Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 (5 page)

Max grinned. “You’d better hang on to her, Faye. With her courage and daring, she’d make you a good wife.”

“Don’t be silly,” Eileen said. “She’s rather an outgoing young lady.”

Caleb nodded. “Just what Faye needs.”

Later Eileen talked to Faye more about the woman, and he said, “Mother, I know this sounds foolish. I’ve never been in love before, but I think I might be in danger of it.”

“I’d be careful, son. She’s not a woman that would be easy to live with.”

“You mean I’d have to go to Madagascar or some wild place and shoot game?”

“I think her husband would have to be very active.”

“You don’t think I could do that?”

“You proved you could when you saved that child. When the courage was needed, it was there, but her kind of life wouldn’t suit your painting.”

That was about as long as the conversation lasted. Faye usually paid much attention to his mother’s counsel, but he paid no heed to this. He was thinking about the touch of Marlene’s lips as she pressed herself against him, the womanliness of her, and knew that he would see her again.

S
unlight shed its golden beams on the bedroom that Eileen shared with Caleb. She was sitting at a Louis XIV dressing table facing a large mirror and running a brush through her abundant auburn hair.

Most of the house had been influenced by Caleb’s taste, which consisted of massive, strong furniture and rather outlandish colors. But the bedroom had been designed specifically by Eileen, and she had had her way. Silks, satins, bonnets, and shoes were arranged in a large cabinet on her left, and the ribbons, laces, velvets, swags, tassels, ruffles, curlicues, fringes, and brocades dominated the rest of the room. Sometimes she felt she had overdone the bedroom as a protest against the stark, strong, masculine qualities of most of the rest of the house.

The room was furnished with delicate furniture, including a fainting couch, which Eileen had never used, along one wall. She had thought it rather amusing that anyone would have a fainting couch and had said once to a friend of hers who had just bought one, “It looks to me, Mary, if you were going to faint, you would just fall on the floor. If you have a special couch, it means somehow you have to get across the room, position yourself, and fall gracefully. I think if I faint, I’ll just fall over backward. Fainting couches seem rather strange and not at all what a woman needs.”

Caleb stood across the room finishing his dressing by slipping into a snuff brown coat, one of his favorites. He liked expensive clothing, but his taste was not the best in the world. Eileen had long ago given up trying to get the idea across to him that clothes should make the wearer look somewhat distinguished.

“What do you think about this affair that Faye is having with that woman, Eileen?”

Looking up quickly, Eileen saw that Caleb was studying her, a small smile on his lips. She recognized that this was the heavy-handed humor of which he was so capable. “I’m not sure it’s a good thing,” she replied then returned again to brushing her hair.

“Not a good thing?” Caleb exclaimed. He shrugged his heavy shoulders and cocked his head to one side, saying, “Well, she’s a wealthy woman. She’s got lots of spirit about her. I like that. Maybe some of it will rub off on Faye.”

“I don’t think so. Faye’s not the kind to be influenced by that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing? What do you have against her? She’s beautiful, and her father is a man after my own heart. Wades out in the jungle and fights snakes, lions, and who knows what.”

“I’m sure he does, dear, and I’m sure that the woman has courage to accompany him on those safaris and journeys into dangerous places, but I don’t think she’s a woman that Faye could be happy with.”

He came over and stood behind her and ran his heavy hand down her hair. “You know your hair is as beautiful today as it was the day I married you.”

The remark was so out of keeping with Caleb’s usual speeches that Eileen blinked. She felt tears come into her eyes, for she did not receive many of these compliments from Caleb. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “But as far as Marlene Jenson, she’s not a Christian woman.”

“How do you know that?”

“Why, I asked her. She didn’t make any bones about it.”

“Well, she may not be a Christian, but she’s dynamic and attractive and has money.”

Putting down her brush, Eileen rose and turned to face Caleb. She did not have many arguments with him, for although he never abused her in any way, his personality was so forceful that she was usually intimidated by him. “She’s an immoral woman, Caleb. Don’t you know that?”

“Well, I have heard that she’s had affairs.”

“She doesn’t make any attempt to cover up her past. And another thing that troubles me … she thinks Faye’s painting is just a hobby. That he needs real work.”

Caleb blinked with surprise. “Well, that’s exactly what I’ve always said, but you’ve never agreed with that.”

“No, I haven’t, Caleb.”

“But you must see a man can’t spend his life dabbing paint on canvas. He needs to step out, to take chances.”

“That’s the way your life has been, and Max and Leo are the same, and there is a need for men like that.”

“I should say so, and I’ve never ceased being amazed that you don’t see that Faye needs some of this in his makeup. You’ve made him into a helpless man, Eileen, but it’s not too late. This woman might change him. He could go on some of those trips with her and her father. It’d be a chance to do something great.”

Eileen sighed knowing that such conversation was pointless. She and Caleb had been going over this in one form or another for most of the twenty years of Faye’s life. She shook her head and said, “We’ve been over this again and again, Caleb. I’m not going to change. I see that Faye’s got a chance to do something … not heroic, perhaps, but that will bring beauty into the world. He can give pleasure to people.”

“You make him sound like an actor or an acrobat,” Caleb protested. “A man needs to fight in this world.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever agree, but I’m proud of Faye just as you are proud of Max and Leo. Come. Let’s go down to breakfast and not talk about this anymore.”

The gallery was crowded, and Faye took Marlene’s arm as they threaded their way through the mass of people that had come. The walls were full of art for sale. Faye was amused by some of Marlene’s comments. They had stopped before a large painting that looked simply like the artist had stood six feet away and thrown small containers of brilliant-colored paint at the canvas and let it run down.

She turned to him and said, “Do you call that art, Faye? It just looks like a mess to me.”

“It is a mess. You’ll find this kind of phony art just as you’ll find it in some books. They are phony books. They don’t do anything. You can train a chimpanzee to throw paint at a canvas, I suppose, but it wouldn’t be art.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so. Let’s find something we do like.”

They moved along through the gallery, Marlene firing questions at Faye, and he tried his best to give his theory of art. “You see, Marlene,” he said as they stood before a well-done painting of a fox hunt, “this painting doesn’t speak to everybody, but to wealthy people who believe, especially the English, it captured a slice of their lives. They could look at it when they got old, too old to ride, and remember it, and it would be a warm memory for them.”

“I can see that, but you don’t paint fox hunts.”

“I may. I’ve painted stranger things.”

“Like what?”

“Come along. I’ll show you.” He led her through the crowd, and they came to stand before a series of paintings.

Marlene opened her eyes widely. “This is certainly different.” The paintings were real-life representations of the poor sections of New York City. Marlene stared at one of the pictures, which was nothing more than a ragged young boy, obviously from the poorest section of society.

“Why would an artist want to paint that boy?” Marlene asked. “I don’t see the point in it.”

“Just look at him.”

She looked at the painting more clearly and saw that the young, ragged boy had a broad hilarious grin.

“Don’t you see the love of life twinkling in his eyes?” Faye asked, staring at the picture intently. “He’s poor, probably hungry, has been abused, and doesn’t have much of a future, but he has the joy of life about him. I think people need to see things like that.”

The two talked for a time about the picture and then moved on to others. In each case, in this particular group, the artist had chosen the poorest strata in American life, the sweatshops of New York. Faye and Marlene studied them, and finally they stopped before a painting of three women on a roof drying their hair.

Faye remarked, “I heard that President Roosevelt admired this painting, but he didn’t buy it.”

“I can see why. You can go on the rooftop of half of the tenement buildings in this city and see something just like it. It’s awful. Why emphasize it?”

“It’s a part of life, Marlene,” Faye said. There was a gentleness and a sorrow in his voice that obviously caught her attention.

“You really feel sorry for these people, don’t you?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

Marlene was uncomfortable. She had grown up in the midst of plenty, with everything she might need that money could buy, and had never really given much attention to the poorer people. They were there to serve her and were somehow in another world. “To be truthful, Faye, I’ve lived in a different sort of environment. I’ve never been around the poor, but I’m going to learn something.”

“What do you mean, Marlene?”

“There’s been a man who has been taking photographs of the poorer sections of the city just like these you see in the paintings. He’s starting a campaign to have the politicians pass legislation to help these poor people. As a matter of fact, I’d like for you to go with me to those neighborhoods.”

“We can go, but you’d better not wear those diamonds, and you’d better get a less flamboyant dress. You won’t get the right reactions dressed like the Queen of Sheba.”

“I will. We’ll go today.”

They arrived on Hester Street, one of the poorer sections of New York City, late in the afternoon. True to her word, Marlene had dressed modestly in the oldest dress she had and was not wearing any jewelry, and Faye had changed into some clothes he wore around the house when working, so they did not particularly stand out.

They stayed until the shadows were growing dark, talking to many of the residents of the neighborhood, but on their way out of the area, they were caught in what amounted to a miniature riot. Men, and some women, too, were fighting and screaming, some of them carrying clubs. Their enemy seemed to be the police and men from the upper reaches.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Faye.”

“Yes, this is getting grim.”

They started out but were caught when a man in ragged clothes carrying a short club suddenly appeared before them. He was swinging the club at anyone who moved, and the club grazed Marlene’s arm. She cried out, and Faye threw himself at the man, shoving him backward. He was immediately attacked by some of the others. Frantically he fought to free himself, grabbed Marlene, and the two managed to get out.

Faye hung his head, shaking it back and forth. “I wasn’t much good at keeping you safe, Marlene.”

“It’s not your game, Faye. Your brothers would have broken half a dozen heads, I suppose, and your father, too.”

“I wish it were my game.”

They did not speak again until they were clear of the crowd and had gotten into a carriage.

Marlene turned to him, took one of his hands in both of hers, and said, “We are what we are, Faye. We can’t change the really important things.”

It was a tender moment, and he saw a gentleness in her eyes that was not always there. Faye had never been good with words, especially with young women. He’d had no real experience. His closest approach had been in reading a few romance novels. He knew that sort of talk would not work, but he cleared his throat and said, “Marlene, I don’t know how to say this. I’m not good with words at a time like this.” He halted and saw she had turned to face him and was examining him with a strange stare, almost clinical. This discouraged him, but he went on and said, “I feel something for you, Marlene, that I’ve never felt for any other woman.”