Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
The Velvet Shadow (2 page)
My mind darted back to the single bit of information I’d gleaned from the World Wide Web:
Flanna O’Connor, a nineteenth-century Charleston woman who disguised herself as a soldier and fought in the Civil War at her brother’s side. Commonly known as the Velvet Shadow, she was as well known for her ability to rescue wounded comrades from behind enemy lines as for the singular pale streak which ran through her red hair.
Now I held the Velvet Shadows diary. I shivered at the thought, then turned the book and riffled through the pages. Line after line of a flowery script filled the yellowed leaves, the ink faded but still legible.
“I don’t know how complete the journal is.” Taylor tapped his fingers on his knee in a meditative rhythm. “But surely there’s enough material to get you started. And I must say that I agree with Professor Howard that you’ve no time to waste. It’s nearly Christmas, with the new year not far behind.” He leaned toward me, his eyes soft with compassion and kindness. “What will you do, Kathleen, if you’re confronted with some great calamity in the near future?”
“Do you really believe I might be?” I gave him an uncertain smile. My heart warmed to think that Taylor Morgan cared, but I couldn’t help feeling a little disconcerted by the knowledge that he feared for my future.
“I don’t know what tomorrow holds,” Taylor said, rubbing a hand over his face, “and neither did the professor. But he had a great instinct for knowing how people would react in a time of trial, and you must admit that Cahira’s heirs rose triumphandy to face their unique challenges.” A faint line deepened between his brows as he sorted through his thoughts. “The professor would never claim to be a fortuneteller, but he often said that each age holds its own trials—each decade, for
that matter, suffers from its own troubles. The Vietnam War dominated thinking in the seventies; terrorism influenced the eighties; natural disasters made news in the nineties. The coming decade will hold its own tragedies, and how do we know that you will not find yourself involved in something of vital importance? Professor Howard wanted to be sure you’d be prepared for whatever might come your way as an heir of Cahira O’Connor.”
I lowered my gaze, then tucked my legs under me, making myself comfortable in the wing chair. While Taylor sipped his tea, I opened the journal’s cover and turned a few pages.
The first entry was dated December 24, 1860. A slanting feminine hand had written,
This book is such a lovely gift! Roger Haynes never ceases to surprise me! Tonight I dined with Mr. Haynes and his mother at their fine houses in Beacon Hill, and my homesick heart was greatly cheered by their merrymaking and many kindnesses to me. I could almost stop missing Papa, Wesley, and Charleston, but every time the wind blows I find myself listening for the pounding of waves on the bulkheads, the chattering of palmetto leaver, and Wesley’s boisterous laughter. How strange it is to celebrate Christmas so far from home!
Engrossed in spite of myself, I read on.
They talk about a woman’s sphere,
As though it had a limit.
There’s not a place in earth or heaven,
There’s not a task to mankind given…
Without a woman in it.
K
ATE
F
IELD
, 1838-1896, A
MERICAN WRITER
W
e’re so glad you could take time out from your studies to be with us, Miss O’Connor.”
Flanna shifted her eyes from the sparkling crystal and gleaming silver in order to meet her hostess’s gaze. “I am deeply honored by your invitation,” she answered, inclining her head toward the venerable older woman who stood at the head of the table. “Indeed, I was afraid I would spend Christmas alone in the boardinghouse with my maid.”
“Your maid.” The thin line of Mrs. Haynes’s mouth clamped tight for a moment, then her stringy throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You’re referring to the colored girl who accompanied you this evening?”
“Relax, Mama. Charity is a free Negro,” Roger answered smoothly, pulling Flanna’s chair out from beneath the mahogany table. “Flanna does not own slaves.” With a flourish, he extended his arm. “My lady, your chair awaits.”
Flanna managed a tight smile and maneuvered her voluminous skirts into the narrow space between the chair and the table, then sat down. The butler seated Mrs. Haynes, and the older woman’s blue eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Roger take the empty seat between her and Flanna.
“I assumed,” Mrs. Haynes said, her hand idly playing with the spangled jewels at her neck, “that everyone in South Carolina held slaves. After all, the gentlemen from South Carolina in Congress are most vociferous in their support of slavery.”
“Mother, I assure you there is no reason for this concern.” Roger frowned. “Flanna is from Charleston, and her father is a physician. Charleston is a metropolitan port; there is no room for plantations like those populated by your Uncle Tom and Eliza.”
The woman’s thin mouth softened slightly. “I suppose one should not prejudge another on account of where one was born. Miss O’Connor, I’m very glad to know your people aren’t slavers. I believe in speaking up for the downtrodden, whether they be women or people of color.”
“That’s very gracious of you, ma’am.” Flanna smiled and folded her hands in her lap. Roger had warned her that his mother had become an ardent abolitionist ever since reading
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
“Do you read much?” The lady lifted an elegant brow.
“Quite a bit, actually,” Flanna answered. “Mostly medical texts. I’m in my last term at the medical college.”
“You ought to read
The Equality of the Sexes and the Condition of Women
, by Sarah Grimké” Mrs. Haynes unfolded her napkin with an emphatic snap. “I suppose you’ve heard of Sarah’s sister, Angelina? She was born in Charleston, too, but is
persona non grata
there now, from all reports. Of course, I’m not surprised she would no longer be received in the South. Her book urged Southern women to speak out against slavery. A remarkably brave lady, Angelina Grimké.”
Flanna drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Of course she’d heard of the Grimké sisters—all of Charleston thought them remarkably boorish women. They had moved to the North and begun to publish literature that bemoaned the state of women in general and slaves in particular. Gentlefolk in Charleston ignored them, but many Northern women had elevated the sisters to an almost saintly status.
After nearly two years in Boston, she’d grown tired of caustic remarks about slavery. Common sense and good manners dictated that she let the subject pass, but she couldn’t resist explaining the true situation to this sheltered Boston lady. After all, Roger
had
assured her that his mother was quite broad-minded.
“The truth, Mrs. Haynes,” Flanna said with a tolerant smile, “is that less than one-quarter of Southern people hold any slaves at all.
My father is a physician and has no need of field hands. Charity is my maid, of course, and Papa has a valet, but we hired them from among Charleston’s free brown population.”
“You see?” Roger crossed his arms and beamed at his mother. “Your sensibilities are safe. Now call Howard to bring in the soup. I’m famished.”
“One moment, please, Roger.” Flanna put out her hand so that it barely brushed the sleeve of his coat, the only touch she might risk toward a man who had not yet crossed the line from suitor to betrothed. “Your mother is an intelligent lady; I am certain she would appreciate hearing the complete and honest truth.”
Roger shot her a warning glance, but Flanna decided to ignore it. “My older brother,” she said, again smiling at her hostess, “is a rice planter just outside Charleston. I believe Wesley owns over a hundred slaves, and the last time I visited him I found them quite happy under his protection. Regardless of what you may have heard about life on a plantation, I can assure you that my brother does not beat his slaves, nor does he allow those who are married to be separated.”
Mrs. Haynes’s face twisted into a horrified expression of disapproval. “So your people
do
own slaves!”
“Mama, remember your delicate constitution,” Roger cautioned. “Are your smelling salts at hand?”
“Yes. My brother owns slaves, as do most gentlemen in the country,” Flanna went on, lightly tapping her fingertips together. “In my brothers view, slavery is wholly without justification or defense. He will admit that it is theoretically and morally wrong. But my brother and my statesmen did not
choose
slavery. It was consigned to their supervision by a premeditated policy drafted by our forefathers.”
A door swung open. Flanna looked up, hungry and ready for dinner, but Howard, the Irish butler, took one look at his mistress’s face and froze with a steaming tureen in his hands.
Mrs. Haynes seemed not to notice that the first course had arrived. “Your brother,” she leaned forward and paused for emphasis, “has surely
bought
slaves on occasion.”
“Why, yes, he has.”
“Then how can you say he does not support slavery?”
Flanna lifted her chin until the full weight of her netted hair rested upon the back of her neck. Regarding her hostess with a level gaze, she said, “If Wesley had not bought them, what would have become of them? You cannot believe they would be better off with a slave trader in a less civilized area! We are not ignorant of the brutal barbarians who abuse colored people, but on the other hand, neither am I ignorant of certain people who brutally abuse their children. Should we forbid families to rear children because some of them will be whipped or unloved? How can you then forbid slavery on the grounds that a few masters are cruel?”
“Because slavery itself is cruel! Because the black man wants to be free!”
Flanna’s eyes caught and held Mrs. Haynes’s gaze. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t believe you can know what colored people want. You cannot understand that race until you have lived with them.”
Mrs. Haynes’s silver brows knitted in a frown as her bosom rose in indignation. “I understand them very well! I read Mrs. Stowe’s book, and I regularly correspond with some Quaker folk who risk their lives and fortunes sending innocent runaways over the border into freedom.”
Flanna shook her head slightly, then smiled at her empty soup bowl. Something in her wanted to rise up and shout out against the unassailable prejudices of these Northerners, but she was a lady and a guest in this house. Years of training in the graceful arts of gentility could not be discarded in one evening. Let the Yankee abolitionists and suffragists dispel their boredom by raging against things they did not understand. Flanna would hold her tongue, for she’d be leaving this Yankee city soon enough.
But something in her couldn’t resist raising one final point.
“Mrs. Haynes.” She paused to temper her voice and her rising exasperation. “Have you ever reflected upon the consequences of
committing two or three million people, born and bred in the dependent state of slavery, to all the responsibilities, cares, and labors of freedom? My brother’s slaves cannot read or write; they are accustomed to having all their needs met. Many, I fear, would find a life of freedom far more terrifying and taxing than the life they enjoy on his plantation.”
“A pampered valet is no less enslaved than a brutalized field hand.” A faint glint of humor sparkled in the lady’s eyes. “Would
you
prefer a life of pampered slavery to the life you now lead, Miss O’Connor?”
Flanna felt the corner of her mouth twist in a half-smile. On several occasions growing up she
had
felt a bit like a pampered captive. Aunt Marsali, who had helped supervise Flanna’s transformation from a spindly tomboy into a young woman, had continually chided her with admonitions about what proper young ladies simply could not do.
She tilted her head in acknowledgment of a point well made. “I believe it was Thomas Jefferson who wrote that slavery was like a wolf we held by the ears.” She smiled and folded her hands in a tranquil pose. “We can neither hold him, nor safely let him go.”