by Tara Cowan
“I noticed that he dotes on you,” Mrs. Haley said, rising and saying in brisk Northern style, “Supper is waiting.”
They adjourned to the dining room, again a simple room, and took their seats. The senior Mr. Haley said a lengthy prayer, during which John Thomas took her hand. She turned her head toward him, but his eyes were closed, head bowed. He was very serious during the more locally concerned entreaties, prayers for the family, for Patience as she awaited her husband’s return from Harvard, for a sick neighbor, and the poor children of the parish, for all of their charities, and that their church might shine a light in the dark world. When his theme became more universal, John Thomas’s thumb stroked her hand tenderly a couple of times. After three more minutes, he loosened his hold and drew a heart on the inside of her hand. She glanced at him to see his lips turned slightly in a smile. She turned his hand over and drew an X to reprimand him. She felt his hand tremble slightly from an inward laugh, but, thankfully, before he could lose control, the prayer ended.
Conversation bored her for several minutes, the men discussing something political, tariffs and taxes that impacted the shipping business. Shannon ate, or tried to. She was shocked at the quantity of food they consumed at the late hour of eight o’clock. And she had no idea what many of the foul-smelling dishes were. She would lose ten pounds by May.
“How did you come by your name? It is most unusual.” Shannon looked up when she realized the table had quieted, that the question had been directed at her. “Oh, I…” Who had asked it? Her father-in-law. “Shannon is my mother’s maiden name. It was given to both my brother and me as a middle name. Mary is my given name.”
“Why on earth would your mother call you Shannon when you have a fine name like Mary?” Mr. Haley demanded.
Really, Northerners could be so direct! “I imagine for the same reason that you call your firstborn Adams, sir. Family pride.”
“Indeed, but I have never heard a family name used in a daughter,” Mrs. Haley said, blinking. Shannon could sense John Thomas growing uncomfortable beside her. Indeed, it was rude, but she had a feeling even John Thomas would not think so if he did not know how very polite Southerners were, that she was unaccustomed to direct questioning.
She tried not to be angry as she said, quite directly herself, “My mother wanted to use it with my brother, but they called him Freddy almost immediately because he was such a happy baby, and it suited him. Then when I was born, the doctor told my mother that she would very likely never bear another child, for which she frankly thanked heaven, since we were both healthy, and so she decided to call me Shannon.”
“Thanked heaven for losing the ability to bear children,” Mrs. Haley said faintly. “Why, it is a woman’s highest calling!”
“That it may be,” Shannon returned, startled that they were talking about bearing children at the dinner table and that everyone continued eating casually. “However, my mother never seemed to believe so.”
“What would your mother say is a higher calling for a woman?” Lizzie asked incredulously, with fainting virtue. Shannon could feel the acutely uncomfortable John Thomas beside her.
“I would imagine that she would say it is to serve God,” she could not resist saying, never mind that she would’ve already been strongly reprimanded at her father’s dinner table for bantering with her elders, or that her mother had never said any such thing.
This silenced the dinner table.
“Do all Southern women feel this way, Shannon?” Miriam asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
“No,” Shannon said. “To be a mother is desired above all things, next to being a wife. I hope I haven’t implied otherwise.”
“Shall we leave this subject?” John Thomas suggested with less than social grace. The men agreed to it, unable to trace exactly how the women had commandeered the conversation, when generally they sat quietly and let the stronger sex discuss more important matters. Most of them set it down, most unjustly, to Shannon’s influence, and knew they would have to guard carefully against it in the future.
Shannon, glancing at John Thomas, did not know if he was frustrated with her or his family. There was no question that his tone had conveyed exasperation. The men did indeed talk about steel mills the rest of the dinner, and the ladies withdrew to the parlor first, where everyone picked up their sewing. Shannon hadn’t the least notion how to sew, other than crocheting for aesthetic and mourning purposes. The Haley women were, Lizzie informed her, sewing for the poor, socks and scarves and mittens. “Oh, how kind!” Shannon said, thinking of the seamstresses at Santarella, and how they wouldn’t think of allowing her to intervene.
The men did not linger over their alcohol, because there was very little of it, and when they entered, John Thomas searched the room for her, smiled slightly, and sat down to talk with Charles. Another thing that surprised Shannon was that the children were allowed to dine with the adults, and even to retire with them after. They seemed drawn to John Thomas, both of them, like flies to sugar water, Sarah soon planting herself on his knee and Vincent sitting on the rug before him, peppering him with questions about his adventures and the Navy.
The family did indeed retire early, and Phoebe was waiting to minister to Shannon when they returned. Shannon’s eyes trailed John Thomas as he went into the small dressing room without a word after nodding distractedly to Phoebe. After twenty minutes, Phoebe left, taking all of Shannon’s undergarments and trappings with her, leaving her in her nightgown and draping her dressing gown over a chair.
She slipped into bed, her heart beating wildly. She felt prim in the nightgown that Phoebe had insisted she wear to keep off the cold, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder. Would he be angry? Would he even want to touch her? It seemed to have been so long, though it was only their travel time.
When John Thomas came out, he stopped for a moment, meeting her eyes and holding them. Then he walked slowly toward the bed and finally sat hesitantly beside her. He lifted his eyes and studied her face with remorse and then stroked a hand down her arm gently, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”
Shannon moistened her lips. “For…”
“For the way I spoke to you earlier, and then left. You were upset, and I should’ve stayed. What was I thinking?”
“Oh, no, why would you stay, after I said such a shrewish thing to you?”
He studied her with his brows drawn together. “Because you are my wife,” he said after a moment. “And I love you.”
Shannon looked away, swallowing. She responded lightheartedly. “Well, you must, or you would have sent me packing after such a day.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” he murmured, eyes roaming her features. And then, as if his mind turned to a new avenue, he said, “Shannon, I’m sorry for that extremely inappropriate conversation at dinner!”
She laughed. “About childbearing—no, about a woman’s place?”
He grinned. “Which you have no notion of.”
“What a thing to say! I consider myself a dutiful wife to you. You have no notion of the sacrifices–”
“If you had seen the bills the manager handed me at the hotel in New Orleans, you would not speak to me of sacrifice!” he said, eyes dancing.
She was horrified. “Oh, no, John Thomas, was it so very bad?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh! I wasn’t thinking… I shall never purchase anything again–”
“Shannon Ravenel—Haley—in shabby clothes? I wish I may never see it.”
“Charlatan. As if I cared only for fine clothes,” she said, picking at the coverlet, pretending unconcern.
His expression changed. “You know I don’t think so. Especially when there has been no end to your sacrifices.” He smiled, but his eyes were earnest. His hand covered hers, tentatively, and then lovingly.
She met his eyes, smiling, and he kissed her once, gently, and then aga
in, lingeringly. The fireplace crackled and cast a gentle glow over the room. Shy at first, the kiss deepened and lengthened. Shannon, her eyes closed and her fingers trailing down his chest, lost all sense of time and space, the miserable train ride and night forgotten.
Massachusetts, March 1860
Chapter Eighteen
The day was sunny when morning broke. Shannon, blinking away the fog, saw on the clock above the mantle that it was nearly nine o’clock. John Thomas was already awake and in the little room next door as she lay in bed, letting herself grow accustomed to the light.
He returned once she had rung the bell and she was sitting in her dressing gown. She met his eyes, flushing softly. His smile was slightly roguish, but she had to look away from the deep tenderness in his eyes.
She was sitting with a tray of fruit and bread before her, like a queen, and when he was closer, she said, “Oh, John Thomas, would you like a biscuit? They are not very good.”
He laughed. “Smother them in honey—it helps,” he said, doing it for her and then feeding it to her. He took a bite himself but ate nothing more. She had only known him for five months, but it was long enough to know he had to be tempted to his meals. He had eaten more in the South than here, though.
There was a knock at the door, and he went to answer it, wiping the honey onto his handkerchief and carefully positioning himself to cover her state of undress. He took something in his hand and returned with two letters, handing them to her. One was addressed to her, from Marie, the other to him, from Frederick. “Oh, how dear they are!” she said, reaching for hers hungrily. “They must have put a great deal of effort into timing them for our first morning here!”
“Yes, I could kiss them both, for making you smile just so.”
“Well, Frederick would think it very odd, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I say, John!” he mimicked, making her laugh, and they were gone for three minutes, imitating him. He was standing near as the last of their laughter died away, and he solicitously took her glass, putting it on the side table before looking back at her. She became distracted by his eyes, by the way his fair hair fell on his forehead when he looked down.
And then, in the still of the quiet, awareness began to grow between them. He came to sit next to her, and his thumb feathered across her lips, and then his lips brushed hers once, lingering. “Go riding with me,” he said softly.
“Yes, I will. Will they mind?”
“No, I think they mean to give us today as a holiday to rest.”
“Very well,” she said, wishing for the first time since entering the state that it were cooler. “I’ll join you.”
He left, looking dapper in his riding wear, and she watched him leave before finishing a strawberry and picking up the letter.
March 1860, Richmond, Virginia
The Berkeley Hotel
My Dear Shannon,
My sweet sister, I hope this letter finds you already ensconced in your husband’s home, and surrounded by comfort and love. I wish very much that I could see you there, out of your natural habitat. I worry that you will be cold—is it very nasty?
We are well, and settled into married life. Frederick is everything that is kind, and we have enjoyed Richmond very much. We will stay another week and then go directly to Santarella for planting. Frederick and your father wish very much to have a good crop this year because of the volatility of the language being tossed around in Washington. Shannon, what are these men about? If only we could talk sense into all of them!
I know I do not have to ask if you like being married to John Thomas. Dear Shannon, the way he looks at you! But likely I am embarrassing you. Well, then, write to me and tell me of Massachusetts and the Haleys. Give John Thomas my love, and his mother my greetings.
Marie
Shannon left the house in her deep blue riding habit, train looped over her arm and whip in her hand. The morning was gray and cold as she stepped onto the cobblestone drive. She had received a hastily scrawled note from John Thomas telling her that they would not be alone, which made her smile. She had not expected to be, since there were siblings in the vicinity.
Charles, Lizzie, and Miriam were to join them, apparently enjoying a holiday themselves. John Thomas had already lifted Miriam onto her horse, and Charles went to lift Lizzie, teasing, “We brought out the tamest old nag we had. Lizzie is afraid of horses, Shannon!”
“Do not tease her until you’ve ridden perched on the side of one of the creatures!” Shannon bantered, making John Thomas say, “You will always find Shannon’s solidarity with the ladies, Charles. You mustn’t try to befriend her.”
“Oh, I am glad to hear it!” Miriam said merrily.
Shannon laughed, taking her husband’s gloved hand lightly as he led her to a spirited little lady. He lifted her up, his hands lingering on her waist as she secured herself. She met his eyes, his hands still there, and she saw desire written in his features. His hands were searing on her waist, despite the gentle arcs his thumbs were making, and she flushed, looking away before he could see. “Is…Is there a good pasture?” she asked, looking out over the fields. “I have not truly ridden since we left Santarella in November.”
“Yes, we leave a field for riding,” Charles explained.
“It won’t be anything to Santarella, from what John Thomas writes,” Lizzie said, not quite looking up.
“Well, the Masons wouldn’t mind us spilling over into their field, if only there wasn’t that fence there,” Charles said as John Thomas swung onto his horse.
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” Shannon said. “Doesn’t your elder brother ride?”
“Yes, if you can bring him out of his reverie,” Charles said. John Thomas exchanged a glance with him, smiling a little.
As they made their way to the field, they rode the perimeter and to the highest point, where Shannon could see the surrounding farms, encased in charming, primitive fences.
“Is it anything like Santarella?” Charles asked.
“If Santarella had a point this high, you would be able to see the ocean,” John Thomas said.
Shannon nodded, “Yes, and the surrounding farms would not be nearly so neat or quaint. It is enchanting!”
“Never mind that,” Miriam said. “Shannon, is your habit French-made?”
“Oh, Miriam, this is vanity,” Lizzie said. “What does it matter?”
“It is only that I have never seen such a military style, or a hat so masculine!”
Shannon smiled. “No, it is British. No one understands a riding habit so much as they, Miriam. And, indeed, it is vanity, for my father once chided me upon it!”
Lizzie flushed. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean–!”
“Of course not,” John Thomas said. “Shannon tells me she never means to spend another penny upon clothes, in any event.”
She gave him a twinkling look. “Did I? I recall nothing of the sort. May I give her her head?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered, smiling. “We’ll stay with Lizzie and wait for you.”
Shannon rode off, tamely at first, and then like the wind, her posture and technique perfectly trained in a way her sisters-in-law had never dreamed a woman’s could be, and they watched her without removing their eyes from her.
“A good little rider,” Charles said.
“She was trained by a Spaniard hired by her father,” John Thomas said. “Well, I assume so, in any event. Her brother was.” His eyes did not leave her as she rode, jumping the Masons fence once and then turning and taking it a second time, finally coming back toward them. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
Shannon joined them, receiving Charles’s compliments with dignity and good humor. “A Spaniard trained you?” he asked.
“Yes, Señor Gonzales,” she said. “An excellent teacher, though he always favored Frederick tremendously.�
�
“Does your family raise horses, Shannon, for racing?” Miriam asked.
“No, well, not wholesale. We always enter a horse in the races, if that is what you mean.”
“Are the purses very heavy for winning?” she asked, eyes glittering.
Shannon paused a moment. “Yes, I believe they are.” She also believed Frederick’s entire education had been funded by the purse they had won in ’54, but she did not say so. She waited only for Miriam to ask for specific details on the gambling involved. John Thomas had already grown quiet, looking at his hands.
Happily, Charles changed the subject, asking how they had found New Orleans. John Thomas and he were talking about the differences in the shipping industry there when Lizzie bethought herself of something she simply must attend to for her mother and commanded Miriam to come with her, too.
Miriam looked at her strangely but obeyed, glancing back at Shannon and then casting her eyes down quickly.
“Then I suppose our party breaks here,” Charles said, reaching for Shannon’s gloved hand and kissing the air above it, which made her laugh. “I am off to Braintree for the day and night to see about Aunt Agatha’s finances.”
“Give her our love,” John Thomas said.
“I will,” he agreed, riding off.
Shannon’s eyes followed him.
“What?” John Thomas asked.
“Do you imagine tending to Aunt Agatha is all he will find to do in Braintree?”
He smiled slowly. “I couldn’t say.” His eyes followed Shannon’s to where the girls were retreating, and then he looked at Shannon, studying her.
She didn’t comment, however, so he said, sidling his horse toward her as though to kiss her, “Race me?”
She laughed, skittering away from him. “Oh, no, John Thomas, I shall be so sore tomorrow!”
His eyes twinkled. “Very well. If you are afraid.”
