Second Chance Love

by Shannon Farrington

  “A brooch.”

  He guided her to a particular section of glass case where examples of his work lay displayed on black velvet. There was jewelry carved of jet and vulcanite, others made of gold. Some were painted elaborately with scenes of angels and weeping willow trees. That which she was most interested in was constructed with human hair. A sample lock had been patterned into a wheat shaft design. Elizabeth pointed to it.

  “I would like something such as this.”

  He nodded and quickly took out the piece for her to view more closely. It was not gold but the metalwork was tastefully crafted. The quality was good and the price was right.

  “Yes,” she said. “One like this, please.”

  He nodded. “I require half payment now and the rest when the work is complete.”

  Elizabeth agreed. Mr. Horn took down her name and street number while she counted out her coins. She then handed them over.

  “Thank you,” the man said. “Now, if you would...”

  She knew what she must surrender, and fear gripped her. But without it the brooch will be empty. Drawing in a breath, she took out the handkerchief. Elizabeth’s fingers trembled as she tried to unfold it.

  There were moments—usually when she was with David, working on a story—when it seemed as though years had passed since losing her beloved. Then there were times when it felt as though Jeremiah had just died. Right now was one of them.

  She tried her best to pray. Lord, help me. Please don’t let me cry in front of this man.

  Mr. Horn was waiting patiently, a kind, grandfatherly look on his wrinkled face. When she finally handed over the lock of hair, he promptly, yet respectfully, laid it in a small piece of white cloth.

  “Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll take good care of your loved one’s hair. I’ve done many of these in my time, and I’ve never once had a lady dissatisfied.”

  Elizabeth nodded as she clutched the now empty handkerchief to her chest. “When will the brooch be complete?” she asked.

  “Two days,” he said confidently.

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  She turned for the door. Once outside the tears flowed freely.

  * * *

  Elizabeth seemed a bit disconcerted when David met her at noon. Upon closer observation he noticed her eyes were red.

  She’s been crying. He knew how difficult things still were. Although he had put away his black suit of mourning, not a day went by that he didn’t think of his brother. The heaviness in his heart remained.

  He wondered also how much the pending meeting with Peter was troubling her. Even with the experience David had already had in publishing, he’d been extremely anxious meeting the man.

  He tried his best to encourage her. “Remember, you’re already a sketch artist for the Free American. This business today is simply a formality.”

  She breathed a sigh and managed a weak smile. “Thank you for the reminder.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She donned her silver bonnet, and, taking hold of his arm, they started for the newspaper.

  “What is your Mr. Carpenter like?” she asked.

  “Hmm, how to say?” He wanted to prepare her but did not wish to make too much of Carpenter’s somewhat abrasive personality. He didn’t want to scare her. “He is rather abrupt, certainly short on pleasantries, but overall, I find him to be an honest man, serious in his commitment to truth and greatly concerned for the future of our country.”

  “That sounds like the way Jeremiah used to describe Dr. Mackay.”

  “Yes, come to think of it—I can see clear similarities.” While he and Elizabeth had been blessed to serve under an amiable older physician named Jacob Turner, his brother and Elizabeth’s friend Emily had been placed in the ward of one of the most disciplined, if not harsh officers, in the US Army.

  Jeremiah had told him how Dr. Mackay eventually softened thanks to Emily’s sweet disposition—a change that David had seen for himself in Dr. Mackay’s kindness at Jeremiah’s funeral. For a moment David wondered what effect Elizabeth’s presence would have on Peter Carpenter and the other men at the paper. He felt a twinge of jealousy, then immediately prayed God would forgive him for such a thought.

  I needn’t worry about such things, anyway, he told himself. Her heart will forever belong to my brother.

  As they came to the paper, Elizabeth’s grip on his arm tightened. While he took pride in the fact that she was clinging to him for protection, he hated the fact that she was frightened. He bent toward her ear.

  “You will do just fine,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you.”

  The look she gave him nearly took his breath away. Keeping on task, however, he knocked on his editor’s door.

  “Enter.”

  David opened the door. As usual, Peter was at his desk, poring over a stack of papers. His frock coat was tossed aside, his tie askew, his sleeves rolled. When he failed to acknowledge their presence, David made the introduction himself.

  “Mr. Peter Carpenter, may I present Miss Elizabeth Martin.”

  The editor’s head snapped up. Eyes widening, he immediately struggled to stand in the presence of a lady. “Miss Martin,” he said, “I have been expecting you... My, that dress is lovely.”

  So I was wrong about the man being short on pleasantries, David thought.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carpenter,” Elizabeth replied evenly. “Mr. Wainwright has told me much about your paper. I was eager to see it for myself.”

  David watched as the man raked back his hair, trying to improve upon his rather disheveled appearance. He moved away from his desk, looking as though he were about to shake Elizabeth’s hand. Apparently deciding that was much too masculine a gesture, he instead straightened his tie. “Yes, well, I was very eager to make your acquaintance, as well. Your sketches have been well received.”

  Elizabeth blushed humbly. “Mr. Wainwright said you were pleased.”

  “Indeed. And you have never been employed previously?”

  “As an artist? No.”

  Peter nodded. “Then you have been employed in another profession?”

  Elizabeth hesitated slightly. “I served as a volunteer nurse.”

  “Here in the city?”

  The hair on the back of David’s neck stood up. He didn’t like where this was going. Carpenter had said nothing of interviewing her. He had made it seem as though Elizabeth already had the job permanently if she so wished.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I served here in the city.”

  “I see, and so you chose not to continue?”

  David could see the tension building in her face. Peter saw it, as well, and sensed a story. Squinting shrewdly, he then asked, “Was there some problem with your previous service?”

  Elizabeth quickly looked at David. He swallowed hard.

  “Is there something I should know?” Peter asked.

  The whole tone of the room had changed. David still had no idea what the man’s political persuasion was, but he suspected Elizabeth’s travails with the Oath of Loyalty were about to come back to haunt her once more. Immediately he tried to explain, “Miss Martin was asked—”

  His editor shot him a look. “I asked her.”

  Peter turned back to Elizabeth. David stepped alongside her, resisting the urge to slide his arm protectively around her waist. He prayed Elizabeth’s job as an artist wouldn’t be finished with her following words.

  “I was asked to sign a second Oath of Loyalty.”

  “Why is that?” Carpenter asked coldly.

  “Because I altered the first.”

  The man’s eyebrow arched. “Altered?”

  “I crossed out the line refusing to give aid or comfort to the enemy. You see, sir, I have a brother serving
in the Confederate army.”

  The man simply stared at her without offering the slightest clue to what he was actually thinking. David was certain Elizabeth was going to turn on her heel and forget the whole business. She, however, surprised him. Bravely, she raised her chin.

  “Is my brother’s enlistment going to be a problem, sir?”

  “Not unless you make it one.”

  David relaxed just a bit as Carpenter then went on to give her the same speech he’d given him about leaving one’s politics at the door. He even went as far as to give examples of newspapers, north and south, whose sketch artists had taken liberty with the truth.

  “If the US Army doesn’t burn a particular town, don’t give me a sketch claiming they have, and conversely, if the Southern soldiers assist their wounded enemy, don’t draw them with bayonets in hand, poised for the kill.”

  Elizabeth looked shocked. “I would never do such a thing, sir.”

  “Good.” Carpenter then leaned back against his desk. Crossing his arms, he eyed them both. “A former Massachusetts private and the sister of a Confederate soldier...that should make for an interesting balance of perspective concerning this war.”

  Neither David nor Elizabeth knew what to say to that. They simply looked at one another. After a moment she turned once more to Peter.

  “Am I to assume, then, sir, that you will have need for sketches from me even after the slave vote? That you would wish me to cover events concerning the war and other subjects relating to this city?”

  David felt a grin tugging at his mouth. Bravo! That’s my girl!

  Evidently, Peter Carpenter was impressed, as well. His hard expression softened almost to a smile. “That is correct, Miss Martin. Come. Let me show you about.”

  Elizabeth received the same tour as David had when he first began his work. He watched the response of his fellow reporters as they met the female artist. Young Mr. Keedy looked positively smitten. Ross, Russell, and Detwiler appeared surprised but generally accepting. Only Collins, the gray-headed business manager, showed cold indifference to her introduction. Elizabeth responded politely nonetheless. She seemed to take much pleasure in the fact that Peter was providing her with workspace and supplies.

  “We’ll put you right here, next to Mr. Wainwright,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth gave David a quick grin, then looked back at her editor. “I shall be most comfortable.”

  Carpenter stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the Free American, Miss Martin. I think you will fit in quite nicely here.”

  David smiled to himself. He thought so, too.

  * * *

  When Mr. Carpenter had asked about her work at the hospital, Elizabeth was certain her time as a professional artist was over before it had even really begun. Strengthened, however, by David’s protective presence, she’d drawn in a deep breath and told the newspaperman the truth.

  The whole thing struck her as some sort of test of character, of bravery, for the moment she passed it, Mr. Carpenter had returned to his previous conciliatory tone. He wasn’t as friendly as David, but he seemed a fair man. He issued her press card, then laid out her duties for the rest of the week.

  David was to report on the local textile manufacturer, Francis Butler, in the morning. Since that man had been featured in a separate story some months back, the Free American already had an engraving of his likeness on hand. Her artwork would not be needed. Mr. Carpenter said if she liked, she could simply wait until Wednesday’s vote to begin her first full day of work. She appreciated that for it would give her the opportunity to return to the jewelry store.

  “Thank you, sir. I will see you, then, on Wednesday.”

  David was seated at his own desk, quietly observing the world like he usually did, only this time there was a much more contented look on his face. Mr. Carpenter turned to him.

  “Would you kindly explain to Miss Martin that I have never served in the army?” He then lumbered back to his office and shut the door.

  “What was that all about?” Elizabeth asked David.

  “You keep calling him ‘sir.’”

  “Yes?”

  “He prefers Mr. Carpenter or Peter.”

  “He doesn’t seem as though he would.”

  “No. He doesn’t, but you’ll get used to him.”

  He wasn’t the only thing she would have to get used to. She had thought working in the hospital wards would be the extent of her interactions with coarse men. Apparently newspaper reporters were just as vulgar as hungry soldiers. Mr. Detwiler and Mr. Russell seemed not to mind a lady’s presence, but they were not very quick to remember their manners.

  Sack coats tossed aside, legs propped upon their desks, they shouted back and forth, firing off the latest political gossip. As Elizabeth stocked her workspace with art supplies, she wondered how she would ever get any actual work done. How can anyone concentrate with all this chatter?

  Nearby, Mr. Ross was much quieter, but he was steadily puffing on a cigar, wholly oblivious to which way his smoke was traveling. David noticed, however, and spoke on her behalf.

  “Ross.”

  “Huh?” the man said, looking back.

  “Open a window, will you?”

  Realizing what he’d done, Mr. Ross quickly stood to do so. “My apologies, Miss Martin. I’ll watch that from now on.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ross. That would be most kind.”

  Young Mr. Keedy was quiet and courteous. He repeatedly asked her if she had need of anything. The only man who seemed put out by her presence was Mr. Collins. He glared at Elizabeth every time he came into the room. Again, David noticed.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he whispered.

  “I get the impression that he thinks I should be at home, or at the very most back at the hospital nursing wounded soldiers.”

  “He looks that way, but I have never heard him say such. If, however, he speaks inappropriately to you or treats you in any way that is disrespectful, you let me know.”

  “I will, but don’t worry. I’ve dealt with temperaments like his before. If he simply does his job and I do mine, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  David offered her that delightful, comforting smile. “You kept a ward full of discontented soldiers in line,” he said. “I have no doubt you can manage the same here.”

  He had completed his own tasks by the time her supplies were in order, so they walked home together. The streets were relatively quiet that evening. The air smelled of rain, but for now the setting sun cast a soft pink light upon the city.

  “So now that you have seen it all,” David said in a particularly jovial tone, “what say you, Miss Martin? Will you swear your loyalty to our fledgling press or will you seek artistic glory somewhere else?”

  The thought of partnering with any other reporter, especially given what she had observed today of their personalities and habits, was not exactly appealing. When she told him that, he laughed. “I think, then, I shall take that as a compliment,” he said, “although I am not quite certain.”

  “I meant it as one.”

  He smiled at her. That familiar twinkle was in his eyes, and in that moment Elizabeth couldn’t help but think how different her life would be if things had gone according to her and Jeremiah’s plans.

  I’d be married now. I may even be carrying a child. Though it saddened her to think of what she had missed out on, it saddened her even more to think that she would have missed the opportunity to do this. I would not be an artist. I would not be working with him.

  She asked David about the upcoming vote. “Are you anxious?”

  “A little. I keep thinking of Elijah and Elisha.”

  “So do I. I have been praying for them.”

  He stopped square, his expression a mixture of delight and surprise.
Elizabeth couldn’t help but think him a handsome man in his own right.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ve started praying again.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. May I ask what has changed?”

  “My perspective, I suppose. I’ve been reading Jeremiah’s Bible. I had forgotten just how many stories there are where it appears, at least at first, that God has vanished.”

  “And later on you see His hand at work.”

  “Yes. Sometimes people’s prayers were answered in the way they hoped. Other times they weren’t. Some chose to keep following, others fell away from the faith.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I want to keep following. I must admit, though, when I think about this war and all that could still happen with the slaves, my faith isn’t very strong.”

  “Well, I can relate to that.”

  As always she appreciated his honesty. “All I know for certain is, I’m happy when I sketch. I pray that God will make good use of my drawings, that He will take your words and use them to help little Elijah and Elisha, and all the others like them.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth. I appreciate those prayers. But no matter what happens with Wednesday’s vote or in the future, don’t stop praying.”

  She promised him she wouldn’t, but she had no idea what difficult days lay ahead or how much their newly knitted partnership was about to be tested.

  * * *

  The following morning Elizabeth dressed quickly. She saw to breakfast for her mother and sister and was at the jewelry store by the time Mr. Horn opened.

  “Come in, my dear,” he said as he slipped the front door key into his vest pocket. “I finished your piece last night. I hope you approve.”

  Holding her breath, she walked toward the counter, whereupon he presented her with a small box. Mr. Horn opened the lid. With one glance Elizabeth’s fears of a jeweler’s mistake vanished. There in the center of the brooch was Jeremiah’s hair, crafted into the wheat pattern she had requested. Tiny green leaves had been painted delicately around the sheath. Scrolled metalwork framed the scene.