by Tara Cowan
Through all of the beginning of December, the news was about South Carolina’s convention to draw up an ordinance of secession, which was taking place in the Baptist Church in Columbia.
Shannon received a letter from her mother when she and John Thomas were having breakfast one icy Sunday. Her hand shook as she opened it at the table. “It will be about the baby.”
He laid a hand on her arm, and she unfurled the pages. She breathed deeply and exhaled. “I shall read it to you. ‘My dears, you will forgive my lack of interest in the current Crisis when you learn that I am now a grandmother.’” Here, she broke off as both exclaimed with joy. “’Marie was brought to bed three days ago and delivered yesterday…’” Shannon paused, her brows drawing together as she met John Thomas’s eyes. “’-Delivered yesterday of a daughter. It was a very difficult labor, and she is quite exhausted. I would not write to you, though, if we still feared for her life. Dr. Travers believes she will mend in time.’” She broke off, looking at John Thomas. “It must have been very serious!”
“It sounds so,” he agreed softly.
“Do you think… Good heavens, ought I to go to them?”
“Read on,” he said with comforting calm.
“‘Indeed, she does grow stronger by day and is in raptures over her little daughter. They have named her Rose Marie but intend to call her Rose. She is excessively healthy with a head full of curling dark hair, porcelain skin, and a double chin.’” They laughed. “’I believe she favors you, Shannon, as a baby, for I seem to remember that your hair was dark at first. Indeed, though, there is no doubting that she has her father’s chin. Frederick is relieved and yet still nervous. He does not like to hold the baby for fear of breaking her, but he does watch her sleep in her cradle while he sits at Marie’s side.’” Shannon made a noise of sweetness, and John Thomas chuckled softly.
“’I hope I have not alarmed you unduly. There is no cause for worry at present, and we should alert you if ever there were. We send you our best love and hope to send you a sketch of your niece soon.’”
Shannon breathed a sigh of relief. “It sounds as though she is mending.”
He nodded.
“I cannot imagine the scene at Santarella during those few days. It must have been hellish.”
“It sounds as though it must. Do you feel you ought to go to her?”
“No, not with Mother’s parting words. I shouldn’t like to leave you just now, in any event. And at Christmas, too.”
He reached into his coat and brought forth a small box. “And on our anniversary.”
She gasped, covering her mouth. “Forgive me! With the letter, and everything…” She held his eyes, her own wide with guilt.
He laughed. “And you say I am unromantic.”
She reached to take the box from him. “It seems impossible that it has been a year,” she said.
He smiled.
“You are thinking it was a very long year, no doubt,” she said.
“I was thinking of how wonderful it was.” It was said softly, with simple truth. Shannon’s lips parted, and she bit her lip. She swallowed and then opened the box, finding inside a pretty necklace, its pendant in the shape of the North Star. She thought of all of the signals they had been studying, and the importance of this one, and her eyes misted. She could not speak. She studied it for the longest time.
“I want you to know that I did not spend above four-hundred dollars,” he said with soft amusement. “And even you must admit it is quite simple.”
She choked on a laugh, overwhelmed. “Yes. It is perfect.”
Washington, D.C., December 1860
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shannon would remember, perhaps forever, where she was when she learned that South Carolina had seceded from the union. It had snowed for the first time, and Washington was blanketed in white. She had just returned to the house after walking on the green and was met by Mrs. Hensley and Phoebe at the door. They were both carrying boughs of greens, and Shannon said, “Oh, they have been delivered!”
“Yes, ma’am, just now,” the housekeeper said. “Just like the ones at the White House. We were thinking of wrapping the banister.”
“Oh, yes, and perhaps the doorways. I will help. Phoebe, you must wear gloves. It will bite at your hands,” she said, knowing her maid had never performed such tasks at Ravenel House. “I will bring some down,” she said, starting for the stairs.
“Oh, no, ma’am, I’ll–”
“It is nothing. You are already covered in sap.” She climbed the stairs and located two pairs of driving gloves, knowing that Mrs. Hensley had no need of them: her hands were as calloused as any man’s from years of labor.
She was just returning down the stairs when the door opened and John Thomas entered, his back to her as he dusted off his shoes. It was the middle of the day, and worry rose, halting her midway through the flight. “You are early,” he said, hand still clasping her skirt.
He turned, looking at her, not speaking for a few moments. He took in the others, and then met her eyes. “May I speak with you?”
“Yes,” she said, coming down, eyes not leaving his as she lay the gloves aside. She led the way into the parlor, and he closed the door behind them, studying her another moment.
“You are frightening me,” she said, wondering if he was angry with her. But that was irrational, for there had been no words spoken between them. She quickly checked her conscience, however: she had flirted with no one who meant anything by it, had not let her tongue run away with her in at least two weeks, and she had faithfully attended the Congregational Church every Sunday for the past month.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you. South Carolina has seceded.”
She blinked, raising the backs of her fingers to her mouth. A long silence passed, and then she said, “I see.” She saw that he was looking at her a certain way, and she said, “Do you think I shall go insane? You needn’t look at me in that way. I can bear it.”
“Do not lash out at me, Shannon,” he said very softly.
She swiped at her eyes, looking away. She was not feeling very broad-minded in that moment. Her home—her beloved home—had been forced to sever ties with its country, and her husband, as much as anybody, had brought it to fruition. She swallowed, not meeting his eyes. “Thank you for telling me. I do mean what I said: I shall bear it. Only perhaps I ought to be alone for a little while, so that I do not say things which I later regret.”
He nodded his acquiescence, looking down at the carpet, and let her pass, not attempting to touch her as she swept by.
Christmas passed in a haze, and the month of January saw tensions escalating almost every day. Shannon watched in muted horror as states dropped away: Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas. She felt as though she walked about in numbness, waiting to see how the North would react, waiting, really, for Lincoln’s inauguration in March, but when she read the news early one cold February morning that the Southern states were holding a convention in Montgomery, drawing up a Constitution, and electing a president, she began a flurry of letters to her family, seeking their take, knowing that she could not trust everything she read in Washington or from the Boston newspaper they subscribed to: the same editors had allowed stories to be published after the election that the radical Southerners had been silenced and that the situation had now passed.
Her father advised her that South Carolina was indeed serious, that there was very little chance of its returning to the union, whatever appeasements Lincoln offered.
“My advice to you, Shannon, is to wait and see. You may think it odd coming from your father, a committed South Carolinian, but I cannot advise you to go against your husband’s wishes. I could blame him for having those wishes, as I am sure, sometimes, you do, but it does as much good as whistling in the wind. He has his beliefs. He is a Northerner. I am sorry for
it, but it was his raising. I will not say you have married a dishonorable man. Therefore, I believe you should abide it in silence, whatever is to come, and hope for a better day. You are not the only young lady in such a situation. If there is to be a separation between you and our family, we must pray that it is a short one. You must be guided by your husband, for he knows his world. Endure it, abide it, and do not let it cause a breach between you. Do not fear that we, your family, should ever blame you. We wish only for your happiness, health, and safety.”
“He is speaking as though I am a woman!” Shannon said, having read it to Phoebe in her bedchamber, her blue slippers peeking beneath her hem as she sat on the bed, letter in hand.
Phoebe, standing nearby, said gently, “He only wants what is best for you ma’am.”
“Do you think he is right?”
Phoebe hesitated. “Well, I… If you really want me to say, Miss Shannon…”
“I do!”
“Seems to me this…conflict may be short, and it may be long. You’ll be here either way. You can either resist in your heart, makin’ a distance between you and your husband, and makin’ your life a livin’ misery. Or you can support your husband, lovin’ your home in your heart, and…”
“And living with myself the rest of my life as I am false to myself and my family?”
“Mistuh Haley’s your family, ma’am,” Phoebe said softly, looking at the ground. “You would have somethin’ to live with the rest of your life if you thought yourself false to him, too.”
Shannon swallowed, looking away as tears welled in her eyes. She stared out the window a long while until she whispered passionately, “It is impossible!”
“You’ll be late for Missus Hartwell’s tea if we don’t get you ready, ma’am,” Phoebe said gently.
Shannon swiped at her eyes, sniffing and saying after a moment, “Yes.”
Phoebe dressed her in a green walking gown of wool with tassels and pagoda sleeves and sent her outside, where a hired carriage was waiting, courtesy of their manservant. They clopped along down the avenue until a brick mansion with blue shutters was reached.
She was taken in to a formal parlor with mirrors above the mantles on either end of the long room and ornate gilded trim near the ceilings framing an egg and dart pattern. The hostess, a gently rounded woman in her late thirties with dark hair, rose, saying, “Mrs. Haley. How lovely to see you.” She extended her hands and then led her to a sofa with some other young matrons. She was from Virginia, her husband a senator, and she had the same look of quiet unrest that Shannon had known since December. Virginia, however, had not seceded, and might not yet.
“I trust your family is well?” Mrs. Franklin, a blonde from Ohio, said in nasal accents, sipping her tea and looking innocent.
Mrs. Hartwell handed Shannon a tray of sweets, looking at her apologetically. She smiled wryly as she took them. Mrs. Franklin’s jealousy was well-known, and well-discussed among them. Shannon passed the plate to the other woman sitting nearby, the young Mrs. Pepper, a sweet but quiet woman with limp brown hair and large eyes.
“Indeed, they are quite well,” Shannon said. “Have I told you that I have a niece?”
Mrs. Hartwell decided to join them, leaving the older ladies across the room to their conversation on quilting, perhaps seeing the need for diffusion. The ladies made noise of sweet pleasure.
“Your brother’s child?” Mrs. Hartwell asked.
“Indeed, one Miss Rose Marie Ravenel, all of two months old, and reigning, I am told, in my father’s household.”
The other ladies laughed.
“How long has your brother been married, Mrs. Haley?” Mrs. Franklin asked with silky sweetness.
Shannon thought for a moment. “Why, they are upon their first anniversary. I had not thought. Frederick and Marie married two months after the Lieutenant and I were wed.”
“But you have no child yourself?” Mrs. Franklin pressed.
Shannon blinked, taking a sip of her tea, and said, “No, we do not have a child.”
Mrs. Hartwell touched her arm softly.
Mrs. Franklin smiled. “Do not count yourself unfortunate, Mrs. Haley. My two little ones awaken us at all hours. Their nurse seems to have no notion of how to manage them. Still, they are very sweet.”
Both of the other ladies stared at the carpet.
“I am sure they are,” Shannon said smoothly. “How has your nurse lost her control with them? It requires a firm hand, Mrs. Franklin. My advice would be not to allow them to be spoiled, or they shall grow into insufferable adults. You may think my experience limited, but my mammy taught me a great deal of child-rearing, and she was most experienced in such matters.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Hartwell said, eyes twinkling. “A Southern mammy is the foremost expert on child-rearing. You must talk with my Matilda, my dear. She has excellent management of our nurseries, from our dear Rebekah, at sixteen, to the baby.”
Mrs. Pepper enquired sweetly about her techniques, and the ladies discussed it at length until Mrs. Franklin was quite red, and when she said, with less sweetness, that it was so sad that Shannon’s mammy’s teaching should go to waste, it was so patently obvious that she had been saving the line for thirty minutes or more, that she was more or less ignored.
Mrs. Hartwell took Shannon aside before she left, saying, hand on her arm in a motherly fashion, “You have heard from your family, then?”
Shannon nodded. “My father advises me to wait and see.”
Her dark eyes studied her. “Good advice, I should imagine. Does your husband, the Lieutenant, foresee calamity ahead, or are we all being quite dramatic?”
“If they will just let them secede,” Shannon whispered.
“I know,” her hostess whispered back, in perfect harmony, closing her lips when a Pennsylvania dame walked by. When she was gone, she patted her arm. “Let me know if you hear of anything. My good friend, Mrs. Greenhow, was asking. I believe she worries for her daughters’ futures.”
Washington, D.C., April 1861
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The fiddlers struck up the first cheerful notes of the Cally Polka. Shannon, in a sea of belled skirts and glittering jewels, danced rapidly in the arms of a handsome captain. His eyes twinkled roguishly and his lips held invitation, and he was a charming rake, even if he was past fifty. They were at the home of the Secretary of the Navy, dancing in his expansive ballroom with dignitaries and military men. The Captain, one of the highest-ranking men in his branch, had singled her out almost immediately.
She glanced across the room to where John Thomas was talking with several other young officers. She hadn’t seen his reserved face in so long she had almost forgotten it, forgotten how long it had taken to win little smiles from him whenever she chose.
She looked back at the Captain, who told her that he had fancied a red-head once upon a time, and they passed the rest of the dance talking about his youthful exploits. The song ended, and Shannon curtsied while he bowed. Before there was even time for refreshment, she had been claimed for the next dance, a reel, by Lieutenant Hughes.
“Were you on my card, Lieutenant? I specifically remember leaving this dance open so that I might rest,” she said, allowing him to lead her nonetheless.
“No, of course I was not on your card: I didn’t have the forethought to sign it six months ago!”
“Dear me, what a lapse of memory on your part,” she smiled. “What do you think of Emily Lennox?”
He lifted his brows. “I’m afraid…”
“The accent?” she asked.
He would not admit it, of course, but he smiled. An upstate New Yorker tongue could rarely be pleasing to a Southerner. Shannon sighed. “I shall keep looking.”
She glanced at her husband again to find him watching her, expression unreadable. He looked away after a moment, and Shannon returned her attention
to her partner.
She danced with a Congressman and, since she had left the last two dances open so they would not stay unfashionably late, she scanned the floor for John Thomas, who was talking with other gentlemen in a bright corner of the room. He looked very handsome in his dress uniform. He was tall and elegant, and she felt great pride in him and his accomplishments. She had not realized how well he had performed at the Academy until some of his schoolmates had begun talking about those days in her presence. And even now, it seemed he was becoming indispensable at the offices. Perhaps especially now.
He saw her, giving a very slight smile, his eyes a little reserved, perhaps a dash unsettled. She extended her gloved hand, and he took it, drawing her forward into the talking group and introducing her. “Gentlemen, my wife, the former Miss Ravenel, of Charleston.
“Your wife is an excellent dancer, Lieutenant!” a cheerful corporal said. “Very merry and gay.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said softly.
“I am sure Washington is nothing to Charleston, ma’am,” said another man, “but I believe you will acknowledge that it has its own appeal. So charming, Haley, to have chosen a Southern wife. Southerners are the greatest ladies, I believe, present hostilities notwithstanding. A dash of something extra, wouldn’t you say, Simmons?”
“Yes, indeed, I was just telling Haley so.”
She felt John Thomas’s hand close on her arm. He smiled. “If you will excuse us, I believe my wife is tired.”
Farewells were said, and John Thomas led her through the throng and out to the carriage, where he assisted her in climbing the step, waiting while she arranged her skirts. She peeped at him warily, but he merely got in across from her.
The carriage began its journey toward home. Shannon watched him as he lay his head back against the seat. Folding her gloved hands over her reticule, she studied him for a moment, and then hesitantly reached across, touching his knee. “You are worn to the bone,” she said softly, sweetly.