by Tara Cowan
There were names—Frederick, Marie—yes, she knew who they were! Her heart sped. But Rose and Shannon were new to her. She had no idea how they were connected to the house or family. And she had a feeling it would take the box in Mr. and Mrs. Ravenel’s basement to find out.
The next day, Adeline was microwaving her breakfast Hot Pocket, bold and feminist and everything, but still too skittish to use his actual stove, when Dr. Ravenel came in, dressed for work, a cute little lunch box and backpack in his left hand.
“Hi,” she said. “I think he spilled something on his uniform. Jane took him that way.” She nodded toward a little hall which led to a bathroom.
He was in a gray suit, and a white shirt which showed his trim waist, and a blue tie. “What is that?” he asked, eyes on the microwave.
“Breakfast,” she said.
“It stinks.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, looking at the microwave. He stared at her for a long time, his temper seeming a little short. “I’ll…light a candle, or something,” she conceded.
“No, whatever, I’m going. The whole house is a wreck anyway.”
“The joys of restoration,” she said. Really. Not. A Morning Person.
He nodded once, turning to go. He turned back. “Oh, I forgot to mention: I’ll drive you to Statesboro next Saturday if you still want me to.”
Her heart sped. “That would be awesome.”
There was some noise in the foyer, Jude and Jane talking. He glanced that way and then back at her. “We’ll leave at one, if you want. Jane’s free that afternoon, so she can keep Jude.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Santarella, November 1859
Chapter Thirteen
John Thomas stood outside the door of Mr. Ravenel’s library the next morning, more nervous than ever in his life. That Frederick was going to murder him was by now accepted. He would be shocked and probably horrified. But Frederick would have to wait.
He again looked at the closed wooden door. There was no question that John Winder Ravenel was an intimidating man. He had stayed up until three o’clock in the morning and had awakened at six. Slaves and his children alike were wary of crossing him. But that had never troubled John Thomas until he had wanted his daughter.
And there was equally no question that Shannon was the jewel of Santarella. She might feel neglected just now, but it had not taken him two hours in company of the family to see the pride they felt in her, and to know that expectations for her were every bit as high as they were for Frederick.
It was no stretch to say that Shannon Ravenel was not just a belle of South Carolina, but the belle. If it hadn’t been perfectly obvious before, it had become so last night at the ball. He was quite out of his depth with her. No unattached man could refrain from soliciting her hand, no mama anxious to marry a daughter off could take her eyes from her, and the other young ladies either loved or hated her strongly, which told its own tale. The thought of her with a low-ranking naval officer was laughable, when her father seemed to have either a Middleton or a Christian in his sights. The thought briefly entered his mind that her mother might not feel the same, that she might be an ally. But there was no denying that the father had the final say.
He clenched his fists; it was more than he could think of. Was that mad? They hardly knew one another. He knew almost nothing about her, although every tidbit Frederick had ever let fall had been carefully called up as he had lain sleepless in his bed last night. She had been brought up at Santarella and Ravenel House, had attended a select school in Charleston before her coming out. That was all he could recollect. There was no question that she was different from any woman he had ever, in his vague imaginings, pictured himself with. He thought of riding onto Santarella lands that day with Frederick, and dwelled briefly on the vast differences between them before feeling ill with himself. Shannon may have been raised in the heart of slave country, but she could no more help that than he could help his feelings for her.
He had fruitlessly tried to remember whether any previous courtships had been mentioned. Her kiss had perhaps been borne of passion, but it was not that of a novice. This hadn’t particularly disturbed him, except that to learn he was capable of swift and blinding jealousy had been disturbing.
He lifted his hand to knock, waiting.
“Come in,” the man called in a pleasant voice, so different from his father’s sharp, “Enter!”
It was fortunate that he had this thought, for he walked in with a smile flitting across his features. “Ah, Mr. Haley,” the man said in his flowing drawl. “I’m glad to know there are two of us not sleeping the day away.”
“I cannot pretend to your stamina, sir,” he said, giving a charming smile. “I did not rest well.”
“I hope you find your chamber comfortable enough,” the man said, the look in his deep-set eyes perfectly pleasant. But one always had the feeling that he was measuring, measuring. Not unlike his daughter.
“Oh, yes. Santarella is a very comfortable house,” he said.
Mr. Ravenel indicated with his hand for him to sit in front of his desk. “We will be sorry for you to leave her. And my son will be, not to have you stand up with him at his wedding.”
John Thomas nodded, not certain how to open the negotiations. Especially not when he thought that the man would be entirely blind-sided. He cleared his throat, and tried to gather his thoughts.
“Is something troubling you, young man?”
He looked up quickly. “I… Yes.” Summoning naval confidence, he said, “I wish to speak with you about Miss Ravenel, sir.”
He lifted his silver brows. “About Shannon,” he said with surprise. “What is it about my daughter that you wish to say, Mr. Haley?”
His hands, clasped in his lap, clenched. “I wish to ask your permission to court her, sir.”
Dead silence. The wind could be heard outside. The dishes from the kitchen in the nearby flanker were heard clanging. Mr. Ravenel’s eyes never left him, and his face gave away nothing. “Does Shannon share this desire?” he asked finally.
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes narrowed, and he made a deep study of John Thomas’s face. “I confess myself to be rather surprised, Mr. Haley. I thought you came to us merely as Frederick’s friend.”
“I did,” he answered.
The man sat back, surveying him. There was undeniable intelligence in his sharp eyes, but one did wonder what was in his thoughts, why he felt the need to take the measure of every man he encountered. “And then you met Shannon.”
John Thomas slowly nodded, holding his eyes.
“Well, I am certain it has been a very romantic setting, and that Shannon has been feeling herself a little left out. She has been spoiled. But you will go back to Massachusetts, Mr. Haley, and Shannon will stay in South Carolina.” He gestured pleasantly. “A few months will pass, and you will never think of one another again.”
“No,” John Thomas said. The word had been torn out of him, much to his surprise, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Mr. Ravenel’s. “I am deadly in earnest, sir,” he said, seriously and firmly.
Another long silence, during which Mr. Ravenel again watched him slowly. After a few minutes had passed, he said, “I see. You may not know, Mr. Haley, that I have been in talks with George Christian regarding an alliance between my daughter and his son.”
John Thomas was shaking his head. “He is not worthy of her.”
“And you think you are?” the man questioned, a little less pleasantly, and almost before John Thomas had finished speaking.
“No, I… I don’t think anyone could be–”
“Then there is one thing, it seems, upon which we agree, Mr. Haley.”
“–but I will be faithful to her, and he will not. I love her, and he–”
“Are we speaking of courtship, Mr. Haley, or marriage?” Shannon�
��s father interjected in a strident tone.
John Thomas halted the back and forth, hesitating, but saying after a moment, “Whatever you are willing to allow, sir.”
This surprised a laugh out of Mr. Ravenel, who remembered suddenly how much he liked the young man, and how steadying his influence had been upon a boy he had worried about more hours of the day than he cared to think of. He thought of that wild gleam in Seymour Christian’s eyes and realized that young Haley had taken his measure almost instantly and carried those thoughts to their natural conclusion when he himself had overlooked them, though he was no stranger to the ways of his peers.
“I like you, John Thomas. My family likes you. But Shannon is the only daughter I have. You cannot expect me to give her away willy nilly to any man who asks for her hand. I ask that you give me some time to think, and to speak with her mother.”
“Yes, of course,” John Thomas said softly, rising. The air was thick in the room, and he was eager to leave it.
“We’ll be speaking soon,” Mr. Ravenel said, picking up a paper from his desk.
“Yes, sir,” John Thomas said, inclining his head and turning to walk toward the door. When he opened it, he startled Frederick and Shannon, who had both, to his surprise, been standing outside. There was also a decent collection of slaves, all of whom seemed to be busying themselves in the foyer. Frederick’s jaw was hanging open, and he surveyed his friend in real astonishment. Shannon was standing with her arms crossed, looking at him, looking as though she might burst into tears. No one said anything for a heavy moment.
And then, without warning, Shannon started for the front door, which John opened for her, and fled, all but running. John Thomas’s eyes followed her. He opened his lips, looked at Frederick, closed them, and looked back at the door. “We’ll…talk later,” he said, starting after Shannon.
When he arrived on the porch, he looked past the columns to the sweeping view ahead and saw her running away from the house. She was wearing a green dress with the widest hoops possible, and seemed to float gracefully down the hill, her skirts caught up just slightly in her hands. His breath caught, from her beauty, and from the possibility of chasing after Shannon the rest of his life. It was as though he almost saw into the future, and felt a heady rush of longing and pain and the knowledge that anything else would be second best.
He set out after her, and overtook her at the base of the hill beneath an ancient live oak tree, many of its branches touching the ground. He caught her arm, not touching her otherwise, saying softly, “What is it?” She was not looking at him, her countenance still turned, a storm of emotions present. He said, “Is it because I spoke to him of marriage?”
She laughed softly, not pleasantly. “No.” She looked at him finally. He made a study of her features. “He will not allow it, John Thomas. I should’ve known that. I was…deceiving myself. And I cannot bear the way he spoke to you.”
He continued to hold her arm, partly for comfort, and partly because he knew she was struggling for air in her corset. He smiled softly, his thumb stroking the fabric of her pagoda sleeve. “I have been spoken to ten thousand times more harshly without wilting. And he said he would consider it.”
“You do not know him,” she said, looking away across the gray November day. “He must and shall make an alliance for me of his own choosing.”
“Only if you allow it, Shannon,” he said firmly, looking at her, unwilling to allow her to give in.
She met his eyes, seeming to calm at his words. Her eyes were deep blue and seeking, the set of her lips vulnerable. That it was not in her nature to seek anything from anybody, he was well aware. His hand tightened on her arm. “Are we mad?” she whispered.
“Perhaps,” he said, reaching up to brush a strand of her red hair back, still amazed that he was allowed to do so. Although her father might feel differently. He smiled, brushing his thumb in an ark under her eye. “Was I mad to speak of marriage?”
“No,” she said, holding his eyes. She bit her lip, looking afraid of what he would say. The set of her shoulders was strong, and her chin was in the air like a Ravenel. But there was brittleness in every inch, not quite carefully enough concealed to escape his notice. His lips parted at her words, and she whispered, “Ask me, John Thomas.”
“Your father…” he said softly. He searched her face rapidly.
“I want his blessing,” she said. She moistened her lips. “But I do not have to have it.”
He took a breath, still holding her eyes, his lips lifting in an emotional smile. He sank to one knee, taking her thin hand into his. He met her eyes and saw tears she would hate herself for allowing. He did not know that no other man had ever seen her emotion. “Then will you marry me, Mary Shannon Ravenel?”
Her lip trembled, and she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, a smile blooming on her beautiful lips.
He met her smile, holding her eyes for a long moment before bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the place where his ring would sit. When next he looked up, she was biting her lip, trying to hold back tears. “You must get up,” she said, attempting a note of levity. “You will be spending most of your life at my feet, you know.” He laughed, getting up and bringing her to him in an embrace as they stood beneath the tree. She lifted her head and met his smile. They stood there for how long neither could remember.
He lifted her off the ground, spinning her around and around as she squealed, alternately protesting and laughing like a child.
Mr. Ravenel exited his library and went to the staircase nearest to him, his hand sliding up the banister as he looked ahead of him, eyes unseeing as his mind worked. He came to his chamber door and knocked, waiting to hear, “Come in,” before he opened the door.
His wife was sitting in front of a mirror, Abigail pinning her hair. He closed the door behind him and stood off to the side, crossing his arms, waiting. Glancing at him, Mrs. Ravenel waited until Abigail was finished and said, “That will be all. You might see if Miss Marie is in need of your services.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said, eyes on the floor as she gathered her mistress’s night garments and left.
Mrs. Ravenel looked up at her husband again before reaching for her first earring. “Tell me there hasn’t been another squabble in the kitchen,” she said long-sufferingly, with a soft sigh.
“No,” he answered seriously.
She turned around in her chair, hand on its back. Searching his face, she said, “John, you’re scaring me.”
He sighed, drawing a hand through his silver hair. “The Haley boy came in to see me this morning. He wants Shannon’s hand in marriage.”
Her lips parted. She searched his face. After a stunned moment of silence, she said in a voice of shock, “And Shannon wants to marry him?”
He nodded once, leaning against the mantle, his arms still crossed, look still contemplative, measuring her response.
“What did you say?” she asked incredulously.
“I tried to wave him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. I told him he must give me some time. But I am opposed to the match, Louisa. Entirely opposed.”
She lifted her brows and measured her words before saying in an equitable voice, “She could do worse.”
“Could she?” he asked, shaking his head and saying bitterly, “I question our wisdom in allowing Frederick to bring young men into the house, if this is the result.”
“Nonsense, we must welcome our son’s friends,” she said. “And she certainly could do worse. He is a young man of character and breeding, and prospects. It isn’t what I would’ve chosen for her, but–”
“Are you truly entertaining the notion?” he asked, looking at her in surprised horror. “He may be from a good family—what do we know of Massachusetts? He may be a young man of character—I do not deny it. But it is not what we have planned for her.”
“And what have we planned fo
r her?” she asked, brows lifted.
He shook his head in frustration. “We have discussed their futures, both of the children, Louisa. You cannot pretend we have not. We wanted a Southern man for her, a man of property and of her own standing. Preferably one who moves in her circles and will give her the life she has always had, and protection. I should not have to say any of this to you.”
“Indeed, but have you considered, my dear sir, that Shannon is past twenty and has evaded us at every turn, that she intends to marry precisely as she chooses–”
“She will do no such thing. She will listen to her father.”
She looked at him, back stiffening at the interruption. “Then I warn you that you will be the father of an old maid, for all it has ever taken to give that headstrong child a disgust of a man is for you to approve of him. What is it in particular that you have against Mr. Haley? I have seen them together and have often wondered whether there may be a connection there.”
Lips tight, he answered. “Nothing in particular, until he decided he wanted to marry my daughter. Do you like the notion of her living in Massachusetts?” he asked austerely.
“We have no notion where he will live, since it will be wherever he is sent by the Navy.”
“Very well, do you like that idea any better?” he demanded.
“We always knew we must steel ourselves if a young man from Virginia offered for her,” she said.
“Well, he is not from Virginia,” he countered. “He is a Northerner, an abolitionist, and he is not good enough for a Ravenel. A Massachusetts Puritan—can you imagine it? Shannon’s children lecturing us about morality and modesty, and wearing linen bonnets. A Southern man is what she must and shall have. He would not be so presumptuous, he would not counter her father’s decisions as to whom she ought to marry–”
