Her first days in Fort Smith passed with awkward slowness. After Eliza had unpacked and arranged her few belongings and explored the house, she had no new experiences to look forward to. Each day became like the preceding one.
Of the two other doors in her bedroom, one led to the service area of the house and the other onto the wide wrap-around porch. She had chairs placed on the side porch and sat outside for hours, enjoying the long Indian summer.
Mrs. Jenkins's presence in the house was not companionship. It was a disapproving cloud that followed Eliza from room to room, from hour to hour, from day to day. Eliza felt partially responsible. The first night in the house, after David and Wilson left, she retired to her room and began dressing for bed. She was rubbing medicated lotion into her skin when she heard noises in the house. Fear held her immobile. She knew it was impossible, but her mind screamed that Owen had somehow found her.
A knock on the service door of her room freed her from her paralysis. She grabbed for her dressing gown, covering herself just as Mrs. Jenkins opened the door.
She had hidden her emotions too long, and fear of discovery made her voice sharp. "Don't you ever enter this room again without my permission."
She regretted her words the moment she heard them. "Oh, Mrs. Jenkins, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"
The older woman's eyes glinted darkly. "There's no reason to apologize, Mrs. Griffith. I forgot my position. I assure you that I won't do so again."
She did not forget, nor did she allow Eliza to do so. She performed her duties with a correctness that bordered on but never crossed the line into rudeness. She offered no warmth or sign of friendliness, nor would she accept any from Eliza.
The only bright spots in Eliza's life were David's visits, but once past her initial joy at seeing him, they, too, were clouded. Every few weeks, when he could find time for the trip to Fort Smith, he and Wilson—always with Wilson, never alone—would arrive in the early afternoon. Wilson would excuse himself and retire to the dining room, where he invariably busied himself with paperwork, while she and David made desultory conversation until dinnertime. The men would stay for dinner, visit for a short while afterward, and then leave. The pattern was always the same.
Eliza held herself in tight control during those visits, although she thought at times she would not be able to bear the lack of any sign of emotion from David. he was always polite, but it was the politeness of a stranger. He had loved her, she told herself. She knew that he had—she had worn the knowledge of that love as a protective armor through all the years of separation. How could he have turned off that love so completely? But as quickly as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Because of what he thought she had done.
She longed to throw herself into his arms, to beat on his chest, to scream at him, "I did it for you! I went through it for you!" Instead, she busied herself with the coffee service, or with a piece of needlework. Owen was between them; he would always be between them. But even if he were not, she could not, would not beggar herself by offering her love to a man who obviously no longer wanted it. Nor would she attempt to buy his love by revealing the sacrifices she had been forced to make.
Each time David left, she watched from the doorway until he disappeared into the dark, then turned and faced Mrs. Jenkins's unyielding disapproval. She locked herself in her room and hid her face in her pillow. At those times the emptiness within her was so great she wondered why she must continue living. But continue she did, through the long Indian summer, through the brief, blustery fall, until even the small pleasure of sitting on her porch was denied her, into the winter, when night came early and lasted and lasted and lasted. The bitter chill outside matched the desolation within her, and she sat for hours, forgotten needlework in her lap, before the fire in the parlor.
On one such night, footsteps on the porch and a loud knock at the front door roused Eliza from her apathy. She started upright at the sounds, her heart pounding furiously. No one ever called this late. No one ever knocked with that tone of authority. Her mind jumped from one possibility to another. Another knock reverberated. She raced for the service area, searching for Mrs. Jenkins, and met her as the older woman entered from the hallway to the kitchen, her frown fixed firmly in place.
"Who can that be?" she grumbled.
"I don't know," Eliza said, "but please, please, if you don't know them, don't let them in. if you don't know them don't tell them I'm here."
Mrs. Jenkins pushed past her with a snort of displeasure. Eliza turned in the hallway, uncertain as to whether she should flee, or hide, or return to the parlor to face whatever awaited her there.
"Eliza?"
She couldn't stifle her gasp of relief when she recognized David's voice. She ran her hands over her hair and smoothed her dress, giving herself time to appear more composed before she turned to him.
"I didn't mean to alarm you," he said.
"It's just that no one ever visits this late," she told him with an attempt at a smile.
"We've been in council at Okmulgee." His dark eyes studied her too pale complexion, her too thin body. "I've been away so long." He took her face in his hand and turned her toward him so he could look more deeply into her eyes. "Are you all right?"
His touch was heaven, and agony. He was so close she could felt his breath warm on her cheek, so close that if she would but sway forward she could be in his arms. Memories of their times together flooded in on her, and her lonely longings stirred to life. She closed her eyes briefly against them, but the touch of his fingers still burned her skin.
She stepped back abruptly. "Of course I'm all right," she said with forced brightness. "My nerves are stretched a little thin, that's all. As soon as the weather changes and I can spend some time outside again, I'll be fine."
Mrs. Jenkins entered the hallway, closing the dining room door with a resounding slam.
"Have you had your supper yet?" Eliza asked David.
David couldn't see Mrs. Jenkins's disapproving scowl when she heard the question, but Eliza did.
"Yes. We stopped in Fort Smith."
"Then just some coffee, Mrs. Jenkins, and perhaps some dessert for the gentlemen." She turned to David. "Wilson is with you, isn't he?"
David smiled. "No. But I have brought someone I want you to meet."
Aware of the housekeeper's lingering presence, Eliza waited until the woman left the hallway.
"You didn't bring a stranger here?" she whispered.
"An old friend of mine, Eliza. Someone I've known since I was a child. You'll enjoy meeting him."
"I can't meet any of your friends. What will they think?"
She saw a nerve jump near his temple, but he spoke softly. "Stephen will think you are a charming lady whom I have befriended. Unless, of course, we stand here arguing about it so long that he feels he isn't welcome."
Chastened and chagrined by her lack of manners, Eliza dipped her head. "I'll do my best to make your friend feel welcome."
She found she did not have to work at making Stephen Ward feel welcome. If anything, the young man put her at ease. He had a ready smile and sparkling eyes that danced with humor, and he didn't embarrass her with speculative looks or disturbing questions. A small man, not much taller than she, he already bore the signs that by thirty he would be stocky and prosperous-looking, but there was gentleness in his pleasant round face, and patience, and perception.
He was quiet as Mrs. Jenkins silently served the coffee but became animated again when she left the room. "She would make a study," he said, smiling. "All blacks and whites and angular lines."
"Stephen is an artist," David said in answer to Eliza's puzzled expression.
"Starving artist," Stephen amended.
"I thought for sure you would get at least one commission from the men at council," David said.
"The trouble was," Stephen told him as he helped himself to a piece of pie from the waiting tray, "they couldn't decide whether they were there to be founding fathers of a new, great state, or to toll the death knell for five great nations, and none of them wanted to commemorate themselves as being a part of it until they were sure what it was."
"I don't understand," Eliza said.
"There is talk of combining the five 'civilized' nations—the Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Creek, and Seminole—into one 'Indian State,' " David told her. "So far it is just words. I think there are enough of us opposed to it to keep it from happening. The Council at Okmulgee drafted a constitution, but I don't believe it will ever be ratified by all the nations."
He cast an appraising glance at Stephen. "I think you ought to paint Peter Pitchlyn."
Stephen choked on his pie. "Oh, you do?" He laughed. "Well, I don't. Every portrait of that man is going to be compared to the one George Catlin did of him. I don't want to be in that shadow. I want people comparing other painters' work to mine, not mine to someone else's."
He saluted David with his pie plate. "I have another subject in mind. Someone who will be equally well known. Brilliant military career, illustrious delegate to Washington, youngest principal chief—"
David shook his head. "Not now, Stephen." He softened his voice. "You'll have to do him at some later date."
"You are right, of course." Stephen did not seem the least disturbed by David's sharp words. "And I've already painted him once, so there is no great hurry. One commission at a time."
"You do have a commission?" Eliza asked. "How exciting."
"Yes, it is," Stephen agreed. "I've painted landscapes and stodgy old men long enough. It's time to find out if I have enough talent to do justice to a beautiful woman." His gaze lingered on Eliza's face. "And you, Mrs. Griffith, are a very beautiful woman."
Eliza felt the blood draining from her face as the meaning of his words became clear. "Me? You want to paint me?"
"Very much," he told her. "We'll start tomorrow evening if you have nothing else planned."
In her confusion Eliza couldn't give voice to her real objection. "I thought painters wanted bright sunlight."
"No. Not for all subjects. I want to try to capture your image softened by candlelight." He looked at her studiously. "Do you have a dress, white, perhaps, or a light color, with lace high at the throat?"
She nodded.
"I wish you would wear it for me."
She looked at David for help. He just smiled secretively and brought her fresh coffee. "You can't argue with Stephen, Eliza. He's a very persuasive young man."
After they left, her objections rose to torture her sleep. She could not pose. After supper the next day, though, she changed into a white summer dress with lace at the throat, rehearsing her arguments as she did so.
While Stephen set up his easel, she drew David to one side. "This is madness," she whispered. "What if . . . what if someone should see the painting?"
"No one will," he assured her. "I'll see to that. Stephen is a talented artist, Eliza, but he needs encouragement. Please let me do this for him."
She looked at Stephen happily arranging his paints and wavered in her resolve.
David spoke softly so only she would hear his words. "Many of our people are talented, but only a few have received recognition. Stephen has it within him to be a great artist, but he feels he must earn his own way. He has many obligations. If he cannot meet those obligations with earnings from his paintings, he will put his art aside. And that will destroy him."
Eliza stood before David, feeling that she shouldn't give in to his wishes in this, yet recognizing it was wrong for her to deprive Stephen Ward of this opportunity. Of course, deep down, she knew she wouldn't deny David anything he asked of her.
Stephen spoke from across the room. "Would you mind standing? It will be more tiring for you than if I posed you seated, but I'd like to paint you in front of that wonderful mantel."
"It's time to decide, Eliza," David told her.
She managed a brief smile for Stephen as she walked slowly to the fireplace. "How do you want me to stand?"
Stephen hurried to her side. "Like this, I think," he said, placing her left arm on the mantel and turning her face to one side. "Not a full profile. Just look toward David."
He stood back and examined the effect. "The hair," he said. "Not so severe. May I?"
Without waiting for an answer, he loosened the tightly drawn knot she wore at the base of her neck. He piled her hair in abandon on the top of her head and framed her face with a few soft curls.
"One thing more," he added. From his satchel he produced a dusky rose-colored shawl of soft wool and draped it over her shoulders, leaving her gloveless arms bare below the abbreviated sleeves of her dress. He arranged a lamp near her and stepped back again. After a moment of study, he glance at David, who nodded in approval.
"That's it," Stephen said. "That's the effect I want to try to capture."
After the first evening, Eliza found that she looked forward to their sessions. Stephen's gentle wit eased the grim expression from David's face and allowed her to relax. Although she grew tired from standing in one position and often the fire became much too warm for comfort, she enjoyed Stephen's lightly told stories of growing up in the woodlands, and she took secret delight in the attention David paid her when he tended the fire or brought her fresh coffee.
She was never sure whether she extended the invitation, or whether David or even Stephen did, but after the first evening they began taking their meals together. Except for Mrs. Jenkins's dour countenance as she served them, there was almost a festive air in the small house from just after sunset until Stephen rubbed his eyes late in the evening and said, "That's it. That's all I can do tonight."
There were times, though, when David seemed preoccupied, brooding about some problem that he could not or would not discuss with her, and there were other times when, feeling particularly happy, she would glance surreptitiously at him and feel a pang tear through her as she realized these evenings could not continue, that these evenings were just an interlude, but that, had things been different, this was the life she could have had.
Eliza had no idea how fast the painting was progressing. Stephen made her promise not to look until it was completed. He covered it each evening and left it on the easel. She longed to look at it, not from vanity but to have some idea of how much longer the sessions would continue. She was afraid, though, of finding it nearly finished, knowing that soon David must return to his nation and that soon she would be alone again.
One night Stephen was unusually silent as he worked, concentrating intently on his task. The next evening he approached his easel with strange reluctance. About an hour into the session he looked up and shook his head.
"I can't quite get it," he said. He looked at Eliza, perplexed, then spoke. "David, would you mind holding that lamp closer to her face? There are too many shadows."
David brought the lamp as he moved closer.
"That's it," Stephen said. "Right there. Please. Now, Eliza, just look at David. That's good."
He began to work steadily.
While Eliza looked at David, she tried to remain detached, but as she studied each well-remembered feature she saw the changes that time had wrought—the firm set of his once smiling mouth, the deepening lines of care about his eyes, and the strands of silver flecked through his dark hair—memories of a younger David, an innocent Eliza, came rushing back. A sense of tremendous sorrow, of unbearable loss welled up within her, and it took all her strength and not to cry for the things that could have been.
With relief she heard Stephen's chair scrape across the floor. "You can rest now," he said.
She tore her gaze from David's face, embarrassed by the raw emotion she felt, and turned to Stephen. He crossed to the coffeepot and started to pour himself a cup of coffee.
David put the lamp down. "Do you want me to call for Mrs. Jenkins?"
Thankful for any excuse to leave the room, Eliza picked up the tray. "No. I'll go. It won't take but a minute," she said, hurrying from the room.
In the hallway she leaned against the door. There was a tremor in her hands she couldn't control, and her breath came painfully fast.
"Oh, God, David," she murmured to herself. "Why do I still love you?" A sob broke from her, and she whispered, "Why can't you love me?"
A cough racked me into consciousness. Cramped by my position, I turned carefully in the bed, each bone, each muscle protesting. The sheets were ice against my skin. The fire had burned down until only a few coals glowed from the fireplace. I fumbled with the lamp on the bed table until I finally found the switch and turned it on. Then I forced myself to push back the covers, cross the room, and add more wood to the fire.
Strangely weak and yet reluctant to return to bed, I curled into the wing chair, tucking my feet under me, and watched the shifting patterns of shadow and light caused by the moon on the valley below. When even sitting upright became too much of an effort, I moved back to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
Now I knew what painting belonged on the wall in my room, but not where it was, or even when it had been taken. But I had little time to reflect on that. Another spasm of coughing tore through me. There was no fighting it, and when it passed it left me exhausted and frightened.
Martha had left an assortment of medications on the bed table. I shook out two aspirin and swallowed them, but the chilled water irritated the raw wound my throat had become. I knew that only something warm would ease it.
I struggled into my robe and slippers and made my way through the darkened hallway toward the service stairs, puzzled by my lack of strength. I paused about halfway to catch my breath. A faint light shone from the hallway. Martha? No. This was the flickering light of a small candle. Silently I approached it. A tall figure cast in silhouette by the light made its way carefully down the hall.
I could barely breathe as I recognized the long black coat and dark hair tied at the neck. David? I couldn't move. I had heard the stories about his ghost, but hadn't believed them—surely, since I'd come back, he must have, too. If not, why was I here? But now I had to believe. My fear vanished. "David," I called softly. The light snuffed out, and when I hurried to where I had last seen it, I found nothing.
I leaned helplessly against the wall and gave in to another coughing spasm. Of course I had found nothing, I realized when the spasm passed. There was nothing to find. There was only my loneliness and my weakness conspiring to show me the one person I wanted to comfort me.
I went down the service stairs, stumbling on them, to the dark kitchen. I flipped on the overhead lights and stood blinking against their glare until my eyes adjusted. I lit all the burners on the stove and managed to find the teakettle, fill it, and put it on to boil before sinking wearily into a kitchen chair, resting my head on the table.
The whistle of the teakettle nagged at me as I struggled to remember where I was and why I was there.
"Tea," I murmured finally, feeling a small victory at recalling that much. "Hot tea for my throat."
I forced myself to my feet, rattled dishes in the cabinet as I found a cup, saucer, spoon, located the tea bags, and carried them all back to the cabinet beside the stoves.
I eased the kettle off the stove, held it for a moment until it stopped its fierce boiling, and turned to fill the cup. I watched in fascination as the water, in slow motion, poured from the spout to the counter beside my cup.
A muffled exclamation escaped me, and I hurriedly set the kettle on the stove. "What's the matter with me?"
I snatched a dish towel from a nearby hook. As I wiped at the counter, I picked up the cup by the saucer, intending only to get it out of the way of the dish towel. The cup flew from the saucer, shattering on the floor at my feet. "What is the matter with me?" I asked again, staring at the broken china.
I was still standing there, staring at it, when Martha came into the kitchen. She took one look at me, and another at the broken cup. "Elizabeth," she asked, "what's wrong?"
Frightened now by my lack of coordination, my weakness, and confused by my inability to do even simple thing like pour a cup of tea, I could only stare back at her.
Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. "I don't know, Martha." It was a little girl's voice I heard, not mine.
Instantly she was beside me, her arm supporting me. Her cool fingers trailed across my forehead. "Sakes alive, child," she said, "you're burning up. Let me get you back into bed."
"I only wanted a cup of tea, Martha. My throat hurts so terribly," I protested, but even to me it sounded like a whimper.
"I'll bring your tea to you," she promised as she led me from the kitchen, "but first let's get you covered up and warm."