Candle in the Darkness

by Lynn Austin

  “This is my dear friend Caroline,” he replied. “She’s been attending school in Philadelphia for the last few years and has finally returned home to stay.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Sally said. But she wasn’t.

  It was probably Jonathan’s plan to make Sally think we were sweethearts. And although it would have been perfectly acceptable for first cousins to court each other or even to marry, I noticed he hadn’t told her my last name or that I was his cousin. He and Sally talked for a moment about mutual acquaintances and events I knew nothing of. Then he quickly turned his full attention back to me.

  “I’m so sorry, darling. Forgive me for boring you. I promised that you would have me all to yourself tonight, and you will.”

  As Jonathan and I moved toward the drawing room, Sally caught his arm. She wore a sweet, strained smile on her lips, a green glint of jealousy in her eyes. “You will save one dance for me, won’t you, Jonathan?”

  “If Caroline will let me.” He smiled at me, not her, and we swept into the ballroom.

  The servants had moved most of the furniture out of the vast drawing room and transformed it into a ballroom. I’d never seen such an opulent room before, or such a high-ceilinged one, even in Philadelphia. Acres of fringed silk draperies, swags, and jabots adorned the windows. Plasterwork embellishments in the latest neoclassical designs decorated the walls. Brilliantly patterned carpeting stretched from wall to wall, and four huge chandeliers, each bearing dozens of candles and hundreds of crystal prisms, bathed the glittering room with light.

  “I never realized what a clever actor you are,” I whispered as Jonathan took me into his arms to dance.

  “It’s working. Sally is jealous, isn’t she? Now, Caroline, don’t be angry with me, but when the time is right, I’ll need to leave you and dance with her, just one time. Is that all right?”

  “Did you read the booklet I gave you?”

  He struck his forehead with his fist dramatically. “The booklet! Forgive me, Caroline, but I was so excited about tonight that all I could think about was Sally. I promise I’ll read it the moment I get home.”

  Jonathan was such a charming clown it was impossible to be cross with him. As an escort, he was much more suave and dashing than Robert had been, and as the evening progressed, I never once regretted my decision to accompany him. Jonathan and I danced together, explored Sally’s gardens and the first floor of her house, spied on the other couples, and sampled the canapés and fruit punch. The evening reminded me of our adventures on the plantation when we were young, only now we were dressed in formal evening clothes.

  When we weren’t dancing, Jonathan’s friends gathered around waiting to be introduced to me. I didn’t feel a bit nervous. Jonathan not only made me feel brave, he made the evening fun.

  “Is Sally watching?” he would ask every now and then. Nearly every time I looked, she was watching him, even though a host of suitors flocked around her at all times like birds at a feeder—all except for Jonathan. He paid no attention to her at all. Perversely, she wanted what she couldn’t have. I could see that Sally enjoyed the thrill of the quest as much as Jonathan did.

  “Clever boy,” I said. “Yes, she’s watching. Your idea is working like a charm.”

  “I’m going to dance with her now,” he told me later that evening. “I’ll leave you with my good friend Roger. He’s been dying to dance with you.”

  “No, don’t do that,” I said quickly. “I’d rather sit down for a while. My feet ache.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be back for you in a little bit.”

  We parted, and I headed toward the door to a smaller parlor where guests could rest between dances. But I was looking over my shoulder, watching Jonathan approach Sally instead of watching where I was going, and I suddenly collided with a man as I stepped into the room. Some of his punch spilled down his shirtfront.

  “Oh, excuse me,” I said.

  I looked up and found myself face-to-face with the stranger I had argued with on Main Street.

  “You again!” I said in surprise.

  “I might say the same thing—and in the same tone of voice— if I wasn’t a gentleman.” He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his shirt. “I suppose I should be grateful that you weren’t armed with your bag.”

  I realized that I was blocking the doorway and stepped aside. “Excuse me. Did you want to go back into the ballroom?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I’d just stepped in here to sit down when you plowed into me. It would seem that you are a dangerous woman to cross paths with.”

  There were only two empty chairs in the room, and they were side by side. My feet ached from dancing, and I wasn’t about to let this oaf deprive me of a chance to sit. He was evidently as stubborn as I was, because he followed me over to the corner and took the seat beside me. His insulting manner brought out the worst in me. I wanted to insult him in return, letting him know I despised him for the way he treated Negroes, if for no other reason.

  “So, have you grown tired of fluttering around Sally like all the other men?” I asked. “Or isn’t she giving you the time of day?”

  He frowned slightly. “Sally St. John? She’s not my type. I’ve never cared much for women whose sole concern is themselves— women who prattle on and on about outward things, such as hair and jewelry and clothes.”

  I tried not to blush when I recalled how vain I’d been in Philadelphia— before I joined the Anti-Slavery Society. “I’m surprised you came to her party at all if you have such a low opinion of her,” I said.

  He looked at me for a long moment before replying. “My parents adore Sally. I came to the party as a favor to them. Are you a friend of hers?”

  “I don’t know her at all. I’m here as a guest of someone who knows her.”

  “Ah! And I’ll bet you saw this as a golden opportunity to pass around your abolitionist propaganda.” I felt my anger build as his arrow hit its mark. “Let me give you some advice,” he continued. “I know Sally’s parents quite well, and you would be insulting a highly respected Richmond family if you distributed your garbage in their home. I know for a fact that they have always treated their slaves very kindly.”

  “There’s more to the matter of slavery than kind treatment,” I replied. “Just because they don’t whip or abuse their Negroes doesn’t make it right to own them. Slavery denies people the right to benefit from their own labor. Poor whites can work hard and eventually get ahead—immigrants do it all the time. But no matter how hard a slave works, he is still in the same place. The only people who benefit from a slave’s hard labor are his white owners.”

  “Listen now. When one of Sally’s servants comes over here, I dare you to take him aside and ask him if he’s content.”

  “There would be no point at all in doing that. He’d say he’s content because he’s been trained to give white people the correct answers. But let me ask you this—if the slaves in Virginia are so content, why are slave owners so terrified that they’ll join up with zealots like John Brown?”

  “Because most Negroes are ignorant and superstitious. They’re like little children. They can be led to rebel very easily.”

  “It’s not their fault that they’re ignorant. If we provided them with an education—”

  “Don’t be naïve. It’s been scientifically proven that the Negro race is inferior.”

  “Oh! That makes me absolutely furious!” I longed to tell him about Eli, but I didn’t dare. “I’ve seen educated Negroes up north who were employed in all walks of life. Frederick Douglass is an eloquent speaker and a gifted journalist. And I’ve also met plenty of ignorant white people, too.”

  “I’ll wager you’ve never been to the Dark Continent and witnessed the ignorance and barbarity of native Africans. The ‘school of slavery’ here in America has civilized the Negro race and brought them true religion.”

  “I don’t believe you would know the first thing about true religion. The Bible says that anyone who
claims to be in the light but hates his brother is still in the darkness. If there is a Dark Continent, sir, it’s this one.”

  As we argued, his blue eyes grew darker and darker, like approaching storm clouds. Suddenly they flashed with anger. “Is it Christian of you to toss Scripture around and condemn all slaveholders without knowing the truth about them as individuals? Would your God like it that you pass judgment on people before learning the truth, the way you passed judgment on me when you saw me chasing that Negro boy? Is yours a God of grace or judgment?”

  I suddenly recalled a line from the Anti-Slavery Society’s aims—the overthrow of prejudice by the power of love. Once again, I knew that I had failed miserably. And with the same person, no less.

  “I have never met anyone quite as infuriating as you,” I said for lack of anything better to say. “And if you believe in a God of grace instead of judgment, then why didn’t you buy that poor child an apple instead of trying to arrest him for stealing one?”

  I saw Jonathan stroll into the room, and I rose to leave. “There you are, darling,” I said as he moved toward me.

  He must have noticed our angry faces because he wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder. “Is something wrong, Caroline?”

  I lifted my chin and smiled sweetly. “No. Nothing at all.”

  “Good. Come dance with me, then. They’re playing a waltz.”

  My anger slowly cooled as I drifted around the floor in his arms. “That man I was speaking with in the parlor . . . do you know him, Jonathan?”

  “I never saw the gentleman before.”

  “Oh, believe me, he’s no gentleman. How did your dance with Sally go?”

  “Perfect!” He whirled me around in joy, grinning like a fool. “She gave me permission to call on her.”

  I kept a wary eye out for the infuriating stranger, but I didn’t see him again for the remainder of the evening. He didn’t come into the ballroom to dance, nor was he at the buffet table later, when dinner was served. He must have left the party early, because he wasn’t in the foyer when we all said good-bye to Sally sometime after midnight. I might have been able to forget him altogether if I’d been able to stop thinking about his magnificent eyes.

  I had a silent conversation with him as Tessie helped me take off my gown and get ready for bed. I thought of all the things I wished I’d said, and I planned all of the things I would say to him the next time. The next time? Would there even be a next time?

  “I certainly hope not!” I mumbled as I dove beneath the covers. But that wasn’t quite true. Why was I rehearsing all these arguments if I wasn’t going to see him again? Just in case, I assured myself.

  Then came the harder question—did I want to see him again?

  “Certainly not!” I said aloud.

  “If you gonna talk to yourself all night,” Tessie said from her bed in the corner, “then I guess I better go sleep someplace else.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that he makes me so angry.”

  “Who does? Your cousin?”

  “No, not Jonathan. That . . . that man!”

  “What man is that, honey?”

  I didn’t even know his name.

  Chapter Ten

  Richmond 1860

  January seemed to last a long time that year. I didn’t venture downtown very often because of the bad weather, nor did I have any more adventures with Jonathan, who had returned to college. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sally St. John’s party and my second encounter with the blue-eyed stranger.

  On a blustery day in February—long after I should have forgotten the man—I sat at the table in my bedroom, trying to compose a letter to Robert at West Point. But I found myself remembering my argument with the stranger instead.

  “Negroes are ignorant and superstitious,” he had said.“It’s been scientifically proven that the Negro race is inferior.”

  “That’s just not true!” I said aloud.

  Tessie looked up from her sewing. “You talking to me, honey?”

  “No . . . I was talking to that horrible man.”

  “The one you writing the letter to?”

  “No, not Robert . . . him!” I tossed down the pen, leaving a blob of ink on my sheet of writing paper.

  “Well, I just an ignorant old mammy . . . but I ain’t seeing any man in this here room.”

  I was so angry I stood up. “You’re not ignorant, Tessie. And that’s exactly what I told him, too. It’s not your fault you’ve never had an education.”

  Tessie stared at me, bewildered, then returned to her sewing. “I just gonna mind my own business, now. Ain’t nobody knows what you talking about, except yourself.”

  “I can prove it, too. Come here, Tessie.”

  She looked up at me in alarm. “Now, why you want to make me talk to a man who ain’t there?”

  “I’m not. I’m going to teach you to read and write.”

  Tessie looked frightened. “What earthly good that gonna do? Don’t you know colored folk ain’t allowed to read and write?”

  “No one will ever know except you and me.” I went to her chair beside the fireplace and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Please, Tessie. This will prove it to him. I know I can teach you.”

  “This gonna make you happy, honey?” she asked, stroking my cheek. “Because you know I hate to see you moping around here, talking to yourself.”

  “It will make both of us happy. You’ll see. Come on, sit down at the table.”

  With a good deal of pushing and prodding, I got Tessie seated, then I wrote her name for her in block letters. I explained how each letter had a sound, how the S made a sound like a snake, and so forth. Then I gave her the pen and coaxed her to copy her name herself.

  Tessie did her usual share of good-natured grumbling and grousing—“Don’t see what good this gonna do. . . . Don’t see how this make folks happy. . . .” But I could tell she was pleased with herself. She learned very quickly. By the end of the hour, she had filled several sheets of paper with boldly printed lines of TESSIE. She had also remembered how to write it without looking at my copy.

  “You a good teacher,” she said when we finished our first lesson.

  “This is only the beginning,” I told her.

  “Oh no . . .”

  “Yes. We’re going to have a lesson every afternoon, and before long, you’ll be able to read and write as good as anyone.”

  “If that’s what you want, honey,” she said hesitantly. “But now there something I have to do. And don’t you go getting mad at me for doing it.”

  I watched as Tessie carried her work over to the fireplace and solemnly fed every last sheet into the flames.

  Jonathan returned to Richmond along with the spring weather. He showed up on my doorstep one sunny afternoon, begging me for another favor. “Sally has agreed to meet me at the fairgrounds for a picnic on Sunday, but her father insists that we be chaperoned. Won’t you please come with us, Caroline?”

  “No, not this time. I would hate being a third wheel. Besides, I don’t think Sally likes me very much.”

  Jonathan wasn’t listening. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he continued to wheedle and beg, telling me all the reasons why I was his only hope, I suddenly remembered the bargain we had made the last time I’d done him a favor.

  I interrupted his pleas to ask, “Did you ever read that booklet I gave you?”

  “What? Oh . . . yes . . . it was very interesting.” He wore the guilty look of a naughty boy. “Why don’t you come on the picnic this Sunday and we’ll discuss it?”

  “You’re lying. You didn’t read it.”

  “Caroline, don’t you and I always have fun when we’re together?”

  “Well, yes. . . .”

  “And you won’t be a third wheel. Sally’s brother is supposed to be arriving home from Washington sometime this week. We’ll ask him to be our fourth. Please say you’ll go out with us.”

  “But you know how hard
it is for me to talk to strangers. I’m not very good at socializing. And I certainly don’t want to be stuck with some shallow, self-centered brother of Sally’s.”

  Jonathan refused to yield. He was madly in love, he claimed, and I was his only means of seeing Sally. As he continued to beg and plead, I remembered my mission—change one person at a time. If Jonathan wouldn’t read my pamphlet, maybe Sally’s brother would. Besides, if Jonathan was further in my debt, perhaps I could bargain on Tessie and Josiah’s behalf.

  “All right,” I said at last. “You owe me two favors . . . and her brother better not bore me to tears, or I swear I’ll go straight home.”

  “I love you!” he said, hugging me. “When Sally and I have our first daughter, we’ll name her after you.”

  “If you want to thank me, read the material I gave you,” I called. But he was already out the door.

  Jonathan and I arrived at the fairgrounds first and waited on a bench near the entrance for the St. Johns to arrive. At least I waited on the bench. Jonathan was so feverishly excited that I gave up trying to get him to sit down, let alone converse with me. If this was how people in love acted, I hoped it never happened to me.

  “That’s Sally’s carriage!” he shouted when he finally spotted the matched team of horses trotting toward us.

  “Calm down,” I said, laughing. “You’re dancing, and there isn’t even any music.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop. The coachman stepped down to open the door. Sally alighted first, then her brother. When I saw who he was, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

  Him again!

  I felt my cheeks burning as Sally and Jonathan made the introductions. “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Caroline Fletcher.”

  “This is my brother, Charles St. John.”

  An icy silence followed their words. Charles and I both knew we were supposed to be polite, to say things like “how do you do?” and “pleased to meet you,” but we coldly stared past each other for what felt like an eternity.