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?”
“Get up each morning? Go about your tasks? Your new job? I can barely breathe.”
A look of compassion filled his face. It appeared as though he were about to embrace her, yet just before doing so, he stopped and rubbed his whiskered chin.
“I try to remember where he is,” he said. “I try to remember there is no sickness or war in Heaven. I know he’s happy there, and one day, I will see him again.”
Elizabeth wanted her fiancé to be at rest, to be happy, but she wanted to be happy, as well. She wanted Jeremiah here with her.
“I wish I could take away your pain,” David said.
Upon impulse, she moved into his arms. David held her tightly. Elizabeth knew full well that the strength and security he offered was only that of a would-be brother-in-law’s kindness, yet even so, she soon gave in to temptation.
The same soap...the same shaving balm...
But the added hint of peppermint brought her back to reality. He is not Jeremiah. He never will be. Stiffening, she stepped out of his embrace. “Forgive me,” she said.
He took half a step back, too, and cleared his throat. Embarrassment colored his cheeks. Elizabeth felt it, as well. She wondered if David knew what she had been thinking. If he did, mercifully, he did not say. He hitched his thumb over his shoulder.
“I’m going to take this here laddah and see to those tiles on the roof.”
“Thank you,” she managed, though her face was still afire. She offered to refill his empty glass.
“I’d appreciate that.” Ladder in hand, he moved toward the door.