Second Chance Love. Shannon Farrington

fine,” Carpenter said, and he laid it aside. “I’ve got another assignment for you. I’m certain by now you’ve heard that the people of Maryland will soon decide whether or not they wish to end slavery.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, which had taken affect well over a year ago, had not freed slaves in the border states. Since that time Maryland abolitionists had been pressing the politicians to rectify that. The present state constitution insisted slavery would exist for all time. Having just won elections in the fall, a new crop of legislators promised to write a revised governing document if the people of the state so wished. The vote was to take place in early April. If enough of the population voted to outlaw slavery, the legislators promised to see it done.

      “I want you to cover what’s happening with that,” Peter said. “Talk to the newly elected delegates here in Baltimore. If we can manage it, I’ll send you to the statehouse in Annapolis.”

      Covering a story from the statehouse! David’s excitement perked. That was a far cry from fetching coffee and sandwiches in Boston. “Thank you, sir. I would like that.”

      Carpenter nodded. “In addition,” he then said, “I want a series of articles showing the thoughts of the voters, the opinions of both sides. Tell me, who are the faces of slavery? Who are the owners? Who are the slaves? How will the proposed changes impact this state, morally and economically?”

      The opinions of slaves? David liked that idea, but he wasn’t so certain he’d find many willing or able to sit down for an interview. He mentioned his concern.

      “No. No. Of course not. That’s not what I’m getting at,” his editor said. “You are not a Maryland man, therefore you have an outsider’s perspective. Write what you observe day to day. If people will talk to you, then by all means...” Carpenter paused, squinted shrewdly. “I don’t know where you stand on this issue...”

      David was honest. “I oppose slavery, sir.”

      His editor offered a curt nod. “Well, to make no bones about it, I hope it’s outlawed once and for all.” Leaning forward in his chair, he then pointed his finger at his newest reporter. “But I’m not running some two-bit press backed by rich, anonymous abolitionists from up north. Don’t editorialize this. Your job is to tell the facts. Let the readers decide for themselves how they will vote.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Even with the man’s stern warning, David could barely contain his excitement. This was exactly the kind of writing he wished to do. He wanted to report on issues that would make people think, cause them to look at life from another’s perspective. He hoped to challenge readers not only to become better citizens of this nation but of the Heavenly one, as well.

      Carpenter shuffled the stack of papers on his desk as though searching for something. David waited to see if there was something else.

      “You don’t sketch, do you?” the man asked.

      “Sketch? No, sir.”

      “Pity. That would really add to your series. At present, though, I can’t spare you an artist.”

      David kept his grin in check. That’s because we haven’t got one, he thought. Anyone worth his salt is at the Sun.

      Still shuffling through his littered desk, his editor gave him a time line, then waved him away. “Any question or concerns, see me immediately.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      Carpenter’s motion stilled as he then looked up. “And it’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he said. “You can drop that sir business. You’re not in the army anymore.”

      “I apologize. Old habits are hard to break.”

      “Well, see that you break that one.”

      “Yes—” David caught himself. “I’ll do that.”

      Carpenter eyed him for a moment, then went back to his work.

      When David left the office that afternoon he could hardly wait to tackle “The Faces of Slavery” assignment. But there was another assignment now to be completed. With a sigh and a prayer, he went to visit Elizabeth.

      * * *

      Elizabeth turned the dirt in the backyard. The ground was still a bit muddy, but it was time to get in the lettuce and other spring vegetables. She chopped the shriveled remains of what she had planted last fall. It felt good to work, to unleash some of the pent-up energy she’d been carrying, but once spent, there was left a void.

      She was determined to shake off the black cloud hovering around her, to not let it keep her from completing her task. I will accomplish this. I told Trudy I would. The garden has to be planted. At the rate the money is draining, we will need it.

      She continued on, hoeing, scattering seeds, patting down the dirt. The job took quite some time, but that was not an inconvenience. In fact, she welcomed it. It gave her a good excuse for not attending the sewing circle. Trudy had been asking her for weeks now, but Elizabeth just couldn’t bring herself to go.

      Every Friday for as long as she could remember, her neighborhood friends had gathered for tea and needlework in each other’s homes. Currently they were meeting in Julia’s home. The group was always busy with one project or another. At the beginning of the war they had knitted socks for their brothers’ regiment, then later crafted more when many of those same men became wounded prisoners.

      But did any of our efforts accomplish anything? All the socks, all the prayers... Most of those men have died. Elizabeth sighed. Her seeds now buried, she tossed her hoe aside and stared Heavenward. Thick, gray clouds were gathering. She couldn’t tell if the rolling late-March sky held the promise of spring’s gentle rain or a return to winter’s chill. After taking her tools to the lean-to, she headed for the house. She peeled off her muddy shoes and soiled pinner apron at the back door, then went into the kitchen to wash her hands. Her mother was standing at the table, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.

      “Thank you for getting the seeds in, Beth. It will be so good to have fresh greens again.”

      “I apologize for not getting them in sooner.”

      “You have done it today. That’s all that matters.”

      Elizabeth appreciated her mother’s kind understanding. “I planted more rows than last year,” she said.

      “That was probably wise. I suppose with David now joining us, we will need them.”

      The unmistakable sound of hammering then filled Elizabeth’s ears. “He is here already?”

      “Yes. He arrived just a little while ago. I tried to get him to sit for a spell, being as he’d just put in his first full day at the newspaper, but he was insistent upon getting to work.”

      Elizabeth was not surprised. It was his nature to put duty above pleasure. Jeremiah had been the same way. But whereas David always conducted his duties in a most serious fashion, Jeremiah had found humor in everything.

      The hammering continued. “Bless his heart,” her mother said. “He has already oiled all the first-floor hinges and seen to the loose molding in the dining room. He must have found more in the library.” She poured a glass of the lemonade. “Will you take this to him? I am certain he must be thirsty.”

      “Yes, of course,” she said with more eagerness than she actually felt. As she started for the library, her mother called after her.

      “And invite him to attend church with us on Sunday.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth knew the invitation was an effort not only to bring David into their particular fold but to lure her, as well. She hadn’t attended church since Jeremiah’s passing. After what had happened at the funeral, she could not face her fellow congregants. She still could not get through an hour without crying. She knew she’d never be able to last