with him."
"You? Don't tell me you're another Peale with surprising talents."
"Very well, I won't tell you." She smiled.
"Can I get you some punch, Miss Peale?"
She took his arm. "Call me Sarah." Jane was still watching, but Sarah pretended not to notice. She liked this Ben Blakely. And as long as he wanted to talk to her, Jane could wait.
Sarah sipped her punch, hoping Ben thought she was accomplished in something besides sneezing. "If you're interested in music, Ben," she said as serenely as possible, "do come to the Museum for our Tuesday singing program. You might find it amusing. Rubens will be there."
"What about you, Sarah? Will you be there, too?"
She hesitated. "I often am."
"I'll be disappointed if you're not there Tuesday next."
She laughed and asked Ben what he thought of the new music of Beethoven. Ben did not even look at Jane after that.
During the next week, Sarah focused on the coming journey to Baltimore. It promised to be almost as interesting as Washington. She was still envious of Anna's good fortune--envious, but glad for Anna. She had earned her chance. Sarah was as aware of that as anyone. The trouble was that by the time she herself deserved such an opportunity, Uncle Charles would be too old to travel much. But she promised herself she wouldn't brood. Baltimore would be wonderful enough. She admired Rembrandt's portraits and would work hard. It should be fun, too. Rembrandt's daughters were about her age and popular in society.
And Baltimore held other curiosities. If she listened and observed carefully, maybe she would discover for herself just how serious the feud was between the Robinsons and the Peales.
All Sarah knew about it was that soon after Charles's oldest daughter Angelica married Alexander Robinson, he made it quite clear he thought Uncle Charles's habits were a disgrace. Exhibiting and selling portraits was bad enough, but to establish a museum and sell tickets to the public to see a collection of worthless junk was more than Alexander Robinson's gentlemanly soul could tolerate, especially in a father-in-law. When he could not persuade Charles to stop such plebeian activities, he took Angelica to Baltimore and kept her there.
Soon after that something happened between Alexander and the family. Sarah had asked for the details, but was told by her father and cousin Raphaelle she was too curious to be told. However, she suspected that Raphaelle was involved. She was determined that while she was in Baltimore she would find out all about the Robinson feud.
Her thoughts kept her awake. She tried to sleep but only became more restless. Though it was late, she crept out of her bed, tiptoed to the hall and quietly opened Anna's bedroom door. Silently she glided across the room and stopped at the edge of Anna's bed, hoping she'd be awake. Anna sat up, stifling a startled gasp. "Sarah, you frightened me, sneaking in like a ghost from the grave."
"Have you been thinking about Washington?"
"A little," Anna said, "just before I dozed off."
"Are you packing party dresses?"
"I should say so. Uncle Charles will get invitations and I want to be ready if I'm included."
"You will be," Sarah said.
"Can I get under the covers?" Sarah said. "The floor is cold."
Anna moved to one edge of the bed and Sarah slid in beside her and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "Oh Anna, aren't we lucky?"
"Mmm, indeed we are. But I shudder to think of painting senators—maybe even the President. I doubt if I'll be able to hold my brush still if and when it comes to that."
"A nose is a nose whether it's a president's or a pickpocket's," Sarah said. "Raphaelle said when he paints a nose he thinks of it as a strawberry on a plate."
Anna laughed. "Raphaelle shouldn't say things like that. He doesn't take himself seriously."
"Oh, I think he does," Sarah whispered back. "Didn't you ever notice his eyes just before he makes a Joke? The joke is for him. If you care too much, he says, you make a mess of things."
"His pranks can be embarrassing."
''He's always kind to me, Anna. Of all Uncle Charles sons, Raphaelle is the kindest, the most gentle, the most talented and the most misunderstood. If I were Patty, I'd be a good wife to him, and maybe he wouldn't have to play so many jokes."
"If you were Patty," Anna said, "you'd have to worry about feeding the children and the boarders. You'd want Raphaelle to paint pictures that people will buy."
Sarah shrugged. "I wonder if I'll see cousin Angelica Robinson when I am in Baltimore."
"Sure, we'll see her. Uncle Charles won't let Alexander Robinson intimidate him."
"I hope not," Sarah said. "I'd like to see for myself how Alexander acts."
"I hope he's busy with his business interests when we call," Anna said. "I don't like rudeness."
"If he's rude, we'll be rude right back."
"We'll do no such thing," Anna said. "We'll mind our manners no matter what. Besides, soon enough you'll be busy with your lessons and I'll be off for Washington City."
"I shall like being in Baltimore with cousin Rembrandt," Sarah said, "but my heart will be with you in Washington City."
"You'll be very lucky to study with Rembrandt. He's one of the best artists in the country now."
"Not better than Uncle Charles. Not better than Papa. And what about Stuart and Trumbull?"
"What Rembrandt can teach you, none of the others could, not even Father. And Rembrandt has a fervor you can't resist. I improved tremendously while I was painting in his studio. And I painted a few important ladies."
Sarah yawned and wondered if she should pack her party gown and slippers. Then she thought of Benjamin Blakely, imagining his face, his blue eyes looking serious one minute, dancing with fun the next. After she saw him twice at the Tuesday singing programs, he had asked if he could see her again. She said yes and tossed it off as though she didn't really care. But she liked him and hoped she would see him again. They would be gone so long though; he might forget all about her by the time she got back.
Chapter 2
The evening was stormy. Pain forced Raphaelle to use crutches to get to the Museum. "If you earned enough money," his wife Patty muttered before he left the house, "you could afford a horse and buggy, and you wouldn't have to go trudging out in all weathers." He nodded and pulled his cap down over his ears.
Turning the corner of Chestnut Street, the wind and rain assailed him. He wanted to stop at the tavern for a whiskey to ease the pain in his gouty legs. He wanted a glass of whiskey the way a man wants to scratch where he itches. His mouth salivated, not for the taste, but because whiskey could bring oblivion, a veil to throw over the plain truth about him, drown his past failures, bring pleasure to the present, and obliterate the future altogether. Too bad it only made matters worse with his father. He used to see approval in Pa's eyes. If he ever wanted to see it again, he must not even think of whiskey. He promised Pa.
Stopping inside the State House doors, he breathed the warm humid air and began to climb the steps. At the third step pain became excruciating. He paused on the landing, sweating from the effort, leaning hard on his crutches. Pain shot from his shoulder to his hand while a greater pulsing hurt enveloped his foot as he moved it upon the step. He winced and willed himself up the stairs, pausing again and again.
"Didn't get too wet, I hope." Moses Williams, the museum assistant, greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. The ex-slave's friendly smile usually cheered him. The orderly environment of the Museum usually quieted his nerves. Here was the temple he and his father and brothers had labored