Second Chance Love. Shannon Farrington

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