* * *
As soon as the coffee was finished, David forced himself to leave. In reality he did not wish to go, but lingering any longer would be more than unwise. It would be foolhardy. His article on the slave children still had to be written, and he could barely think straight now as it was. One more hour with Elizabeth would drive all creative reason from his head.
Remember why you are really here, his mind told him. It is your duty to look after her, to encourage her, to help her find her place in this world. You must do this for her sake—not for yours.
With her sketch in his hand, he walked back to the Barnum Hotel. Darkness was falling over the city, and one by one the gas lamps were being lit. David entered the front door of the crowded hotel lobby, snaked his way through the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, who were on their way to the dining room, then arrived at his room.
Time to get down to business.
Laying Elizabeth’s drawing on the writing desk, he promptly discarded his coat and tie. He loosened his collar, rolled up his sleeves. That’s better. Now I can think. He sat down and, after taking a few moments to review his notes, picked up his pencil.
The words would not come.
David drew in a deep breath. He flipped through his notes again and readied the stack of paper before him, only to once again stare at the blank pages.
What to say? How to start?
He took to his feet. He rehearsed several opening sentences out loud, but nothing sounded right. His frustration was growing. For the life of him, he could not produce one clear coherent thought for his article. His thoughts on Elizabeth, however, were plentiful.
Finally, in desperation, he pinched the bridge of his nose, bowed his head.
Lord, I want to do right by her. I want to be honorable. Give me the strength to follow Your plan. I know You led us this afternoon. It was no accident that those two little boys crossed our path. I believe You want me to tell their story. Please, give me the words.
Afterward, he unrolled Elizabeth’s sketch and stared at the image of Elijah and Elisha for a very long time. Then the words began to flow.
* * *
By the time Peter Carpenter opened the office the following morning, David was waiting for him.
“Well, Mr. Wainwright, by that grin on your face, I’d wager you’ve finished your assignment.”
“I have.”
The man hobbled to his desk, tossed his hat to the table behind it, then asked to see the article. David laid it before him, along with Elizabeth’s sketch.
His editor blinked. “I thought you said you didn’t draw.”
“I don’t. This is from a local artist, one who is just getting started.”
He had chosen his words carefully. He didn’t know what the man thought of working women. He wanted to make sure Elizabeth had a fair chance.
“I see.” Carpenter unrolled the paper, blinked again. When he silently laid the sketch aside, David fought hard not to take it as a bad sign. His editor then picked up the article and began to read. Within seconds he reached for his pen and started to mark.
Oh, no...
The promise he’d made Elizabeth about taking the man’s suggestions under advisement and trying again was a bit harder to swallow now. David had told her they were partners. He’d hate to have to tell her they were failures. Based on the look on Carpenter’s face, that was surely what was coming.
“Good,” he then said.
David’s eyes widened. He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “Good?”
“There are one or two places where you get too close to editorializing.” Carpenter showed him. “Watch that from now on.”
David released the breath he’d been holding. “I will. Thank you.”
“I want the next article on my desk first thing tomorrow. In addition to that, head over to the Maryland Institute. The National Union Party is holding a mass meeting this afternoon. Rumor is the new provost marshal will make an appearance, maybe even express support for the vote.”
“I’ll get right on that,” David said. Then he dared to ask, “And the sketch?”
Carpenter picked it up once more, then after a moment called for Mr. Keedy. “Deliver this to the engraver,” he said. He then looked back at David. “And tell E. J. Martin I’d like to see more of his work.”
David wanted to smile but, instead, cleared his throat. Considering the consequences the last time he’d kept silent concerning her, he thought it best to be forthright. “Uh, he is a she.”
Surprised, his editor was silent for several seconds. “Well, whatever,” he said, “as long as she keeps up the good work.”
Carpenter then reached into his lower desk drawer. Apparently he kept a bit of cash on hand for occurrences such as these, for he handed David a small sum of money.
“This is standard payment for starting artists. See that she gets it.”
“I will,” David promised.
The man then waved him away.
The thought of Elizabeth’s face when David would tell her of her soon-to-be-published artwork carried him through a long, rather dry political meeting. David took down his notes, then like the other reporters gathered, raced off to his next assignment as soon as the event was over.
Sam Ward had set up the interview with the slave-pen guard for late that afternoon. If Elizabeth was willing, David wanted her to come along. He told himself his reasons for that were strictly professional. The moment she met him at the front door and he told her the news of her sketch, his sense of duty to her and devotion to his brother was severely tested.
She gasped. “Your publisher wishes to see more?”
“He does indeed.”
Elizabeth could hardly believe her ears, nor the coins which he deposited in her hand. It must have been much more than she expected. “Oh, David, this is simply too good to be true!”
In great excitement she embraced him. As soon as she did, all David wanted to do was fold his arms around her and keep her close to his heart.
* * *
Elizabeth pulled back the moment she felt David tense. He might have lent her his shoulder to cry on before, but he was clearly uncomfortable embracing her now. A shade of crimson overspread his features. Embarrassment flooded her own face.
What made me do such a thing? How foolish of me to act so familiar with him. He is not my brother. In reality, he is not even my brother-in-law.
David was now staring at the floor, but before Elizabeth could apologize he looked up.
“It is true,” he said.
The gentle smile told her the awkward matter was now over and done with. Elizabeth breathed a slight sigh. David then told her of his plans for the second article. He planned to interview a particular worker at the city slave pen, one who had been beaten recently by some rowdy abolitionists.
She was shocked by the men’s unscrupulous behavior but also by the fact that David wished to shed light on it. “You want to draw attention to something like that? Won’t it garner sympathy for slaveholders?”
“We have to tell all sides of the issue,” he reminded her. “I should like to have you accompany me again, but we shall need to meet with the injured guard within the hour. Sam has already scheduled the interview.”
Elizabeth balked. She wanted to help, but the thought of traveling to the slave pens made her extremely uneasy. The sight of those poor men and women awaiting sale would break her heart. What if her story came rushing out?
I can’t have that happen, for his sake and mine. It would distract him from his purpose in being there in the first place, and it might cost me my opportunity to draw.
She didn’t like to think she was doing this for the money but admitted to herself that the prospect of payment was a factor. If Mr. Carpenter would continue to buy her sketches, her
mother would not need to worry about expenses. She could pay David back for the roof tiles and her brother, George, would not need to concern himself with such things when he returned from the war.
Still...
“We won’t actually be going to the pens,” David then said. “The worker is recuperating at his home, in the care of his mother and oldest sister.”
Elizabeth was relieved to hear such. A home interview, she was certain she could handle. “Very well. I’ll let Mother know.”
She didn’t have to go looking for her. Having heard voices, her mother and sister both came into the foyer. “I thought I heard you talking,” Trudy said, excitement lacing her voice. “Well?”
David grinned, knowing exactly what she was asking. “Elizabeth is soon to be a published artist.”
While Trudy’s eyes flew open wide, her mother’s filled with tears. “Oh, Beth, that’s wonderful!” she said. “When will we be able to see it?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, only now realizing that in her excitement she had forgotten to ask. She looked to David.
“Tomorrow’s edition,” he said, smiling proudly. “I’ll bring it myself.”
“You had better bring more than one copy,” Trudy insisted. “This is tremendous news. Everyone we know will wish to see it.”
“Indeed,” her mother said. “Will there be opportunity for more sketches?”
David told her of the story he wished to cover now. Mother immediately looked at daughter. Elizabeth could see the unspoken concern. David must have noticed it, as well, for he then said,
“Ma’am, forgive me. I should have asked you this from the beginning. Under the circumstances, since Elizabeth and I are not exactly related, would you prefer that we are chaperoned?”
Her mother looked back at him. “Oh, son, of course not. That isn’t necessary. My reaction was more in response to the story itself. I simply wondered if my daughter was up for such a subject as that. The slave pens have always made her uneasy.”
That was true, but her mother had no idea why. Elizabeth knew she could never undo what had been done, but perhaps she could keep it from happening to someone else. “You are right, Mother, but I would still like to help David tell the story. Perhaps it will make others reconsider their actions, prevent them from using violence in the first place.”
Her mother nodded slowly. “Very well, if you think you are up to it.”
Jane Martin kissed her daughter on the forehead, then sent them on their way. Elizabeth was quiet during the carriage ride. David must have thought she was nervous.
“You will do just fine,” he insisted, “but if at any time this man shows even the slightest bit of disrespect toward you, I will immediately conclude the interview and we will take our leave.”
She blinked. “You would forgo your story for my sake?”
“There are other stories to tell.”
A rush of heat filled her cheeks. She wasn’t certain if it was because of the kindness he was once again showing her or the fact that there were indeed more stories to tell. She’d witnessed firsthand what happened to slaves who dared disobey their masters. What would David think of her account of that story?
She shoved the question aside, for they had arrived at their destination, a narrow two-story structure at the far end of President Street. Elizabeth clutched her satchel and sketchbook tightly as they approached the front door. David knocked, then removed his hat when a middle-aged woman answered.
“Mrs. Tompkins?” he inquired.
“Widow Tompkins.”
“My apologies. Good afternoon. My name is David Wainwright. I’m with the Free American.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “My son Thad has been expecting you.” She then eyed Elizabeth. David was quick to explain.
“This is Miss Martin, sketch artist. She is here to take your son’s portrait while I conduct the interview.”
Elizabeth’s knees were trembling beneath her petticoats, but she offered her best professional smile. The woman hesitated slightly, then stepped back from the threshold. “Do come in,” she said.
David cast Elizabeth a quick glance. “Here we go,” he whispered.
Yes, she gulped. Here we go.
Widow Tompkins led them to the front parlor where her son, a young man of eighteen or so, lay across the settee. He was in his shirtsleeves, his collar unbuttoned. From across the room Elizabeth could see the bruises on his chest. Both of his eyes were blackened, as well.
His mother explained who they were.
“A lady artist?” he said, obviously surprised. “Mother, fetch me my vest, will you?” He winced as he then moved to assemble himself.
“Oh, please, Mr. Tompkins,” Elizabeth insisted. “That isn’t necessary. I served previously as a nurse. I assure you, I am quite accustomed to the sight of wounded men.”
David gave her a look that told her the statement was wisely made. Thad Tompkins seemed to appreciate it, also. He settled back to his previous position, wincing again as he pulled a homespun blanket up to his chest.
David then took the lead. He exchanged customary pleasantries and asked about the man’s injuries while Elizabeth readied her sketchbook. Aside from the obvious bruising, the young man apparently had several cracked ribs. Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, knowing he must indeed be in a great deal of pain.
Widow Tompkins went to fetch a plate of tea cakes for her guests. As David began his questions, Elizabeth started her outline. She decided for emphasis, and for the sake of propriety, to sketch Mr. Tompkins from only the shoulders up.
His blackened eyes and split lip alone are enough to convey what has happened. The rest of the details David will surely cover in his article.
David asked the young man to tell exactly what occurred the night he was attacked.
“I was just lockin’ the main gate when they jumped me,” Tompkins said.
“How many men were there?”
“Four. They had me on the ground before I even realized what hit me.”
“Did you get a look at any of their faces?” David asked.
Tompkins shook his head. “It was too dark. One had wrestled away my lantern. Reckon that’s how he was able to find the keys and unlock the pens.”
“How many slaves escaped?”
“Fourteen.”
Listening, Elizabeth struggled with her feelings. Part of her rejoiced that fourteen slaves had escaped. She hoped they had made it to freedom. The rest of her was sickened by how the unknown abolitionists had accomplished the feat. She couldn’t help but wonder which way Thad Tompkins would now go. Would he distance himself from slavery altogether for fear of further confrontations, or would he dig in his heels, harden his heart and stoically support slave owners’ rights all the more?
David asked him, “What will you do now? After your injuries heal, that is.”
“Find me a new job, I reckon.”
“And why is that? Is it fair to say this altercation has caused you to consider another line of work?”
“No.”
There was a long pause. Elizabeth chanced a glance at her partner. David was fingering his notes, acting as if he was searching for something, but she knew what he was really doing. Thad Tompkins’s answer had shocked him. He was taking a moment to gather his composure.
Once more, uneasiness rolled through her. Trying her best to ignore it, she adjusted her grip on her pencil and returned to the business on her lap. Thad Tompkins continued. Whether his statement was directed at David or just the public in general, Elizabeth was not certain.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my line of work,” he said. “Least not when folks mind their own business. We’re followin’ the law. I’ll be looking for new work ’cause they fired me.”
David had found his
voice, but it held a hint of surprise. “The slave pen fired you?”
“They say the loss of property occurred on my watch and hold me responsible for it.”
Elizabeth squirmed. She hated it when people referred to human beings as property. She knew David did, as well. He made his point but kept it within the bounds of objectivity.
“There are some people who would take issue with the phrase ‘loss of property,’” he said.
“I know,” Tompkins replied. “I met four of ’um the other night. They didn’t seem too concerned, though, about my personal property.”
Elizabeth kept her pencil moving as David asked if the man had been robbed.
“No,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Tompkins nodded. “So were my mother and sister. We got bills to pay—doctor’s bills, too, after that—and now I gotta be lookin’ for a new employer.”
“Will you seek employment with one of the other slave traders?” David asked.
“More than likely. It’s what I know. Slavery’s big business here in Maryland. They’re always in need of guards. At least unless people vote to put us all outta work.”
She reached for her charcoal, began to shade.
“What will you do if Marylanders vote to outlaw slavery?” David asked.
“I don’t rightly know.”
With that, the interview and the sketch were complete. Elizabeth packed her supplies. David shook Thad Tompkins’s hand and thanked him for his time. Elizabeth thanked his mother for the refreshments she’d set before them. She was confident she had managed to demonstrate a calm demeanor, but inside her heart was pounding.
David chewed silently on a peppermint drop until they left President Street. “That was more difficult than I’d imagined,” he said.
“I thought you conducted yourself well.”
“Perhaps with the exception of that long pause... You, however, handled yourself very well. One would think you had been dealing with this sort of thing for years.”
“I have...”
David glanced at her curiously. Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “What I mean is, I felt rather sorry for him. The fact that they beat him, that he now has no income with which to pay his family’s bills...”
Second Chance Love Page 11
