Martha opened the kitchen door for us when we returned to the house. She stepped back to let us enter, twisting the ring of keys in her hands. "I'm so glad you're home." She told me, her voice breaking. "I didn't know what to do."
"Martha, what is it?" I asked in alarm.
She glanced at John, frowning, but I was still caught in the magic of the afternoon. "Say what you have to say," I urged her.
For seconds, the rattle of the keys in her hands was the only sound in the room. I took them from her gently. "Say what you have to say."
Her lips twitched as she searched for words. "I was thinking about the keys, how you'd never left them in my room before, and I went to get them. And I remembered your letters, so I was going to get them, too. I'd picked them up at the post office and had just gotten home with them when Mack called and asked me to put the plants in the ground for him. I put them by the telephone. So much happened afterward that I just forgot about them, but I knew where I left them. Now they're not there. I went through the house, and I don't think it's my imagination—things aren't where they were. Elizabeth, I think we've been robbed."
I met John's eyes and knew he was thinking the same thing I was.
"Wait here," I told Martha as John and I hurried from the room.
I ran up the last flight of stairs. My hands were trembling so by the time we reached the vault that I couldn't find the right key. I thrust the key ring into John's hands.
He pulled the door open, and this time I didn't need an invitation to walk into the blackness. While John lit candles, I waited impatiently inside, looking at the spot where the paintings should be.
The light flickered, and I saw that the canvas-draped rack appeared undisturbed. I lifted the fabric. "Are they all there?" I asked.
John knelt by the rack and counted canvases. "They seem to be. Just a minute." He stayed on his knees, searching the back of each canvas. "Do you have any idea what was in the missing letters?" he asked while he searched.
The letters. Now what was I going to do? But I had already said too much to retreat into silence. "They have to be replies to the ones I wrote to the Department of the Interior and to the town near where Eliza grew up, trying to find information about her and Owen Markham."
John rocked back on his heels and swiveled to face me. To his credit, he didn't challenge my reasons for making inquiries. "It's strange that a burglar would take something like that. Do you suppose Martha has just misplaced them?"
"No. She's too careful to have lost them. If she says they aren't where she put them, someone has moved them."
"When?"
"I don't know. There's always someone in the house. Except the night we went to Mack's." With a tiny click, one seemingly inconsequential, almost forgotten fact slipped into place. "Oh. Of course."
"What is it?" Johns asked as he rose to his feet.
"Mack and I came back to the house . . ." I remembered then that I shouldn't tell John and stopped in confusion.
He smiled, a little grimly, I thought. "I saw the glare from the valley and wondered where Mack got his smudge pots. Don't worry. I won't say anything."
"We didn't take them off the hill," I told him, knowing I sounded defensive, but it seemed such a minor point now. "We came across the top on an old wagon road. When we got to the barn, I noticed a light in Martha's room. When she and I came home later that night, the house was dark."
"That was the night Louise wouldn't let Martha have the supplies unless you came in and signed the ticket?"
I nodded.
John took the canvas covering from me. "The Wards are all here." He shook out the fabric to redrape the rack and then paused. "Do you still have that stack of paintings in a bedroom downstairs?"
"Yes," I said puzzled. "And I still haven't decided what to do with them."
John reached into the rack, pulled out a small framed painting, and looked at it for a long while. "No. I can't do that." He started to replace the picture and then turned to me. "Would you trust me with this one painting for a little while?"
It was a landscape, but that was all I could see in the dim light of the vault. "Why, yes."
"I don't want you to tell anyone, not even Martha, that I have it."
I glanced around the room then, but nothing in it seemed to have been disturbed, not even the small packet of correspondence from Stanley McCollum that I had hidden on the back of a shelf. How strange, I thought. I had known about the paintings for weeks. I had been able to leave then in the vault and not think about them, but now that I felt they had been threatened they became very real to me and in need of more protection than I had given them.
John might want to challenge the trust, to destroy the house, but he would do it openly, without stealth. In this much, I could trust him. When he closed and locked the vault door and handed me the ring of keys, I slipped the vault key off the ring and held it out to him.
He hesitated, his hand on mine. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
I nodded. "It's safer with you."
Downstairs, he opened the front door and placed the painting outside. "Do you want to check for anything else missing?" he asked.
"I will," I told him, "but Martha and I can do that. Should I call the sheriff?"
"I wouldn't do that now," he told me, "but you do need to let Stan know."
"John, I—"
"I know, but he is still responsible for the house. I'll tell him; you won't have to. Besides, we don't know what is missing. Once more day won't make any difference at this point."
After John left, Martha was adamant about wanting to call the sheriff. I knew how she felt. I calmed her, though, and together we began examining the areas where she felt things had been moved. As we went through the rooms and I imagined some unknown person moving my possessions, pawing through the drawers, taking their liberties in my home, I felt as though I'd been violated along with the house.
For the second time that day I felt vulnerable, but that feeling was quickly replaced with rage. How dare someone do that? I would not tolerate it. Unbidden, a small voice whispered within me, You have no choice. Maybe not, I thought. Maybe I had to accept what had happened, but I could see that it didn't happen again.
Still, it was not until late that evening that I managed to put thoughts of the burglary from me.
The book of Stephen Ward's paintings still lay on the floor beside the fireplace where I had left it that morning. I opened it to the picture of Amanda Carmichael. With the violence of a spring storm, John's questions surfaced to push all other thoughts from my mind. Had I created that other life?
With the letters gone it would be weeks before I could possibly know what had been in them. Yet I had more facts now. I knew when and where Eliza had gotten her divorce. What had John said? Most lawsuits are public record. One could see them simply by going to the courthouse and asking to.
I felt myself relaxing for the first time since Martha had stammered her suspicion. It was so simple. All I had to do was go to Fort Smith. I would have my evidence within hours. I slipped into bed feeling drowsy and contented.
"I haven't imagined you, Eliza," I whispered into the dark. "I haven't."
When John arrived the next morning, I had already dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved sweater and was downstairs trying to do justice to the breakfast Martha had insisted on preparing.
Martha left the kitchen immediately, and I glanced at John to see how he reacted to what was definitely a resumption of rudeness on her part. He looked after her with an expression I couldn't interpret, then shrugged and reached up into the cabinet for a cup. He poured his own coffee and freshened mine before sitting down.
A week earlier his easy familiarity in my house would have angered me into making a caustic comment. Now, although it still bothered me a little, I felt no anger. I thanked him for the coffee and waited for him to tell me why he had come.
"You look rested," he said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes." I couldn't help noticing, though, that John didn't look as though he had slept well.
He watched while I finished my toast. Twice it seemed that he was on the verge of saying something, but he remained silent until I carried my empty plate to the sink.
"Elizabeth, I . . ." he said hesitantly.
"Yes, John?"
"Nothing. It isn't important now." He brought the empty cups to me. "I need to go upstairs for a minute. Do you want to go with me?"
I took the cups from him and stacked them beside my plate, routine motions, but I was both puzzled and curious. "All right."
He opened the kitchen door, reached outside, and brought in a framed painting. I saw a blur of pink on the canvas, but before I could see more he crossed the kitchen and waited at the hall door for me.
I expected to go back to the vault, but at the stairs leading to that floor, John stopped. "Where is that stack of odd paintings?"
I showed him to the room where the pictures were stored. It was a mixed collection of framed prints, oils, and watercolors I had found as I unpacked various boxes throughout the house. Some had broken glass or chipped frames, and some I just couldn't decide where to hang.
John pulled out the first few and placed the Ward behind them. I bent forward to look at it, but he pushed the others back in place.
"You don't know anything about this painting," he said. You don't really know what is in this stack."
"What are you talking about?"
"Stan McCollum will be out today to take another inventory because of the suspected burglary. I want you to let him take the inventory in privacy, and if he asks you any questions, although I don't think he will, I want you to tell him that you have no idea what is in this stack of paintings."
"There are enough games being played with my life without adding another one, John. Tell me what is going on."
"I can't do that now, because I'm not sure myself. I can tell you that this is no game. Forget the canvas is here."
"John?"
"I wish you could trust me in this, Elizabeth. It is important."
Trust him? I could think of all sorts of reasons why I shouldn't, but something in me wanted to trust him.
"Will you be here?" I asked.
"No. I have some business I have to take care of today."
Logic told me to demand an explanation. But it wasn't logic that made me agree. "All right. I'll forget the Ward is here until you put it back in the vault."
After John left I paced restlessly around the kitchen. With nothing to do but drink coffee and wait, my frustration at having my plans for the day interrupted grew by the minute. The knowledge that I was less than an hour away from having proof of Eliza's existence and that I had to put off obtaining that proof because of Stanley McCollum's schedule chafed my nerves. I had no doubt that he would be anything other than his usual condescending, irritating self, and I was in no mood to put up with that kind of treatment.
When I emptied the second pot of coffee, Martha took my cup from me. "What is the matter with you this morning?"
"It's just that I hate being at that man's beck and call," I muttered. "You'd think he'd have the decency at least to let us know what time he's coming."
"Why, child, if you've got something to do, you go do it. I'll be here when Mr. McCollum comes."
"Martha, I can't ask you to do that for me."
"You didn't ask me," she said. "I offered. Besides, he bothers me, but not near as bad as he bothers you."
Grateful for the reprieve, I gave her a quick hug and started out the door. I remembered John's admonition in time to tell her. "When he gets here, you don't have to help him with anything unless he asks. He'll probably want to prowl through the house by himself. I guess," I added reluctantly, "he has the right to do that."
I felt a pang of guilt as I left her there, but that was quickly replaced by excitement. Too many questions had been raised, but now I had enough pieces of the puzzle to look for answers and, thanks to John's whim of the day before, enough gas in my car to begin the search.
It took a while, once I reached Fort Smith, to find the courthouse—the elaborately detailed art deco building was far from what I had expected, from what Eliza had seen. It took me several more minutes to find a parking place. By the time I reached the inside of the building my enthusiasm had begun to falter. I stood much too long studying the directory on the main floor. Finally, though, I selected the office I thought would be the right one and pushed the button for the elevator.
My hands felt clammy, and every nerve in my body was tingling as I opened the door to the clerk's office. I was suddenly aware of my fear. What if . . . No. I couldn't even think about that possibility. But as I stood at the counter, part of me wanted to run from the building without asking, without ever knowing.
"Can I help you?" a dark-haired young woman asked from behind a desk across the room.
Now or never, Elizabeth, I told myself. I made my fists unclench. I swallowed. "Is this where I would check on an old divorce?"
"How old?"
"1871"
She grinned at me. "This is the place. Come on around."
She indicated an opening at the end of the counter, and I walked around.
"They're in the vault," she said, leading the way into an adjoining room. "Are you looking up family?"
"Kind of," I admitted.
"We get a lot of people through here doing that. Usually in the summer, though. Do you know how to use these books?"
"No. This is the first time I've been in a courthouse."
"It's not as hard as it looks," she said, gesturing toward the stacks of large red volumes lining the walls. "You want the old chancery records, and they're over here."
She scanned the books in one corner, and I felt a little of my excitement returning. She pulled a volume from its rack and opened it.
"That's strange," she murmured. "This is the first one up there and it starts in '82. Let me look."
She pulled several books out and opened them, but her easy smile soon turned into a frown of concentration. "I haven't been here very long," she admitted. "I think I'd better go ask somebody where those records are, because I can't find them."
She left me standing there feeling helpless, knowing that what I needed was probably on the wall in front of me and not having the slightest idea how to begin to find it. The young woman wasn't gone for long. When she returned she was once again smiling.
"I'd forgotten about the affidavit," she said. She pulled a book down and scanned the front page. "The courthouse burned," she told me as she flipped open the pages, "but I can never remember the date. Here it is."
I looked at the words. I read them twice. All records from 1851 to March 17, 1882, destroyed by fire.
"But where can I find it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry," she said, and she really did seem to be, "but there is no place else to look. Those records are gone."
Gone. Destroyed. Nonexistent?
She looked at me curiously. "Can I help you with anything else?"
"No. No, thank you. That was—that was all I needed."
Outside, I walked across the lawn and stood in the shade of a dying elm, looking up at the statue of a Confederate soldier.
"Where do I go now?" I asked the statue, as if he could answer me any more than the dying tree could. "What do I do? I can't just give up." The traffic noises from Rogers Avenue faded away. I heard instead the sound of horses' hooves on packed earth and David's voice asking Wilson, "Have you been saving the newspapers for me?"
"It's worth a try," I said to the soldier. The chance was slim, but there might be something in the old newspapers, if they still existed. I lingered in the quiet near the statue for a few minutes, reluctant to join the rush of the present world.
The newspapers had survived, at least part of them, on rolls of microfilm at the library. The librarian showed me how to operate the viewer and left me with two rolls of film containing issues of the two newspapers in business during the time period I had requested. Not knowing what to look for, I began by reading whole pages of tiny, dim print beginning with the July 9, 1870, issue. By the time I finally gave up I had learned to scan the pages, but when I cranked the last roll back into place and turned off the viewer, I sat with my head in my hands. I really had nothing to show for the afternoon but burning eyes and a throbbing ache in my neck.
There had been an earthquake, in Little Rock, but it had happened sometime in May, not July. There was an article about the Okmulgee Council of Tribes and an editorial questioning whether the nations could be sealed off for the benefit of a few. Even I realized I could have read something about either of those things.
The river had been low in early August, and then swollen, and the first steamer upriver after that had arrived on a Sunday. Coincidence?
There were columns of professional ads on each front page of both papers. Albert Pike advertised boldly and regularly. I didn't see Jeremiah Grimes's name.
The only fact that I had no way of knowing, or imagining, was contained in an article on July 14 telling of construction on Garrison Avenue between Wayne and Green. Kanady's shop and mill were being torn down to make way for an "elegant, massive" block of three-story brick buildings. Was it where I thought it was? Was it still there? I had to find out.
What appalled me was the number of things that had no part in my memory. So much had happened in the time that Eliza had been in Fort Smith. For six months the papers had carried lengthy stories about the war in Europe. Shouldn't that have found its way into her conversations with David? Wouldn't she have been aware of a major fire at the barracks no more than a mile from her house? Was she so locked in her own pain that not even the death of Robert E. Lee penetrated her shell?
Once back in my car, it took several minutes for me to get my bearings on the unfamiliar streets and find the road that led to the river from the end of Garrison Avenue. I crossed the railroad tracks and stopped in dismay. Nothing remained of the wharves or the warehouses Eliza had seen, nothing to indicate they had ever existed, except one small plaque. The Arkansas River stretched before me, much, much wider than it should have been, and devoid of traffic except for a coal-laden barge being pushed downstream by a tugboat.
I turned the car around and began backtracking, out from the river, to the right, then left onto Garrison. The wide street was the same, but I had seen that when John brought Martha and me shopping. Nothing else was familiar. I read street signs, but there was no street named Wayne, no street named Green. I found a location that could have been the one in the article, that could have been where David asked Wilson to stop the carriage, but it was not a block of buildings, it was one building, and there were no landmarks I recognized.
I could go on to the house. Surely I would recognize something. I didn't even recognize the street to turn onto. Not until I found myself at John's new office building did I realize I had gone too far.
Determined now that I would find the house, I drove up and down the streets, across side streets, through neighborhoods I had never seen before until, accidentally, I found myself beside the house I sought.
I parked at the curb near the carriage step for a long time, trying to find courage to go inside once more. The house was so beautifully restored—clean and shining as it had been in my memory—but did that new brick sidewalk replace and older one? Had there been porch rails there in 1871? There were freshly spaded flower beds bordering the porch, and young rosebushes on each side of the front steps. Had they been there when I visited the house with John?
Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. I started the car and drove off blindly, totally lost, in traffic that was becoming increasingly heavy. I shouldn't have come, I told myself over and over as I made my way back toward the business district and the road home.
I was the second car in a line of traffic waiting for a light when I saw John. He came out of a small brick building in the next block. I was surprised by how relieved I was to see him, how much I wanted to walk up beside him and have him drape his arm over my shoulder and tease me into believing things were all right.
I waved at him, but he didn't see me. Something else attracted his attention and he turned away from me. All happiness at seeing him disappeared when I saw a tall, slender blonde crossing the street in midblock, picking her way through the barely moving traffic, toward John. She joined him on the sidewalk and after a few words linked her arm through his as they crossed the alley and entered the next building.
A car horn honking behind me mad me realize that the light had changed and I was holding up traffic. I caught just a glimpse of tables and wineglasses and laughing people through the windows of the building John had entered before turning at the next corner.
It shouldn't bother me, I told myself. She was attractive. And he was—how had he put it?—the most eligible man in three counties. There had been nothing between us but harsh words until yesterday. What was I thinking? There was nothing between us. Nothing. There couldn't be.
I drove home without seeing the beauty of the country surrounding me, without seeing the shabbiness of Richards Spur, praying silently that once I returned to David's house I'd be able to push away the doubts of the last two days and see John as I knew I should and not as I wanted him to be.
Martha raised an inquisitive eyebrow when I entered the house, but all she said was, "Supper's almost ready."
"I'm a little tired. I think I'll lie down for a while before we eat," I told her, and escaped to the privacy of my room.
"What has happened?" I asked the now shadowed valley. "I was so sure before. Why can't I be now?"
It was not Eliza I thought of then, or David. It was John. Smiling at the lovely blonde over drinks. Laughing with her. Sharing himself with her. Thoughts of them together haunted me through the evening. My last thought before falling asleep that night was of them. I punched the pillow down numerous times, pulled the sheets loose with my tossing, tried concentrating on a shadow on the wall, but no matter what I did, I kept seeing the two of them. Together.
And I knew that I didn't want John teasing me. I didn't want him calling me cousin. I wanted more from him. Much more than I should. More than I could ever have.