by Tara Cowan
“Oh.” She blinked, surprised. “Yes, I hadn’t thought.”
He lay her tippet aside, watching her. “Where are the pins?” He moved forward until he was just in front of her, though he still didn’t touch her.
She motioned. “Just there. Please don’t rip my hair out.”
“Very well. If you wish to deny all of my pleasure.”
This sally earned a faint smile, and he set about pulling the pins gently, laying them on the side table in the foyer when he had finished. He reached for the top button of her coat.
“Please don’t,” she said, her hand on his arm. “I am still cold.”
Her belled skirt was against his trousers, his hands sliding down her arms. She glanced up at him, so reserved and distant, and then looked away, her color high. He guided her chin back, and she met his eyes. “Forgive me, Shannon,” he said, voice scratching.
She held his eyes, her features softening. “I will love them, John Thomas. I promise.”
“It was a terrible thing to say.”
“Indeed, but true enough. I shall depend upon you to keep me in check.”
“I can’t think how I came to be such a cad,” he said penitently, features tight.
“You are cruel always,” she said, eyes twinkling slightly. “And heartless.”
A smile touched his lips. Her hand came up briefly to touch his face, causing his heart to leap. He drew her even closer, kissing her slowly, lingeringly. Shannon stepped closer, giving her permission, whispering something in his ear that made him long for their little townhouse in Washington.
“Thank you, Shannon,” Lizzie said, making the final tuck in the bodice of her gown. It was for the open ball which would be held at the Weymouth assembly rooms for the end of planting in May, and Shannon had shown her a deft stitch which would give the gown a Parisian flair, currently all the rage in Charleston.
“So charming to make it a V,” Miriam said, sitting nearby in the same small tea room, working on her own gown. They might have sent them to the dressmaker ten times over, but they preferred and were encouraged by their mother to make their own. And they were deft needlewomen. Shannon had been taught nothing so useful as they, but she did know fine stitches, and her sisters-in-law were happy to learn from her. Sarah sat nearby quietly cross-stitching a sampler but watching raptly.
“Did you have many beaux in Charleston, Shannon?” Miriam asked.
“Miriam!” her elder sister chided, eyes widening.
Shannon laughed. “Yes, I did.”
Lizzie looked up, a slightly shocked expression on her face.
“Oh, forgive me,” Shannon said, lifting a new spool of thread from the basket at her feet, but pausing. “Your brother knows. He jokes me for it.”
Lizzie paused for a moment. “Does he? You and John Thomas led such different lives in South Carolina, that I’m sure we can scarcely understand.”
Shannon studied her. After a moment she said, “Yes, our ways are very different. But John Thomas is the same wherever he is.” And she hoped she was, too, though she was uncomfortably uncertain of the truth of it.
Lizzie shook her head. “You don’t have to tell me that, my dear sister. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Indeed, John Thomas is the best and dearest of brothers,” Miriam said. “Oh! No, I don’t mean that!”
Sarah fired up. “Well, he doesn’t read fubsy old books all of the time, or ride off to heaven knows where, or tug on my braids!”
“That is quite enough, Sarah,” Lizzie said with amused reproof.
Shannon smiled, looking up to see Patience peeking in the door. Patience was smiling. “What a charming foursome you make!” she said, cheeks rosy from the chill. She had already discarded her coat and gloves and was wearing a simple gray wool gown with pagoda sleeves.
“Dearest,” Lizzie said, getting up and kissing her cheek. “You’ve only just missed Mother: she went to take stockings to the tenants.”
“Oh, I shall stay until she returns,” she said, kissing Sarah and Miriam and extending her hand to Shannon, covering Shannon’s when she gave hers. “You are such a welcome addition to us, Sister!” she said. “What a pity you should be leaving us for Washington!”
Shannon smiled, realizing suddenly that Patience was the addition the sisters had lacked. She did not have sisters, but she knew the feeling nonetheless. She enjoyed watching them, found that Patience smoothed all of the little troubled moments.
“Oh! What do you think? Jonathan is to visit us next Saturday—and then it will just be a few weeks until the end of the term.”
“How wonderful!” Lizzie said.
“And then he shall be yours forevermore!” Miriam, ever the romantic, exclaimed.
“Well, I shall have to share him with his parishioners, but, yes!” Patience answered, laughing. “And Shannon shall have to share her beloved with the stupid navy!”
Shannon’s eyes danced. “Come, you must have more patriotism than that. I am willing to share him, so long as they return him to me.”
“I still cannot picture John Thomas as a sea captain!” Miriam said, her eyes full of wonder.
Shannon sometimes had difficulty herself, but he usually diverted her when she attempted to broach the subject. She imagined that his father had planned his life as surely as John Ravenel had his son’s. And for the first time, she considered that being a man might be nearly as full of troubles as being a woman.
Shannon and John Thomas had not been in Massachusetts long when the older children in the Haley household began to talk of going to a lecture in Quincy. Shannon would’ve liked to have gone, for she loved attending lectures, especially if they were given by scholars, but she quickly came to realize she wasn’t being included in the plans, though Lizzie was going with her brothers.
“May I not go to the lecture?” she asked, sitting in a chair in their room by the light of the fireplace one night. She wore her dressing gown, which didn’t conceal the form of her long legs.
John Thomas had been removing his cufflinks over by the dresser, stealing glances at her now and then. He was pulled from his abstraction at her question, however, and he walked to her, kneeling in front of her. His eyes were smiling as he took her hands in his. “I do not think you would like it,” he said in his quiet way. “It is an abolitionist lecture.”
“What?” she breathed.
He nodded.
“I did not think they had much of a voice, even here,” she said, studying his face.
“The abolitionist movement is growing, Shannon. Everywhere.”
She slowly removed her hands. “You would go sit down with radicals who spew nonsense with every breath?” she asked in a shocked voice.
“You know my beliefs, Shannon.”
She turned her face away.
“What?” he asked, studying her closely.
“Believing is one thing.” She pressed her lips together. “Advocating for the utter destruction of everything I love is another. How can you call yourself Frederick’s friend, knowing what it must mean to him?”
“I would never advocate for destruction, whatever others are doing. Merely for freedom of souls created in God’s image, just as I was.”
She pressed her lips together. “You mustn’t pretend as though even a tenth of the Northern population feels as you do.”
“No, they don’t. Not the morality of it. But every aspect of aspect. It’s poisoning everything. Every conversation. Every political topic. I don’t see how they go on in Congress, with all the animosity and tension.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, staring at him with her beautiful blue eyes, looking disconcerted.
He hesitated. “We need a decisive leader to settle this matter without war. And we haven’t one in President Buchanan.”
Shannon pressed her lips together as he w
atched her struggling with emotion. He hated to have brought it up, had wanted to stay away from the subject altogether. “It isn’t a matter merely of aspirations, John Thomas. It is the very way of life for an entire people we are discussing. And your precious Mr. Lincoln—I assume you intend to vote for him?—appeases and appeases, but what shall he do as soon as he is enthroned? Take my father’s lands away from him and give them to the slaves–”
“Shannon, this is hysteria,” he interrupted, tone still soft as he took her hand again for comfort. “I believe Mr. Lincoln intends to try to reach a peaceful resolution, and yes, that is why I intend to vote for him.”
Her jaw seemed to clench briefly. “If only I were a man,” she said, ripping her hand away and looking away, swallowing with difficulty. “I should cancel your vote, and you would not speak for us.”
His lips parted, and he looked away, getting up and, keeping his back to her, finishing with his cufflinks and watch and fob over by the dresser, not lifting his head. Shannon watched him for a few moments before exclaiming, “Oh!” and standing and hurrying to him to him, touching his arm. “Forgive me!”
He turned and wrapped his arms around her, lips parting. “No, no,” he said, holding her tightly. “We’ll forget this silly lecture if it upsets you.”
She shook her head, more upset now by the argument, their first true one, even if they had had several little spats and uncomfortable moments. “No—I’ll go with you. And I’ll view it as scholarly, learning what I can—will that please you?”
He smiled with aching tenderness. “Yes. That would please me.” He lay his cheek on her head. “Forgive me. Truly, I didn’t mean to upset you, my darling.”
“Nor I, you.”
“You didn’t.” He tilted her face up, his fingers trailing from her neck to her chin. Slowly, his lips touched hers, and he pulled her closer. The kiss deepened between them, and she soon felt his fingers fumbling for the buttons on her dress. She stopped, breaking the kiss. He paused, looking down at her, flushing slightly, then averting his eyes.
She said softly, a shy little smile on her lips, “You always look disconsolate, but indeed, it isn’t my fault!”
He looked up, flushing in earnest. “Oh!” He held her eyes, opening his lips as though to speak, and finally managing faintly, “No! Are you feeling well?”
“As well as ever. It is a terrible thing to be a woman.”
“That is twice you have said that tonight. But where would I be, if you weren’t a woman?” he asked.
She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Here,” she said. “But alone.”
April 1, Charleston
Dear Shannon,
You will have seen by my heading that I have left your father on the island and retreated to Charleston. I could not convince Marie to join me. I daresay she feels her duties as a wife keenly as yet. All of us are well, and your father asked that I send his love.
Your sister-in-law sounds a very odd girl, the eldest there at home, I mean. It must be jealousy. I daresay she used to think herself a very pretty sort of girl before you tread on her ground. Likely she cannot comprehend what it means to have the belle of South Carolina with her. You and she might as well be different species.
I am glad to hear that the other girls are kind, but why are mere children permitted so much time with the adults? I cannot understand their ways, Shannon. I had hoped the family would go to Boston, so that you might be better appreciated, but I daresay they will wish to oversee their own planting.
Remember to protect your complexion if there are any outdoor parties, and guard your waistline. I daresay the latter will not be difficult in New England. You must tell me more about their meals in your next letter.
Remind Phoebe that crushed strawberries are an excellent regimen and that she must not dress your hair in loops over the ears or in any way which makes girls look dowdy. I cannot understand why it has become the fashion. It does not become Marie either. I gave her a hint, but as yet there has been no change.
Remember that a woman’s first duty is to her husband, Shannon. I have always abided by this maxim. Give my love to John Thomas, and my greetings to your mother and father-in-law.
Your Mother
The abolitionist party consisted of Adams, Lizzie, John Thomas, and his bride. They departed in a single carriage on a chilly spring night and covered the distance with no trouble along the roads, always such a welcome relief, Lizzie said, after the long winter. “Are you cold, Shannon? John Thomas, do remove the blanket from the box.”
He reached beneath his feet and did so, leaning forward to tuck it around both of the girls. As for Adams, sitting across from them with John Thomas, he was rather distracted, staring out the window. “I hope there won’t be a riot,” he murmured.
John Thomas looked at him, and Shannon looked between them. “We’ll leave if we get the feeling,” John Thomas said.
“I know. But I would hate for them to be silenced,” he answered.
They arrived at a large, neat white schoolhouse as many others were also securing their conveyances. Shannon recognized some of them from the three times she had attended church. There were very few people the Haleys did not know. It was tight-knit, Massachusetts, bound together by a common faith and history.
The cobblestone path was lit by two torches, and two door greeters met them with bulletins on the threshold. It was a crush, and they just managed to find seats before there was standing room only. Yet despite all of the bodies, it was extremely chilly, both Shannon and Lizzie leaving their wool capes on.
Most in the room seemed to be supporters, but there was a group near the back which might be protesters.
John Thomas glanced down at Shannon, while, on the other side of them, Adams and Lizzie talked with some distant cousins. She had been quiet the past few days, perhaps dreading tonight, but she had never withdrawn her offer to come. He watched as she read the bulletin, and her face paled as she slowly looked up at him. “William Lloyd Garrison?” she breathed. “Frederick Douglass?” she whispered faintly.
He nodded once, holding her eyes. She took a shaky breath, touching her bodice as though she could not get enough air. He laid a hand on her arm, but she hissed, “Don’t touch me.”
He withdrew his hand, stunned. He looked forward, trying not to cause a scene. He knew from whence her feelings derived but was perhaps surprised at the violence of them. Garrison, the man who had had a bounty on his head in the South for some twenty years, wanted dead or alive, the man who had been dragged through the streets of Boston by an anti-abolitionist mob, who in moments would stand before them without any fear. Garrison had achieved a notoriety greater than Satan in the South, stronger than death, and more violent than hatred. And Douglass was more despised than that. “Who did you think it would be?” he said quietly.
She did not answer immediately. “I do not know—a professor from Harvard, a prominent minister. Dear God, what would my father think?”
She had paled more, if possible. John Thomas was becoming alarmed but was unsure how to act. Lizzie noticed then, too. “Shannon?” she asked in concern. “Are you well?”
Shannon looked at her, unseeing, and unable to speak, it seemed. Suddenly, realization dawned in Lizzie’s eyes, and she met John Thomas’s. He held them for a long moment, sending what message, he didn’t know. Lizzie swallowed. “Shannon?” she asked, holding John Thomas’s eyes for another moment before looking at her. “Would you like for Adams to take you outside? It is stuffy, though it is so cold.”
Shannon blinked, seeming to come to herself. “Oh, I… No. No, thank you.” She swallowed.
John Thomas watched her for another moment, until he did not think she would faint, and then looked onto the stage as the mayor came out and made opening remarks. Then Mr. Garrison walked onto stage to a large round of applause.
He waited for it to die down, looking
scholarly with his high brow, noble features, and inescapable elegance. He let a hush fall and then began, “I am aware that many object to the severity of my language; but is there not cause for severity? I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice. On this subject, I do not wish to think, or speak, or write, with moderation. No! No! Tell a man whose house is on fire to give a moderate alarm; tell him to moderately rescue his wife from the hands of the ravisher; tell the mother to gradually extricate her babe from the fire into which it has fallen;—but urge me not to use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in earnest—I will not equivocate—I will not excuse—I will not retreat a single inch—and I will be heard. The apathy of the people is enough to make every statue leap from its pedestal, and to hasten the resurrection of the dead.”
Shannon sucked in her breath, and mouths were hanging open, the attention of the room fully in his hands. She sat silently, seemingly in numb horror.
“I founded The Liberator now nearly thirty years ago with one purpose in mind: the extermination of chattel slavery.” And so his story began, holding the audience spellbound until the slightest noise would’ve been deafening.
“And now,” he said at length, “I would like to introduce to you my friend and fellow abolitionist, a man I am honored to share this stage with, Mr. Frederick Douglass.”
Thundering applause sounded, and the man came out. Shannon stiffened perceptibly. He knew to be lectured by a Negro was unimaginable in her world. Only his riotous, course hair and dark skin proclaimed his heritage. His eyes were brilliant, encasing intelligence and fervor. Shannon glanced at John Thomas and whispered fragilely, still pale, “His features are very white.”
John Thomas held her eyes, and she looked away, flushing.
He opened with a booming, electrifying voice, by welcoming them and thanking them for their support of their glorious cause. “And I am especially glad to be here, in the town where he would have often visited, perhaps the very school where he taught: our founding father and that great advocate for freedom of every man: John Adams.” Once again there was sweeping applause. “And I am told,” he continued in his deep voice, “that we have among us tonight, three of that great abolitionist’s descendants. Great-grandchildren, if I am not mistaken. Your support means more to us than I can say.” A screeching applause arose, and Lizzie took Adams’s hand, tears in her eyes. John Thomas inclined his head at Douglass, after a time. Shannon looked up at him, swelling with pride despite everything. She had not known that, only that there was a loose connection.
