by Tara Cowan
She heard him get up and, slowly, she felt his arms come around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you, tonight of all nights.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” she said bitterly. “How can I be so selfish?”
“You are not selfish.”
“No?” She laughed once with self-derision. A long silence passed. “I will go to Boston,” she said finally, softly. “If it will give you peace.”
“It will,” he murmured sadly, turning her in his arms. He kissed her temple, lingering there, staring into the distance.
Washington, D.C., November 1861
Chapter Forty-One
It was not to be that Shannon could mourn her mother, or that she would have time with her own thoughts. John Thomas received an invitation two days later to dine at the White House in a week’s time, an honor that several of his circle were to receive as commemoration of their recent efforts to make the Navy competitive with the Southern Navy.
Shannon had been very quiet, and when he had asked, a little remotely, whether she would be able to bear it, she had said, “I shan’t embarrass you.” His slight flush and remorseful eyes had spoken the truth of the matter. He had been extremely accommodating thereafter.
As fate would have it, Shannon was not thinking about the war when she was greeted by President and Mrs. Lincoln at the White House. They had gone in front of one of John Thomas’s fellow naval men, whom she had never met, and his wife, who was with child. They had stood talking to them as they waited in the receiving line. Shannon could never see another woman in such a condition without feeling a pang.
She had watched John Thomas very carefully as he had, months back, read the news that Patience had safely delivered a child. Jonathan, not thinking, had waxed eloquent on the delight of both families in welcoming the first grandchild. Yet she had seen only relief for his sister’s safety, and perhaps a slight hesitance to meet her eyes. They had not spoken of it since that awful night when Frederick and Marie had stayed with them, but he must know by now that she would never bear him a child. Her only signal that it had even crossed his mind was how carefully he, when reading to her, left off the passages on the matriarchs’ bareness, and picked up, almost seamlessly, somewhere else.
“Captain Haley—John Haley, is it not?”
Shannon looked up to find Mr. Lincoln speaking to her husband. She craned her neck up to look into his face. He had slightly curling dark hair, and gaunt cheekbones.
“Yes, sir,” he answered with his customary calm and peace.
“Thomas,” Shannon said, and afterwards couldn’t think why she had. “He prefers John Thomas.”
A twinkle entered the President’s deep-set eyes. “Does he? Well, now, thank you for that, Mrs. Haley. A man never likes to be made a fool of, and I am a fool often enough as it stands, I’m afraid.”
Shannon feared John Thomas would think she was not keeping her word. He did glance down at her. But when Mrs. Lincoln agreed, they all laughed.
“I liked your idea for twin gunports, Captain Haley,” the President said, revealing a stunning memory. “I should not be surprised at your intuition, however: it seems you have chosen well in your wife. Your discretion is never at fault.”
John Thomas flushed slightly. He did not like the praise, but, despite it all, Shannon felt such immense pride in him. She found that he was looking down at her with the same feelings reflected for her. She was already holding his arm, but she covered it with her other hand. “As it relates to my wife, I must agree with you entirely, sir.”
“A wise man, I’d say,” Lincoln said in his humorous, homely way which Shannon found peculiar.
As they were moved along by footmen, most of them Negros, Shannon kept both hands on his arm, feeling a little lightheaded, and in a fog. She had pictured this evening perhaps a hundred times, but she ought to have known better. One could never precisely plan for anything, where humans and their peculiarities were concerned. The gas lights were cast at a certain warm glow, and she knew she ought to look around her, at the regal walls, their elegant hangings, the famous portraits.
She was not able to collect herself, however, until she was led to her chair, which seemed miles away from John Thomas’s, who was seated, poor man, between the vulgar Milner woman and a positive child who flirted with him mercilessly. Shannon looked around her, finding herself at the chair to the right of the head, directly across form the wife of the Secretary of War. It was a place of eminence and, looking around, her lips parted with the surprise of it. Someone, in his wisdom, had decided that she was one of the highest-ranking ladies present, despite the fact that there were several wives of other captains of much longer standing. She swallowed. It also meant she was next to the President. The fates simply were not in her favor tonight.
The handsome old Captain who had danced with her and charmed her with tales of his red-head winked at her from midway down the table, and that amused her, so that she was able to regain her equanimity before the President came in.
When he did come in, he sat rather ungracefully, all arms and legs, and he turned to Mrs. Cameron and said, “I always liked a good ham. This one has been cooking all day: we have not been able to keep the boys out of the kitchen.”
She laughed. “Boys will be boys, Mr. Lincoln. Best to let them be.”
“I’d say you’re right, ma’am, except mine would kill themselves if we didn’t stop them.”
“Not your eldest, surely. I hear tell he is a great scholar.”
“Bobby had his day,” he said in his strange voice. He turned next to Shannon. She was surprised anew at how massive his frame was, and that he did not seem to be full of talk of the war. He seemed to fixate on the smallest trivialities, just as though he had not plunged them into a crisis. “It seems you’re not nervous, Mrs. Haley, as most are when they’re told they are to sit next to me. Mayhap rumors have been passed that I am a bully, or that my odor is unpleasant, but it always seems to be the case. I pity you, ma’am.”
She could not help a small smile growing. “I am rarely nervous, President.”
“You’d be well-born, then. You must be, or they would not have placed you here, as I’m learning.”
She studied him for a moment, glancing up to find John Thomas watching her with interest. He could not hear them, however, as all of the guests at the long table were confining themselves to their near neighbors. “I am a Ravenel, sir. Of South Carolina,” she added.
“You wouldn’t be Old Willie’s granddaughter, would you?”
She lifted her brows. “Yes, indeed, I am. Did you know him?”
“I had that honor. I’m sorry you should be estranged from your family just now, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, eyes downcast.
“My surmise was correct, then. I imagine my family would’ve been chimney sweeps for yours in the old days, or perhaps taken their chamber pots out,” he said, with humorous modesty. “Truly, we ought to switch seats, ma’am.”
“I wish we might,” she said boldly.
He laughed. “Are you a Democrat, then? I’ve been told that your husband is a staunch Republican.”
“And an abolitionist,” she said, suddenly ashamed of her outburst. “He has been your admirer since long before the election.”
“I appreciate that. He seems to be a talented young man, and we need those.” His eyes clouded in the distance. “We need them desperately.”
“And yet you have not spoken of him with hatred, my dear,” Mrs. Greenhow said as she and Shannon sipped tea in the former’s parlor. Miss Baldwin, a charge she was chaperoning for a friend, a Democratic senator from Maryland, played the piano by the windows. Little Rose played nearby, occasionally remembering to turn the pages, usually not before she was asked.
Shannon’s lips parted, and she hesitated.
“I am not suggesting that yo
u should hate him,” Mrs. Greenhow said. “Only that I thought you did.”
“He…” She hesitated again. “He was funny,” she explained, almost defensively, lifting a shoulder. “And odd. He said he knew my grandfather.” She took a sip of tea.
Mrs. Greenhow smiled. “You must miss your family very much, especially after this news.”
“My grandfather is deceased, but yes. I do.” She sipped the tea again, realized she was using it as a nervous habit, and set her glass down with a clank. She looked at the older woman. “Sometimes I feel as though they don’t exist, for they may as well not.”
“Oh, my dear,” her friend said. She covered her hand.
“I do not doubt the President wants capable young men around him, with the debacle they are making of this war. Your husband must feel it deeply, the mismanagement.”
Shannon shook her head, saying softly. “He feels they are deeply unprepared. He…”
“Yes, dear?”
Shannon couldn’t think why she had stopped. Only there was something in the other lady’s demeanor that made her glad she had. She gave a wan smile. “He is worn to the bone.
Mrs. Greenhow glanced toward the piano and then back at her, her pretty face hesitant. Finally, she opened her lips to speak, though quietly. “You…are in a position to be of great help to your people, my dear child,” she said, holding Shannon’s eyes for an overlong moment.
Warmth rushed in her veins, hot and a little unpleasant, as she contemplated her words. She looked at her for another long while. “You and I…have certain loyalties. And we are in such a circumstance that we know people…important people. People who can give us information which can be used by…people who are dear to us.”
Shannon felt the blood rushing in her ears.
Mrs. Greenhow patted her hand. “Think on it, my dear.”
Washington, D.C., November 1861
Chapter Forty-Two
The day was peaceful, the sky bleak. Another week had passed, and by now, the Haleys had heard the news from South Carolina. Kind letters poured in from them. Shannon was grateful, but they were difficult to read, and she passed a morose morning doing so. Mrs. Haley especially knew just what ought to be said, and she spoke with more generosity than Shannon felt she could have in reversed circumstances about not only the news but also her separation from her family. Mrs. Haley knew they could not fill the place in her heart that only her natural family could but asked her to allow them to meet the need until a better day. They had also just learned of John Thomas’s promotion and of his deployment, and she could sense through their cheerful words that they had tried to be brave for her sake. They entreated her to come to them as soon as possible after his departure and wished to discuss arrangements for her travel.
Shannon looked up from her little writing desk in her chamber and out the many-paned window down onto the green, where men in blue were drilling and marching. She could hear it only faintly through the thick glass. She could not help thinking that they must be very cold. She was a little chilled herself in her dark gray woolen dress, even with the white undersleeves beneath the wide outer sleeve.
Behind her, she heard Phoebe come in and remove the things from her tea. She looked over her shoulder, suddenly thinking that her maid also had been separated from her world as never before. Shannon’s mother would often pass along tidbits from the other slaves, give her news of her aunt, the cook at Ravenel House, give her instructions regarding Shannon’s wardrobe and health.
She pressed her lips together, and thought about mentioning it, but could not. The old ways were too strong to be forsaken.
Looking at her, Phoebe asked softly, “Do you need your rags, ma’am?”
Perhaps she had thought her hesitation was for that reason. “No,” she said softly. Her brows drew together. Their courses seemed to run more or less together, and she had noticed Phoebe, who suffered silently in pain, wrapping her arms around her middle three days ago. She met Phoebe’s eyes and, seeing that she was looking at her, with no expression, except something in her eyes, she looked away. She moistened her lips and sought about for something to say. “Phoebe, did you tell me that they confiscated Lieutenant Hughes’s house once he left?”
The Lieutenant had resigned his commission in the navy months ago, the day after the Virginian Lee had his in the army. He had taken time to say goodbye to the Haleys, emotion evident in the redness of his eyes, in the way he repeatedly smoothed his hand over his mouth. John Thomas was kindness itself; other fellow officers had not been so disposed. Shannon had wiped tears by the window while they talked, discussing the future. He had been advised by his commanding officer not to tarry in Washington if he valued his own liberty, and so he did not tarry.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think… I ought to go to them, ask for his belongings, at least a few things that might be important to him. He wouldn’t have been able to take much with him on the train.”
“There was so many confiscations after the exodus, ma’am, that I imagine they don’t know what to do with all of it.”
The exodus was what they were calling the flight of Southern senators, congressmen, residents, and military personnel before the borders had closed. Her friend, Mrs. Hartwell, had left with their children in good time, her husband following once there was no hope of reconciliation. Even they had left a house sitting full of furniture, family portraits, and belongings.
“They’ll know precisely what to do with it,” she said. “Sell it or burn it.” She pressed her lips together, supposing she ought not to have said that. They were not allowed to think and speak as they felt, only as Mr. Lincoln did. Every thought that entered her head was technically, under the law, treasonous, and it made bitterness rise within her. But she realized that such speech was unbecoming in front of a servant. “Forgive me, I…spoke out of turn,” she said finally.
A cold, rainy day turned into an even more miserable night. It was too warm to snow, and so a hard, soaking rain chilled the houses and, inevitably, the soldiers in the many camps. Shannon was sitting reading by the light of the fireplace, still in her gown because it was warmer than her nightgown. She could not concentrate, could think of nothing but John Thomas’s imminent departure.
There was a stirring at the door, and she looked up to see him standing there, his cap gone, his hair looking as though he had run his hands through it multiple times. She stood. “You are home.” She started to go to him, but something held her back.
He just stood there on the edge of the carpet, in the flesh as always, but different, looking at her, a haunted look in his blue eyes.
Her brows drew together. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Greenhow has been placed under house arrest for spying.” His eyes were on her face.
Shannon felt her color draining. The crackles of the fireplace sounded distant. Her heart thrummed. “What?” she breathed.
He stepped into the room. “Apparently the Rebels owe their victory at Bull Run almost entirely to her information.”
Her trembling fingers touched her lips, and she turned her face away. She did not say anything. She felt his deep study of her, and finally heard him say in disbelief, voice shaking, “You knew.”
She looked back at him quickly. She made a rapid study of his eyes, her lips parting, but no words coming forth. He cursed, turning away and running a hand over his face. Her blood ran cold, and fear clutched at her heart. “How deeply are you in?”
She gasped, thunderstruck. “How dare you!”
He looked back at her, sneering. “How dare I?” he repeated, as though her words were unfathomable.
“You have the audacity to accuse me of spying?” she asked, trembling.
“You have just admitted to knowing she was a spy!”
“There is a difference between not voicing something told to one in confidence and act
ively helping. I did not know any particulars. She recruited me; I never went to her house again. I could not tell what was not mine to tell: she trusted me. I could not put her in that position; I could not put you in that position. You are a gentleman: would you have informed on a lady, putting her life at risk. What would have had me do?”
“I would have had you choose, once and for all, Shannon! Hundreds of men died because of her!”
“Or were saved,” she said. “It is all a matter of perception.”
He blinked. There was a long pause. “I apparently have none.”
Her lips parted. “You do not believe me,” she whispered in utter disbelief.
“How can I, when you so obviously support what she has done?”
She hardened herself to the pain she saw in his eyes. “I have supported you,” she seethed. “It was a difficult choice for me to make, but I made it. She wanted me to use you, to tell her the things you tell me, presumably when you tell me the most: after we have made love. I found such an idea repugnant—grossly repugnant. I have forsaken my family, my beliefs, my birth, and this is my reward!”
She expected a rejoinder, but he was arrested, looking at her with parted lips. The rage had dissipated slightly, and he seemed, for the first time, to doubt himself. “Shannon,” he whispered.
“Have I convinced you of something I should never have had to say at all?” she demanded, still trembling. She turned, looking toward the window where rain was slicing against the panes. “Did you remember that I have been a good Yankee? If you are feeling guilty, allow me to assuage your conscience. I despise your precious blockade, which has no other hope than that of starving my people into submission. I loathe your Republicans and your president, who have authorized the raising of a half million men to bring violence upon my family. And I cannot abide your hypocritical Northern morality!”