The Velvet Shadow (8 page)

Alden proceeded into the train car and took a seat by the window, eager to be alone with his thoughts. A train butcher paused in the aisle and offered to sell Alden a newspaper or dime novel to pass the time, but he waved the boy ahead, preferring to close his eyes to the sights and sounds of his fellow passengers. The porter had shoved a log into the wood stove at the far end of the car, and the air was thick with the scent of smoking hickory—a log far too green, Alden suspected, to burn without smoke.

“Do you take tobacco?” a man asked.

Alden opened one eye. A man wearing a dark suit and bowler stood at his elbow, a thin stream of dark juice running down his bearded chin.

“Never developed the habit,” Alden answered, frowning.

“Then you won’t mind if I take the window?”

“Not at all.” Alden stood so the whiskered man could take the window seat. Better to have the man spitting out the window than over his lap for the space of the journey.

Once the man had settled himself, Alden took the aisle seat, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped arrangement would allow, and folded his hands over the buckle of his uniform. Whispers of
boulevard traffic drifted in through the open windows, and a trio of children ran down the aisle, leaving a trail of laughter in the smoky car. Passengers were still moving about, and as he looked across the aisle he caught sight of a pretty little girl no more than five years old. Her red hair, a mass of copper-gold curls tied with bright ribbons, reminded him of Flanna O’Connor’s. But Flanna’s hair had that beguiling white streak near her temple, a flash of brightness not unlike her spirit.

The little girl offered Alden a shy smile, then dove for the security of her mother’s lap. Alden looked away as a feeling of homesickness tore at his heart. A military career was not a difficult life in peacetime, and he truly desired to serve his country. But the dark clouds on the horizon were more threatening than his family realized, and his stomach twisted in misery at the thought of Roger’s Charleston sweetheart. Why couldn’t Roger have set his cap for a nice Boston girl?

Strange, how God had placed the two brothers on two separate paths. Alden followed in his father’s footsteps on the path of duty and honor, while Roger followed his mother’s course of public service. And while Alden enjoyed his disciplined way of life and his work, sometimes he envied Roger’s freewheeling social life. Spiritually, as well, the brothers differed. Roger saw God as a benevolent king, lovingly protecting his subjects. In the army, Alden had seen more of God’s justice than his mercy, more wrath than love.

Alden parked his chin in his palm and smiled as his thoughts drifted toward Flanna O’Connor. She had been insulted when he likened her to a whiskey-fed headache. He’d meant no real slight, for he’d found her charming, bright, and cultured—everything a politician’s wife should be. She was probably resilient too. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, nor would criticism hurt her, for women that polished usually held a high opinion of themselves. The concerns of others rolled off them like dirt off a shovel. He had always been amazed at the cool composure with which his mother and her friends distributed food baskets for the poor during Christmas week and turned a blind eye to the needy during the rest of the year. That same quality, no doubt, enabled them to
rail against the enslavement of Negroes while they treated their Irish servants with less respect than their horses.

But Flanna O’Connor seemed quite unlike the other young women who moved in Roger’s circle. Her voice was not the girlish, empty-headed whisper that so many other young ladies cultivated these days. She spoke in low and dusky tones that would send shivers of awareness down any man’s spine. And she was Southern. But while Roger undoubtedly considered her geographical heritage an advantage in his long-range ambition to rise to the presidency, geography could not completely account for her uniqueness.

When she had spoken of her father, Alden had seen a glimpse of real compassion in her eyes. What other quality would lead a gentlewoman into the demanding and indelicate study of medicine? She seemed too refined and feminine to suffer from a masculine desire to prove herself, and at lunch she had visibly recoiled when his mother boldly stated that women ought to doff their skirts and crinolines in favor of bloomers. Alden had seen a woman dressed in that silly costume once—the lady walked on the street in baggy trousers and a shortened, full-cut overdress that fell just past her hips. The overall effect only served to make the woman appear blowsy and plump. After that, Alden decided he could do without seeing another bloomer costume…unless Flanna O’Connor could be persuaded to promenade in one. For a glimpse of that lady’s ankle, he’d—

No. Exhaling deeply, he put a halt to his imaginings. In them, he realized, lay the real reason for his cutting comment as they parted. If Roger’s Southern sweetheart thought Alden rude and ill-mannered, perhaps she’d keep her distance from him…and he’d be better able to preserve his honor and maintain his brother’s trust.

Alden closed his eyes against the nauseating sight of his seatmate’s chewing and spitting and turned toward the aisle, hoping to sleep.

Roger Haynes celebrated the new year in a flurry of politics and merrymaking. He proudly escorted Flanna to three different holiday balls, and at each he danced far less than he debated. Like a brilliant cardinal among a flock of gray doves, Flanna sat sedately with the other women and gracefully tolerated Roger’s impassioned speeches in favor of national unity. Each time he saw her lovely face he congratulated himself again upon his fine taste in women. When they were married, they would influence the country like no other couple in history.

The new year was scarcely nine days old when Mississippi became the second state to secede from the Union. Florida followed within hours, then Alabama. By the close of January, Georgia and Louisiana had joined the secessionists. People in Boston were so busy counting the Rebel states that they scarcely noticed when Kansas joined the Union as a free state on January 29.

Roger knew Flanna had been too engrossed in her studies to notice much of anything. After the last ball on New Year’s Eve, she settled into her textbooks and said she could see him only on Friday evenings—and then only for one or two hours at most. She was determined not only to pass her examinations, but to graduate first in her class. “I will not have people thinking I received my degree on the strength of my father’s reputation,” she told him, her chin lifting in determination. “They must know that I am a physician in fact, not in name alone.”

Though Roger admired her determination, he knew she could not entirely cut herself off from the world. And so with a heavy heart he climbed the steps to the boardinghouse on Wednesday afternoon, February 6, hoping she would not be so surprised by his unannounced visit that she would refuse to see him. He had an urgent message, one that might bring her pain.

Pausing on the wide front porch, he tucked the morning newspaper beneath his arm. With one hand he yanked on the bell pull, then he stepped back and waited for the door to open.

The white-haired landlady opened the door a moment later, her eyes squinting over the rims of her spectacles. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, madam.” He doffed his top hat. “I am Roger Haynes, and I’d like permission to speak with Miss Flanna O’Connor.”

The old woman peered at him as if he were some obnoxious species of insect. “Miss O’Connor is in her room. She has asked not to be disturbed.”

“But it is important.” The corner of Roger’s mouth twisted with exasperation as he pulled a calling card from his pocket. “Please give her this and tell her I must speak with her. I would not have come unless the situation were urgent.”

The door opened a bit wider, then a birdlike hand snatched the card from his fingertips. “Wait there,” she called, before closing the door again.

Roger moved to the edge of the porch, then thrust his hands behind his back and rocked slowly on his heels. Surely she would see him. Their time together last Friday night had been pleasant. She had listened with a distant look in her eye as he spoke of all the causes he would adopt once he was in office. Her faraway look intensified as he continued, leading him to suspect that she was mentally rehearsing her lessons instead of listening. But when he mentioned that Alden had written and inquired after her health, she brightened to a most becoming shade of pink. Roger congratulated himself; she had heard every word.

The heavy door screeched in protest, and the landlady appeared again, staring at Roger with eyes too hard for beauty. “Miss O’Connor will see you in the parlor,” the woman announced, frowning at Roger as she stepped back. “You will sit in the wing chair, she on the sofa.”

“Certainly,” Roger answered, following the lady into the small foyer. A single bench and a table with an oil lamp stood at his right hand; an assortment of beribboned bonnets and cloaks hung from pegs on the wall at his left.

Still frowning, the landlady moved to stand before him. “Follow me,” she said in a voice of steel. Like an army private behind his commander, Roger followed her into a small parlor, where a faded rose-colored couch faced the fireplace and a series of mismatched chairs stood sentinel around the room.

“My wing chair?” Roger asked, waiting for permission.

The woman pointed a bony finger toward a brocade chair near the sofa, then lowered herself into a rocker by the fire. Humming gently, she took up a ball of wool and her knitting needles, resuming her work on what appeared to be a stocking.

Roger perched on the edge of the wing chair and placed his top hat on his thigh, a little chagrined to discover that his hostess apparently planned to remain for the duration of his visit. The boardinghouse parlor was not the place he would have chosen to have this talk, but perhaps
the stilted atmosphere would work to his advantage. Flanna would undoubtedly keep a tight rein on her emotions with this frowning gargoyle in the room.

A moment later he heard the soft rustling of skirts, then Flanna herself appeared in the doorway, her hair long and flowing over her shoulders, restrained only by a thin ribbon tied at the crown of her head. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted at the sight of him. “Roger! What brings you out today? Is there some terrible news?

Keenly aware of the housemother’s steady gaze, Roger rose, took Flanna’s hand, and bowed formally. “Miss O’Connor, it is good to see you. No, the news is not terrible, but it is serious. I simply had to come.”

Her lovely face clouded with concern. “Is it your mother? Your brother? Is someone ill?”

“No.” Touched by her compassion for his family, he smiled and gestured toward the sofa. “Be seated, won’t you, while I compose my thoughts?”

After casting a troubled glance in the landlady’s direction, Flanna sat on the sofa while Roger paced before the fire. Glancing up, he saw that the housemother’s needles had fallen silent. Her hard little eyes had fastened to his face with the intensity of a searchlight.

“Flanna.” He turned to his sweetheart. “Have you been studying very hard? I imagine that you have not had time to read a newspaper.”

She shook her head. “Of course I haven’t, Roger. I’ve been studying anatomy.”

“Then let me be the first to tell you.” He took a deep breath, shivering with the dark thrill of being the first to deliver the news. “I know you believe that South Carolina and the other Rebel states will agree to a compromise of some sort, but two days ago—”

He paused, trying to frame the news in delicate words, but could find none.

“What happened two days ago?” Flanna asked, her voice flat. “Tell me, Roger! Surely they have not gone to fighting!”

“No, my dear.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Two days ago representatives from the seceded states met in Montgomery, Alabama. They formed a new union, calling themselves the Confederate States of America. It is rumored that Jefferson Davis of Mississippi will be elected president. It is nearly certain, for no one has come forward to run against him.”

For a long moment Flanna’s expression did not change, then his words fell into place and the color left her cheeks. “The Confederate States of America,” she whispered slowly, as if trying to translate the words. “The Confederate States—the C.S.A.” She looked up at him, her eyes alive with calculation. “I am now a citizen of the C.S.A.? What does that mean?”

“You have nothing in common with those Rebels,” he said, moving to her side. He dropped his hat to the floor, about to sit next to her, but a loud snorting sound from near the fireplace reminded him of Mrs. Davis’s rules. Rolling his eyes, he moved toward his assigned wing chair and sat on the edge, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands outstretched to Flanna. “Don’t fret, my dear, I believe this is for the best. Don’t you see? Now that South Carolina and the others have officially banded together, you are free from your promise to your father. Your father is now a traitor. Love him if you must, but do not think of serving him! Disavow your heritage as a child of South Carolina and vow your loyalty to the Union. Everyone will know that you do not agree with those fools in the Confederacy. What I’m trying to say…” He hesitated, clearing his throat and casting a pointed glance in the old woman’s direction. Mrs. Davis saw it, understood, and merely lifted a brow in reply.