The Velvet Shadow (6 page)

Now Roger’s gaze roved over the flickering fire while his foot absently kept time to the tinkling piano. Flanna knew he was weighing the advantages of not having a Southern fiancée against the disadvantages of campaigning without a fiancée at all. A genteel woman would give him added polish and respectability when he ran for office. His mother was a virtual queen among the Boston elite, but to fulfill his aspirations Roger’s appeal would need to extend far beyond Beacon Hill.

“People expect a politician to have a family,” he had told Flanna one afternoon as they walked around Louisburg Square, the garden
cul-de-sac across from his mother’s house. “How am I to identify with a working man and his family unless I have a family of my own?”

“And how can you relate to women, unless you are on friendly terms with one other than your mother?” Flanna answered, half-teasing.

Roger nodded, apparently missing the joke. “Indeed! I’m so glad you understand! You see, Flanna, what a benefit you are to me! You are bright, beautiful, and kind. I could not ask for a more gracious hostess or a more beautiful confidante.”

She had understood his intentions almost from the beginning, and if he was using her as a beautiful charmer, she had continued to see him for reasons equally as selfish. Roger Haynes was respected, his mother a doyenne of impeccable breeding. The stately brick house symbolized all that was proper and acceptable and good in Boston society. As a newcomer in the city, Flanna had been so desperate to belong, to be among people like those she had known at home, that she had gladly accepted Roger’s invitations.

The final strains of “I Dream of Jeanie” drifted away from the parlor, then Meagan stood and curtseyed in front of her mistress. “Shall you be wanting to hear it again, ma’am?”

“No, I believe we’ve heard enough,” Roger said, straightening on the sofa. While one hand fell to his mother’s shoulder, he pulled out his pocket watch with the other. “It’s half past one already, Mother. Obviously something has delayed Alden. Shall we go in to dinner without him?”

“No.” Mrs. Haynes pulled her lips into a straight, disapproving line. “You are always in a hurry, Roger. You know how undependable the train is.”

“But we’ve waited half an hour.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed. “A polite person would wait all day. Now be patient and be quiet. I find I must address an issue that concerns your dinner guest.”

Stiffening in her chair, Flanna felt a rush of warmth flood her cheeks.

“I trust, Miss O’Connor,” Mrs. Haynes said, folding her hands at her waist, “that you have heard the news? Have you seen a newspaper?”

Flanna forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile. “Yes ma’am, I have. I read one yesterday.”

Mrs. Haynes gave her a bright-eyed glance, full of shrewdness. “What say you to your countrymen’s rash decision? Those rebellious traitors have spat upon the blood of our forefathers and disavowed themselves of our glorious Union. Are your people in league with these renegades?”

Feeling tired, hungry, and irritable, Flanna ran her hand over the rich upholstery of her chair and tried to think of a diplomatic response. She had lain awake most of the night, staring into the darkness and forming answers to the remarks she knew she’d encounter in the days ahead. How unfortunate that the comments had begun in this house on Christmas Day.

“I couldn’t say for certain,” Flanna drawled, a light note of mockery in her voice, “but since my father and brother live in South Carolina, I imagine they will support South Carolina’s actions. And those forefathers of whom you spoke, ma’am, are the ones responsible for a great deal of this trouble. It began years ago and has finally bubbled to the surface. Perhaps the time has come to deal with it.”

“Our forefathers?” Shock flickered over the woman’s face like summer lightning. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Does not the Constitution itself allow slavery?” Flanna persisted, a reckless feeling rising in her soul. “Does the Constitution not state that a slave who escapes must be returned to his owner?”

“The men who wrote the Constitution wanted to eliminate a necessary evil.” Mrs. Haynes showed her teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “They included a provision to end the importation of slaves in 1808, did they not?”

“Mama knows her history.” Roger gave Flanna a rueful smile. “I think she was there when the forefathers wrote the Constitution.”

“Then perhaps she can recall what happened in Washington only three years ago.” Flanna shifted her gaze from Roger back to his mother.
“Do you remember the momentous Supreme Court decision
Dred Scott v. Sandford?
President Buchanan claimed that the court would settle the issue of slavery once and for all, and the court ruled that no black man, free or slave, is a U.S. citizen and therefore has no rights under the law.”

Flanna inclined her head in an exaggerated gesture of respect. “When it comes down to facts, Mrs. Haynes, slavery is a choice the law allows us to make. Is that not one of our precious American liberties, the freedom of choice? Any man may choose whether or not he wants to own slaves. And this same freedom of choice has allowed my countrymen, as you call them, to withdraw from a union that no longer represents their interests. In 1776 thirteen states came together to protect each other; now South Carolina wishes to withdraw and protect itself. Would you forbid my family and statesmen the liberty to choose for themselves?”

“My very dear Miss O’Connor.” Roger’s hoarse voice held a note halfway between disbelief and pleading. “Will you join me for a walk in the garden? I daresay this waiting has grown tedious for you, and Mother’s garden is the toast of Boston.”

Flanna hesitated, then caught the gleam of desperation in Roger’s eye. Belatedly remembering her manners, she lowered her head in assent, then gathered her skirts and allowed him to help her to her feet.

As soon as they passed the parlor doorway, he bent to whisper in Flanna’s ear. “I don’t blame you for feeling edgy after hearing that confounded song three times in a row, but raising an argument at Christmas is a bit much, don’t you think? I thought we agreed we would not discuss politics today.”

Flanna pasted on a polite smile as a servant stepped out of a hallway, then held her tongue until they had stepped out into the garden. The winter wind nipped at her cheeks, but she scarcely noticed it, so fierce was her rising indignation.

“Roger!” She whirled on him in an Old Testament mood, unwilling to turn the other cheek just yet. “I will not allow your mother to
deposit this entire issue at my feet. I don’t know what she thinks
my people
are, but we are not barbarians! If the truth be told, the politicians in Washington have done more to stir up this present unpleasantness than any slaveholder I know!”

“But must you sharpen your tongue on my mother’s ears?”

He reached out, and she shivered as his hands fell upon her arms. He’d been in such a hurry to escort her from the parlor that he’d neglected to bring her mantle. His eyes softened when he saw her tremble.

“How thoughtless of me,” he said, releasing her. He began to slip out of his own coat. “You must be freezing.”

“Roger, don’t be foolish, you can’t let the servants see you half-dressed. Don’t give them something else to gossip about.” Rubbing her hands over her thin sleeves, she nodded toward the door. “I’ll be all right. Just go inside and fetch my mantle. This brisk wind is probably just the thing to cool my temper.”

His tight expression relaxed into a smile. “Right you are. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He stepped away, his long stride carrying him back into the house in three steps. Flanna rubbed her hands over her arms again, then moved into a patch of sunlight that stretched between the house and the garden wall. Roger’s suggestion of the garden was an obvious excuse to get her away from his mother, for the spindly rose canes and banked flower beds alongside the house were pitiful and bare. A weathered wooden bench sat in an alcove beneath the parlor window, but Flanna had no desire to sit in the chilly shade. Instead she walked briskly in the sunlight, hugging her arms as she attempted to balance the chilly temperature of her skin with the fiery resentment raging in her heart.

At the north end of the garden a wrought-iron gate opened to the sidewalk at the front of the house. The clopping sounds of passing carriages enticed Flanna, and she moved toward the gate, wishing she could hail a hansom cab and retreat to the boardinghouse. But a lady did not run away from difficulties, and Flanna would not give any Yankee woman an excuse to criticize her manners.

Shivering, she rubbed her hands together, then froze as the muffled sound of voices broke the garden’s winter stillness. Even through the closed glass and heavy parlor draperies she could hear Mrs. Haynes’s strident tones.

“You have no right, Roger, to bring a secessionist woman into this house! Your father would turn in his grave if he knew a Rebel, one who would happily spit upon the Union flag, will sit at his Christmas dinner table!”

“She is not a Rebel, Mother, and Flanna doesn’t spit. Now calm down; let’s discuss this. Where are your smelling salts?”

“She is a slaver, if not in practice, then at heart. You heard her defend the practice! How do you know her people don’t beat their slaves? You will stand before God Almighty and be judged for this, son, but the Lord will know that I sought to turn you from this path.”

“She is not a slaver, Mother; she is my guest. Would you like me to have Meagan play again? Does she know any other tunes?”

Mrs. Haynes spoke again, but the words were too low for Flanna to hear. She shuddered, filled with humiliation at the thought that she had brought discord to this house on Christmas. Guilt flooded over her, and she turned toward the gate, ready to forfeit her reputation and walk home, but the sight of a uniformed officer on the sidewalk stopped her in midstep.

He stood just beyond the gate, his blond hair gleaming in the winter sun, his gloved hand resting formally on the hilt of his sword. He wore a blue uniform of fine wool, with knee-high boots and a matching leather belt at his waist. Bright gold braids adorned his shoulders and complemented the braiding on his collar. A police officer?

Flanna took it all in: the confident set of his shoulders, his firm features, the neatly clipped moustache, and his compelling blue eyes. She was surprised to see him smile at her. “Is there some trouble in the house?” he asked.

Her mind whirled at the odd question. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

His eyes raked over her, and Flanna pulled her thin, decorative shawl tightly about her in response to his gaze. “I am not accustomed
to seeing elegantly attired young women loitering outside the house unless there is some trouble within—a fire, perhaps, or a raving lunatic.”

He lifted a brow at this last comment, and Flanna realized he was teasing. She gave him a relieved smile. “Mrs. Haynes may be raving at the moment, but I wouldn’t call her a lunatic. She does seem opposed to my presence at Christmas dinner, however, so her son felt it advisable for me to step outside.”

This answer seemed to amuse the handsome officer, for he thrust his hands behind his back and smiled. “I know Mrs. Haynes. And you are quite right, the lady is most opinionated, especially when it comes to the young ladies her son brings home. But I’ve never met a more righteously sane woman in my life.”

“Oh?” Despite the sunlight’s warmth, Flanna shivered as a gust of wind blew upon her bare neck and shoulders. “Have you encountered her as you patrolled this neighborhood?”

“Not exactly.” His blue eyes sparkled as they met hers. “Mrs. Haynes is my mother.”

Flanna felt her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a roaring fire, then the door behind her opened. “Flanna! My goodness, you must be freezing!”

Too mortified to answer, she cringed in embarrassment as Roger approached and saw the man standing by the gate. “Alden!” Infectious joy rippled in his voice. “Brother, it is good to see you! Have you met Flanna?”

Flanna nodded in mute greeting as Roger draped her mantle around her shoulders, then she stepped back as he opened the gate.

“Flanna, I’d like you to meet my older brother, Major Alden Haynes, an instructor at West Point.” The grooves beside Roger’s mouth deepened into a full smile. “Alden, allow me to introduce Miss Flanna O’Connor of Charleston.”

“We’ve met, though not formally,” Alden answered. He grinned at Flanna again, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “And since you have the liberty to use her first name, I assume this is the young woman you mentioned in your letters.”

“The very same.”

“Then, brother, you ought to return to school.” The bold look in Alden’s eye made her pulse skitter alarmingly. “Your words did not begin to describe this lady’s loveliness.”

He bowed and lifted Flanna’s frozen hand to his lips, making the back of her neck tingle as his warm mouth brushed her skin. She knew she ought to say something witty and charming, but her addled brain could think of nothing more clever than, “I am very pleased to meet you, Major Haynes.”

With a possessive smile, Roger took her hand from Alden, then linked it through his arm. “Come, Alden, and let Mother embrace you. She’s been frantic with worry that you’d be detained in New York.”

“Then let me put her at ease,” Alden answered, politely standing aside as Roger and Flanna led the way. “I came as quickly as I could, leaving my trunk at the station. I’ll send a servant for it later, but first let me assure Mother that I am alive and well.”

As they moved toward the house, Flanna kept her gaze lowered, acutely aware of Alden’s crunching footsteps on the frozen ground behind her. She did not dare look back at him. Simple humiliation and embarrassment undoubtedly accounted for her fluttering heart and damp palms. Once she had an opportunity to properly apologize, she
might
be able to look him in the eye again.