by Tara Cowan
“Yes, but should Mr. Haley and I ever return to the South?” she asked, almost hesitantly.
Phoebe met her eyes in the mirror, and quickly dropped them. After a long time, she said softly, almost fearfully, “I couldn’t rightly say, ma’am. I reckon that would take some prayer.”
“Have we ever been unkind to you, Phoebe?”
“No, ma’am,” she said quickly.
“Do you believe all of this that these abolitionists say up here?”
“I don’t reckon as they can understand how it is down South, ma’am, not really,” she said softly. Shannon studied her, unsure of her meaning.
“Be honest with me, Phoebe: do you believe all of the slaves should be freed?”
“I’m already free in God, ma’am, and whatever he sees fit for me to be is just fine.”
“Very well, but remember that you are no longer a slave, thanks to Mr. Haley: you may speak freely.”
There was a long hesitation. “I want my family to be free. I want my people to know a better life—didn’t the Israelites want it? But it’s my home. It’s our home. My family takes pride in it. I’d be most afraid of what was to come, ma’am.”
Shannon swallowed, hitherto unaware of how deeply the slaves had thought on the subject and feeling as though she were being enclosed. “Perhaps things will continue as they are,” she said softly, and then directed Phoebe to bring her gown.
Phoebe assisted with her diamond earrings and bracelet and then helped with the slippers which had been dyed, at great expense, to match the gown.
Phoebe regarded her. “You look fine, ma’am.” She looked as though she would say something else but refrained.
“Thank you, Phoebe. We shall hope my mother-in-law feels the same.”
What were her mother-in-law’s thoughts when she entered the dining room, Shannon did not know. Her husband however, looking up from his conversation with his sister, flushed, meeting her eyes. Shannon hesitated at the door, looking around uncertainly. The room had gone silent, and the family seemed to be astounded. No one commented upon it, but Shannon, sitting with a slight blush rising, knew their thoughts completely.
After the blessing was said, she glanced at John Thomas, but he did not look at her, although his eyes had followed her as she walked to her seat. Conversation was stilted for a time until Adams asked his father whether he had seen the article about the difficulties the fishermen were experiencing in the weather. It was not consciously done, but it served as a distraction nonetheless, and Shannon risked another glance at her husband. He was looking particularly handsome in his evening clothes, young and healthy, his hair glowing almost golden under the gas lamps. But his eyes were carefully averted.
She caught Lizzie looking at her, but her sister-in-law quickly cast her eyes down.
The plates had scarcely been taken away, and dessert had not yet been laid, when Shannon, rising, said quietly, “You will excuse me, I trust. I seem to have taken a headache.” The men stood, and Mrs. Haley said, overcoming her censure momentarily, “Certainly, Shannon. You must send Phoebe to fetch some of our powders.”
Shannon inclined her head and withdrew. She entered her chamber to find the fire lit and Phoebe waiting in the chair. The door had scarcely shut behind her when it opened again, and John Thomas entered, his brows drawn together in concern. “You are unwell?”
Shannon glanced at her maid. “Phoebe, leave us,” she said softly.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, slipping behind John Thomas, the door clicking quietly closed behind her.
“I do have a headache,” she said.
She turned towards her vanity mirror, fiddling with the clasp of her bracelet. He had come farther in, and his hand touched her back. She took a shaky breath and released it. “Can I do anything?” he asked softly. “Forgive me, I didn’t know you were unwell.”
She moistened her lips and then swallowed. “It is only a headache.” She was surprised to find she was fighting tears, when moments before her only emotion had been anger. She bit her lip hard. “You did not like my dress,” she said, hating herself. She unclasped the bracelet, let it fall into her hand, and then put it in her jewelry dish with a soft clink.
There was a long silence behind her, and Shannon turned, looking at him, and saw that he was hesitating. She very rarely was confrontational in this manner, and he didn’t seem to know what to say. He seemed at a loss for words, and the realization that he hadn’t intended to mention it made her angry again, for reasons even she couldn’t understand.
She took a shaky breath. “They…looked at me as though I were a strumpet, and I…” Tears rose again. “Can you imagine how it feels to a woman when her husband refuses even to look at her?”
He lifted a hand toward her arm, startled pain in his features. “Shannon…”
She turned away to hide her tears, and his hand fell. “I was not seeking to…to make a statement,” she said. “I thought nothing of it. They… I was mortified!” She lifted a hand to her aching temple.
“Shannon! Oh, my darling. I can see that you must have felt that way.” He touched her arm. “Please don’t cry,” he pleaded softly. He reached as though to take her into his arms, but she turned from him again.
“I’m not. And I don’t care for my feelings. I merely wish to know why I was received in such a way!”
There was a long pause, during which he studied her with brows drawn together as though uncertain what to say. Finally, he said softly, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He looked away. “When I first met you, Shannon, I…” His voice faded away, and he swallowed. Her eyes burned, and he looked back at her, meeting her eyes. “I know you were not made for this society, but Shannon, that gown is extremely inappropriate.”
She glanced back at herself in the mirror, flushing, truly seeing for the first time how much the bodice dipped, how it hugged her curves sensuously. She looked back at him, her color high with mortification. “John Thomas, you have been to Paris. You know–”
“Yes,” he said, holding her eyes.
She swallowed, turning, reaching for her wrap, and sitting slowly, keeping her head down.
“Do not cover yourself in front of me, Shannon,” he pleaded, rasping a little.
“It offends you,” she said, voice trembling. “Though why, I cannot think. My mother did not think it inappropriate.”
“You were no different than bait to a fish, Shannon,” he said, eyes sparking angrily. “A lure to catch an eligible husband. You are more to me than that!”
“I cannot see how I am bait or a lure now,” she said. “You are merely afraid I will wear it in public and another man might look at me.”
“I am doomed to endure men looking at my wife, wherever I go!” he exclaimed. “Had I been unable to endure it, you may believe we would’ve had this conversation long since.”
“I have never heard you be so prudish! It must be jealousy.”
“Yes, there is jealousy in me when other men look at you, very well. But that is not the reason I chose to wade into these extremely unpleasant waters with you. I do not like to see you defile your body. And that is precisely what you are doing when you are wearing dresses chosen to please men! Please God, or please yourself, but do not please men!”
Shannon blinked and looked down, fighting tears. She lost her battle and, to her mortification, they began flowing quietly down her cheeks. She wiped them with her hands as quickly as she could, but it never seemed enough.
He touched her back and took her hand. She heard his whispers. No… My darling… Too harsh… Doesn’t matter… But she scarcely listened. She felt as though she were once again facing overly harsh discipline at Ingersoll’s. She knew she was grown. She knew John Thomas would not make her do any of those horrible things. But she could not bear his censure or displeasure, all the same.
“Pleas
e,” she whispered. “Leave me.”
“No.”
“Please,” she said passionately.
She saw briefly pain flare in his eyes, but she could do nothing to correct it. Slowly, he stood, and, glancing at her once more, began walking toward the door.
May 1860, Harmony Grove
My Dear Mother,
In response to your question, May is a little warmer than its predecessor, but only a very little. Yes, we still dine upon a heavy dinner at eight o’clock—it is enough to kill you.
During the days, we ladies keep busy. You would be charmed, I daresay, by the image of your daughter lifting bread from an oven. In addition, we sew almost endlessly. I have no particular objection to sewing. What I cannot understand is why the poor need so many scarves. I cannot decide whether it is guilt of the rich or a penitent conscience which compels such exhausting endeavors.
Last week, we graced the coming out ball of a neighbor and cousin, an Emily Strotham, who is a lovely young lady. In addition, we attended a lecture at Providence Church and a little dance at the home of John Thomas’s sister, who is delighted to welcome her husband home from university once and for all…
Here, Shannon was interrupted by Miriam, early on Monday morning, who dropped by to ask whether she had seen Charles’s riding whip. The men were almost ready to leave, and he could not find it.
“No, but I will help you look,” she said, getting up, her hands tightening on the skirts of her wool dress momentarily.
There was a long search, which yielded a semi-destroyed article in the music room, and some near tears from Vincent as he explained that he had merely been playing with it and hadn’t intended to break it. Vincent’s father was inclined to be angry, but Shannon, stepping into the brink, said, “No, of course you didn’t! Indeed, I feel as though I am always breaking something, and then heartily regretting it afterward. I believe John Thomas has a spare. I will see if I can’t find it for Charles.” Vincent was thereafter her loyal slave, his eyes following her out of the room in adoration.
Shannon slipped up the stairs and down the hall to her chamber, stopping on the threshold when she saw John Thomas, standing at her table in his riding clothes, looking toward the door and standing still. She traced back in her mind for the contents of the letter, and, as she remembered them, heat suffused her cheeks, and her heart stuttered.
“Forgive me. I thought you had left a note for me,” he said softly. She saw the briefest glimpse in his eyes of how much he had been hoping she had done so. “I see I was mistaken.”
“John Thomas,” she whispered, the color draining from her face as she cursed her sharp and bitter tongue. She crossed her arms over her chest, biting her lip mercilessly.
He met her eyes, and his jaw tensed, and she could see that he was very angry.
She touched to collar of her gown. “Forgive me. I ought not to have said such things.”
His eyes were hard—she had never seen them so—and finally, he looked away.
“Allow me to explain,” she said softly.
“It doesn’t seem that there is anything to explain,” he said softly.
She felt weak and knew she was pale. “Please, I… Last night, I–”
“Never mind,” he said, remote from her, it seemed. “It doesn’t matter.”
Shannon walked quickly toward the writing table, snatching the letter up and tossing it on the coals. He looked up. “Shannon–” But it was soon burned past repair. A long stillness stretched out. She bit her lip, crossing her arms, feeling chilled, and light-headed. She wanted to tell him, but he was immovable.
“I didn’t mean for you to do that. You have a perfect right to write whatever you choose to your mother,” he finally said. Shannon swallowed. He started for the door. “Just…not at the expense of mine.”
Minutes later, Shannon stood in the upstairs window, tucking her wrap about her. The view was gray and cold, and she had a slight sore throat. She stared below her as Mr. Haley and his three eldest sons mounted, staying only to say a few words to the girls in the doorway before riding away.
South Carolina
Chapter Twenty-Three
Her eyes fluttered open. Why hadn’t she closed the curtains? It was really bright.
The instant she saw the white sheets (hers at Ravenel-Thompson House were gray), she got a feeling in the pit of her stomach. Then it all came flooding back to her. She jerked up and tried to remember everything. She did. Every last detail. Every little thing. What have I done?
She somehow knew she was alone in the bed, so she looked around, pressing her lips together to keep panic from tumbling out. She saw him sitting in the room’s lone chair, elbows on his knees. He slowly straightened when he saw that she was awake, and, suddenly regaining her senses, she pulled the sheet up.
She risked a glance at him. He was standing now, fully dressed. She was grateful he had gotten up: she might’ve totally wigged otherwise. His face was a little pale, and he opened his lips as though to speak and then closed them. She slowly met his eyes, a deep flush spreading in her cheeks.
Okay. Okay, she needed to pull it together. All of it—and she wasn’t going to deny it was kind of otherworldly, what had happened between them—was overwhelming. The guilt, the total confusion this was going to bring to both of their lives—and she was supposed to be finding a church this morning. So what—was she the kind of girl who slept with random strangers now? You might try to be all modern about it, but that didn’t change how yucky it felt in the morning.
“What did we do?” she whispered, pressing her palms to her eyes.
He stood there, looking like he didn’t know what to do or say. But it was obvious he knew she was freaking out. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said in such a soothing voice that she almost believed him. Her mind skittered from the gentleness of his voice to his hands plunging through her hair, so gentle—and back to the situation at hand.
Okay, what were the three big things that could happen: an STD, a pregnancy, a bolt of lightning. He was likely the cleanest guy she’d ever met, so mark off the first. If she’d been going to be struck by lightning, it probably would’ve happened last night. She moistened her lips. She couldn’t think about the other possibility right now. She didn’t think it was a huge likelihood, but it could still happen. “Are you going to tell me how sexual desires are normal and natural?” she asked bitterly.
“I could, but I think you already know that.” He was a little more hesitant than usual, but his voice had regained its normal frustrating tone. She needed to remember that he was probably freaking out, too. However natural desires were, it didn’t mean there weren’t consequences in the light of day.
She expelled a breath, feeling close to tears. “Obviously you don’t have enough body fat to be able to hold your wine, but what’s my excuse?”
He was looking at her like he thought she was a little crazy. Not choosing to comment on that, he said, “Look. We made a mistake. We lost self-control. I’m not the kind of person who usually loses it, and I think you aren’t either. That’s one of the things that’s troubling you more than anything, probably. But a mistake is just that. There’s no need to make it any more or less than it is. You’ll deal with it, and I’ll deal with it.”
She bit her lip and then looked at the clock. 10:13. Eek! Like she wanted to lie here all day. She started to throw back the covers and then thought better of it. “Why did you let me sleep this late? We should be going!” Not that she hadn’t needed the sleep. Lord knew she’d had little enough of it last night.
He gave her a look. “After what happened, ‘Pardon me, we need to hit the road, honey?’”
She met his eyes, surprised at how close she was to smiling. It would’ve been absurd and ungentlemanly, she would admit that. “Yeah. True.” She looked around. He’d lain her clothes in a neat stack on her nightstand. It was a thoughtful gestur
e, and she appreciated it. It had probably taken him some time to collect them from all different corners of the room, she thought, slipping her eyes closed.
“I’m going to go down to get some breakfast,” he said. “Do you want me to bring you something?”
She shook her head. Like she could eat.
She dressed as soon as he left, and then tried to make the bed look more respectable. She went into the bathroom. Great. She looked hideous. Her heart was racing, and there was a little panic inside her. But he was right. She needed to deal with it, shrug it off. She made order of her hair, pulling a bandeau out of her purse and placing it to cover some of the mess. Then she put on a little makeup. Okay. She could do this. She could ride back to Charleston with him.
She closed her eyes. She’d rather be guillotined. And she’d bet he would, too. But she didn’t see that there was any other option.
Okay, she needed a plan. Life had just gotten way too complicated. She couldn’t stay in his house, seeing him every day, or every other day… She needed to call the guys, tell them they were pulling out, breaking the contract. Dr. Ravenel—gah, she’d just slept with a man she’d never even called by first name—would understand. Would probably be hugely relieved.
And then, as she looked at herself in the mirror, reality, and sanity, kicked in. She might want to run for the hills, to bury herself and forget. To make the images of last night go away, as she beat herself up every day for the rest of her life. But she had men to pay. A business to build. A job to finish. This was her big break—anybody could see that. A few pictures of a Battery Street house on her website and the bid requests would come flying in. Even still, she might leave, if only her own interests were at stake. But there were people depending on her having her crap together.
She swallowed, having stood there so long that she heard the door click shut behind the bathroom. Her heart pounded and gave her a sick feeling. Okay, open the door, Adeline, and face him like a woman. She pressed her lips together and stepped out.
