Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist. Joan Ph.D. King

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.