Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction (14 page)

Chapter 22

W
ITH SOME DIFFICULTY,
Sanborn finally persuaded Mr. Prescottt to join in his “experiment” by allowing Rebecca to paint, in rare leisure hours, a few portraits. She had accepted Sanborn's offer of colors and materials. That would be for him a small sacrifice if the experiment worked. Since she did not require sittings, but only memory and accuracy of vision, the whole portrait project promised to run smoothly without trouble to anyone. From her sketch studies, as if to create her specimens that would arouse wider interest, the first portrait emerged.

As soon as he saw it, however, Sanborn was troubled. But he dared not say anything to discourage her at first. He would now have to steer her toward a different tack: the portraits, too, might remain secret, private. In fact, she had from the first seemed less interested in their vendibility than did the Prescotts. The problem was that she suspected, and he could not disagree, that her continued freedom to paint—the Prescott's indulgence—depended on some financial return and community interest.

He said nothing that day, while he considered carefully how to turn Rebecca away from public portraits. Moreover, other matters weighed his mind. While he closed out his land affairs and prepared to leave, he could not dismiss his fears for the Prescotts and Rebecca. There had been reports of skirmishes in other villages, not only to the north and west on the other side of the Merrimack River, but even to the east of them.

He decided that if he were to follow his considered judgment, he would try once more to persuade the Prescotts to allow Rebecca, at least, to return with him to Portsmouth until the immediate dangers subsided. With the Prescotts' agreement, surely the Brownes would be capable of understanding the danger she was in. He spent another two days arranging his affairs and then went to bed on the eve of his departure making plans and mentally rehearsing over and again his final appeal.

He was awakened just after midnight to a row below his window. He arose and looked out to see people, under the sputtering glare of torchlight, moving in the general direction of the Prescott house. He dressed and ran out into the street. By then there was a crowd milling in front of the Prescotts'. On his doorstop stood Tristram Prescott, in his nightcap, speaking forcefully over the noise of the crowd, which must have made up half the men and women of the village. He heard Rebecca's name. There was some jeering, but Prescott, his voice booming, stood his ground. He agreed to listen to three representatives that night and to hold a proper hearing the next afternoon.

“But only if the rest of you return like Christians to your beds,” he insisted.

Prescott stood there facing them without another word. There were mutterings and agitated gestures, but finally, in the face of his resolute silence, three leaders of the mob stepped forward and the others began slowly to disperse.

“What in the name of God is going on?” Sanborn asked a woman he recognized.

“It's that Rebecca,” she said, her face angry. “She's finally shown herself for the evil young woman she is.” She hurried away down the street with the others.

He was unable to gather any further information and spent a long wakeful night.

The next day, just before noon, Sanborn returned to the Prescott house. He knew he would not by then find Mr. Prescott there; his only plan was that he would be able to induce Mrs. Prescott to speak to him.

No one answered when he knocked on the door, however. He believed she was inside, and he became desperate not to be defeated or excluded so readily. He knocked louder. He called to her repeatedly: “Mrs. Prescott, please. It's Daniel Sanborn!”

Finally, the door opened a crack and the woman peeked out. “It is you,” she said.

“Of course, and I want to help. May I come in please?”

She hesitated but the door finally opened just wide enough to let him in.

“I can't think what's happened!” he said as he entered. “My good Mrs. Prescott, they were speaking of Rebecca last night, some horrible, confused accusations.”

“It was surely that!” she said. “It is a most horrible mess, Mr. Sanborn.”

“May we sit down, then,” he said, “and calm ourselves? Pray tell me what happened.”

She led him into the parlor and seemed only too willing now, as if she had wanted to unburden herself to someone.

“I'm afraid we've made a terrible mistake, Mr. Sanborn,” she began. “It's the portraits, the portraits she did, that caused the trouble.”

He feared he understood what she was telling him, but he was relieved to hear that she wasn't blaming him entirely for their decision to allow Rebecca some limited exercise of her gifts. “How is that so, madam?” She did not answer immediately. “I've seen sketches she did of townsfolk,” he prompted her. “They were well done.”

“The sketch studies must have been incomplete then.”

“Incomplete.”

“Indeed, let me show you something.” She got up out of her chair and went into the next room. She returned with a canvas, sat down, and then turned the face of the canvas to Sanborn. “This is the only one here, for safekeeping. The other three are in Mr. Prescott's possession; he has taken them to the hearing.”

He looked at the oil portrait, executed with the very colors he had given to Rebecca. It was a beautiful painting—beautiful but, as he feared it would be, disturbing. Indeed, he understood it all—the mob, the accusations, the hearing. It was foolish and vile and superstitious, but he understood it now. Still he let her talk.

“As you can see, Mr. Sanborn, it is no mere portrait.”

“I see, Mrs. Prescott. Neither is it some rude caricature. It is well executed; it is subtle, but unsettling, I expect, to the subject.”

“Precisely. And she did four of these. Without our knowledge, she had taken them about town to their subjects—there were no sitters, properly speaking—and as specimens to show others. She saw no harm in it; she expected, God help us, to profit by these paintings.”

“I see now,” he said. He searched for words. “Do you—how shall I put it?—see any truth in them, Mrs. Prescott?”

“Oh, they are true enough, in a sense,” she said, “but that's not the point, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

He did not know the subject of the painting, just as he had not known the subjects of the sketch studies. He did not doubt the accuracy of the image, but she had expressed what he took to be the character of the person, the deeper character, perhaps the very life the person would have kept hidden. It was not flattering, neither was it degrading; it was neither serious nor comic. It was simply “true” in a sense, most likely in a disturbing sense, as Mrs. Prescott had said. He saw in the proper woman depicted here a sullen selfishness hovering like dark light behind the very flesh of her acceptably pretty face.

“It is not the duty of the portraitist, Mr. Sanborn, to depict what the prospective client would not broadcast to the world,” she said. “Is that not so?”

“Of course, Mrs. Prescott. And if she has done the same with the other three—each character's secret life, so to speak, emerging from behind the face—I begin to see what the hubbub was about last night. I imagine those she has painted, and any who have seen the portraits, beyond not wishing to have themselves displayed (whether they believe she has found them out or not) are as greatly troubled by how a young woman such as Rebecca could plumb their secrets.”

“Some of these hardly knew her. They knew of her and saw her about, but did not know her very well.” She leaned the canvas against a nearby table leg.

“And so they cannot attribute her view of themselves to mere skill, whether she paints lies or truths? They search for something more to explain it?”

“I daresay they attribute some maleficence on her part.” She looked at him, her eyes wide with significance. “You saw them all last night. They have no other means of apprehending her powers. I must say I have no means of comprehending her, myself. But I do not attribute her ability, be it truth or falsehood she discovers, to any evil source or intent. The young woman, we now see, is simply too naive to paint, and to paint portraits above all.”

“Yes, Mrs. Prescott, for all her youthful wisdom she is, as you say, a sort of naïf.”

“Well, she's gotten herself into trouble by it this time.”

“Where is this hearing to take place?”

“It's taking place as we speak,” she said. “It is closed to all but those whose faces she painted, to Rebecca, Mr. Prescott, and two other proprietors, allies, Mr. Wiggin and Mr. Congreve. We may have to pay recompense, on her behalf, before we're through. I have come to love Rebecca as a daughter, but she does not seem to understand how she has betrayed our trust.”

“I expect she will understand better in the aftermath.”

“That may do no one any good.”

“I suppose the recent enthusiasm has not helped matters,” he suggested.

“It may well be the greatest source of our troubles, Mr. Sanborn.”

“Many were ripened to attribute what they do not comprehend to God or the devil?” He put it as a question. She did not answer. “And there's little doubt in their minds whose hand is behind this wizardry in the portraits?”

“It is a mystery they cannot otherwise endure,” she finally said. “They had, those who followed the New Light, recently come to believe themselves regenerate. It's as if some mocking presence has come to deny them their renewed belief, their turning to accept God's grace. Each of the portraits happened to be among the many who counted themselves among the reborn. I don't think Rebecca intended this. But these people, perhaps a third of the village, had gone so far already as to threaten to establish a new parish.”

He looked at the portrait again. It was as if the painting vibrated with the unsettling implications of the woman's physiognomy.

“I will take her back to Portsmouth with me,” he said.

“I don't think it will be that easy. And Mr. Prescott, if he can contain them, will have to appease them as well.”

He rose to leave. “And this hearing, where is it being held?”

“In the blockhouse,” she offered, after hesitating. “But you will not gain admittance.”

He took his leave of her and headed for the blockhouse. Not that he expected admittance. He only wanted to be nearby when they finished, when Mr. Prescott came out.

Within an hour everyone but Mr. Prescott and Rebecca had come out, so Sanborn waited still. Finally, Prescott emerged alone.

“Mr. Prescott,” Sanborn said, “I've just spoken with your wife. I see what has happened here. I am sorry for anything I might have done to lead to such a misunderstanding.”

“It is regrettable, Sanborn. Very regrettable. We all seem to have gone against our better judgment.”

“And Rebecca, where is she now?”

“She will remain in the blockhouse. At least as long as is required to settle this matter. She has a comfortable room there.”

“Is she . . . indicted then, in some way? Is she to be found guilty of some transgression? I think, rather, sir, she is merely naive.”

“That she is, Sanborn. No. She is not being brought to any sort of trial. But let me assure you of something.” He looked about inconspicuously, as if to make sure no one was within hearing. “The young woman is not free of danger even yet. If we lock her in the blockhouse, under guard, whose trust I have completely, she will be far safer than if she is allowed anything approaching her former freedom. You can't tell what some people will do once they get worked up like this. And I can't possibly put Mrs. Prescott and my family to the trouble and anxiety it would cause to have her locked away at home.”

“For how long is this incarceration to continue?”

“For as long as it takes for people to calm down and come to their senses. I don't expect it will last beyond a week or two. The flame of this frenzy, I trust, will not burn for long.”

“That's a long time to be locked in a room.”

“It is, but there is nothing to be done. She's fortunate that we were able to calm the waters as much as we have. The general understanding abroad is that she is being punished and interrogated further as to the source of her effrontery. I think in a week or two we shall be able to quietly introduce her back into her home and keep her out of the sight of others.”

“Then, sir, you must see that if she were to return with me to Portsmouth, and were introduced back into the Browne manse, she would be better served.”

“Would they welcome her after this? It cannot be kept from them forever.”

“But if these people were to break in somehow and take her away for their own purposes. . . . Well, there is, as you say, no telling what they might do. Last night I was ready to believe they would have put their torches to her skirts had she come into their hands. As you yourself suggest, they are a superstitious lot, and dangerously superstitious now.”

“Believe me, sir, she's safer where she is than anywhere else within miles. I've seen to it. Don't forget that I'm responsible for her.”

He was unable to persuade Prescott to allow him to slip away with Rebecca back to Portsmouth. He himself, of course, could not now leave for Portsmouth. He would have to stay on to see this through. But what was he to do? If he could get her to Portsmouth right away and introduce her back into the Browne family under the widely accepted argument of the general insecurity of the frontier, she would be well ensconced there before any word of last night's debacle came to them.

All he could think of was somehow getting Rebecca into his own hands and fleeing with her. The problem was how to get hold of her. He planned incessantly, but Fortune was making her own plans.

F
ORTUNE ARRIVED
in the guise of Captain Carlyle, his two great dogs, and a half-dozen men of his scout who came roaring into town the next morning just after dawn, calling the townsfolk to arms. Everyone was suddenly out of doors and armed and scrambling toward the garrison and the blockhouse. Women and children were hauling provisions, while men carried powder, muskets, pistols, swords, and any farm implements that might serve as weapons in a desperate moment.