Sighing over that thought, she stopped outside her grandfather's bedroom and knocked. "Come in, child."
Maxwell called, and she did.
Her grandfather's visitor was a man about her grandfather's age who still bore the air of authority Maxwell must surely have had before his illness.
"Felicity, may I present my good friend, Alexander Evans?" Maxwell said. "Alex, this is my granddaughter, Mrs. Logan."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Logan," Evans said, taking the hand she offered. "I've been looking forward to this moment ever since I first saw your work."
"My work?" Felicity echoed, giving her grandfather a puzzled look.
"Yes, my dear," her grandfather confirmed. "You see, when I first saw your photographs, I was quite impressed, but since I am no expert, I asked the opinion of one who is. Alex here helped organize the Philadelphia Photographic Society. He's a photographer himself."
Felicity smiled, delighted to discover a kindred soul, but before she could respond, Evans contradicted the assessment. "I'm only an amateur compared to you, Mrs. Logan. I know Henry didn't tell you, but he gave me your photographs to take to the last meeting of the Photographic Society. The gentlemen there were quite impressed."
"Grandfather!" Felicity chastened him, not certain whether she was angry or not but certainly displeased that he had taken such a step without consulting her. "You shouldn't have done that."
"My granddaughter is becomingly modest," Maxwell said by way of excuse for Felicity's reaction.
"I am justifiably modest," she corrected him, giving Mr. Evans an apologetic smile. "You are very kind to flatter me, but I know my work is only passable…"
"Passable?" Evans repeated, obviously astounded. "Do you mean to tell me that you really don't know how much talent you have?"
Felicity's face mirrored his astonishment. "Photography is a craft. It doesn't require talent, not the way painting and sculpture and things like that do," she said, repeating the theories she had heard her father recite.
But Alex Evans was shaking his head. "That's what painters would have us think, but only because they're afraid of the competition. Of course, your statement is true of many photographers who fritter away their lives simply taking pictures, but for a select few-like you, Mrs. Logan-the theory simply does not hold true. Can't you see for yourself the difference between your own work and that of others?" he asked.
Felicity started to protest, a natural reaction ingrained in her from birth. It was wrong to put herself forward or to exhibit any pride in her accomplishments. But the truth of Mr. Evans's words stopped her. She had already recognized that her work was good, even though her father had given her scant praise. She knew Caleb Storm had only been afraid she would grow proud. He often quoted the Scripture verse about pride going before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction as an admonition.
But she did know her work was good, and here was someone well qualified to judge it who confirmed that opinion. She smiled gratefully. "As Grandfather said, I'm modest," she excused herself.
"What a waste of energy," Evans said, smiling back. "The reason that I'm here today is to ask your permission to display your work in the Photography Pavilion at the Centennial Exposition."
"What!" Felicity cried, incredulous. As confident as she was about her work, she had never dreamed it deserved such an honor. "Now you really are flattering me."
"Not at all," Evans replied. "I am on the selection committee, and the other members agree that your work merits inclusion in the display."
"Oh, Grandfather," Felicity said in frustration, turning to the old man. She knew he would understand her feelings, how all her training rebelled at such a public show of what was a very private pleasure for her.
Maxwell understood, but he did not let that influence him. "It would be very selfish of you to refuse Alex's offer."
"Selfish?" Felicity could not follow his logic.
"Yes, just think how proud Josh will be of you. And think of the future. Your children and grandchildren can brag that your work appeared at the Exposition," Henry explained persuasively.
Felicity stared at him in shock. Her children? How could he say such a thing? But then she remembered that he did not know the details of her baby's death. All she had told him was that the baby was stillborn. Her grandfather would naturally assume that she would have other children. Even she herself had not yet given up hope completely. But what if Joshua's predictions were true? What if Caleb Joshua was the only child she would ever produce? What then would she leave behind her when her life came to an end? The answer was ridiculously simple: her pictures. For now, at least, they were her babies, the only thing she could produce of lasting value.
Feeling an unfamiliar surge of determination, Felicity turned back to Mr. Evans, who seemed a little surprised at the sudden change in her. "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Evans. I would be honored to have my pictures displayed in the Photography Pavilion."
Mr. Evans was absurdly grateful, at least to Felicity's mind. After he left, her grandfather was, too.
"Thank you for humoring me, my dear," he said. "I know how difficult it was for you to agree."
But she smiled reassuringly. "I simply decided you were right. Pride is a sin, but it's a sin to hide your light under a bushel, too."
Maxwell thought it best not to comment on that remark. Instead he said, "I suppose this means you'll stay at least until the Exposition opens. You'll have to be here to receive your accolades."
Her smile flickered only slightly. "If there are any accolades," she replied, but she was really thinking about the other part of his statement, the part about her staying until May. It was certainly a reasonable expectation. What disturbed her was the thought that if Joshua did not want her back, she would be staying long past May.
How happy her grandfather would be if that was the case. He would gladly keep her here. He had often mentioned wistfully that he wished he could do so. And Richard, too, would be pleased. More than pleased, she realized sadly. Although he had not tried to kiss her again, he had managed to make his feelings for her obvious nonetheless. He would be delighted to take Joshua's place in her life.
The problem was that no one could ever take Joshua's place.
"I'd better go now so you can get some rest," she said, eager to escape her grandfather's perceptive gaze. He was watching her as if he could read her thoughts.
He made an impatient noise. "There'll be time enough for rest when I'm dead. Right now I have a chance to look at the prettiest young woman in this city, and I'm going to take it. Sit down and we'll talk for a while."
Felicity frowned at the reference to his death, a reference he made rather too frequently for her peace of mind. "Dr. Lowell said that if you take care of yourself, you can live a long time," she reminded him.
"Pshaw, a few months one way or the other won't make that much difference to a man my age. I say, enjoy the time you've got. Better to live a short while and have fun than a long time and die of boredom," he told her with a wink that brought a grudging smile back to her mouth. She had come to love him very much in the few weeks she had known him, and the thought of his death disturbed her greatly, although she knew he did not want her to show it.
"In fact," he continued thoughtfully, adjusting the bedclothes with the air of one who has an important announcement to make, "I've been thinking about having a party."
"A party!" Felicity echoed, thoroughly shocked. How did he think he could host a party from his bed?
"Well, I wouldn't attend, of course, but Richard could serve as host," he explained, anticipating her objections. "And Isabel can muddle through as hostess if you stand beside her and make sure she doesn't faint," he added with a wink. "I want you to be introduced into Philadelphia society properly."