The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Sorry to have spoiled your Christmas, Roger.” She rubbed the tip of her nose, certain that it had gone red with the cold. “I shouldn’t have spoken so freely. Your mother probably thinks I am the worst sort of influence on you.”

  “My mother abhors the idea of slavery, but she adores you.” Roger guided the horse onto the narrow street that separated the row of stately houses from Louisburg Square. “She admires strong-minded women. You should hear her carry on about equal pay for women who do men’s work.”

  “I wouldn’t know much about that,” Flanna admitted, her eyes following the bare tree limbs that stretched overhead like a black and skeletal canopy. “I don’t care how much I’m paid; my father takes care of all my needs. I only care that women receive the medical help they need.”

  Roger looked down at her, his dark eyebrows arching mischievously. “Mother probably wouldn’t admit it to you, but she is actually quite an admirer of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. She has followed that lady’s career for several years and was quite pleased when Dr. Blackwell established her women’s clinic in New York.”

  “Dr. Blackwell was from Charleston too.” Flanna’s thoughts turned wistfully toward home. “I wonder if she missed it as much as I do.”

  “Flanna, darling, don’t fret so.” Roger transferred the reins into his right hand, then slipped his left arm around her shoulders. “You have only to give me some sign, and I would agree to take care of you forever. You could have a wonderful life here in Boston. I would be able to recommend you to the finest ladies in the city, and you could cure feminine diseases to your hearts content. And when you have grown tired of medicine, you and I would have children, as many as you want.”

  With a skill derived from years of divining men’s intentions, Flanna gently steered the subject away from matrimony. “Are you so certain of your influence, Mr. Haynes?” She injected a smile into her voice. “I’m not certain your mother would seek me out as her physician.”

  “Give me time, darling.” His arm fell from her shoulders as he shifted the reins to negotiate a difficult turn. “My influence can only grow once I enter politics. Mother says Judge Whittier is ready to place my name upon the next ballot, and it’s reasonably certain I shall be successful in this district. Why, the folks from Beacon Hill alone could carry the day, and no one has greater influence than those people.”

  “Perhaps, then, you should reconsider our friendship in the light of your political aspirations.” Flanna’s eyes drifted out to the rows of dignified stone houses that lined the street. They were passing Pemberton Square, Beacon Hill’s eastern mate to Louisburg Square. Golden light from the gas street lamps pooled on the snowy sidewalks, injecting occasional notes of warmth into what would otherwise be a cold and alien landscape. Charleston rarely saw snow, but twice in the last month alone Flanna had wondered if Boston would be buried in it.

  “Flanna, why should I reconsider you?” Roger turned to give her a look of pure disbelief. “How could I, when we are the perfect pair? You represent the modern woman, one as useful as she is beautiful, and I am the forerunner of a new political movement that will mend the fractures in our grand and glorious Union.” He snapped the reins. “No, my dear, together we are an unbeatable team. You are a lady of the South, I am a man of the North. You undoubtedly feel strong loyalties to Charleston and South Carolina, while I desire to give my life in service to the people of Boston and Massachusetts. Others will see us as friends and partners and realize that it is possible for two people to put sectional and philosophical differences aside in order to work together.”

  “Philosophical differences?” Flanna tilted her head to look up at him. “What philosophical differences? In all the time I’ve known you, Roger, you’ve never contradicted me. I thought you shared my views.”

  His broad mouth quirked with humor. “No couple shares every view, my sweet. But just as you and Mother were able to eat a peaceful meal without resorting to unpleasantness, so you and I shall sometimes disagree and yet present a peaceable appearance. In truth, you shall have your work, and I shall have mine. I doubt our differences of opinion will ever amount to much.”

  Flanna didn’t answer, but looked out at the street, uncomfortable with Roger’s implication that they had come to some sort of understanding. She was returning to Charleston after graduation from medical school; she had told him so time and time again. And though she considered him a fine friend and a man of admirable qualities, she had no desire to rush with him to the altar. She wanted to be a doctor, but Roger seemed to think her ambition was nothing but a schoolgirl’s foolish daydream.

  “Mother wants you to come tomorrow, of course,” Roger was saying, his eyes intent on the road. “We’ll have our big Christmas dinner at one o’clock.” He gave her a quick smile. “We have a surprise for you—my brother is coming from West Point.” He pulled back on the reins, halting the horse, and gave her an oddly keen, swift look. “What do you say, Flanna? Will I be able to tell my brother that he is meeting the future Mrs. Roger Haynes?”

  Flanna squinted in embarrassment and looked away, certain that he had momentarily lost his good sense. But though this unexpected proposal had caught her off guard, she did not want to react hastily and offend him.

  “Thank you, Roger,” she said, smoothing the irritation and shock from her voice. She looked up and met his bright gaze. “I am not unaware of the honor you are bestowing upon me, but I have told you that I am not presently interested in marriage. I have to finish my education, I have to pass my medical examinations, and I have promised my father that I would return to Charleston and assist him in his practice. And since you feel strongly that you must remain in Massachusetts—”

  “We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.” He dropped the reins and reached across the lap blanket to enfold her gloved hands. “And you and I should be one flesh. I understand your commitment to your father, and I admire you tremendously for the strength of heart and will that motivated you to make it. All right, finish school. Return to Charleston, and give your father one year of your time. But consider that I am willing to wait for you. As you work, I will build a constituency that will propel me to a position in the governor’s office before you can return from Carolina! We can be wed in the governor’s mansion, or anywhere you like, but say you’ll be my wife, Flanna O’Connor!”

  His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation, and the intensity of his look made her pulse pound. This was not her first marriage proposal, but Roger was by far her most persistent suitor. For two years he had escorted her to events around Boston, providing an introduction into fine homes and social events she would never have graced without his influence. Flanna had to admit she enjoyed walking into a luxurious drawing room on the handsome lawyer’s arm.

  But to live in Boston? The people here seemed alien, cold, and stuffy compared to the warm and gentle folks of Charleston. As much as she enjoyed Roger’s company, she did not think his conversation and ready wit could compensate for the loneliness she would feel without contact with her brother, her father, her Aunt Marsali, and her seven strapping cousins. Why, she could not have endured the lonely college terms if not for Charity’s company and the knowledge that she could go home during the summer months.

  “These things,” she began, speaking slowly as she searched for words which would protect their friendship and yet cool Roger’s ardor, “are not announced casually over family dinners. And you have forgotten one very important step—you must write my father and ask his permission and blessing before I can give my consent. I am a dutiful daughter, and if I were to assent to your plan without consulting my father, my actions would break his heart.”

  “Don’t you like me, Flanna?” Roger looked down, the fringe of his lashes casting moonlit shadows on his cheeks. “Would marriage to a lawyer be so terrible that you cannot contemplate it? Or is it me you find objectionable?”

  “You are being foolish.” She softened her voice, trying to verbalize feelings he would n
ot understand. “I’m very fond of you. It’s just—Roger, may I be honest?”

  “I would accept nothing less than honesty from you.”

  “Good.” She paused, her gaze flicking toward a passing buggy. “Should we be sitting out in public like this?”

  “We’re chaperoned.” Without taking his gaze from her face, he called out, “Charity?”

  “Yes, Mr. Haynes?” The girl’s voice echoed over the street.

  “There.” Roger tightened his grip on Flanna’s hands. “Your maid is here, and we are safely under observation. So tell me what is in your heart.”

  Flanna shifted in the buggy. “I am terribly fond of you.” That much was true. After several miserable weeks in Boston, Flanna had met Roger at a social sponsored by several college supporters. He had at once become her escort and her friend, and she had reserved every spare moment for him without wanting to think of the consequences. Now she was about to disappoint him, perhaps for the last time. But she had never intended to give him her heart, only her friendship.

  She looked directly into his dark eyes. “Roger, I must go home to Charleston. I promised my father that I would assist him once I became a doctor. And I miss Charleston. My family is there.”

  “I will be your family if we are wed.” Roger spoke in an odd, yet gentle tone. “And Flanna, think of it—I may one day be president of the United States! What greater destiny could a woman wish than to marry a man who has devoted his life to public service?”

  “She might wish to devote her life to those less fortunate.” She squeezed his hand, hoping he would understand. “Roger, I never told you this—I suppose I was a bit embarrassed—but my grandfather owned over a hundred slaves. One of them was my Mammy, and I have never met a more modest woman, black or white. My mother died when I was a baby, so Mammy was everything to me, the only mother I ever knew.”

  “I don’t care that your grandfather owned slaves.”

  “That’s not the point, Roger.” Flanna looked down at his hands, so tightly entwined with hers. “Mammy became ill, you see, but she was so demure, so shy, that she would not allow a male doctor to examine her.”

  She breathed deep and felt a sharp stab of memory, a painful remnant from the past. “She died one night as I held her in her bed. When I lifted the blanket I discovered that she’d hemorrhaged from her female organs. A doctor could have stopped the bleeding and saved her life, but she would not let a strange man come near.”

  Roger made a small, comforting sound. “Why didn’t your father tend her?”

  Flanna shook her head. “She would have died from embarrassment before she’d let him examine her. Despite her unrefined language and her status, she was by nature a lady, far more genteel than I could ever hope to be.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “She was always fussing at me for roughhousing with my brother and my cousins. She thought I’d grow up to be a tomboy.”

  “Darling,” he said, his voice silky, “there is absolutely nothing of the tomboy about you now.”

  “That’s because of Mammy. When I was fifteen, she and Aunt Marsali brought me in, pulled my hair up, and let my dresses down. They taught me to be a lady, and by that time I was ready to learn.” Flanna paused, then continued in sinking tones. “And on the night Mammy died, I vowed that I would become a doctor so no woman, black or white, would have to suffer because she would not visit a male physician. I can’t break that vow.”

  “Women die in Boston too, Flanna,” Roger said, with a significant lifting of his brows. “You could fulfill that vow here, in Washington, anywhere.”

  “But my father is in Charleston. And when I left for medical school, I promised to come back and work with him.”

  Roger sighed heavily and released her hands. “I understand, dear Flanna. So be it. I will say nothing to my brother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But”—he held up a warning finger—“at the earliest opportunity I will write your father and ask for his blessing upon our future marriage. You promised you would work with him. You did not promise him a lifetime.”

  Flanna sat in silence, considering his words. Perhaps she would be unwise to completely reject his proposal. She had given little thought to her life beyond her future as a doctor, and handsome bachelors like Roger did not come along every day. He was a catch; all the girls at the boardinghouse said so. Her vision was still colored with the memory of Mammy, and she could just see the woman rising up, her face as stern as granite, rebuking Flanna for being penny wise and pound foolish. “You’s always disregarding tomorrow for the promise of today.”

  “If you write my father, perhaps you should introduce yourself first,” she suggested. “I shouldn’t think he would respond favorably if you ask for my hand outright. I’ve mentioned you in my letters, of course, but he will want to know you on a personal level.”

  “Doubtless he’ll want me to visit Charleston,” Roger said, taking up the reins, “which I will gladly do, but only because you are the only woman in the world for me. And while I am winning your father’s good faith and his blessing, you shall take your final examinations and pass them. Are we agreed?”

  Flanna stared at him, her thoughts scampering frantically. Why not agree? Roger was as persistent as a mosquito; he would give her no peace until she assented to something in his favor. And though her father undoubtedly would approve of Roger Haynes, he had little time for correspondence, so it might be months before he answered Roger’s letter and granted permission for an engagement. By then Flanna would be back home in Charleston, fulfilling her promise. Roger might lose interest; he might even forget her altogether. Certainly his mother would do her part to make sure Flanna was forgotten. But if Roger persisted, if his feelings for her endured through time and separation and distance, then perhaps he really did love her as a husband ought to love a wife.

  Flanna sighed and closed her eyes. She would pray for God’s will, but in the meantime there was little she could do to resist Roger’s relentless energy.

  “Are we agreed then?” Roger sat still, the reins suspended in midair, awaiting her response.

  “I believe we are—but I must pray about it.”

  Roger caught up her hand and pressed it to his lips in a fit of rapture, and Flanna smiled at his impertinence. Roger was all flash and flair, the most charming companion she had ever met, and one of the most considerate escorts. If by some miracle he did forget her once she returned to Charleston, she would certainly never forget him.

  Flicking the reins, he urged the horse forward. Flanna pressed her hands together as the carriage moved slowly down the street. Who could tell? Perhaps Roger’s plan actually made sense. She could work with her father for a year, and if Roger was still determined to marry her, perhaps he’d even consider a move to Charleston. They were one Union, he’d said. One country. He could fill a political seat in Charleston as well as in Boston; charming, gregarious men like Roger developed a following wherever they went.

  “Whoa, Gertie.”

  Roger pulled back on the reins as the carriage drew up outside the tall wooden building that housed sixteen of the forty students at the New England Female Medical College. Flanna noticed a light burning in the parlor window. The housemother, Mrs. Davis, probably rocked there by the fireplace, mentally checking off each girl who returned. In another hour she would bar the door. Any young lady not satisfactorily accounted for would be expelled from the boardinghouse and the college on the grounds of moral turpitude.

  Flanna shifted to face Roger. “You may call for me tomorrow but not a word about your future plans. Remember, before we can plan to marry, you must not only win my father, but your mother must approve of me.” That roadblock would probably grant Flanna another year’s grace, for Mrs. Haynes obviously believed that all Southern women were slaveholding monsters.

  “Don’t mind Mother.” Roger lowered his head until his forehead brushed the brim of Flanna’s bonnet. “She spends too much time reading the newspapers. She’s upset by all t
his talk of secession. But I will not allow the word slavery to be uttered tomorrow. One should not talk of politics on Christmas Day.”

  “Agreed. I will not speak of slavery, or secession, or women in medicine. I will do nothing but sit by your side and try to charm your mother.” She gave him a heartfelt smile. “I may even tell her I’m willing to stand with those noisy suffragists, if that will charm her.”

  “Don’t forget my brother—he’ll need charming too. He wrote that he couldn’t believe I could lose my heart to a girl from South Carolina.” His breath gently warmed her face as he tilted his head. “May I be so bold as to ask for a kiss before I walk you to the house?”

  “Miss Flanna?” Right on cue, Charity’s voice rang out from the back of the carriage. “Are we goin’ in now?”

  Flanna pulled away from Roger as she turned to answer. “Yes, Charity. Hop on down, and Mr. Haynes will walk us in.”

  “You can’t blame a man for trying.” An easy smile played at the corners of Roger’s mouth. “After the official engagement then.” He stepped out onto the carriage block, then extended a hand to help Flanna alight.

  “After the wedding, you mean,” Flanna answered, taking his hand and descending as gracefully as she could. “A lady does not kiss a man until the wedding band is on her finger.”

  “Is that so?” One of his dark brows arched devilishly. “Then three-quarters of the young women in Boston aren’t ladies.”

  “That may be, sir,” Flanna answered, falling into step beside Charity as the maid moved toward the house. She turned and flashed a bright smile over her shoulder. “But you may rest assured that I am.”

  Flanna pressed her hands to her cold cheeks as she stamped her feet on the entry rug to dislodge any lingering clumps of snow. The rhythmic creak of the housemother’s rocker halted for a moment, and Flanna called out, “It’s only me, Mrs. Davis. Charity and I are safely returned from the Haynes house.”