“AND YOU SAY you do not know where he’s gone off to?” Dovehouse asked her.
“I do not,” Elizabeth replied. “Perhaps he is down at the coffeehouse.”
Dovehouse looked inquisitive. He was sitting in her drawing room. He had begged for but a moment of her time, and now she sat before him, his prisoner.
“James has been spending many hours down there of late,” she added.
Dovehouse smiled slightly, taking in her explanation. Had she not been in the front hall when he rang, she never would have answered the door.
“Since we have this moment,” Dovehouse said, “I was wondering if I might—”
“Yes?” she said.
She knew what he was up to. It was important to preempt him.
“It seems …” Dovehouse said, “that my friend has been—”
And he paused, searching her face for stray hints of anticipation.
“Not quite himself these past ten days.”
“No …” Elizabeth said.
“Ah, you take my meaning then?”
“It has been a difficult time,” she said.
“But it all seems to have been brought on by this damned business with the photograph.”
He was watching her closely. He wanted the word to upset her.
“The photograph has thrown him out of sorts,” Dovehouse said.
For more than twenty years, Benjamin Dovehouse had been observing her—through her courtship with Garrett, through the early days of her marriage, through the death of her child, and through the worst days of the war. He had been collecting notes on her reactions and behaviors for two decades, and filing them away in his repository of knowledge.
But she knew him too, and she would not give him what he wanted.
“These changes have been somewhat disconcerting to me,” Dovehouse went on. “Surely they’ve been troubling to you as well?”
Elizabeth did not offer him a response.
“Aren’t you concerned?” Dovehouse said.
“Concerned?” she repeated.
“Yes, about your husband.”
And he enunciated the word, as if trying to communicate with an idiot.
“I am concerned with a great many things,” Elizabeth said. “James does carry the weight of the nation on his shoulders.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Dovehouse said.
Elizabeth winced—an understandable break in her resolve. It was that tone—the same tone he used whenever he believed someone was trying to deceive him. For the most part he had respected her over the years, but she had also seen what his brutality could do to people.
“The photograph,” Dovehouse continued. “There is much more to this photograph than—”
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said, “but would you mind telling me … how is it that you’ve come to be involved with our photograph?”
“My understanding is that it is your photograph,” Dovehouse said.
And at once Elizabeth realized the error of her inquiry.
“Again, I must apologize,” Dovehouse said. “I know that the matter is delicate. It takes all of us back … back to that time …”
“You were here,” Elizabeth said. “You know how it tore James apart.”
“And you,” Dovehouse said. “Let’s not forget you, my dear.”
That voice. Even when low and whispering, that voice resounded like iron.
“It is true,” she said. “The spirit photography has … revived things. I know you think such matters silly, but there are—”
“Say nothing of what I think is silly, and what is not,” Dovehouse said. “I am many things, but I cannot claim to be all-knowing.”
It sounded ridiculous—disingenuous—coming from the likes of that man.
Then Dovehouse fixed upon her.
“He told me that the photograph was your idea.”
Of course it had been her idea, but what had Garrett told him? Was Garrett now the one who needed her protection?
“It was,” she said. “It was entirely my idea.”
“Entirely?” Dovehouse asked.
“Yes, entirely,” she said. “In fact, I went through a great deal of trouble—to convince him to sit for the photograph.”
“And he agreed for your sake?”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said.
“You suppose? You do not know?”
“No, I’m sorry. I do not know what James may or may not believe with regard to these things. He is very quiet about such matters. You better than anyone must understand the sensitivity around the subject, given who he is, and what he represents.”
“I understand exactly what he represents,” Dovehouse said. “But … what do you believe, Mrs. Garrett?”
This was an old trick of Dovehouse’s—the pointed question to which there could be no correct answer.
“I believe that there are many things we cannot explain,” Elizabeth said.
Dovehouse grinned.
“This is true,” he said. “But I am curious … if the photograph was your idea, why did James need to be involved with it at all? I’ve seen plenty of these—”
And he paused again.
“—photographs,” he said. “Of widows alone with husbands, of mothers with their dead children …”
He was trying to wear her down.
“I am curious,” Elizabeth responded, “as to why you are not discussing the photograph with James yourself?”
“Ah, my dear,” Dovehouse said. “My apologies, my apologies. I do not mean to be so intrusive. But James has been somewhat reticent on the matter, as you might expect. Our good senator has many enemies, waiting for him around every corner. My concern is primarily for his—and your—well-being.”
“To be sure,” Elizabeth replied. “Your concern is greatly appreciated.”
And she smoothed her skirt, hoping to bring an end to the conversation.
“But what is it?” Dovehouse pressed.
“What is what?” Elizabeth said.
“The photograph—what is it about the photograph?”
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
Dovehouse was growing impatient.
“The photograph!” he exclaimed. “I know my friend. I have watched him these past ten days. I have never seen him so distraught over something in all his life!”
The outburst was so unmeasured, but Elizabeth was careful not to reveal her surprise.
“It is important that he retrieve the photograph,” she said. “The photograph could ruin him.”
“But it confuses me,” Dovehouse said. “We have dealt with nonsense worse than this before. He has been saying things—doing things. He has been so unlike himself.”
“James carries great burdens—always. You know that.”
“I am not talking about his burdens,” Dovehouse intoned. “I am talking about this burden.”
His voice was calm but his face was terrible. She had seen Dovehouse restraining his frustration in the past, but never had it defied him quite like this.
Then a strange, milky pall descended over his eyes. He grew quiet, his face motionless.
“I may be able to help,” he said.
“You have always been a great help to James,” she replied.
And she smiled at him. He could not win.
Then his anger returned, like the sharp strike of a match. But his voice remained low and steady.
“I know you,” he said. “And I have known you from the first.”
His insolence was astonishing. Elizabeth stared back at him calmly.
“Thank you for inquiring after James,” she said, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Dovehouse rose from his chair and stepped hurriedly out of the room. He had challenged her, and she had gone beyond standing her ground. She remained seated until she heard the front door close. Now there was no turning back.