by Tara Cowan
She ran down the stairs, into the foyer where she smelled Jane’s breakfast cooking, and out onto the porch. She went out onto the front yard. They were still there, but she couldn’t tell if there was any damage. If there was, she needed to know before Joe got there and started doing that jaw-clenching, silent fuming thing. She crossed the road in her hastily shoved on Keds, skirting small tree limbs, and climbed up onto the parapet, the roiling bay right behind her.
Shielding her eyes, she gave it a good looking over. It seemed like everything was okay. She stared for several minutes, trying to get the feel of it, to make sure the angle was right. Yes, it looked the same. She scanned her eyes across the row of houses, her heart catching. She looked at the house for the first time as someone who stood here or boated out in the sea would. Aw, it was so pretty.
It was easy to get lost in the details, the deliveries, the insane schedule. But she had a pretty awesome job. She leaned off the railing. Okay, onto the fireplace in the dining room.
She was still scraping atrocious white paint off the fireplace that was supposed to be stained to bring out its beautiful grains on Saturday morning. It was massive and several hundred years old. Her desire to learn more about the Ravenel family intensified. Few had had that kind of wealth: they must have lived like kings.
She dropped her scraper. Kudu. Folder. Harris Ravenel.
She looked at watch. 11:30. Okay, that gave her an hour to get there. And she smelled like a monkey. The organic deodorant was not working out. Not in Charleston. She shoved her hair back with her arm because her hands were too dirty, collected her thoughts for just a moment, and then hurried out of the room and up the stairs. She got into her impossibly small shower, which seemed to have been installed in the 20’s, and took the world’s fastest shower.
She didn’t have a closet, so she had put her clothes in drawers, which slowed her down considerably. At least, it did because she unaccustomedly couldn’t decide what to wear. She ended up in a pair of close-fitting robin’s egg blue pants, nude flats, and a long white top. Now for her hair. Grr, why was the pressure on to look good? She’d never even met the guy. Professor Jung downstairs would probably tell her it was because she had built up a fantasy about him through their amiable phone chats, imagining what he must look like. And he’d probably be right, freak that he was.
Okay, maybe she was the freak. She looked in the mirror, adjusting the blue and pink floral bandeau around her curls and clipping in her feather earrings. Yeah, she’d just go have coffee and get her folder.
She grabbed her tribal weaved purse and set out. She checked her watch. 12:00. She was sweating, but she had put on the good stuff this time.
She got in her Rav-4 and was soon heading toward downtown. She found the little coffee shop pretty easily and parked, looking around and suddenly realizing she hadn’t asked Harris for a car or shirt color to look for. If he looked anything like his brother, though, she’d know him, she thought wryly, putting her purse on her shoulder and walking toward the door.
As she stepped in, her phone started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Adeline? I just wanted to let you know I’m here.”
“Oh, great, I am, too—at the door.”
She looked around and saw a man standing, phone against his ear, looking toward the door. He smiled, removing his phone and remaining standing while she walked toward him.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he said, extending his hand with a smile.
He was cute. He had a good body. But he was no Adrian Ravenel. His hair was a shade lighter and slightly waving, his nose shorter, jawline not quite as razor sharp. He looked much more amiable, however. “You, too. Thanks so much for meeting me.”
“Not a problem,” he said, taking his chair again. She had noticed they also served craft beers as she walked in. The tall, cold glass that was sitting next to him was somehow a turn-off. “You want to me to go order for you?” he asked.
Gentlemanly. Her job would be a lot easier if his brother was. “Yeah, thanks. A coffee– whatever is good.”
She handed him a ten, but he waved it off, going away and returning in a few minutes with a delicious-smelling concoction. Maybe she could get into coffee. “Thanks again,” she said, opening the lid to let it cool.
“My pleasure. I know Adrian’s forking out the cash for this. He wants it to be right.” He sat back with a casual air of confidence, studying her like he found her interesting. She had a feeling he did it to everybody, and it made him likeable. “Were you there during the storm the other night?”
“Yeah, it was pretty intense. We had to go to the closet for several hours.”
“I thought about calling you,” he said, laughing. “Mom couldn’t reach Adrian, and she called me, panicking.”
“Oh, wow, that sounds like my mom,” she said. “But it wouldn’t have done you any good: my phone went dead, and I doubt we had any service anyway.”
They talked for a few minutes about the damage, and then she said, “Don’t let me keep you too long. I know you wanted to see your nephew.”
“We’re taking Jude to Fort Sumter,” he said.
“Oh, how fun!” she said, perking up.
“Why don’t you come with us? We could use some female company.”
She loosened her spine. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t asking for an invitation.”
“It would be fun…” he said. “Think of all that history… It might even help with the house.”
It was a low carrot to dangle in front of her. “No, I couldn’t,” she said finally.
“Come on: Adrian practically insists we bring a woman with us after Nantucket.” His eyes twinkled, faraway, obviously, in remembrance.
“What?” she said, watching him, anticipating a story.
“We went—all of us—to Nantucket last summer. Mom gets seasick, so Dad stayed on land with her, and the three of us took a sailing excursion.” He broke off, laughing a little. She watched him, eyes twinkling, thinking that he would more than likely be well-served by a half-dozen wild boys. “This old lady told me that she thought our relationship was wonderful.”
“Oh, no,” Adeline said with foreboding.
“She asked me if we had used Adrian’s sperm for Jude, and I answered that we had–”
“You didn’t!”
“Well, technically it’s true!” he defended. He’d obviously used that line multiple times, probably after facing the wrath of his entire family. His smile crept out again. “She said we’d made a good choice.” His eyes narrowed. “Which is damned insulting, when you think of it.”
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Adrian had practically squeezed the muscle off my arm before we even got off the boat, if it makes you feel any better.”
“I’m pretty sure you deserved it,” she said. “Alright, I’ll go, if only to prevent a domestic dispute. If you’re sure your brother won’t mind.”
“Of course he won’t.” He sounded much more certain than Adeline felt. “Alright, that’s settled.” He reached for the folder. “These are some family letters, and just random documents. I’m not sure if it’s from the time period you want, but I thought it might lead us to Santarella somehow.” He pulled out an old letter. He should probably be wearing gloves (there was no doubt he should), but they were his, and if they’d survived this long, they must be pretty hardy. “This one seems the most promising. I was looking at it last night.”
It was from 1860, just on the brink of war, though they probably didn’t know it yet. It seemed to be from a mother to a daughter, but she couldn’t be sure, for they had different last names. The mother discussed a dinner they had hosted, after which the tides were unfavorable and their guests were trapped for three days. Adeline straightened, her mind spinning with possibilities.
“Tides…” she said.<
br />
“Doesn’t sound like the Ashley, does it?”
She thought for several more seconds, holding his eyes, though in a vague reverie, the light bulb finally going on. “The sea islands,” she said.
He nodded, smiling. “The sea islands.”
Santarella, October 1859
Chapter Eight
The Ravenels were invited, as they often were during the autumn months, to dine at Middleton Place, which could be reached best from Santarella by the Ashley River. Their guests were, of course, carefully included in the invitation, for everyone knew everything about one another on the plantations of the Ashley River Road and Charleston’s surrounding islands. Mrs. Middleton included a note that she was sure there would be dancing among the young people, for she had also invited the Christians.
“And I must say, Shannon,” her mother said, readjusting a pin in her own hair that she did not consider the maid had gotten quite right, “that this is an excellent opportunity for you.”
Shannon, standing in her mother’s doorway, watching Abigail’s ministrations, said with her chin in the air, “And why is that, Mother?”
“Pertness is unbecoming in a young lady, Shannon. Either of Arthur Middleton or Seymour Christian would make you a fine husband. What is more, I believe either is yours for the taking, if you will only bestir yourself a little.”
Shannon looked contemplatively at her mother in the mirror, crossing her arms within her elegant wrap. “I grant you that it would not be unpleasant to live at Middleton Place. But do you not think Arthur a bit…effeminate?” she asked, lifting her brows at her mother.
Her mother met her eyes. “His look is a bit so. But that is because he lacks whiskers.”
“Yes, and any indication that he has ever had any,” Shannon said, not unkindly.
“I will grant you that he is almost…femininely beautiful. But he is one of your brother’s oldest friends, and, indeed, my dear, I am certain he doesn’t lack…manly attributes.” Shannon flushed slightly, and her mother gave her a displeased look. “I mean that I know him to have often been out shooting with Frederick and Harry Drayton, and he may not be a sportsman, but he handles himself well enough on a horse. Have Seymour Christian if you prefer, but for heaven’s sakes have somebody before you are twenty-one, Daughter.”
Her not much chastened daughter thought little of these things as she found herself, not long after, being rowed to Middleton Place on her family’s yacht by Negros. And she was her charming self to their host and hostess when they were shown to the door at the colonial mansion.
Williams Middleton and his lady, the former Miss Susan Pringle Smith, were the parents of four children, Arthur and Elizabeth, who were precisely Frederick and Shannon’s ages, and Lillian and Henry, who were ages ten and eight, respectively. They were all pretty children, with dark hair and as much ease in the world as befitted their birthright.
Elizabeth was one of Shannon’s closest friends. She was on the tall side of average with a pleasing figure and a pair of laughing blue eyes. She and Shannon shared the distinction of being granddaughters of governors of South Carolina, and of being two of the most eligible young ladies in the state.
Miss Middleton, as soon as supper was finished, lost no time in pulling Shannon to the side while Marie was taking her turn at the piano, to say, “My dear, what do you mean by never mentioning Mr. Haley in your letters?”
Shannon lifted her brows. “I mention him often, as I recall.”
“Not everything,” Elizabeth said, looking appreciatively across the room, where he sat with Frederick, young Mr. Middleton, and Seymour Christian at a card table, laughing over something Arthur had said. There had been a slight stiffness among the young men when he had first entered with Frederick which had evaporated, inexplicably, almost immediately.
Shannon’s eyes twinkled in response. “Indeed, I am given to understand that he has three brothers. It makes one very curious, does it not, to meet the Haley family of Massachusetts.”
Elizabeth agreed to it, clapping as Marie finished the first piece and Mrs. Middleton entreated her to honor them with a second. Elizabeth, looking lovely in a gown of ice blue, whose tightly fitting bodice and extremely wide skirts accentuated her lovely figure, watched Marie for a moment. “You will be very happy to gain her as a sister-in-law, I daresay,” she said, abandoning her levity, as she always did so gracefully.
“Indeed, I love her very dearly,” Shannon said. “She has been almost a sister to me since we were mere infants.” They paused as a footman brought coffee for the ladies and port for the gentlemen.
“She will make a good wife for him—your brother, I mean,” Elizabeth said, looking at Shannon quickly.
Shannon lifted her brows slightly. “There is no question of that. She would make any man an ideal wife, as would you, my friend. Won’t you marry Seymour Christian and silence my mother on that head?”
“And have him pining for you within a month? No, I thank you very much.”
“For me?” Shannon asked, surprised.
Elizabeth lay her blue fan aside. “Can it be that you don’t know?”
“No, Elizabeth, he doesn’t love me,” Shannon said, shaking her head. She didn’t want to shock her friend, unsure how much she knew of the ways of the world. “He is intrigued by…other things.”
“Lust for you, you mean,” Elizabeth said, leaving no question as to her intelligence. “Well, if it is all the same to you, Shannon, if one’s husband must lust, it ought to be after oneself, I think.”
She saw Mr. Haley glance up at her. How on earth had he heard that far across the room? Shannon’s eyes twinkled in response to the slightly embarrassed smile she saw in his. She pretended to ignore him and said, “Perhaps we ought to turn the subject. We might be overheard.”
They did, talking of more mundane matters, but Shannon could not quite still the voice in her head that warned her that Mr. Haley had heard every word. Irreverent commentary on his beauty had not interested him, then?
“Well then, shall we have dancing?” Mr. Middleton, ever the gracious host, asked.
His children encouraged it, and soon the governess, Miss Richardson, who had been invited to join the party once the younger children were put to bed, was warming her fingers in preparation for a reel. Arthur, with a smile, asked Shannon to partner with him. “It ought to be Miss Marie Ravenel by seniority,” he said, offering his hand, “but I should not dare.”
Marie smiled, surrendering the piano stool. “You have gotten yourself a much prettier partner, Mr. Middleton. Your true motives are not hidden to us.”
“Well, I shall ask Miss Middleton, then,” young Mr. Christian said. “There is beauty and to spare in this room tonight.” The adults laughed at this show of gallantry.
Mr. Haley looked at Miss Christian, a Queen Victoria-like individual with no countenance or conversation and then at Frederick, obviously hoping to spare her the mortification of being the only young lady not to be asked to dance. Marie, being engaged, could not have been slighted, either by dancing with Mr. Haley or by sitting the dance out. But Miss Christian could, by not being asked by one of the young men of her circle.
Shannon, walking to the middle of the room with her hand in Arthur’s, was in agony. Certainly no one could doubt that Arthur had done his duty. Shannon was the eldest of the unattached maidens present and from the most senior family. The real fault lay with Mr. Christian for not asking his own sister to dance, but Shannon could not deny that Frederick, with typical male ignorance, was frustrating her to no end, extending his hand to their cousin.
Mr. Haley stood, though Shannon knew he did not dance. “Miss Christian, will you do me the honor?” he asked, extending his hand. “I fear your Southern reels, but you won’t criticize me too harshly, I hope.”
“Indeed, no!” she said, taking his hand and allowing herself to be led to the floor.
Shannon’s shoulders eased, and she bestowed a smile upon Mr. Haley. She was not certain whether he had broken a moral rule or merely a personal preference, but she could have kissed him either way.
The reel started, and Arthur, apparently noticing more than she had credited him with, said, “I ought to have asked her. You wouldn’t have minded it, I know. I didn’t think of it, but I ought to have.”
“You are too severe upon yourself,” Shannon assured him. “It was your duty to lead us, and you couldn’t have anticipated such an uncomfortable moment.” She studied him. He was of a passably good stature, enough taller than the ladies that he might be accounted a handsome match in a dance. His eyes were the same chocolate color as his hair, and his features were indeed almost too beautiful for a young man of twenty-three years.
“Nonetheless, Haley is a good man. I couldn’t think at first what Frederick was about, bringing a Northerner among us, but I see now. I shall endeavor to call our esteemed neighbor off of him.”
Shannon lifted her brows. “Shall you? The elder Mr. Christian? Pray, what is he saying?”
“That there is no hope for it but secession.”
“There is nothing wrong in that,” Shannon said, shoulders relaxing. “Your own father says it, and my father is unwilling to discount the possibility.”
“Yes, and if we were all of one mind, it would be a perfectly natural conversation. But as it is, Haley disagrees, and Mr. Christian says all manner of things to spike his guns, subtle jabs at Northerners, and Negro-lovers especially. Frederick doesn’t know where to look, he is so embarrassed, and Haley turns the other cheek time and again, just sitting silently, I mean.”
Shannon lifted her brows, glancing down to find that Mr. Haley was, in fact, a capable dancer. She couldn’t quite fathom his way of life. What was it like in Boston, she wondered. “We have no notion of that in Charleston,” she said.
“Of turning the other cheek?” Arthur asked.
