll see," she said. "But come, the music will begin soon." Sarah, holding Titian's arm, led him away. She would walk him past the specimen cabinet with Raphaelle's butterfly on top. She felt a need to get the whole business over and done.
Tom Sully walked beside them. "It will seem lonely around here without you. I know Rubens will be here, but he's all business and I did so enjoy our strolls and..."
"Good Lord!" Titian stopped, stared at the painted butterfly for a second. "Damn! Look at that specimen left out. And they're so fragile."
He sputtered and reached for the collector's pin. "If Rubens is going to allow this kind of thing..." Then as he had been about to lift it, he stared at the butterfly with a look of astonishment. "Couldn't be," he muttered. "Too heavy. Good Lord!"
People were watching. Sarah saw Raphaelle standing a few feet away, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with delight. As she watched him, he burst into laughter. Titian waved the painted butterfly in the air and looked at Raphaelle. "It was you," he shouted. "A beastly trick!" Then he smiled. "It gave me quite a start!"
People laughed and wanted to see. Tom Sully took the butterfly from Titian and admired it. It was passed around, everyone commenting on how lifelike it looked and how the background exactly duplicated the wood of the cabinet. Raphaelle glowed with satisfaction.
Charles put his thin hand on Raphaelle's arm and shook his head. "Don't you ever tire of making Jokes?"
"Tire of it? I should hope not, Pa. It was a good lesson for Titian. Never jump to conclusions. It's a thought to fortify him through the long excursion."
Charles took up the painted butterfly and turned to Raphaelle. "This much effort could have been turned to something more worthy."
"Perhaps. Maybe I shall paint General Jackson," Raphaelle retorted, "but I doubt that it would do at all. I have no skills in hero worship. I yearn for exactness, truth as it were.
A butterfly is as true as his markings. A man as true as his warts and wrinkles. But of course, heroes don't have
Inviting Ben had proved more fortunate than Sarah expected. Raphaelle forgot his own grievances while he entertained Ben with stories. In this quiet room, Ben's voice had a calming effect. It was as though he would take care of everything, and she wouldn't have to worry any more. Ben offered Raphaelle a ride home. "Won't you let Sarah and me take you home on our way?"
Raphaelle accepted. Sarah told Rubens they were leaving, and she and Ben helped Raphaelle down the stairs. The night air was cool. Sarah pulled the hood of her cape over her head, and the three of them sat close together in Ben's carriage. Raphaelle fell silent as they rolled away from the Museum. The sound of the horse's hoofs clattering rhythmically against the pavement and the creak of the buggy wheels broke the night's silence. Sarah remembered now how Ben had looked at her across the room earlier.
"Thank you," Raphaelle said as the carriage stopped at his house. "I know I should say more, but I'm not myself tonight. Good night.'
The carriage proceeded up the hill away from Raphaelle's house and Sarah became aware of the steady sound of the horses' hoofs clopping over the cobblestones. The lavender smell of her handkerchief wafted around them. She stared at Ben's hands holding the reins firmly, at the angle of his knees as he sat. He glanced at her and smiled.
She knew he wanted to kiss her, and certainly he had waited long enough. She had dodged it until now—not because she hadn't been kissed seriously before. She had, enough times to know it would be either pleasant or unpleasant. She had guessed for weeks now that kissing Ben would be quite nice. She would have to be very unobservant not to notice how often he happened to touch her shoulders, arms and hands. But she had to be careful. She could like his kisses too much. Every time she'd been on the verge of making it easy for him, she thought about the dangers and the more she thought about that, the more determined she was to wait a bit.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
She shook her head, but he edged closer and took her hand. They looked at each other as they passed under a streetlamp. His mouth trembled. When the carriage moved into a shadow, quite suddenly he drew her closer and kissed her.
She was unprepared for the fervor, the strength of his arms, for his unrelenting pressure of his hungry mouth. Nor was she prepared for her own strong response. He held her until she was breathless and lightheaded. Her impulse was to yield, to test this excitement that pulsed through her.
"I couldn't help it," he whispered.
"Don't apologize." She laughed. "I'm not going to pretend I didn't like it."
"Sarah!" He drew her close again, but she resisted. "Wait, Ben, I must warn you, it won't lead any farther."
He leaned his head back. "Surely you don't think I would trifle with you?"
She ran her index finger down the front of his shirt, avoiding his gaze. "I've heard that one thing leads to the next. I just want to be honest with you. I don't plan to marry for many years. I plan to be a portrait painter."
"How kind of you to warn me," he said, and kissed her again until she felt it down to her toes.
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