by Tara Cowan
She lifted her brows, her eyes sparking with the challenge. And then she took off, leaving him in the dust. He laughed and set off, quickly coming up beside her.
Shannon did not make it downstairs until ten o’clock the next morning, having dressed in one of her plainer day gowns, of a demure mint green with pagoda sleeves and cream cording. She had walked to the dining room where the shocked servants had, after a long and heated discussion, decided to leave breakfast out for Miss.
The room was deserted, but Shannon had just poured herself some tea when her mother-in-law opened the door softly and entered. “I hope you were not ill, Shannon. We were beginning to worry.”
Shannon smiled. “I am sorry for missing breakfast, ma’am. I found myself very tired from the journey. I shall try to do better.” She did not mention that at home, she would likely be in bed even now, new husband or no. “What time do you rise?”
“Five o’clock,” she answered briskly.
Shannon blinked, gripping the ladder-back chair. “Good gracious! What could one possibly do at five o’clock?”
“Pray,” she said.
Shannon’s lips parted. “Oh!” She could not think what else to say.
The woman held her eyes for a long moment before finally saying with astounding bluntness, “Well, you are a newlywed, after all. If you are not hungry, you may come with me.”
Shannon followed her, blinking, and a little shocked. She was surprised when Mrs. Haley took her into the kitchen, and also by the scene she found there. Lizzie, Miriam, and Sarah were all standing at the long wooden slab in bonnets and aprons amongst the kitchen servants until one could scarcely tell which were which.
“We are baking for the poor,” Mrs. Haley said, tying on her apron. “There is always a distribution at church on the second and fourth Sundays.”
Shannon looked around her in awe. Lizzie was kneading bread with her own hands, laughing with the kitchen maid who stood beside her. Miriam was adding ingredients to a bowl, chattering to the cook, and Sarah was using a cutter to fashion biscuits without any assistance.
They all looked up when Mrs. Haley closed the door and paused, taking in Shannon’s gown.
“Oh, Sister!” Sarah breathed. “Is this one of Madame Persaud’s creations, too?”
Shannon resisted the urge to brush her skirts self-consciously. “Oh, this? No, I asked my brother and his wicked friend to purchase me silk of this very color in Paris, and what do you think they sent me?”
“Wool!” Miriam said, laughing.
“Yes, but I forgave them because they sent me some exquisite lace, which was ultimately used for my veil.”
“Oh, how romantic! John Thomas couldn’t have known he was purchasing it for his own bride!”
For a brief moment, she saw blind jealously in Lizzie’s eyes, but it quickly receded, and she lowered her head. “Who made it for you then?” Miriam asked, coming around from behind the counter. Her dark gray skirts were full, but it was obvious she was wearing no hoops. Her eyes were sharp as she surveyed the intricacies.
“I gave it to the seamstresses at Santarella to see if they could do anything with it,” she said, lifting a shoulder.
Miriam touched the sleeve. “Oh, Shannon, no! Such beautiful material!”
“Well, it turned out rather well, in any event.”
“Yes, how talented they must be!”
“Miriam, help Shannon with her apron,” Mrs. Haley said in a tone of light censure.
Miriam flushed. “Oh, Mother, Shannon doesn’t know how to bake!” she said.
Lizzie and Sarah looked up, appearing thunderstruck. Apparently not as worldly-wise as Miriam, Sarah said, “Is it true, Shannon? What did you learn as a little girl?”
“There is no need to be rude, Sarah,” Mrs. Haley said calmly.
“Oh, no, ma’am, don’t scold her,” Shannon said. “It is only a difference in culture. The same things you were taught, I imagine: reading, writing, mathematics, and French. And then, when I was older, how to be a lady and mistress of a plantation. But I have no objection to learning to bake,” she said.
“Yes, we will teach you,” Lizzie said softly. “Come and stand by me, Shannon.”
“Sarah, help Agnes with the butter,” Mrs. Haley said, taking her daughter’s place. Shannon watched as the girl went and began fashioning butter, made fresh that morning at Harmony Grove, into molds.
Lizzie helped Shannon tie on an apron and began teaching her how to knead. She quickly realized the Haley women far outstripped her in knowledge and technique, and, as the morning wore on, endurance. Still, it was a rather happy feeling when the first loaves were removed from the oven, and the kitchen was filled with a pleasing aroma. Taking a momentary rest, Shannon tore off the edge of one the pieces they had been trying and nibbled it, leaning against the large washing sink. There were large slits for windows around the kitchen, and through one of them, she saw John Thomas and Charles riding out behind wagons in their mere shirtsleeves.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
“Planting,” Mrs. Haley said.
Shannon looked at her elegant husband, who moved with ease in the highest of society, and said faintly, “Why? Why, when you have everything?”
“The attainment of wealth is so that we can help others, my dear, not so that we may sit about all day. Idleness is not good for the soul, no matter how much we have been blessed.”
Shannon blinked, looking back out to where neat rows were even now being plowed. She said nothing more.
Later, when Mrs. Haley, Lizzie, and Miriam had left to place flowers on the altar at the church, Shannon caught a moment to sit in the sunny parlor to compose a letter to Marie. Sweet strains from Sarah’s piano practicing drifted in from the music room, and the house was otherwise quiet, Vincent having finished his morning Latin lessons with Adams and left to visit the pastor, apparently a notable scholar, who would be taking over the care of his lessons for the next five years, his time at the little school in the parish having come to an end.
Shannon felt exhausted, for the day’s labor had not ended with the wrapping of loaves and packing them in baskets. They had proceeded to sew for two hours for the poor. All were tasks which Shannon had only ever loosely supervised, which would’ve caused an uproar for her to have undertaken at home. She scarcely had the energy to lift her pen.
March 1860, Harmony Grove
Weymouth, Massachusetts
My Dear Cousin,
Or may I call you sister now? How it pleases me to hear of your happiness and Frederick’s. By now you will be at Santarella and bored to tears by incessant conversation on the topic of planting, unless I miss my mark. My mother will not last three weeks before returning to Charleston, and I advise you, dear one, to go with her.
It suddenly struck Shannon that her mother and father had traded a daughter for a daughter-in-law, that all of the positions she had once taken would be filled, only by another. Jealousy flamed, and she wondered if they were pleased with the exchange, or whether she was missed. She shook her head, finding herself unworthy once more. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to know everything but didn’t wish to admit she was terribly homesick. She didn’t know how to explain how the Haleys lived, for they couldn’t understand it.
All is well here. Their ways are very different, of course, but it is a peaceful household, never a voice raised or a loud noise to disturb one’s thoughts. You might mention this to Cook the next time there is a brawl in the kitchens. There is a pretty little pasture for riding, and there is always something to occupy one’s time.
John Thomas sends his love. We talk of the two of you so often and long for the days when we may again be with you. I think of our picnics and carriage rides with pleasure. In any event, at least I shall not bake out of doors in Massachusetts if I wish to take part in an excursion.
Give my love to all of my family and to your mother and father. Tell Mammy that Phoebe is indeed making me wear that very ugly nightgown, and I daresay I will be forced by my husband to bundle up like a child if I can summon the courage to step outside the house again.
Your own Shannon
Shannon had just sealed the letter when she heard a noise behind her and looked over her shoulder. John Thomas was standing in the doorway. She would never have imagined there could be appeal in a man in a state of considerable dishevel, looking tired after a long day’s work, but that was because she had never seen it.
He was smiling gently at her, but he didn’t say anything. Her heart leapt.
She looked up at him, smiling a little shyly. “We saw you,” she said. “If I had realized I had married a true farmer, I should’ve learned to milk a cow,” she teased.
His smiled, coming into the room, bending to kiss her cheek only, perhaps because of his sweat. He sat down beside her. She marveled at the difference that allowed him to sit in a parlor in his shirtsleeves. How much more was Harmony Grove truly their home, their retreat from the fashionable world. “Have you had a good day?” he asked, studying her as though she were a wonderful, fascinating creature.
She averted her eyes. “Oh…yes.”
He studied her closely. “Come, tell me.” His eyes roved her face, searching.
“We baked and sewed for the poor,” she said in a light tone. “I confess, I rather felt useless.”
He leaned up and took her hands in his and opened them, examining them. Then he studied her face, saw the exhaustion in her eyes, and said, “Shannon, I am a fool. I will speak with my mother.”
She pulled her hands away. “I am not afraid of a little work, John Thomas.” She stood. “I know it must seem as though my life has always been given over to idleness, but…” Her fingers gripped the chair until they turned white. “Well, I suppose it has. But one cannot last until the small hours of the morning in a ballroom, indeed one cannot be a woman, without having a strong enough constitution to withstand a little baking.” She swallowed with difficulty.
His brows drew together. “Why are you upset?” he asked.
“Don’t you see? I can’t sit idly all day long when your mother and sisters are being…industrious. They will have contempt for me, and I won’t allow that. And I won’t sleep past five o’clock either,” she said, trying to cover her agitation, standing and striding toward the door. She stopped with her hand on the knob, looking back at him for a long, searching moment. “You made becoming a part of my family look as easy as breathing, John Thomas. How did you do it?”
He lifted a shoulder, meeting her eyes, slightly at a loss. After a hesitation, he said, “It was not always easy. But I loved them. Perhaps that made it easier.”
She flushed deeply. Opening the door, she fled quickly through it, too rapidly to see him come quickly to his feet and stand looking after her.
South Carolina
Chapter Nineteen
The series of events which occurred next were never able to be fully recalled by Adeline. There seemed to be one catastrophe/omen/curse after another of the sort which usually only happened in comedies.
The trip home started out well enough. They left Statesboro around five o’clock, on schedule to be home by eight (Adeline was glad she had brought her pretzels). There wasn’t much chatting, but the Frank Sinatra in the background was kind of growing on her.
It started to rain when they crossed over into South Carolina, which wasn’t far into their journey. “Did you check the weather for today?” she asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “It was supposed to rain a little. Nothing serious.”
As he said it, water started to dump out of the sky, and Adeline stiffened in the seat. He glanced over at her. “I’ll pull over if it gets dangerous.”
“That’s not going to protect us from a tornado,” she said pessimistically. Did he see that wind? It was bending the trees and shoving the rain off the road.
“Well, look it up,” he said.
She picked up her phone. There was no service, it seemed, in Middle of Nowhere, South Carolina. They drove on for fifteen minutes. He was probably thinking it would slack: it didn’t. It wasn’t her normal fear of storms that was scaring her: this was a bad storm. It was a lot like being on that boat, with no control whatsoever. “There’s an exit,” she said, noticing all of the cars creeping onto it.
He didn’t argue: he took the exit and followed the line of cars. They turned in at a gas station, pulling the car into the last available spot that wasn’t being taken up by other freeloaders sheltering, and reached for his door handle.
“I don’t think you should get out,” she said.
He looked at her. “I’m going to see if I can find out how long this is supposed to last.”
She bit her lip. She sat back, and he left. He was in the gas station for about ten minutes while she wondered what force of nature made the weather so bad this spring. He came out, getting wet even though it was covered, and getting back into the car.
He glanced at her, seeming to hesitate.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“It’s supposed to do this all night—now.”
“You mean, like, this bad?” she demanded, shocked.
He nodded. “I talked to the man at the counter, and they had the weather on. I’m thinking we need to get hotel rooms. He said there’s only one decent hotel in town and that we need to get over there before all these other people do.”
“Oh, gosh,” she said, taking a breath. She blinked, shocked at how easily a freak occurrence could throw all your plans away. “Okay. Yeah, if you think that’s what we should do.” Her stomach rumbled from starvation, but hopefully they would have a vending machine, or something.
“He said they have a restaurant.”
“Oh, good,” she breathed, not even caring that he had read her mind again.
He drove about two miles. Then she saw a historic-looking brick building that probably had twenty rooms. It seemed to be a boutique hotel/place of historic interest, and she liked what she saw. It was called the General Longstreet Hotel. It didn’t look like they would be reliving the Bed Bug Disaster of ’14.
It started hailing, and she felt sorry for the Land Rover. But there didn’t seem to be anything they could do about it. “I think we should make a run for it,” he said, looking ominously at two couples who were making a dash toward the door.
“Yeah.” After only a slight hesitation, she opened her door and dashed toward the entrance, stopping too soon and making him slam into her. “Sorry,” she said, as he opened the door. He didn’t answer. Well, she’d made no guarantees about her gracefulness. She didn’t know why she pictured his wife as a gazelle. But Adeline never pretended to be.
She swallowed when she saw the line in front of them in the high-ceilinged, wood-floor room. She glanced at him, and he pressed his lips together, obviously noticing it, too. It took twenty minutes for them to get to the counter. Once there, he said to the middle-aged woman with faded blonde hair, “Two rooms, please.”
She winced. “We just have one more,” she said, kind of under her breath. She looked at the line behind them as though dreading their reactions. Adeline glanced over her shoulder, seeing people barely wedged in the door from the high winds outside. She looked back at the woman, opening her lips to speak, but before she could, Dr. Ravenel said, “We’ll take it,” very firmly.
Adeline glanced at him, drawing a breath. Okay, she got it. They didn’t have any choice. But, really? She hadn’t been able to be adult about touching his hand on the freaking boat. How was she supposed to do this? Best case scenario, there would be two beds, or at the very least, a king.
He paid, and the woman gave him the keys. “4A,” he said to her once they were walking away. “At least we’re on the top floor.”
&nbs
p; She didn’t see how it was an advantage in this monsoon, but why quibble? It was better shelter than the Land Rover. She followed him toward the wooden staircase, where a bellhop was waiting to take bags they didn’t have. They told him thanks, but no thanks. As they started up the stairs, she said, “I’ll pay you back when I get back to my checkbook.”
“I always pay when I take a woman to a hotel,” he said, looking super-annoyed and pinching the bridge of his nose briefly.
That surprised a laugh out of her. “Yeah, it would probably be best if we keep this to ourselves.”
“You read my mind,” he said. He glanced at her. “Would you rather take the elevator?”
“I may eat Hot Pockets, but I am fit,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked at him, lifting her brows. Pressing his lips together, and looking like he’d like to crush something in his hand, he swung back the door for the next stairway and gave her a look as he held it for her. Okay, so did that mean he was attracted to her, too? Or was she reading too much into the two words, like she always had with guy friends in college? Or maybe she had completely lost her mind altogether. She didn’t know why she cared, anyway.
She was wishing she’d opted in on the elevator by the time they reached the fourth floor, and she had to do that quick nose-breathing thing to hide her breathless state. He put the cute old-style key in the door and opened it.
They stepped in, a clean smell and the smell of cookies teasing her senses.
She stopped, looking in front of her. There was one bed. One full-sized bed. She swallowed.
She knew the moment he saw, too. He stilled. There was a long silence before he finally said, “I’ll sleep on the floor if you want.”
She hesitated, checking out the floor. It was an old-style patterned carpet. If it had been hardwood, she might have made him do it. But there was no telling what was living in that. She had a feeling it would make him die inside. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re adults.” In a tiny, tiny bed. One of them a freaking model. The whole problem was that they were adults.
