Pride, Prejudice, and Cheese Grits (Austen Takes the South)

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “I gave them to you two weeks ago. They were in a manila envelope, marked with the class number on the front.” Shelby frowned, trying to recall exactly when it was.

  “No, no, you didn’t. I’ve looked everywhere. You must be thinking of another term. I have to have them for your tenure review. Anything missing and it could cause some big problems.” He paused and fixed her with a glare. “Are you sure there weren’t some negative student comments in there? Something you want to hide?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “George, if I wanted to hide negative comments, I would have just removed those few and turned in all the rest. Why would I hide them all, when surely you would remind me that they had to be turned in?” Shelby was shaking with fury.

  “Well, I don’t have them. You need to figure out where they went and turn them in before the tenure review process starts next month. Let me just say that they would look more favorably on a few negative comments than all your class reviews gone missing.” With that he picked up his pen and started scribbling.

  Shelby turned and walked slowly back to her office, her pulse pounding in her ears. Finch had never lost anything important before. The last five years of evaluations, for every class, had been filed on time.

  She sat at her desk, a feeling of dread creeping over her. Did he really lose them? Could he be hiding them to punish her? She shook her head and hugged herself. Finch, as cliquish and power hungry as he was, wouldn’t be dishonest. He wouldn’t set her up to be denied tenure. Not for a departmental feud, not when she had worked so hard these past few years. Her stomach twisted as she realized that he just might. She dropped her head and whispered an anxious prayer. Those missing review would be one more black mark on her ever-darker record.

  “It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some sort of remark about the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

  -Elizabeth

  Chapter Twelve

  The evening was starting out on a decidedly low note.

  “I think you should just stay home if you’re going to look so sour.” Ellie carefully adjusted her dress and glared at Shelby.

  Shelby’s mother, thoroughly inspecting each girl as she came down the stairs, checking hair and accessories, glanced at her sharply. “Ellie! Shelby looks lovely. And can’t you find something else to wear? That looks like military canvas that’s been remade into a party dress.” The dress was a strange olive green color, with a tight bodice, a tiny bow at the waist, and the skirt was gathered at several points above the hem.

  “Yes, mother, that’s exactly what it is.” Ellie rolled her eyes and tugged at her top again. “At least I’m not wearing something from five years ago.”

  “Not that it matters, but Mama just bought this dress,” Shelby said lightly. And it certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice. A floor length gold colored silk, it made her feel strangely exposed as it clung to every curve. Maybe because it was sleeveless, or that it had a deep neckline, but Shelby itched to throw a cardigan over it. She touched the emerald solitaire at her throat and wondered how many hours the party would take.

  “Shelby, why don’t you wear that diamond pendant I bought you?” her mother asked, fussing over her oldest daughter’s hair.

  “Because it might have been mined by poor Africans without access to proper healthcare, Mama,” Ellie said snidely.

  “Africans? What on earth do you mean? I bought that on Myrtle Avenue in Marlon Harlow’s jewelry shop. ” Her mother continued attempting to smooth one rebellious curl back into Shelby’s up-do.

  Shelby tried redirecting the conversation. “Let’s all focus on having a nice time, shall we?”

  Ellie smirked. “I’m going to focus on having a great time. Why don’t you sit with someone you can get along with, like old Mr. Forrester? He’s into Civil War stuff. You all can talk about battles or something.” She impatiently checked the clock and peered up the stairs for her sister.

  “Loren Forrester would also prefer the nation went back to before women had the right to vote. So, no, I don’t believe we’ll have a lot in common,” Shelby said, wishing the evening was already over and she was headed back upstairs.

  “That Jennie Anne. I don’t mind being late but I don’t want to miss half the party!” Her mother checked her hair again in the foyer mirror. Retaining much of her youthful beauty, the deep lines visible around her eyes belied her true age. Although she could spend hundreds on miracle creams, Florence Roswell would never have work done. It wasn’t proper. She turned and said, “Shelby, you’re looking so lovely. You’ll turn every head at this party.”

  Jennie Anne appeared just in time to hear Mrs. Roswell’s comment and snorted. “Sure she will, as soon as she picks a good fight!”

  “Enough! Let’s get there already!” Shelby waved her hands in the air and the family trooped out the door.

  Shelby glanced back and saw her father, sitting in his leather chair in the study window, feet propped on the edge of the desk as usual. He met her gaze and pulled a face, which made her giggle. She wished that she could stay behind, reading and talking about things that happened long ago, the way she had when she was little. But those days were gone. She suppressed a sigh and got behind the wheel, trying in vain to block out the sound of her sisters squabbling in the back seat.

  ****

  The grand rooms of the Putney mansion were liberally dotted with three foot high vases of white and pale pink cabbage roses, and their heavy scent hung like an invisible fog. Deep green ivy strands wound around every post, down bannisters and along mantlepieces, contrasting perfectly with the silvery wallpaper. She thought of the last time she was here and the particularly fine cabinet she’d noticed in the downstair’s bathroom, probably from the Civil War era, and made a mental note to find it sometime this evening. If she could get away from her mother, that is. Her sisters were granted leave almost immediately, but Mrs. Roswell seemed to sense that Shelby wouldn’t engage in small talk unless she was forced.

  Wealthy and influential families filled the room to capacity but the air remained cool. Shelby’s arms were covered in goose bumps from the chill and she gazed toward the seventeen foot ceilings, decorated with stamped copper trays that gleamed in the light. An elaborate ceiling medallion anchored the brass chandelier. With one wall covered in floor to ceiling windows, the heating costs must be astronomical in the winter. Shelby snagged a pepper crusted shrimp form a passing tray. The Putney’s always had Brightley Inn cater their parties. Their cajun blackened seafood and fresh salsas were famous around the region and Shelby was grateful for the delicious distraction.

  “Shelby, it’s so good to see you!”

  She turned at the sound of her name and saw Caroline Ashley, looking willowy and ethereal despite the heavy dress she wore. Shelby hugged her old friend tightly, trying not to crush the navy taffeta roses that trailed down the deep neckline of her dress. “I’m not heading back until tomorrow, we should have lunch.”

  Caroline’s perfume was light and floral, a perfect match for the reserved young woman. “Great idea! You can tell me all about life in the big city.”

  Caroline laughed lightly but Shelby knew she felt left behind. Caroline’s mother had insisted that she come home right after she received her journalism degree and be serious about looking for a husband. After a stunning internship at The Washington Post, Caroline stayed in her tiny home town of Thorny Hollow, a few miles from Flea Bite Creek, where she let her mother run her life.

  “Are you still working on your novel?”

  “Sure, it’ll never be finished. Three hundred pages on the Russian revolution and counting. My hero has loved and lost and loved some more. But it keeps me occupied.”

  “I’d love to read it sometime!” Shelby meant it sincerely but Caroline smiled faintly and turned to acknowledgea tall man approaching them. Shelby thought his shock of white hair made him look a little like Mark Twain, or maybe it was his seersucker
suit.

  “The famous Shelby Roswell! I greatly enjoyed your last article in Southern History Quarterly!” His voice was loud but pleasant, with a strong accent, Georgia was her guess.

  “Thank you. This is my friend Caroline Ashley.”

  “I’m Jacob Stroud, physician by training but historian at heart,” he said, extending his hand to both of them. “Very fine work tracking the Schumachers through the end of the war. Jewish families are so rarely represented in Civil War articles.”

  “There were a lot fewer to begin with so it does take a bit of digging, to be fair. Most of the remaining families went North after the war ended.”

  “Aaron Schumacher lost a leg at Shiloh?” he asked.

  “Yes, how did you know?” she asked, surprised.

  “See, I collect antique surgical equipment.” He leaned forward, bushy white brows twitching in his eagerness. “My wife thinks I’m plum crazy but I bought a whole set of amputation saws at auction a few years ago, and there were diaries and logs included. They were the tools of one Dr. Peabody. After reading your article, I looked for Aaron Shumacher and he was entered as having a leg removed above the knee.”

  “Very interesting! I found his name in the recorded requests for prosthetics. The wealthy are easier to follow that way, more of a paper trail.”

  The elderly doctor nodded excitedly. “I probably have the hand saw that removed your man’s leg. The teeth are bent in a few places. Those amputations weren’t easy, you know.”

  Shelby glanced at Caroline’s face and fought back a laugh. Her eyes had gone wide, a look of horror replacing her pretty smile. Shelby felt a little sorry for her, and hoped there was a way to end this conversation gracefully.

  “Poor men, it’s a wonder anybody survived the shock.”

  “This Dr. Peabody, he was a good doctor. Gave them two bullets to bite on, one for each side, so they didn’t dislocate their jaws. The bullets were still in the kit, teeth marks all over ‘em.” Mr. Stroud went on, oblivious to Caroline’s growing discomfort. “At least with a limb, they had a chance. Those torso or head wounds, those were something awful. They just didn’t know enough about infection at that point. Most wounds festered and killed the patient by sepsis,” he said, winding up for a long discourse.“This set came in a velvet lined box and had a foreign body prode, a metcarpal saw, and a bone scraper. They used that one to remove necrotic tissues when-“

  “I think I see Frank Marigund!” Caroline’s voice was high and a little strangled. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It was nice to meet you!” She bolted toward another group of revelers with short, hurried steps, hobbled by the long dress.

  Dr. Stroud coughed uneasily. “It seems I’ve let my passion for the War overrun my good manners, yet again.”

  Shelby put a hand on the doctor’s arm. “Don’t worry, she doesn’t appreciate the more gruesome aspects of Civil War history. She spends her time immersed in writing great literature, where the hero is always wealthy and noble, and hardly ever needs an amputation.”

  He laughed, but a light pink flooded his cheeks.

  “Now, there are some beautiful roll-up surgical kits on display at the Lincoln Memorial University Museum. Have you been there? They even have the glass vials with opium pills,” Shelby said.

  “Dr. Stroud.”

  The deep voice behind her sent a message to her mouth, bypassing her brain, and she faltered mid sentence. Slowly turning, Shelby’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  Ransom Fielding, impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray three piece suit, stood a few feet away. Her father wore three piece suits, but on him they looked genteel, rather than the heart-stopping example that stood before her. A sapphire colored silk tie set off the patterned handkerchief in his pocket, and matched the blue pattern woven through the vest. In a flash, Shelby understood Rebecca’s obsession with fashion. It was one of the most beautiful suits she had ever laid eyes on.

  And the man wearing it looked devastatingly handsome with his dark hair smoothed back and angular features softened by the slightest smile. His gaze traveled from somewhere near the emerald solitaire at her throat over the silky curve of her hips to her sandals and back. Some indefinable emotion flickered in his blue eyes.

  “Ransom! Great to see you here. Have you met Miss Roswell? She’s quite an expert on the field maneuvers.”

  At the sound of Stroud’s voice, Shelby realized she was gawking. That unnamed emotion she’d seen had probably been amusement as her mouth hung open.

  “You could say we are acquainted. I’ve taken a sabbatical at Midland.” Although the band was in full swing and the guests chattered happily, his deep voice cut through it all easily.

  “Well, isn’t that just perfect.” Dr. Stroud beamed at the two of them and clapped Ransom on the shoulder. “We’ll have to have dinner together, all three of us. Won’t that be-“

  “Shelby, dear! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Shelby had been so intent on Ransom that she hadn’t noticed her mother advancing. She started and released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Stroud. It was wonderful to meet you.” Shelby searched through her clutch and gave him her card. “I’d like to see your diaries and records some time.”

  He seemed to swell with happiness. “Anytime, anytime! I’ll send you an e-mail this weekend and we can arrange something.”

  “And Mr. Fielding. See you back at Midlands,” she said, lifting her chin and trying to appear dignified. She fought to keep the image of their last conversation from her mind but she could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “Miss Roswell, it’s always a pleasure.” His lips quirked up in a half smile, and Shelby was struck by the tiny laugh lines around his eyes. She wondered what he looked like when he really smiled and then hated herself for wondering.

  “Shelby, honey, he’s waiting.” Her mother’s fingers were pinched into Shelby’s elbow and she maneuvered her back into the crowd, whispering the whole way. “You can’t waste your energy talking to Ransom Fielding. He’s already made up his mind about you. And don’t spend your time on old men like that Stroud. His wife told me he spends thousands a year on ancient junk that nobody wants.”

  Shelby bit her tongue, wanting to point out that if nobody wanted it, it wouldn’t sell for thousands.

  “Now, Mrs. Whiting says there are more celebrities here than at the Governor’s Ball, by at least a dozen.” Her eyes glittered feverishly, scanning the room for men with high potential.

  Shelby took a breath and hoped they would be able to stay out of Ransom Fielding’s way.

  “Here we are.” She planted Shelby firmly into another circle, populated with conservatively dressed men and beautifully made up women. “Honey, meet David Bishop. He’s from Jackson and he’s down here helping Marion Dartmon find a vacation home. Come here...”

  Shelby knew when her mother thought she’d found a good catch: she got extra grabby.

  “Pleased to meet you. How’s the house hunting going?”she asked brightly.

  “Very well,” David Bishop said and self-consciously patted his hair. It was an odd style for a man in his forties, gelled and parted in the middle, military short on the sides. It sort of reminded her of the linotypes of society men in the 1900's. He was trying to grow a mustache... or maybe that was the mustache.

  “We’ve found some really excellent possibilities. Now it’s just a matter of convincing the owners to sell.”

  “You mean, accepting a lower offer?” asked Mrs. Roswell eagerly.

  “No, actually, these houses aren’t even on the market. We pick out a few we like and then approach the owners with an offer,” he said, smiling primly.

  “Really? I didn’t know that was a common practice in real estate,” Shelby said.

  “My clients do things a little differently.” He inclined his head and smiled at Shelby’s mother, who nodded enthusiastically, still gripping her arm.

  Shelby was distracted temporarily
from the pressure of her mother’s fingers. David’s tie was a bright purple, and the pattern that Shelby had thought at first glance was paisley, was actually miniature dancing rabbits. With top hats and canes.

  “And is that usually successful then?” she asked, with an effort at keeping the conversation moving.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. Everyone has a price, that’s all I can say.” Here he let loose a high giggle and Shelby felt her eyes go wide. “And let me tell you, the commissions are out of this world.”

  Shelby gently pried her mother’s hand from her elbow. At that moment they heard Marion herself calling “Florence” and Shelby’s mother beamed with pleasure as she was summoned to her little circle of revelers. She turned her head at the last moment and gave Shelby an enormous wink.

  Groaning inwardly, Shelby rubbed her elbow and tried to get some circulation back in her fingers.

  “And commissions aren’t the only perks,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “I receive much more under the table, tax deferred, so to speak. But if money doesn’t move you, just understand that I was invited to the Governor’s Ball this winter.”

  She forced herself to remain still as he leered toward her, his eyes bloodshot and the pupils dilated.

  “Now, Shelby, I think we could really be good together.”

  She nodded absently. Then the words registered with a thud. What on earth had her mother told him?

  “You could not make me happy and I am convinced I am the last woman in the world that could make you so.”

  -Elizabeth

  Chapter Thirteen