Second Chance Love

I have no right to think of such things. I came to protect her, to lend a hand in practical matters, as any decent male relative should.

When they reached the front door, Elizabeth asked about his sister. “Has Clara recovered? Is the baby strong?”

Trudy had asked the exact same question at dinner. Elizabeth must not have been listening. “Yes,” he replied once more. “Both mother and son are doing well.”

She tried her best to smile. It wasn’t a very convincing one. “I am pleased to hear that. I imagine that is a great comfort to your family. What did they name him?”

David swallowed hard. “Jeremiah.”

Immediately her eyes clouded, and it was only then that she asked about the burial. David delicately told her the details. Her chin quivered when she learned the band had played his favorite hymn.

“‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’” she whispered.

“Yes.”

He was hesitant to give her what he’d been carrying in his vest pocket, uncertain how she would respond, but taking a chance, he withdrew the handkerchief. A ragged gasp escaped her throat when he unfolded it and revealed the lock of his brother’s hair.

He stumbled through his words. “I thought you would like to have it...perhaps for...a...piece of jewelry...”

Brooches and pins made from a loved one’s hair were common art forms where he came from. David suspected the trend was practiced here in Baltimore, as well, for Elizabeth quickly accepted what he had offered, pressing the handkerchief to her heart.

“I never asked him for a lock of his hair because I did not want to think that something terrible could happen. And yet...”

Tears squeezed past her eyelids. David ached to hold her, but he didn’t dare. He knew no matter what repairs he made to her home, he’d never be able to repair the damage to her heart.

“Elizabeth, I’m sorry—”

She looked up at him with those sorrow-filled eyes. “It is I who owe you an apology,” she said. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did at the funeral. It was wrong. Please, forgive me. It’s just... I miss him so much...”

“I know you do.” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “And you need not apologize. You were to be his bride. You’ve done nothing for which you need feel ashamed.” Elizabeth now stared at the floor.

“I should have asked this from the beginning,” he said. “I want to be of assistance to your family, but in doing so, I want to respect your wishes. Please, answer my question honestly. Does my presence trouble you? Would you rather I keep my distance?”

She was still clutching the handkerchief to her heart, only now with both hands. David couldn’t help but notice the engagement ring she still wore on her finger. He braced himself for the rejection that was surely coming.

“No,” she said finally, looking up. “I appreciate what you are trying to do. It’s just...you remind me so much of him.”

He knew she meant that as the dearest of compliments, but the words were still hard to take. He picked up his hat. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow,” he managed, and with that he turned for the door.

* * *

Elizabeth stood in the foyer for a few moments after David had gone, still holding the handkerchief close. It smelled like peppermint drops. She was not surprised, for David always kept the candy in his pockets. Elizabeth had often seen him munching on them at the hospital.

Words could not express what his gesture and the acceptance of her apology meant to her. She would indeed have Jeremiah’s hair made into a memorial brooch as soon as she could afford to do so.

She turned for the kitchen. Although Elizabeth would rather seek solitude, there were dishes to be washed, and she did not want the burden to fall to her mother and sister yet again. But being the expedient workers they were, the task was already complete by the time she stepped into the room.

Did I really spend that long conversing with David? It didn’t seem so. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she quickly said. “I’d intended to help.”

Her mother smiled at her, as did Trudy. “Oh, Beth, you have already been a help,” she said. “I am so thankful that you invited David to join us. I’m certain he appreciated that greatly. Did you see how his face lit up when you did so?”

“I did.” But the look hadn’t lasted long. The moment they were alone, his troubled expression had returned. She understood. Her heart was just as heavy. She showed them the handkerchief with its precious contents.

“That was very thoughtful of him,” her mother said.

“Indeed,” Trudy said, laying aside her dish towel and reaching for the lamp. “I shall enjoy having him about. I hope he will come often.”

Elizabeth then thought of something she had not before. “Mother, I am sorry, I did not even think of the hardship this may bring. The extra food to prepare, the extra expense...”

Jane Martin kissed her daughter’s forehead, like she had often done when Elizabeth was a child. “We will make do,” she said. “I, like Trudy, shall enjoy having him about.”

Elizabeth wished she could feel the same, but she didn’t. There wasn’t anything she enjoyed these days. Life was not something to be celebrated; it was something to be endured.

“Come, join us in the parlor, Beth,” Trudy then insisted. “I’m going to play a few hymns. Your voice would benefit my playing greatly.”

But Elizabeth told them she didn’t feel much like singing. Instead she went to her father’s library. Her sketchbook was lying on the desk, and although she had not touched it in weeks, tonight for some reason she felt a pull toward it. Picking it up, she claimed a nearby chair. Her father had given her the book when she was sixteen, shortly after visiting a gallery showing in New York.

As a child Elizabeth had always been interested in art, and when she became older, her interest grew. She had been so taken with the works of Thomas Doughty and others from the Hudson River School that she wished to copy the quiet, serene landscapes they had painted. She’d spent hours trying to emulate what she had seen, views so lifelike that one could almost expect to step right into them. There was nothing, however, even remotely realistic about her landscapes. Still, her father had encouraged her to continue.

“You’re a talented young lady, Beth, but perhaps landscapes aren’t your strong suit. Why don’t you try something like those sketches you see in the paper?”

She’d been intrigued by the suggestion, and so her father saved the newspapers. Elizabeth made careful study of the sketch artists’ lines, their use of perspective and shading. She’d copied drawing after drawing, everything from the local politicians’ portraits to the political cartoons poking fun at then President Buchanan.

Her work had improved, and soon she was capturing everyday life in the household.

She fingered through the drawings of her father, her mother, of Trudy and George. Our life was so happy then, she thought.

Turning from those early efforts she came to the more recent pages, ones she’d done from memory, or from her imagination. There were numerous sketches of George marching along some distant battlefield. There were soldiers from the hospital, as well, the ones that haunted her dreams. The drawings had been her offerings to God, prayers of a sort when her mind was too troubled to formulate words.

Then she turned to the final sketch, the one she’d desperately poured out just before David had come to fetch her the night Jeremiah died.

Dark wavy hair, that clean-shaven chin, the dimples when he smiled...

When she’d first met Jeremiah she hadn’t known she would fall in love with him. Back then he was simply David’s brother, just another steward she occasionally worked alongside. She’d had no idea he had taken notice of her until after she had left the hospital.

One day in late October, her church had held an afternoon tea. The event was an opportunity for courting couples, and those who soon hoped to be such, to spend time with one another while properly chaperoned. Since neither she nor her sister had been presently interested in any particular beau, they’d agreed to serve the tea.

Jeremiah had attended the event along with a few other Northern soldiers who had managed a day’s liberty. Most of the men had socialized with the unattached Baltimore belles seated at the tables, but Jeremiah had made no effort to do so. He’d simply stood quietly against the wall, drinking his tea. Repeatedly he’d approached Elizabeth asking for more. By the fourth cup she’d suspected he had taken an interest in her, but with little more than a thank you, Miss Martin each time he departed, he’d obviously lacked the courage to make his intentions known.

She’d found his persistence, however bashful, absolutely charming.

By the fifth time he’d come to the table, it was all she could do to keep her smile in check.

“More tea, Private Wainwright?” she’d asked.

“No,” he’d then said. “In all honesty, I have never really cared for it.”

She’d blinked. “You certainly gave a good impression up until now.”

A pair of dimples, along with the most handsome smile she had ever seen, emerged. “A good impression is exactly what I hoped to give.”

Elizabeth had burst into laughter, and he did, also.

Sorrow sliced her soul as she remembered the scene. She ran her fingers over the paper. Oh, how she longed to touch him, to hear his voice, feel his arms tighten around her. Now all that I have is this portrait and a lock of his hair.

Her stomach rolled. Knowing she was about to be sick, Elizabeth laid aside the sketchbook and ran for her room.

* * *

Although David’s assignment was simple, it was a struggle to complete his article on the provost marshal. It wasn’t because he couldn’t read the notes Peter Carpenter had given him or turn words into sentences. It was because thoughts of Elizabeth kept invading. The task took much longer than it should have, but he somehow managed to pen the necessary lines and even catch a few hours of sleep before meeting his editor the following morning.

“Well, you’re punctual,” the man said. “I’m pleased to see that.”

David appreciated the remark, but he hoped Peter Carpenter would be pleased with more than just his management of time. He held his breath as the man perused his work.

“Fine, fine,” Carpenter said, and he laid it aside. “I’ve got another assignment for you. I’m certain by now you’ve heard that the people of Maryland will soon decide whether or not they wish to end slavery.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, which had taken affect well over a year ago, had not freed slaves in the border states. Since that time Maryland abolitionists had been pressing the politicians to rectify that. The present state constitution insisted slavery would exist for all time. Having just won elections in the fall, a new crop of legislators promised to write a revised governing document if the people of the state so wished. The vote was to take place in early April. If enough of the population voted to outlaw slavery, the legislators promised to see it done.

“I want you to cover what’s happening with that,” Peter said. “Talk to the newly elected delegates here in Baltimore. If we can manage it, I’ll send you to the statehouse in Annapolis.”

Covering a story from the statehouse! David’s excitement perked. That was a far cry from fetching coffee and sandwiches in Boston. “Thank you, sir. I would like that.”

Carpenter nodded. “In addition,” he then said, “I want a series of articles showing the thoughts of the voters, the opinions of both sides. Tell me, who are the faces of slavery? Who are the owners? Who are the slaves? How will the proposed changes impact this state, morally and economically?”

The opinions of slaves? David liked that idea, but he wasn’t so certain he’d find many willing or able to sit down for an interview. He mentioned his concern.

“No. No. Of course not. That’s not what I’m getting at,” his editor said. “You are not a Maryland man, therefore you have an outsider’s perspective. Write what you observe day to day. If people will talk to you, then by all means...” Carpenter paused, squinted shrewdly. “I don’t know where you stand on this issue...”

David was honest. “I oppose slavery, sir.”

His editor offered a curt nod. “Well, to make no bones about it, I hope it’s outlawed once and for all.” Leaning forward in his chair, he then pointed his finger at his newest reporter. “But I’m not running some two-bit press backed by rich, anonymous abolitionists from up north. Don’t editorialize this. Your job is to tell the facts. Let the readers decide for themselves how they will vote.”

“Yes, sir.”

Even with the man’s stern warning, David could barely contain his excitement. This was exactly the kind of writing he wished to do. He wanted to report on issues that would make people think, cause them to look at life from another’s perspective. He hoped to challenge readers not only to become better citizens of this nation but of the Heavenly one, as well.

Carpenter shuffled the stack of papers on his desk as though searching for something. David waited to see if there was something else.

“You don’t sketch, do you?” the man asked.

“Sketch? No, sir.”

“Pity. That would really add to your series. At present, though, I can’t spare you an artist.”

David kept his grin in check. That’s because we haven’t got one, he thought. Anyone worth his salt is at the Sun.

Still shuffling through his littered desk, his editor gave him a time line, then waved him away. “Any question or concerns, see me immediately.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Carpenter’s motion stilled as he then looked up. “And it’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he said. “You can drop that sir business. You’re not in the army anymore.”

“I apologize. Old habits are hard to break.”

“Well, see that you break that one.”

“Yes—” David caught himself. “I’ll do that.”

Carpenter eyed him for a moment, then went back to his work.

When David left the office that afternoon he could hardly wait to tackle “The Faces of Slavery” assignment. But there was another assignment now to be completed. With a sigh and a prayer, he went to visit Elizabeth.

* * *

Elizabeth turned the dirt in the backyard. The ground was still a bit muddy, but it was time to get in the lettuce and other spring vegetables. She chopped the shriveled remains of what she had planted last fall. It felt good to work, to unleash some of the pent-up energy she’d been carrying, but once spent, there was left a void.

She was determined to shake off the black cloud hovering around her, to not let it keep her from completing her task. I will accomplish this. I told Trudy I would. The garden has to be planted. At the rate the money is draining, we will need it.

She continued on, hoeing, scattering seeds, patting down the dirt. The job took quite some time, but that was not an inconvenience. In fact, she welcomed it. It gave her a good excuse for not attending the sewing circle. Trudy had been asking her for weeks now, but Elizabeth just couldn’t bring herself to go.

Every Friday for as long as she could remember, her neighborhood friends had gathered for tea and needlework in each other’s homes. Currently they were meeting in Julia’s home. The group was always busy with one project or another. At the beginning of the war they had knitted socks for their brothers’ regiment, then later crafted more when many of those same men became wounded prisoners.

But did any of our efforts accomplish anything? All the socks, all the prayers... Most of those men have died. Elizabeth sighed. Her seeds now buried, she tossed her hoe aside and stared Heavenward. Thick, gray clouds were gathering. She couldn’t tell if the rolling late-March sky held the promise of spring’s gentle rain or a return to winter’s chill. After taking her tools to the lean-to, she headed for the house. She peeled off her muddy shoes and soiled pinner apron at the back door, then went into the kitchen to wash her hands. Her mother was standing at the table, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.

“Thank you for getting the seeds in, Beth. It will be so good to have fresh greens again.”

“I apologize for not getting them in sooner.”

“You have done it today. That’s all that matters.”

Elizabeth appreciated her mother’s kind understanding. “I planted more rows than last year,” she said.

“That was probably wise. I suppose with David now joining us, we will need them.”

The unmistakable sound of hammering then filled Elizabeth’s ears. “He is here already?”

“Yes. He arrived just a little while ago. I tried to get him to sit for a spell, being as he’d just put in his first full day at the newspaper, but he was insistent upon getting to work.”

Elizabeth was not surprised. It was his nature to put duty above pleasure. Jeremiah had been the same way. But whereas David always conducted his duties in a most serious fashion, Jeremiah had found humor in everything.

The hammering continued. “Bless his heart,” her mother said. “He has already oiled all the first-floor hinges and seen to the loose molding in the dining room. He must have found more in the library.” She poured a glass of the lemonade. “Will you take this to him? I am certain he must be thirsty.”

“Yes, of course,” she said with more eagerness than she actually felt. As she started for the library, her mother called after her.

“And invite him to attend church with us on Sunday.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth knew the invitation was an effort not only to bring David into their particular fold but to lure her, as well. She hadn’t attended church since Jeremiah’s passing. After what had happened at the funeral, she could not face her fellow congregants. She still could not get through an hour without crying. She knew she’d never be able to last an entire service, especially with David beside her.

I could barely manage supper time.

As she walked toward the library, she mentally prepared to face him. I’ll give him the lemonade. I will invite him to attend church with Mother and Trudy, then I will leave. I will not focus on the family resemblance. I will not cry.

The hammering had stopped. The moment she crossed the library threshold she discovered why. David was seated in the chair that she had occupied last evening. In his hands was the sketchbook. She hadn’t remembered leaving it there until now.

Panic seized her. “Please, don’t look at that!”

Startled, he immediately stood. “It was lying on the chair,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I...couldn’t resist.”

Elizabeth quickly handed him the glass of lemonade, and he passed the book to her. He’d been studying the picture of Jeremiah. She pulled the portrait close, hiding it from view.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” he said.

“It’s not something I share.”

“You should. You have talent. You captured him perfectly.”

His compliment surprised her. David wasn’t one to offer gentlemanly flattery. He had always been a man of few words, but that was because he weighed them so carefully. Elizabeth slowly lowered the sketchbook, staring down at the picture. He stepped a little closer.

“My guess is that’s a Hahpuh’s Weekly in his hands.”

“Yes.”

“My brother wouldn’t read anything else.” He offered her a smile. Elizabeth tried her best not to think of Jeremiah’s handsome dimples, but she was certain David had a matching pair beneath his mustache and chin whiskers. Her throat tightened.

“Mother wishes to invite you to attend Sunday services,” she announced.

“Oh? Well, thank you. I would be pleased to attend services with you.”

“Not with me,” she quickly corrected. “With Mother and Trudy.”

The sentence hung in the air for several seconds.

“Oh,” David said finally, looking somewhat disappointed. He took a swallow of the lemonade. For whatever reason, Elizabeth just stood there, sketchbook once again pressed to her chest. After another moment of awkward silence, he told her about his newest assignment.

“My editor wants me to do a series of articles on the slave vote.”

Her stomach immediately knotted. She knew he and Jeremiah had strong convictions concerning the subject of slavery. Their father was a well-respected Boston minister who preached against the institution repeatedly. What would he and his family think if—? She pushed the thought aside and tried to focus on what David was saying.

“Peter wishes for me to tell all sides of the story. Even that of a slave’s perspective. I can hardly wait to do so. It could be an opportunity to influence the future for good.” His excitement was building with each phrase. Elizabeth had rarely seen such emotion from him. He had always been so somber, so subdued at the hospital.

“You know,” he then said, “good sketch artists are always in demand. In fact, we are in need of a few at the Free American.”

Sketch artists? She wondered where the conversation was going.

He took another sip of lemonade. “Why don’t you come with me while I gather information for my articles? Draw a few scenes. I’ll pass them on to Peter. If he likes them, not only will he print them, but you’ll be paid for your work.”

Elizabeth blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. “You’re asking me to accompany you? To work with you? As an artist?”

He nodded and smiled.

He thinks my drawings are worthy of publication? A rush of heat filled her cheeks. To say she was honored was putting it mildly, for Elizabeth had once dreamed of being a sketch artist. But surely his editor will think differently. “That’s very kind of you, David, but I hardly believe I am qualified.”

“Elizabeth, I do have some experience in the newspaper business. I have seen sketches before. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think you were good enough.”

The gentle certainty with which he spoke caused her to actually consider the idea. We could use the money. And I wouldn’t be copying someone else’s sketches. I’d be doing my own. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

David must have sensed her fear. “Tell you what,” he then said. “Forget showing them to Peter for now. Just come with me. Give it a try. If you don’t enjoy yourself, what have you really wasted?”

He made it sound so intriguing, so inviting, like a pleasant outing in the sunshine. Allowing her time to think on it, he set the now empty lemonade glass on the table and returned to the ladder at the far corner of the room. Soon he was back to hammering the crown molding.

For a moment Elizabeth watched him work. The cuffs of his sleeves were open, the fabric rolled up an inch or two, revealing strong, muscular forearms. Suddenly the thought struck her that she had never seen Jeremiah in anything but a federal uniform. How handsome he would have been in a pressed white shirt, silk vest and dark pair of trousers.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She could feel the black fog rolling in. As wonderful as David’s offer to sketch was, she knew she must decline. It was obvious she could not accompany him about the city. She knew she had to leave the room, lest once more she make a fool of herself in front of him.

“I appreciate your kindness, David. Really I do. But...I can’t... Please, excuse me.” She turned for the door.

“You don’t have to hide the tears from me, Elizabeth.”

The understanding in his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I know what you are feeling. He was my brother, my best friend. I miss him terribly.”

Pain pierced her heart, but his honesty was an invitation. She turned to face him.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

He left the ladder and crossed the floor. “Do what?”