angular features softened with affection as he looked at her through the small globes of his spectacles.
That evening an air of celebration accompanied the dinner of wild turkey. Rembrandt's wife Eleanor was known for her superb dinners, and this was no exception. With the maid assisting, the younger children ate in the kitchen, so there would be plenty of room at the main table. After all the family news had been exchanged, the conversation turned to Charles's stay in Washington City.
"I hope to paint the President," Charles said. "I shall certainly invite Mr. Calhoun to sit and John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay and some of the worthiest senators."
Anticipation sparkled in Rembrandt's eyes. "And Pa, there is talk that General Jackson may be called to Washington City."
Charles brightened. "Old Hickory's face is one I would dearly love to carry home. Though he's a man of blood and fire, I admire him."
"Yes," Anna said. "I was lucky enough to do a miniature of his wife while the General was busy. I remember how she spoke of him and how much she hoped that he would soon settle down to a quieter life in the Tennessee countryside."
Rembrandt shook his head. "He has not had much time for that. And his actions in the Seminole War are being debated in the Congress. Ah yes," Rembrandt sighed. "His portrait would enhance my collection here, might even bring up attendance."
Sarah looked from Rembrandt to Charles, expecting a question about how the museum was doing with the public, but Charles seemed preoccupied with his pie.
The next day they called on the Robinsons. Angelica, looking attractive and well-groomed, greeted Anna, Sarah and Hannah warmly. But when she came to her father, she threw her arms around him with such dammed-up affection she was transformed, looking years younger and childishly delighted. She sat close to Charles while her daughters Alverda and Charlotte played the piano. Alexander did not smile. His speech was courteous, but he made no pretense of affection, and the strain between him and Charles crack- led when Charles mentioned Rembrandt's museum, and Alexander grunted, turned his back and blew his nose.
Angelica ignored Alexander and asked to hear more. Alexander listened a few moments, but finally rapped his pipe sharply and repeatedly on the fireplace grate. Satisfied that his pipe was emptied of old tobacco, he intently filled it with a fresh mixture from the humidor on the mantel as he spoke. "Rembrandt's folly was in thinking that his amateurish exhibitionism could interest any but the lowest classes." He sneered, tamping down the tobacco. "But apparently Rembrandt will not learn until this museum has defeated him." Sarah's astonished gaze darted from Alexander's smug face to Angelica's helpless expression as she looked sadly at her father.
"And I can't imagine," Alexander continued, "why James wants to fill his daughters' pretty heads with this reprehensible commercial- ism." He looked over Anna's head at Charles.
"I see no reason why women cannot paint as well as any man," Charles answered, his face and neck turning a deep pink. "Anna's skill with miniatures is as fine as any man's and Sarah shows great promise."
"Promise," he said with a snort. "But can she bake a blackberry pie and handle servants?" Sarah rose to her feet. "I care nothing for blackberry pies, and we do not have slaves." She heard the ringing insolence of her tone in the silence that followed her words and saw shock on Angelica's face, as well as sharp disapproval on Alexander's. "I shall paint portraits for sale to the public," Sarah went on. "And I don't think that is in the least reprehensible."
"You are to be pitied, of course," Alexander said. "Now I hope you will excuse me, for I have taken all the time from business that I can afford to waste."
Chapter 4
In the third floor studio Rembrandt lectured Sarah on composition, stressing the need to make dozens of pencil sketches before beginning. Sarah listened politely, waiting for him to tell her something new. Ten minutes passed with Rembrandt speaking in a dull voice, hands clasped behind his back, words coming in jerky phrases with frequent pauses. He cleared his throat and seemed to be searching the ceiling for what to say next. Sarah hoped it was just beginning badly, that soon he would discuss something she hadn't heard before. His pause became a silence as his gaze extended into a dreamy stare.
"Why don't you show me the glazing techniques you showed Anna," Sarah suggested.
Rembrandt's head swung around. He seemed preoccupied, but went to a cupboard and brought back a box of materials. Sarah sat opposite him at the long narrow work table, her elbows propped on the tabletop, her chin rested on the heels of her hand. Rembrandt carefully spread out swatches of silk. Laying one piece over another, he demonstrated how the first color affected the next, and the next. When they had looked at dozens of combinations, Rembrandt swept the silk aside. "The effect is much richer using paint because you can vary the transparency and thickness of the layers over different parts of the painting." She already understood simple glazing, but now she would delve into the art of making rich lustrous depth. Rembrandt gave Sarah a painting to copy with many intricately glazed passages. This was more like it, Sarah thought. Here the colors did glow; even the black was alive and rich.
"You must be patient," he warned. "One layer must dry before the next can be applied. You can't hurry the process."
Sarah worked hard, but she was amazed at the time-consuming pains Rembrandt took to gain even a small effect: Nineteen layers of paint just to create a violet shadow under a sitter's chin. Oh dear, Sarah thought. Did she have the patience for that?
As the days passed Sarah thought about Anna in the capital, painting the great men in government. How much more exciting it must be there! Though she worked hard learning Rembrandt's techniques, she was tired of copying his work as she had copied Papa's.
One afternoon Rembrandt's oldest daughter Rosa came running into the studio looking flushed and happy. "What brings you all the way up to the third floor, Rosa?"
"A grand ball. The event of the season. And we are invited. Cousin Charlotte will be there, too. She's been awfully nice when I have seen her socially. Really a dear."
"So you like your Robinson cousins—even after everything?" Sarah asked.
"Why shouldn't I? None of the unpleasantness is Charlotte's fault. Mother says we shouldn't let Alexander poison our minds against Angelica and our cousins."
"And does your father agree?" Sarah asked, dipping her brush into a jar of mineral spirits and wiping it clean.
"Of course he does. He wants nothing but to mend the rift."
"Perhaps." Sarah said, raising her brows.
"What do you mean?" Rosa asked.
Sarah shrugged when she saw Rosa's defensive glare. "It's nothing, I suppose. But I overheard Raphaelle tell Papa that 'ever since that day Rembrandt has been determined to prove he could do it. He'll never rest until he does.'"
"Prove what?" Rosa asked.
Sarah shook her head. "Raphaelle wouldn't say, but it had some thing to do with this museum."
Rosa looked into Sarah's eyes. "Father doesn't like Alexander, but that's because he thinks himself so far above the Peales and treats Grandfather so shabbily."
"He's hateful," Sarah said. "Poor cousin Angelica."
"And he's stubborn," Rosa said. "Father tried to let Aunt Angelica know how highly he regarded her when he insisted on naming my sister after her. He even asked Angelica and Alexander to be her godparents. But they refused, sent a silver cup and a note saying they regretted not being able to be at the christening. Father still hopes Alexander will forget the past..."
"But what happened?" Sarah asked.
Rosa shrugged. "Whatever it was it happened long ago."
"True," Sarah sighed. "I'm glad I met Charlotte and Alverda. The ball sounds wonderful. Tell me all about it."
"Can't you put away your brushes for