by Tara Cowan
As they came into station, she searched the platform for John Thomas. She had not seen him in two weeks, and her hands tightened on her fan, nervous and eager all at once. She was too hot in her high-necked green travel gown and gloves, and Adams, used to New England, seemed to be wilting. He was, however, extremely capable with trains, knowing Boston, a much larger city, as he did. He stood and took her by the elbow, protecting her from the jostles of the unsteady and overly eager passengers and shielding her from the hurly burly as they climbed down the steps and stepped out onto the platform. Her eyes scanned the people, while Adams seemed to be distracted by a dog giving chase to a bird.
And then John Thomas materialized, striding toward them, his eyes on her. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he pulled her to him and kissed her, hard and chaste, on the lips, passion in his touch. Adams was called to order by the cheers of some well-meaning bystanders, and he finally spotted his brother. Shannon, blushing, laughed, and let her eyes skitter up to him. He was flushed, too, belatedly self-conscious, but still staring at her in wonder. His New Englander brother asked abstractedly what had overcome him, and oughtn’t they to get Shannon off of the platform?
A smile entered his eyes, and he said, “Yes. Yes, we should.” He put his hand on the small of her back and guided them to the hired carriage, where they waited for Phoebe. Most of Shannon’s trunks would be shipped, but she had brought a small one, as well as several valises, which John Thomas had arranged to have delivered to their house.
“There she is,” Adams said as Phoebe emerged from the crowd.
“We thought you had been swallowed,” Shannon said.
“Oh, no, ma’am. It’s like a beehive with all of this swarmin’.” John Thomas handed Phoebe up to sit by the driver, which seemed to make her uncomfortable, and Shannon flushed. At least he had stopped short of insisting she ride in the carriage. And yet, strangely, there was something appealing about his action.
John Thomas turned to Shannon and, stroking his thumb over her gloved knuckles, handed her in. “I’ll ride forward. You have been travelling.”
And so Adams got in beside her, and they travelled over the cobblestone streets for ten minutes until they drew up in front of a brick townhouse with white trim work and window boxes full of yellow flowers. Shannon smiled, eyes bright, face peaceful, looking it over. It was nothing to Santarella, or to Ravenel House, or Harmony Grove, but it was the first place she would call her own.
There were three servants waiting in the small but lofty foyer as they entered, a free black man and woman, and a plump white cook in her mid-fifties. Phoebe had gone around to the servants’ entrance, but the other three passengers assembled in the foyer, and John Thomas made the introductions. Learning that the manservant was from Cape Town, Adams began talking with him about the fishing there.
“Are you feeling well?” her husband whispered.
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him. She gave a small smile, and the smile in his eyes grew. He looked up from her, found a pause in the conversation, and said, “Adams, I am sure Mrs. Hensley will show you to your room. I will take Shannon up so that she may rest.”
“Yes, do,” he agreed vaguely, nodding. “I shall do very well.” He returned to his conversation.
As they went up the carpeted stairway, John Thomas whispered with a smile in his voice, “I begin to wonder at the wisdom in allowing him to escort an invalid.”
“Oh, no, John Thomas,” she said earnestly. “He was most attentive. And I am no invalid.”
“I’m glad,” he said. He was looking well, almost boyish, his heart light.
He led her to the top and to the left, turning the handle of a paneled door and stepping back to let her enter. She stepped in, hands clasped at her belled skirt, and turned around, taking in the room, before letting her eyes come to settle on him. After a slow survey of her, he walked to her and put his hands on her waist, kissing her slow and sweet. She said, “We ought to be parted more often.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “No.”
She kissed him, which seemed to make him ache with longing, but he gripped her arm, and said softly, “Do you like your home?”
“Very much.”
His eyes roved her face. “I…”
She smiled to herself, reaching up to stroke her fingers through his hair, threading them lightly, tantalizingly. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress, and he drew her against him. The passion was soon building, their lips in the perfect harmony which had been present from the first. But he broke off suddenly. “What am I thinking?” His hands stroked down her arms, and he stepped back slightly, breathing rapidly, looking away, seeming to try to collect himself.
“I am well,” she said, looking up at him. She stroked her hands down his lapels, making slow work of it, holding his eyes.
He took a shaky breath. “Are you?”
“Quite well.”
He drew her against him again, reaching behind him to lock the door.
Shannon awoke in her sunny bedchamber in Washington, the birds chirping in the trees on the green outside, the sounds and smells of breakfast rising to her. She was sleepy but content, remembering their difficulty in carrying on with supper, the way John Thomas’s eyes had kept drifting to her as he tried to make conversation with Adams in the green sitting room after they had dined.
A smile on her lips, she looked at the clock above the mantle and saw it was ten o’clock. John Thomas would have been long gone, and he was an angel for not waking her. She rose and put on her dressing gown, finally looking around her. It was a lovely chamber, the walls a pale yellow, graced with a canopy bed of thick mahogany wood, a large dresser and small vanity. There was an empty, feminine writing desk by the window. The floors were wooden with a patterned rug under the bed covering most of them. John Thomas’s belongings looked meager in their places, but then he had no taste for things, as Shannon so regrettably did. In any event, Phoebe would begin filling it up immediately with her own fribbles and trappings.
She spent the morning inspecting the house—the cellar, the kitchen, the sitting room and dining room, the small study, the spare bedchamber, and the closets. She was a bit over-trained for the house, but she intended to be a good mistress of it. She paused in the doorway of the study, her eyes falling on the plantation desk, the books. Here her husband’s stamp was clearly written.
Papers littered the desk, a book lay open, an inkstand had obviously been used a great deal already. She walked forward, setting the open book aside to look at the one beneath it. Navigational Signals and Maritime Law. She studied the cover.
She replaced the book which he had obviously been reading instead, holding his place but turning it to look at the spine. Othello. A smile lifted her lips.
She went to look out the window and saw a horse and carriage clip-clopping by on the peaceful street. Across the way on the green, a Negro nurse played with two children, a boy and a girl, her peach-colored dress with lace frills and pantaloons awakening memories long buried. The boy pushed the little girl, and Shannon’s impulse was to fly out onto the green, her skirt already clutched in her hand. But as she watched, spellbound, the nurse scolded him and picked the little girl up. Moments passed, and the nurse collected them and headed for home.
“Shannon?”
Hearing Adams’s voice, she turned, her arms still crossed. “Yes, brother-dear?”
He adjusted his spectacles. “I’ve just remembered: I promised my mother I would tell John Thomas you must have fresh air. I’ve forgotten to do that, but should you like to go for a walk?”
She smiled. “I should indeed.”
It was nighttime, and the sitting room was lit by two oil lamps and several candles, it being too hot for a fire. A golden glow was cast off of the green walls, and a gentle breeze stirred in from the two small open windows. John Thomas sat with Adams in the wingback chairs before
the fireplace, and Shannon sat across the room, reading by one of the lamps. Adams would return to Boston the next day, and they discussed his travel plans.
He glanced across the room at Shannon, guilt pricking. He ought to have had more restraint. Only restraint wasn’t something which had ever come easily where she was concerned. She caught him looking, and he smiled at her, returning his attention to Adams.
“Do you think Lincoln will indeed be elected?”
He inclined his head once. “I think—yes, there’s little doubt.”
Adams drew his brows together, questioning. “Why do you say that?”
“I’ve done the math. It’s the Southerners’ worst fear: we can take the electoral college without the vote of a single slave state. We simply have the numbers.”
“Hence the need to spread slavery to the west,” Adams mumbled. “But that isn’t going to happen.”
“Not if Lincoln is elected.”
Adams met his eyes. “And with their fear of abolition…”
John Thomas’s eyes drifted across the room to where his wife was still reading, absorbed, a slight smile lifting her lips. A smiled tugged at his own, until the sinking feeling returned.
“Does she know?”
“The seriousness? Yes.” She had known since they had attended the lecture.
“What would Frederick do? I mean, should South Carolina try to secede?”
John Thomas looked at him. “Frederick…” Why had he never thought in those terms? “He would lead the rally with the loudest voice of them all.”
“But he is a man of sense. He loves this country–”
“Of course he does,” John Thomas answered lowly, feeling a bit guilty. “But South Carolina first. Always first.” His voice had lowered to a near whisper on the end.
Adams studied him, eyes unusually focused. He glanced at Shannon and back. “Does she feel that way, too?” John Thomas flushed, heart rate accelerating. He looked her way again, her slipper poking from beneath her skirt, her eyes flying over the words. He couldn’t seem to think for the blood rushing in his ears. Adams was shaking his head. “Forgive me. Such a thing to ask. It is between you and she.”
Slowly, the rushing ceased, and his thoughts returned. He looked at his brother, smiled, and said, “I’ll keep you apprised if I hear anything. Diversify Father’s funds, will you?”
Washington, D.C., June 1860
Chapter Thirty-One
Shannon, sitting at her vanity, looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had done so often in the days of her coming out and up until she had married, the need for perfection and flawlessness like a weight around her neck. She hadn’t thought about it so very much recently, at least since they had been to Massachusetts. But looking at herself now, she realized she had lost a little weight and was still a little pale. Her blonde eyebrows and lashes even appeared lighter. She supposed that was why John Thomas hadn’t touched her for a week. She still saw guilt in his eyes every time she tantalized him. She smiled. She supposed she ought not to put him through the misery.
She rose and emerged from the chamber, closing the door and going off to look for him. She knew he had the day, and that he generally rose early even when he did. She found him in the study, sitting in a chair next to a table, where his bread and fruit sat untouched, even though they were Southern biscuits, which Shannon had discussed with the cook. A book was in his hands, and he was entirely absorbed. She could see the strange letters from the Greek alphabet. She smiled, watching him, his eyes touching the words, the pages turning at regular intervals.
Her skirts made a noise as she took a step, and he looked up. He smiled at her. “You look lovely,” he said warmly.
“Thank you,” she answered, going to him and perching on the arm of his chair, looking down at the book. “Who is this?”
“Xenophon,” he answered. At her lifted brows, he said, flushing very slightly, “He is less known.”
“No one is unknown to you,” she teased. She opened her hand for the book, and he gave it willingly. Opening it, her eyes flitted over the words. “Good heavens.”
“It is not so very hard.”
“I daresay. What does he have to say, then?”
“It is a history of the government of the Spartans,” he said, taking it back as she handed it to him.
She studied him, his blue eyes. “Did you study the classics?”
“Yes, with the Reverend. Not at the Academy, of course.” He studied her. “Is this a new dress? You look very fine.”
She laughed. “No, merely one you haven’t seen. Fair colors for the summer, you see, and nothing but the purest wool for Massachusetts.”
He laughed lazily, leaning up to kiss her lips. Her hand came up briefly to touch his cheek, and she saw tenderness in his eyes as he pulled away, his face nearby. He had been less reserved about little displays of affection since her illness, and she supposed she had responded in kind. In any event, it seemed to give him pleasure.
He fingered the fabric of her sleeve. “Would you like to invite Frederick and Marie to stay with us? I don’t know—would she be able to travel?”
Her eyes lit. “Oh, what a marvelous idea! I had not—but yes, I do not think it would harm her. I believe she may have been hinting at it, now I think on it. And it is high summer, so Frederick could have no objection over the plantation.”
“We’ll send a letter. Perhaps for July? I like having the house alone with you for a little while.”
She flushed, looking down. After a moment, he nudged her chin up until she was looking at his quietly smiling eyes. “Why did that embarrass you?”
She met his smile. “I can’t think!”
“Just as though you had not brought dozens of men to your feet!” he said, eyes twinkling.
She laughed. “Yes, indeed, you would think… But I suppose I am still a blushing bride.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he reached to stroke her hair back from her temple. “Come, let’s find your breakfast: I want you blooming with health by—August at the very latest.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Their townhouse was rather ancient in the ways of modernity, but John Thomas had had a bell installed in their bedchamber for her while she recovered at Harmony Grove, and Shannon pulled it now, summoning Phoebe.
Her maid arrived in two minutes, bringing with her Shannon’s carefully pressed ice blue day gown with pagoda sleeves which would be becoming at the breakfast she was attending. It was at the home of Mrs. Phillips, a leading matron of Washington society whose husband had been a senator for many years, and she had had a fancy to have Shannon in her home since she had met John Thomas at a dinner and learned who his wife was.
“Thank you,” she said as Phoebe finished her hair and handed her gloves to her. “I suppose I shall walk.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, it’s so hot. You’ll be ill.”
“Very well, you may send for a carriage then,” she said.
She was stepping into the carriage ten minutes later, and they travelled down their street to nearby Second Street, where many wealthy politicians lived. And so it was that she found herself in a blue drawing room surrounded by elegant ladies who alternately talked, fanned themselves, and ate.
“Where in South Carolina is your home, my dear?” Mrs. Anderson asked, dipping her strawberry in cream.
Shannon, sitting about halfway down Mrs. Phillips’ table, answered, “In Charleston, and at my family’s plantation, Santarella, in the sea islands.”
“Santarella!” Mrs. Phillips said. “How that does roll off the tongue!” She tucked some of her fading blonde hair beneath her lace cap. The ladies agreed in murmurs. “You may not know that I myself am from South Carolina, Mrs. Haley. Not the lowcountry, of course. But I have heard of your family.”
Shannon’s eyes brightened. “Indeed, ma’am? I
thought you haled from Delaware!”
“Mr. Phillips does—I suppose we both do now, and have for these twenty years. But yes, I remember it all so well.”
Later, when they had adjourned to the sunny parlor which boasted bay windows, Shannon, sitting in a window seat, was looking out at Capitol Hill when an elegant lady in her late forties approached and joined her. Shannon knew her to be Mrs. Greenhow, a renowned Washington socialite who had been taken under Dolley Madison’s wing in her youth and ushered into the very heart of power. She was a widow, with four daughters and connections with nearly every founding family in the nation. “You are pensive, Mrs. Haley,” she said softly. She was elegant and pretty, her eyes sharp and knowing.
“I suppose I am,” Shannon answered, noticing that they were drawing envious stares.
“My oldest daughter, Florence, is married to a military man. They live in Ohio.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I gather it is a lonely life.”
Shannon’s lips parted. She said, after a hesitation, “Do you hail from Washington, Mrs. Greenhow?”
“From Maryland, though Maryland seems a lifetime away now.”
“Your husband brought you to Washington, then?”
She shook her head. “My aunt.” She said no more, and changed the subject, inviting Shannon to her house for tea the next day, which would ensure Shannon’s place in society. For one brief moment, she considered declining, almost having enjoyed the obscurity of her life in Massachusetts. But she was in Massachusetts no longer.
The invitation to the Ravenels was sent and accepted, both assuring Shannon and John Thomas of their delight in the idea. Shannon made plans with Mrs. Hensley for their arrival on the twelfth of July and went to stand in the spare bedchamber and look around. It was large and well-furnished with good furniture, but it was rather sparse, and she wanted Marie to be perfectly comfortable and at home.