With notes enough to spare, David returned to the office. Peter struggled in at the same time as he. His limp was more pronounced. Judging by the strain on his face, he was in pain. “I managed to catch the last train,” he said. “It was standing room only.”
David followed him to his office. He wanted to ask about Elizabeth and her family, but he didn’t have the opportunity. Russell and Detwiler had also returned.
“What did you find out?” Peter asked them as he carefully lowered himself into his chair.
Both men pulled out their journals. Russell read from his first. “The alleged gunman’s name is Albert Neely. He’s an Unconditional, and he voted in favor of freeing the slaves. Wallace was passing by as Neely was putting up his flag. They exchanged words.”
“What kind of words?” Peter asked.
“The fighting kind,” said Russell. “According to one witness—Mr. Roger Fox—Wallace said the flag should be removed, that it no longer represented the land the forefathers had intended but had instead become a symbol of tyranny. Neely responded back by saying Wallace was a traitor.”
Detwiler then spoke. “Wallace then shouted something else, but none of the witnesses Russ or I interviewed could agree on exactly what. Some said it was about the rebel army. Others claimed it was about slaves. That’s when he tried to pull down the flag.”
“And that’s when Neely shot him?” Peter asked.
Detwiler nodded. “Point-blank. Right in the chest. Just as Wainwright said.”
David’s stomach turned, for he vividly remembered the damage that had been done.
“The reb army and slaves...” Peter said, thinking out loud.
Again Detwiler nodded. “That’s what some of the witnesses said, but as I mentioned before, no one was exactly certain what he said.”
David clearly remembered what Wallace had said to him. “You tell ’um this is what happens when the Unconditionals and abolitionists have their way...” He told Peter about it.
“That doesn’t surprise me, given all he said when he visited us.” Peter then issued the follow-up assignments. “Russell, you and Detwiler dig into Neely’s past. Find out who his friends are. Find out his enemies. Wainwright, you do the same with Wallace. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is tied to the fact that his slaves were taken.”
With that, David went cold. He told himself Wallace had instigated the confrontation by addressing Neely in the first place, by attempting to remove his property, but he again wondered if he wasn’t the one ultimately responsible for all of this. I encouraged action on behalf of Elijah and Elisha. That which followed was the direct result of my articles. He had known about all this since Annapolis. And what did I do with the information?
As soon as Russell and Detwiler left the room, David spilled the entire story to his editor. The only thing he left out were the specific names of Jack Lodge and Joshua and Abigail Davis.
Peter was furious. His face turned beet-red. “You should have told me about this before!”
“You’re absolutely right. I should have. I see that now.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t acting in official capacity when I was investigating the issue. It was strictly personal.”
“It stopped being personal the moment that dry goods merchant showed up here! I warned you not to turn my paper into some two-bit abolitionist press! You are off this story for good. I’m pulling Miss Martin’s sketches off it, as well.”
David was just as angry with himself as Peter was. Once again Elizabeth suffered from the consequences of his actions. He had come to Baltimore wanting to make a difference. This was not what he had intended.
“Don’t take this out on her,” David said. “It isn’t her fault. I pulled her into it. It was my mistake.”
Peter crossed his arms and stared at him shrewdly. “If you spent half as much time concerning yourself with your assignments as you do trying to romance her, perhaps you wouldn’t have made such a mistake.”
His editor’s rebuke was strong but not undeserved. David offered no response. Evidently Peter did not appreciate that, either.
“Get out of my office,” he commanded. “Finish your work on the defense measures. See if you can’t turn out an article that will make me consider keeping you on my staff.”
* * *
Peter Carpenter’s parents immediately set out to make their unexpected quests feel welcome in their home. Elizabeth’s mother and sister tried to make the best of a dreadful situation by drinking tea and discussing the things people normally do when war is not on their doorstep. Trudy took an immediate interest in Mr. Carpenter Sr.’s life. Evidently he’d been a newspaperman, as well.
“You spent twenty years with the Baltimore Sun?” she asked.
“I did,” the man said with a proud smile. “I saw the paper’s inception. Then I witnessed the birth of a soon-to-be rival when my son started a publication of his own.”
“Did younger Mr. Carpenter work with you?” Trudy asked.
“He started as a pressman. His fingers were always black from the ink.”
Mrs. Carpenter chuckled. “All of our boys spent time at the paper in some form or another, but it was Peter who really took to it.”
“How many children have you?” Elizabeth’s mother asked.
“Four,” said Mrs. Carpenter. “Peter is the second, having an elder sister who is married and now lives in California. We have two younger sons, but neither Daniel nor Matthew are here at present.”
All of this Trudy and her mother seemed to find quite engaging, but Elizabeth could not focus on the conversation. Her mind was back in her editor’s office. Every vivid detail ran through her memory. David taking her in his arms. Telling her he loved her, that he had loved her before Jeremiah had.
At that discovery Elizabeth hadn’t known what she felt more, anger or affection. She still didn’t know.
“Beth, Mr. Carpenter asked you a question.”
Her mother’s voice brought her back to the present. “Forgive me,” Elizabeth said. “My thoughts were—” she searched for the appropriate words, knowing full well everyone in the room could see the color in her face “—elsewhere.”
“That is understandable, given all you have witnessed today,” Mr. Carpenter said. “Our son told us of the shooting. I’m so thankful you and Mr. Wainwright were not harmed.”
Elizabeth shuddered as a different set of thoughts now rushed through her mind. Mr. Wallace has been killed in cold blood! My city is preparing for war, and my brother could be marching into town at this very moment!
All she could think of then was who might be manning the defense barricade and what might happen to him if volleys were exchanged. What if today was the last I shall ever see of David?
Tears were gathering in her eyes, but she forced herself to focus on what Mr. Carpenter senior was now saying.
“I don’t know if you have any sketches to finish, but if you do, you may have the use of my study while you are here.”
“Thank you, sir.” Elizabeth managed. “You are most kind. I do have several assignments to finish.”
“Then by all means, let me show you...”
Elizabeth eagerly set aside her teacup. Perhaps work will clear my mind, calm my heart.
“Beth has always been a scribbler,” she heard Trudy explain to Mrs. Carpenter. “She draws even when she doesn’t have an assignment. It’s her way of praying.”
“And at this present time, there are many people in need of such prayers,” the lady said sadly.
Mr. Carpenter showed Elizabeth to the room. A pair of long windows behind the desk filled the space with comforting light. She immediately stepped into it. It might have been early July, but a chill had plagued her since she’d left the paper.
After her host saw her s
ettled comfortably, he left her alone. Elizabeth spread out her pencils and charcoal sticks and looked at her sketches. Various unfinished scenes lay before her, ones she had begun on her journey here. She had captured the worried faces at the train station, the soldiers and civilians at the perimeter barricades.
Only a few of the faces had been completed. The rest were still in outline form. Picking up her pencil, she started with the sketch of the station. Graphite had barely made contact with paper, however, when she noticed one particular citizen she had drawn. A summer straw hat, linen sack coat, chin whiskers... “Oh, dear,” she gasped.
She flipped to the sketch of the barricade. She’d drawn David there, as well, only this time in military clothing. Have I done this before?
Quickly searching through her published sketches, she was mortified to find that she’d drawn him at the Sanitary Fair and a host of other venues along the way. It wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone else, for David was never the featured subject. He was only somewhere in the background.
Still...
All this time she’d told herself any connection, any spark she’d felt with him was only a memory of Jeremiah, but she hadn’t sketched her late fiancé all over Baltimore.
It was no secret to her that she and David had become close. But when exactly that had first begun, she could not say. They had worked together for a year at the hospital. He may have been a man of few words, but even then he had still been a comfort to her, an encourager in the dark times.
She remembered one particular day when he had found her crying in the supply closet after the death of an unknown soldier. He could have told her to pull herself together and get back to work, that the remaining wounded needed her. Instead, with a look of sympathy and understanding on his face, he’d handed her his handkerchief.
He was telling me then in his own bashful way, “I’m here if you need me.” He has always been in the background. I just never realized it until now.
The time spent with him had made more of an impact on her heart than she wished to admit, and a question now begged to be asked. If David had approached her first, would she have fallen in love with him instead of Jeremiah? Today when he’d kissed her so fervently, she’d not been thinking of his brother. She’d been thinking only of him.
No! No! This cannot be. I will not let my heart go there! I can’t!
She reached for her eraser. Wiping away his face from the sketch, she then did her best to replace it with another. The task was impossible. No matter how hard she tried, she could not get the image right. The only face she could clearly envision was his.
Pushing her work aside, she decided she’d finish the sketches in the morning.
That night, Elizabeth climbed into the bed she was sharing with her sister, feeling exhausted, hoping sleep would quickly claim her.
“Were you able to finish your sketches?” Trudy asked.
Elizabeth wrestled with the blankets, wishing her sister would put out the lamp. “No. I’ll see to them in the morning.”
“I shouldn’t wonder you are having trouble, especially considering all that happened today.”
There was something in the tone of her voice that told her that Trudy was not referring to what had happened to Mr. Wallace. Elizabeth turned toward her.
“What happened between you and David?” her sister asked. “I saw the look on your face when you came out of the office this afternoon. Did he kiss you?”
Heat crept up her neck and overspread her face. When Trudy grinned, Elizabeth knew she couldn’t deny the kiss even if she’d wanted to. “Yes,” she admitted.
At once, her sister sprang to a sitting position, clapping her hands with delight. “So he found his courage at last? Oh! How wonderful!”
“Wonderful?”
“Yes! I have seen the way he looks at you. He has looked at you like that for quite some time. Did he declare himself?”
David had not proposed marriage, but Elizabeth knew he was not the kind of man to proclaim his devotion and then not follow it up with a lifelong commitment. Surely that was what was coming had I not interrupted him.
Trembling with emotion, she told her sister everything, even the story behind her engagement ring.
“Oh, Beth!” Trudy sighed as if the entire tale were a romance lifted from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. “I thought it happened when you started working together at the newspaper, but to think he loved you all that time, and he stood beside his brother as the two of you planned your wedding.”
“He convinced Jeremiah to postpone it,” Elizabeth reminded her, but she knew full well she’d said the words for her own benefit. If she could hold on to anger, perhaps she would not give in to the other emotions she was feeling.
“That is true,” Trudy conceded, “but he didn’t do it maliciously. He was concerned for you. What did you say when David told you he was sorry?”
Elizabeth blushed once more, this time in shame as she thought of how she had responded. “I didn’t say anything. I was so shocked by it all, and then Mr. Carpenter came walking in...”
“I can certainly understand that. An interruption at that moment would have been disconcerting. How exactly did you part?”
The moment haunted her. The look on his face... She knew she had wounded him deeply. “He was standing there looking at me, and I...”
“Yes?”
“I simply...left.”
Eyes wide, Trudy blinked. “You left? You mean, without telling him one way or the other how you felt?”
“Without a word.” Why didn’t I say something? After what he said about failing Mr. Wallace, why didn’t I at least tell him that God forgives? That despite our failures, He will remain faithful to us? Had I been the one troubled, he would not have hesitated to comfort me.
The answer hit her square between the eyes. She couldn’t tell him that because she still didn’t fully believe it herself. If she did, she wouldn’t have walked away from David.
“I don’t understand,” Trudy said. “Are you saying you don’t care for him? I’m not sure I believe that. I have seen the way you look at him. It’s different than the way you looked at Jeremiah.”
Tears clouded Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Oh, Beth, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that...”
“No. That isn’t why I’m upset.”
“What is it, then?”
“You’re right. It is different.”
“Then, you do love him?”
Elizabeth shook her head. To do so was to make herself vulnerable, again. “I cannot love him. I’ve already lost one man to this war. I cannot bear the thought of losing another.”
* * *
David had given Peter his article on the civilian defense measures. Whether it was the result of good writing solely, he wasn’t quite sure, but his editor’s anger toward him had abated.
“About what we discussed earlier...” Peter said.
“Yes?”
“You made a mistake. Now learn from it. The next time you have a story, whether you think it was obtained unofficially or not, you let me in on it. There are enough secrets in this city already. I won’t stand for any of them in this newsroom. Understood?”
For one brief second the words yes, sir threatened to come out of his mouth. David bit them back. “I understand.”
Peter nodded and, after a pause, said, “I’m not one for being religious as some folks are, but I do know there is a God, and He is the only one capable of delivering truth, perfectly, all of the time.”
David was struck by the comment and waited to see what, if anything, his editor would say next.
“You had a duty to protect your source,” Peter said, “and the way I see it, an obligation to protect those children, as well. Did that couple who took them go about things in the best way?
I don’t know. Could you have done a better job with the information entrusted to you? Probably, but even if you had, I seriously doubt it would have changed Wallace’s outcome.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” David asked.
“The point is, we do the best we can with what we have. When we do wrong, we try to make things right, but in the end, we have to trust the outcome to someone greater than ourselves.”
David suddenly had the feeling Peter Carpenter wasn’t just talking about slaveholders, missing children or newspaper articles. Elizabeth... More than anything he wanted to make things right with her, but he had no idea where to even begin.
His editor returned to journalism. “Keedy just brought in some wires from Annapolis. See to them.”
David went to his desk.
Throughout the night he and the rest of the staff continued to work. Coffee flowed and, thankfully, so did words. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, however, David escaped the war. Even Elizabeth slipped from his mind. He heard the sound of bells, a call to worship. He was back home in Boston, racing his brother up the front steps of his father’s church, hurrying to claim a pew before the service began.
A hand then fell to his shoulder.
“Wake up!”
Recognizing his editor’s commanding voice, David lifted his head from his desk. The story he had been working on last was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s my article?” he asked groggily.
“At press.”
Then I must have finished it.
Across the way Ross stirred at his own desk. His collar and vest were unbuttoned, his paisley-patterned suspenders showing. David’s head was aching, the product of too much coffee and too little sleep. Last thing he remembered it was three in the morning. Now it was dawn.
I still hear church bells. Then he realized it was not the sound of worship. It was a cry of alarm. Fully awake, he bolted upright. “Have the rebels attacked?”
“The city? Not yet,” Peter said, “but their cavalry has lit up the countryside. Two trains have been burned at the Magnolia station and several Union officers have been captured. The railroad bridges on the North Central Line have been destroyed and Governor Bradford’s house is in flames.”
Second Chance Love Page 21