Southern Rain (Torn Asunder Series Book 1)

by Tara Cowan

  She looked back at him, pulling herself out of her abstraction with a slight smile. “I believe we find it, in point of fact, morally repugnant. Which cannot be as it should, when one thinks on it.”

  “Well, unless Haley is spiritless, if he spent very long in the man’s company he would very like throttle him, which cannot be right either.”

  “No, indeed, what a shocking thing in a common parlor,” she answered, laughing, eyes dancing. And when she looked down the row of dancers, she thought she caught Mr. Haley looking away from her, though she couldn’t be certain.

  Shannon’s aunt and uncle arrived the next week upon invitation, bringing with them a valet and a lady’s maid. Frederick was finally relegated to the flanker, and the ladies took Mrs. Richard Ravenel up to her chamber to rest following her carriage and boat excursions. She was a rather retiring lady, always an interesting contrast to her husband. Uncle Richard was several years younger than his brother, and though they favored very nearly, he was not nearly so elegant. He had a booming voice, which echoed off the walls of Santarella and amused Shannon for a few minutes before making her flee to the gardens.

  She was feeling low and a little lonely, and she wished she were back in Charleston and wished herself nowhere but Santarella simultaneously. She tried to fill her time: she walked often in the gardens, took long rides, and read for hours. She thought the cause was that Frederick and Marie were spending all of their time with one another. She thought it odd for a couple that was the product of an arrangement and asked Mr. Haley one day when she happened upon him in the library if he did not, too. She had almost feared Frederick’s guest would think him neglectful, but he seemed to like solitude and the Southern country life. She saw him out riding and found him often reading, often Cervantes from the original Greek, which made her feel rather frivolous.

  He shrugged, tearing himself away. “I think perhaps they wish to get their marriage off to a good start.”

  Standing by the ancient wing chair, she said, eyes dancing a little, “And you think I ought to leave them alone.”

  Laughter leapt to his eyes. “Yes,” he said bluntly.

  “Very well, I shall. But, unlike you, I need human society. Will you ride with me?”

  She had wanted to test him, to see if he was too prudish to ride alone with a young lady. She flushed when she realized he was looking at her knowingly, eyes twinkling. His lips quirked into a smile, a little wry. “You think I’m a prig, don’t you Miss Ravenel?” he said in his charming voice. Not a hint of the Yankee, only the charming boy, and, occasionally, the serious man.

  Her flush deepened. “Indeed, I do not. I honor you for your principles. Truly, they are refreshing in this…lackadaisical day in which we live.”

  His eyes twinkled. “That was very inventive,” he approved.

  “I thought so,” she agreed, finally smiling.

  His smile held for a moment and then slowly slipped away, his expression seeming arrested. He was still holding her eyes, only a faint smile there now. “Yes, I’ll ride with you, Miss Ravenel.”

  Her heart was flying like a thoroughbred at the derby. She couldn’t have torn her eyes away even if she had tried. She moistened her lips. His distracted eyes trailed there, and then back up. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The moment lengthened.

  A shot sounded outside, jolting them. He looked away toward the window, and Shannon closed her eyes for a moment, taking a breath. By the time he turned around, she was composed. “What on earth-?” she asked, masking her breathlessness.

  “I believe I heard your uncle mention something about shooting birds this morning,” he answered.

  “Oh. Good Lord, we had all better take cover.”

  “Ought we?”

  She moistened her lips, still recovering. “No, we’ll go to the west field, which will be miles away from him.” She smiled, the teasing light returning to her eyes. “That is…if you’re certain you wish to.”

  “I’m certain,” he said, lips tucked in gentle amusement, eyes twinkling.

  She met his eyes, a little smile in her own. One corner of his mouth slid up. Her mouth went dry, and she lost all of the arts of which she was so capable, every method she had used to bring men to their knees. He left her feeling ruffled, unsatisfied.

  He looked away, this time running his fingers through his fair hair. He reached to snatch his hat from a nearby table and then extended his hand to take her riding whip. “After you, Miss Ravenel,” he said, clearing his throat, motioning with his hand for her to precede him.

  She did so, holding to her train, and he tucked the whips under his arm as he drew on his gloves. They walked in silence, and he was thoughtful enough to walk slowly. They made it to the stables, and her horse and his borrowed gray were brought out, and he lifted her into the saddle gently, as if she weighed nothing. His hands lingered for a moment around the smallest part of her waist to give her time to arrange her skirts and secure herself. She met his eyes, her hands still on his shoulders, and he searched her face without embarrassment or hesitation.

  He looked away finally, and she watched as he took his horse, saying softly, “Thank you.”

  Henry stepped away, answering, “Yes, suh,” and he leapt on easily. Then they set off toward the west field, which was being rotated out of crops this year and was, therefore, suitable for riding. Shannon narrowed her eyes surreptitiously, watching for signs of weakness in his horsemanship: she had often been disappointed by young men who had been raised in the city. But there was nothing to disappoint in Mr. Haley’s handling of the powerful chestnut. Then she remembered that there was a country estate in Massachusetts. She conjured images of hunting parties on gray, cold days, of gentlemen returning from shooting with braces of pigeons over their shoulders.

  “Is Boston your home, Mr. Haley?”

  He glanced over at her and answered after a moment, “For half of the year, yes.” He let her precede him through a gate. Once he had closed it, handing her his reins, and remounted, he added, “We lived the rest of the year at Harmony Grove.”

  “Is there farming there?” she asked.

  “Yes, we have a few tenants. And some hired men.”

  She smiled. “Then you must feel quite at home at Santarella.”

  He glanced at her, taking her measure for a moment. “Santarella is very different from Harmony Grove, Miss Ravenel, as I’m sure you know.”

  She studied him closely. She had not missed his meaning. “You think us very sinful, don’t you, Mr. Haley. With our slaves and gambling and largesse.”

  This had been said in a quipping tone, but he looked at her seriously. There was a long moment, in which he hesitated. Finally, fingering his reins, he said, as though compelled, “I think slavery is a sin, yes.”

  He was a strange specimen. She had been taught carefully all of the strongest arguments for slavery, from the practical to the religious, and she could have argued it with him as well as any Southern Congressman. Instead, she was asked, “Do you find the institution of slavery sinful, or the owners?”

  He glanced at her. He took his time in answering, the horses walking along at a plodding, pleasant pace, the grass padding their way. “Certainly, the institution,” he finally said. “As for the men… I like to think that had I been raised in…in this part of country–”

  “No, what were you going to say?” she asked, quick to note his very slight hesitation, the militant sparkle in her eye evaporating as they began to dance.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said shortly. A little too shortly.

  “A name for the South,” she pursued, casting the blowing ribbons from her hat over her shoulder, glancing out at the sprawling green fields as she thought. “One of your common derogatory terms that you realized just now is not quite proper.”

  Her eyes were still dancing. He tried very valiantly to keep his jaw rigid, but he g
ave a reluctant smile and said wryly, “Very well—the belly of the beast.”

  She gasped. “No!”

  “I assure you it is a very common expression in Northern congregations and parlors,” he said, giving an unexpected ripple of laughter.

  Shannon was wiping her streaming eyes, saying as she caught her breath, “Very well: had you been raised in the belly of the beast, as were Frederick and I—what then?”

  He had been watching her while she laughed, a faint, distracted smile in his eyes. He sobered, however, as her question registered. “I would like to think I would still have the same principles,” he said softly, seriously, “but I suppose that is impossible, or at least unlikely.” He looked at her, that look returning to his blue eyes, the one thus far only Frederick had been privileged to see during his visit, and said, “And I think I shall leave it at that, Miss Ravenel.”

  She pressed her lips together, imperfectly concealing a smile, and said, a challenge in her eyes, “Afraid, Mr. Haley?”

  “Merely unwilling,” he answered firmly.

  She held his eyes, her smile slowly fading. She swallowed as the moment stretched out and studied him slowly. She said quietly after a time, “Forgive me, Mr. Haley. I shouldn’t have pressed you. It was unkind.” She looked up at him penitently, her face so different from the one she showed the world.

  His lips parted. “No,” he said, almost faintly. “You had a perfect right to curiosity.” He swallowed, and her mouth went dry, watching his Adam’s apple move up and down. He made a survey of her beautiful, vulnerable features, and time seemed to lengthen or perhaps stand still. “You’re too sweet by half, Shannon, in your heart. Someone will hurt you someday.” His eyes scanned her face.

  Shannon swallowed. “H…Heavens, no,” she said, trying to keep her hands from trembling. “If I am penitent, it is because I am a shrew,” she said, feigning lightness.

  He smiled, and her heart clenched for reasons unknown. His gloved hand covered hers on the reins, hesitantly, almost against his will. He was not looking at her. “Well, I suppose we treaded down an alley where we had no business.”

  “I rather forced you there at gunpoint,” she interjected.

  He laughed, removing his hand and taking both of his reins as they set off. “In any event, Frederick and I agreed to let that subject lie a long time ago.”

  Santarella, November 1859

  Chapter Nine

  With one thing and another, Mr. Haley stayed longer at Santarella than he had originally intended. In large part, this was due to Frederick’s desire of his support during the engagement party that was to be hosted at Santarella, at which there were to be upwards of two-hundred select guests from the finest South Carolinian families. Another factor was that the tides were against him, making it almost impossible to leave. And so the autumn unfolded.

  Shannon was sitting in the window seat in the blue paneled library reading A Complete Guide to New England by Mr. Forrester, when Frederick came in, sweating from his ride, dashing off his hat and wiping his forehead.

  “Good heavens,” she said, looking at him in awe, “is it still so warm?”

  “Haley and I raced.”

  “On foot? I can’t think you would win that, dearest,” she said, biting her lip.

  He gave her a sour look, going to the desk and picking up a piece of paper. “On horses. I had thought the humidity would kill him, but he’s holding up well enough. And I have recently made a Will. I can cut you out of it easily enough.”

  She laughed. “I do not live in much terror, Brother, knowing I play second to Marie in that instrument. Is that what you are reading?”

  He nodded, eyes still skimming it. “The lawyer mailed it—Brantley. Apparently they sent the mail boat and now it’s trapped. The crew is staying in a cabin at Greenmont,” he said, frowning over one piece.

  “Very unfortunate,” she said, amused. “Where is Mr. Haley now?”

  “Changing.”

  “Did you take him to the beaches?”

  He nodded, laying the paper aside. Then he walked forward, sitting with her in the window seat. “He says they’re prettier than the beaches of Massachusetts, which doesn’t surprise me.” He reached for her hand. “Shannon, you must help me.”

  She lifted her brows. “Of course, but what are you talking about?”

  “Marie is nervous—what on earth is the cause? I know how females talk—surely she’s told you?”

  “She has told me very little, I am afraid,” she answered, studying his dark eyes.

  He looked away in thought. “I’ve wracked my brains.”

  “Perhaps it is her father, agitating her out of all reason.”

  He shook his head. “She never lets him trouble her.” He fingered the cuff of his coat, a habit from childhood. “Do you think it is all of the details, the…the hurly-burly?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The wedding night?”

  “Frederick Shannon Ravenel!”

  He scowled at her, giving her a revolted look. “Mary Shannon Ravenel!” he mocked.

  “You are not supposed to speak of such things with your sister,” she chided piously, chin in the air.

  “Well, with whom am I supposed to speak?” he demanded, put off by her virtue.

  “Well, I don’t know—but not me!”

  “Will you tell her not to worry?”

  “No, I most certainly will not,” she said, equally revolted. “Besides which I don’t think that is what is troubling her. I think perhaps she is merely overwhelmed with it all, and desperately eager to make you happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  She smiled, pressing his hand. “I am glad to hear it.” After he had returned her smile, she said, “Have you spoken of religion yet?” His brows drew together. She enlightened him. “If you remember, my dear, Uncle Richard let Aunt Coraline raise her Catholic.”

  “Oh, God,” he said, laying his head in his hand. “Maybe we won’t have any children.”

  Shannon laughed, but admonished, “Frederick! You do not mean that.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want Catholic children.”

  “Very well, raise them Presbyterian.”

  He looked up. “She’s pretty devout, isn’t she?”

  Shannon nodded.

  He sighed. “We’ll have to discuss it, I suppose.”

  She tried not to smile and instead said, “May I offer you a piece of advice, dear brother?”

  “Well, if that isn’t just like you!” he protested. “I asked for it ten minutes ago, and you ate me up!”

  “Pertaining to something different,” she said, her nose in the air.

  “Alright,” he said, sighing.

  She moistened her lips, studying him. Finally, she took his hand between both of hers. He had a gentleman’s hands. She wondered if Marie had noticed it. “Don’t…attempt to shelter Marie. Remember that she is a Ravenel. She has a strong mind. Discuss things with her, treat her as your equal. She may seem demure, but she won’t be happy otherwise.”

  He studied her a moment before nodding once, and then again, thinking on it.

  Santarella, November 1859

  Chapter Ten

  Shannon stood at the doors of the upstairs ballroom, watching the dancing in progress, hearing the sweet strains of the cello and other strings, wishing, strangely, for a moment of peace, and to be alone. There was nothing like watching a ball from the safety of another room. But the wish to escape was a little foreign to her. It was probably not an exaggeration to say that she was the most sought-after young lady in Charleston. She had nothing to shrink from and everything to enjoy.

  She watched Frederick and Marie dance a waltz, her mind trailing to a week previously when she and Marie had sat in the withdrawing room, penning the last of the invitations, their skirts arranged elegantly so that they poole
d on the floor and did not wrinkle. Matilde, the housekeeper, took the letters from them and sealed them, creating neat stacks on the table.

  “Have you discussed when the wedding will take place?” Shannon asked, wincing over the necessity of inviting the Shaws as she penned their letter. She glanced at her cousin, a little surprised she had been forced to ask.

  “Frederick says he will leave it all to me,” Marie answered, pressing her lips together as she ruined a letter with a large blot.

  “How very like a man,” Shannon responded dryly.

  Marie looked up quickly. “No, I believe he truly meant it for my benefit, wishing me to be perfectly comfortable, you see. I should like to be married in the spring, but that is the planting season.”

  Shannon surveyed her, finding her indecision odd. It was not her way. “Would you like to be married at Santarella, or..?”

  “No, in Charleston,” she said, nodding once. “In my own house. That is what makes it difficult, you see.”

  “Well, then, be married in February,” Shannon suggested. “That give you enough time for preparations, but will leave time enough before planting.”

  Marie’s shoulders loosened. “Yes, I suppose that will be best. Only you mother does not think that will leave enough time for the gown to arrive from Paris.”

  “Marie, you must cease taking orders from my mother at once,” Shannon said firmly. “She will control everything from the beads in your hair to the timing of the birth of your children if you allow it, and allow it you must not.”

  “Oh, Shannon, hush,” Marie hissed. “What if she should hear you?”

  “She is making a morning call at Ridgecrest,” Shannon said, brows lifted. “Besides, I don’t mean it to her derogation. I am very managing, too. If it was in your nature to follow, I should let you, but it is not, and if you continue in this way, I believe you will explode in the most untimely fashion. And why do you keep looking toward that door?”