The Velvet Shadow (3 page)

“Well, let us hope the wolf will not huff and puff and blow our house down.”

Roger took the brief lull in conversation as an opportunity to wave the butler into the room. “Look, ladies, the soup is ready! Come, Howard, before it grows cold. Serve Mother first. She likes her chowder hot.”

Flanna caught the chiding look Mrs. Haynes shot her son, and repressed a smile as she studied the elegant dining table. Wealthy, civic-minded Mrs. Haynes was probably wondering what sort of Southern infidel her son had brought home, and for a moment Flanna wished she were out in the kitchen with Charity and the other servants. The opening salvos of a battle had been fired, however gently, and only the Lord knew how far Mrs. Haynes might carry the conversation.

Flanna removed her napkin from the table and spread it in her lap, dreading the advent of what might become a heated discussion.
She had enjoyed many rousing debates with her father and brother, often taking positions she did not personally support just to see how well she could argue against their masculine mind-sets. But family arguments were one thing; dinner conversation with a matriarch of Boston society was altogether different. She would
not
allow herself to be drawn into an argument about slavery. She had no personal involvement and little interest in the subject, but everyone from her landlady to her classmates felt it necessary to chastise Flanna for the perceived faults and injustices of the entire South.

“Mother, Flanna is at the top of her class, did I mention that?” Roger leaned across the table to squeeze his mother’s hand, nearly upsetting the butler’s ladle as he attempted to fill Roger’s bowl. “She is a very bright young woman.”

“An outspoken young woman, at any rate.” Mrs. Haynes pressed her lips together as the butler served Flanna. “Apparently you hold unconventional views in several areas. I applaud you for attempting the study of medicine.”

Flanna smiled to cover her annoyance at the woman’s use of the word
attempting
“Yes ma’am. I’ve always wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, and months ago I realized that a female partner could be of great use to him. Many ladies are too modest to call for a male doctor when they are ill, and a midwife cannot handle every medical difficulty.”

Mrs. Haynes’s mercurial dark eyes sharpened. “I must say, I’ve always thought the idea of women doctors to be a most appropriate notion. I shudder every time I have to visit a male physician, and my husband, the General—God rest his soul—was most adamant upon being present whenever a physician had to attend me. A male doctor’s attention detracts from female delicacy.” She smiled at Flanna with a faint light of approval in her eyes. “I congratulate you, my dear, for choosing a worthy profession. And I hope you find a really good doctor to oversee your efforts in case you encounter some serious situation.”

Beneath the table, Flanna flexed her fingers until the urge to throttle the older woman had passed. “I thank you for your approval,”
she said, noting Roger’s chagrined expression from the corner of her eye, “but even though I will assist my father, I do not think I will require his help should a serious case arise. My education at the medical college has been quite complete. When I graduate, I expect that I would be able to attend you without resorting to any other professional. Technically, I should even be able to treat”—her eyes lifted and caught the butler’s startled gaze—“Howard.”

“My goodness!” The dowager’s hand flew to her jeweled neck, and after an instant she let out a throaty laugh. “As if I would allow a slaveholder near one of my sturdy Irish servants!”

“Madam, I do not believe my presence is required here,” the butler stammered, a dark flush mantling his cheeks.

“She was only making a point, Howard,” Roger said, waving the butler away. He placed one elbow on the table and gave his mother a conspiratorial smile. “Now, Mother, Flanna has already told you that she owns no slaves and that she finds the practice abhorrent. And you must admit that she is determined enough to join your corps of suffragists.”

Mrs. Haynes’s penetrating eyes swung back to Flanna. “How do you feel, my dear, about women and the right to vote?”

Flanna hesitated, wavering between honesty and discretion. She would love to tell this woman exactly what she thought, but she had already said too much. “I believe,” she said, keenly aware of the older woman’s scrutiny, “that women know much more about politics than men give them credit for knowing.”

She smiled, congratulating herself on her tact, but Mrs. Haynes pressed on. “But what do you think about women and the vote? We are citizens of this country, so shouldn’t we be able to cast our vote as freely as American men?”

Flanna glanced at Roger, hoping for his assistance, but his eyes were fastened to the tablecloth, his cheeks flushed. The coward.

“Mrs. Haynes.” Flanna forced a demure smile to her lips. “Most women I know are happy to be under the authority of their husbands and fathers. They do influence the vote, they do play a role
in politics, but they influence matters through the hearts of their men.

Mrs. Haynes sank back in her chair, her face frozen in an expression of incredulity.

“Ladies.” A grin overtook Roger’s handsome features as he straightened and looked at Flanna. “My two favorite women in all the world, you are both strong in mind and opinion. But in the spirit of Christmastide, can’t we put aside our differences and lift our thoughts to peace on earth?”

Mrs. Haynes reached for the crystal goblet at her plate. “We already have, son. Only the spirit of the season could enable me to sit at a table with one whose family owns slaves.”

“Blessings on you, Mother, for your generosity,” Roger answered in a wry voice. He gave Flanna a warm smile, then extended his hands, one to her, one to his mother. “Give me your hands, ladies, and let me ask God to bless this meal. And I will pray that our conversation may be more amiable for the rest of the evening.”

“I’m afraid you may have cast a sour spell on your mother’s holiday, Roger,” Flanna said, slowly making her way over the snow-dusted walkway outside the Haynes house. “Your mother heartily dislikes me.”

“No, she doesn’t!” Roger protested, laughing. The sound of his laughter echoed over the quiet street as he extended his hand and helped Flanna to the carriage block. Behind him, the four-story brick house loomed like an ancient and forbidding presence, the lamp-lit windows shining like Mrs. Haynes’s disapproving eyes. “She thinks you are quite…original.”

Flanna paused for a moment to make certain Charity had been safely seated on the dickey at the rear of the carriage, then squeezed Roger’s hand as she stepped from the block into the creaking phaeton. The four-wheeled conveyance, with its folding top extended to shelter them from the winter wind, reminded her of her father’s buggy, and for an instant homesickness smote her with the force of a physical blow. She steeled her heart and reminded herself that she’d surely
spend
next
Christmas at home, then slid to the end of the upholstered bench as Roger climbed in beside her.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

Flanna lifted her arms, allowing Roger to arrange a carriage blanket over her skirts, then sighed in simple relief when he lifted the reins and clucked softly to the horse. She was so thankful that this night was just about over.

“Sorry to have spoiled your Christmas, Roger.” She rubbed the tip of her nose, certain that it had gone red with the cold. “I shouldn’t have spoken so freely. Your mother probably thinks I am the worst sort of influence on you.”

“My mother abhors the idea of slavery, but she adores you.” Roger guided the horse onto the narrow street that separated the row of stately houses from Louisburg Square. “She admires strong-minded women. You should hear her carry on about equal pay for women who do men’s work.”

“I wouldn’t know much about that,” Flanna admitted, her eyes following the bare tree limbs that stretched overhead like a black and skeletal canopy. “I don’t care how much I’m paid; my father takes care of all my needs. I only care that women receive the medical help they need.”

Roger looked down at her, his dark eyebrows arching mischievously. “Mother probably wouldn’t admit it to you, but she is actually quite an admirer of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. She has followed that lady’s career for several years and was quite pleased when Dr. Blackwell established her women’s clinic in New York.”

“Dr. Blackwell was from Charleston too.” Flanna’s thoughts turned wistfully toward home. “I wonder if she missed it as much as I do.”

“Flanna, darling, don’t fret so.” Roger transferred the reins into his right hand, then slipped his left arm around her shoulders. “You have only to give me some sign, and I would agree to take care of you forever. You could have a wonderful life here in Boston. I would be able to recommend you to the finest ladies in the city, and you could cure feminine diseases to your hearts content. And when you have
grown tired of medicine, you and I would have children, as many as you want.”

With a skill derived from years of divining men’s intentions, Flanna gently steered the subject away from matrimony. “Are you so certain of your influence, Mr. Haynes?” She injected a smile into her voice. “I’m not certain your mother would seek me out as her physician.”

“Give me time, darling.” His arm fell from her shoulders as he shifted the reins to negotiate a difficult turn. “My influence can only grow once I enter politics. Mother says Judge Whittier is ready to place my name upon the next ballot, and it’s reasonably certain I shall be successful in this district. Why, the folks from Beacon Hill alone could carry the day, and no one has greater influence than those people.”

“Perhaps, then, you should reconsider our friendship in the light of your political aspirations.” Flanna’s eyes drifted out to the rows of dignified stone houses that lined the street. They were passing Pemberton Square, Beacon Hill’s eastern mate to Louisburg Square. Golden light from the gas street lamps pooled on the snowy sidewalks, injecting occasional notes of warmth into what would otherwise be a cold and alien landscape. Charleston rarely saw snow, but twice in the last month alone Flanna had wondered if Boston would be buried in it.

“Flanna, why should I reconsider you?” Roger turned to give her a look of pure disbelief. “How could I, when we are the perfect pair? You represent the modern woman, one as useful as she is beautiful, and I am the forerunner of a new political movement that will mend the fractures in our grand and glorious Union.” He snapped the reins. “No, my dear, together we are an unbeatable team. You are a lady of the South, I am a man of the North. You undoubtedly feel strong loyalties to Charleston and South Carolina, while I desire to give my life in service to the people of Boston and Massachusetts. Others will see us as friends and partners and realize that it is possible for two people to put sectional and philosophical differences aside in order to work together.”

“Philosophical differences?” Flanna tilted her head to look up at him. “What philosophical differences? In all the time I’ve known you, Roger, you’ve never contradicted me. I thought you shared my views.”

His broad mouth quirked with humor. “No couple shares every view, my sweet. But just as you and Mother were able to eat a peaceful meal without resorting to unpleasantness, so you and I shall sometimes disagree and yet present a peaceable appearance. In truth, you shall have your work, and I shall have mine. I doubt our differences of opinion will ever amount to much.”

Flanna didn’t answer, but looked out at the street, uncomfortable with Roger’s implication that they had come to some sort of understanding. She was returning to Charleston after graduation from medical school; she had told him so time and time again. And though she considered him a fine friend and a man of admirable qualities, she had no desire to rush with him to the altar. She wanted to be a doctor, but Roger seemed to think her ambition was nothing but a schoolgirl’s foolish daydream.

“Mother wants you to come tomorrow, of course,” Roger was saying, his eyes intent on the road. “We’ll have our big Christmas dinner at one o’clock.” He gave her a quick smile. “We have a surprise for you—my brother is coming from West Point.” He pulled back on the reins, halting the horse, and gave her an oddly keen, swift look. “What do you say, Flanna? Will I be able to tell my brother that he is meeting the future Mrs. Roger Haynes?”

Flanna squinted in embarrassment and looked away, certain that he had momentarily lost his good sense. But though this unexpected proposal had caught her off guard, she did not want to react hastily and offend him.

“Thank you, Roger,” she said, smoothing the irritation and shock from her voice. She looked up and met his bright gaze. “I am not unaware of the honor you are bestowing upon me, but I have told you that I am not presently interested in marriage. I have to finish my education, I have to pass my medical examinations, and I have promised my father that I would return to Charleston and assist him
in his practice. And since you feel strongly that you must remain in Massachusetts—”

“We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.” He dropped the reins and reached across the lap blanket to enfold her gloved hands. “And you and I should be one flesh. I understand your commitment to your father, and I admire you tremendously for the strength of heart and will that motivated you to make it. All right, finish school. Return to Charleston, and give your father one year of your time. But consider that I am willing to wait for you. As you work, I will build a constituency that will propel me to a position in the governor’s office before you can return from Carolina! We can be wed in the governor’s mansion, or anywhere you like, but say you’ll be my wife, Flanna O’Connor!”