THIRTY-SIX

Hard on the heels of that initial giddiness and first suspicion came a new thought: For so long, I had dreamed of Chance’s release. And yet, now that the dream was a reality before me, how could I possibly act on it?

My life, for as long as I could remember at times, had been with my husband. To fantasize about a thing was one thing, but to actually have it happen? What would having Chance loose in the world do to my relationship with my husband? What would it do to my life? For, surely, once he was free, I could not resist the desire to see him, be with him.

And there came another thought, an ugly one, causing me to think myself very small-minded indeed: I had always imagined Chance, when I day- and night-dreamed about a life together, as being a handsome man, even if he had always been faceless in those imaginings. But what if the dream and reality failed to align? What if Chance Wood was, in fact, a fat man? An ugly man? Would I still feel about him as I had formerly done?

Then I thought on his letters to me, all the many miles of words we had written between us, and I realized it did not matter a single bit what he looked like. If he was fat, I would still love him. If he was ugly, well, I would still love him that way too.

I returned again, reluctantly, to the notion that Chance had originally, somehow, set out to use me all along. Was such a thing possible? Could he have made up everything, most importantly his feelings, with a goal in sight?

I did not want to believe it.

I remembered the Arabian gentleman whom Hettie Larwood had brought to our table—it now seemed so very long ago—and how he spoke of being unable to give up his religion because of what he had invested in it, and I could not believe it.

Besides, he could not have forecast in advance that the queen would make her stunning century-turning decision.

As for the threat to my marriage, I was suddenly heedless of it. If it was possible for him to be free—Chance free!—for me to finally be with him, I could not stop myself from reaching now for that dream.

And so, the following day, for the first time believing the impossible might be possible, I took out my sketchpad. It had been some months since I had felt moved to draw anything, not even for Weston’s amusement, but now I had a specific object in mind.

Women of my age and class were expected to have accomplishments—indeed, it was one of the ways that, when we were younger, we were judged in terms of suitability for marriage—but I, much to Louisa’s everlasting chagrin and Father’s amusement, was sadly lacking on most of refinement’s fronts. True, no one ever asked me to sing more quietly in church, and Weston was sure my voice was the sweetest in all creation, but, with an off-key note here and there, no one ever asked me to sing louder either. And, while we did keep a piano for the entertainment of any company in the music room, Weston was the only one foolish enough to regularly entreat me to play. It is one of the most peculiar joys of having a child that one’s voice is elevated to that of an angel of God; one’s instrumental capacity, no matter how ploddingly rudimentary, raised to pitch-perfect status.

I could not do needlework very well either, but I did try regularly, since it was expected.

But I could draw. The one thing I could do was pencil sketches that showed both a precision of hand and a wealth of imagination, since I was equally adept at rendering what was in fact in the physical world before me or whatever I might conjure up in my own mind.

That vase on that table? I could have it done for you in seconds. A griffin? Done with equal ease. Even if I did not know the exact description of the mythic beast, just the word would be sufficient for me to put down on paper something that would satisfy the picture you had of it in your own mind’s eye.

Now, as I sat in a corset-backed chair before my easel, the December sun streamed in from behind. I had set up my easel in the long corridor, facing the solid wall of midnight so that the sun would not blind me, so that all I faced was blank wall, nothing to disturb or influence inspiration. What I had not counted on was that the sun at my back, coming straight through the long wall of windows as it did, would make the heat behind me feel like the hottest of August.

I shrugged off my sense of a place too warm.

My object was to draw Chance as near as possible to what I imagined him to be. If—when?—I finally set eyes on him for the first time, I wondered as I sketched furiously, will reality blend into line with my creation?

I sketched, trying to push down thought, not wanting to examine thoughts I knew lay just beneath the surface. Did I really and truly want him free? An odd question, that. But everything that had gone before had been possible, to my way of thinking, due to one solid assumption: He was never going to be free. It was safe to say to him what I wanted, explore with him what I wanted, it was safe to let another human being talk to me in ways I wanted to be talked to and explored in ways no one had before, only because I knew we were never going to see each other.

But what now?

I pushed thought down, continued sketching.

Considering that I had been thinking on this subject for nearly a year now, it took relatively few minutes for me to pencil something I found to be acceptably true.

I studied my work, recognizing at once that I had drawn Chance exactly as I wanted him to be.

“It is a handsome drawing,” said John, startling me out of my reverie, blocking the light.

There had been a time, many times, when we had gone on picnics together and other outings, times that were as recent as just two years past. John would work, occasionally glancing up with a word of praise about whatever I was drawing. Now his words of praise were as gall and wormwood to me.

John tilted his head at a slight angle, considering. “He looks rather like you,” he said. “A much larger, much more masculine you to be sure, but you all the same. Still, I like it. Who is he meant to be?”

“He is no one,” I lied, the prevarication costing me much, “just someone I made up in my head.”

“So you say. But he looks so much like you,” John pressed, studying the drawing more closely. “Is he another, darker side of yourself, perhaps, something I’ve never seen?”

To this, I had no answer.

I wrote Chance about a major concern I had:

                  

Do you really think it will be allowed for a woman to sponsor the release of a male prisoner?

                  

And Chance wrote back, turning the major into the minor:

                  

You have lived with your husband for how many years? Surely, you can now copy his hand so that no one could ever tell the difference.

                  

It turned out Chance was right. Previously, I had hired Harry Baldwin to write those letters, because I could not disguise my hand enough to fool my husband. But I could, I discovered now with practice, impersonate my husband’s hand well enough to fool someone else.

I studied the handiwork of my signature before folding the letter—John Smith—and concluded it was good.