We’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.”
“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.”
“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!”
His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation, and the intensity of his look made her pulse pound. This was not her first marriage proposal, but Roger was by far her most persistent suitor. For two years he had escorted her to events around Boston, providing an introduction into fine homes and social events she would never have graced without his influence. Flanna had to admit she enjoyed walking into a luxurious drawing room on the handsome lawyer’s arm.
But to live in Boston? The people here seemed alien, cold, and stuffy compared to the warm and gentle folks of Charleston. As much as she enjoyed Roger’s company, she did not think his conversation and ready wit could compensate for the loneliness she would feel without contact with her brother, her father, her Aunt Marsali, and her seven strapping cousins. Why, she could not have endured the lonely college terms if not for Charity’s company and the knowledge that she could go home during the summer months.
“These things,” she began, speaking slowly as she searched for words which would protect their friendship and yet cool Roger’s ardor, “are not announced casually over family dinners. And you have forgotten one very important step—you must write my father and ask his permission and blessing before I can give my consent. I am a dutiful daughter, and if I were to assent to your plan without consulting my father, my actions would break his heart.”
“Don’t you like me, Flanna?” Roger looked down, the fringe of his lashes casting moonlit shadows on his cheeks. “Would marriage to a lawyer be so terrible that you cannot contemplate it? Or is it me you find objectionable?”
“You are being foolish.” She softened her voice, trying to verbalize feelings he would not understand. “I’m very fond of you. It’s just—Roger, may I be honest?”
“I would accept nothing less than honesty from you.”
“Good.” She paused, her gaze flicking toward a passing buggy. “Should we be sitting out in public like this?”
“We’re chaperoned.” Without taking his gaze from her face, he called out, “Charity?”
“Yes, Mr. Haynes?” The girl’s voice echoed over the street.
“There.” Roger tightened his grip on Flanna’s hands. “Your maid is here, and we are safely under observation. So tell me what is in your heart.”
Flanna shifted in the buggy. “I am terribly fond of you.” That much was true. After several miserable weeks in Boston, Flanna had met Roger at a social sponsored by several college supporters. He had at once become her escort and her friend, and she had reserved every spare moment for him without wanting to think of the consequences. Now she was about to disappoint him, perhaps for the last time. But she had never intended to give him her heart, only her friendship.
She looked directly into his dark eyes. “Roger, I must go home to Charleston. I promised my father that I would assist him once I became a doctor. And I miss Charleston. My family is there.”
“I will be your family if we are wed.” Roger spoke in an odd, yet gentle tone. “And Flanna, think of it—I may one day be president of the United States! What greater destiny could a woman wish than to marry a man who has devoted his life to public service?”
“She might wish to devote her life to those less fortunate.” She squeezed his hand, hoping he would understand. “Roger, I never told you this—I suppose I was a bit embarrassed—but my grandfather owned over a hundred slaves. One of them was my Mammy, and I have never met a more modest woman, black or white. My mother died when I was a baby, so Mammy was everything to me, the only mother I ever knew.”
“I don’t care that your grandfather owned slaves.”
“That’s not the point, Roger.” Flanna looked down at his hands, so tightly entwined with hers. “Mammy became ill, you see, but she was so demure, so shy, that she would not allow a male doctor to examine her.”
She breathed deep and felt a sharp stab of memory, a painful remnant from the past. “She died one night as I held her in her bed. When I lifted the blanket I discovered that she’d hemorrhaged from her female organs. A doctor could have stopped the bleeding and saved her life, but she would not let a strange man come near.”
Roger made a small, comforting sound. “Why didn’t your father tend her?”
Flanna shook her head. “She would have died from embarrassment before she’d let him examine her. Despite her unrefined language and her status, she was by nature a lady, far more genteel than I could ever hope to be.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “She was always fussing at me for roughhousing with my brother and my cousins. She thought I’d grow up to be a tomboy.”
“Darling,” he said, his voice silky, “there is absolutely nothing of the tomboy about you now.”
“That’s because of Mammy. When I was fifteen, she and Aunt Marsali brought me in, pulled my hair up, and let my dresses down. They taught me to be a lady, and by that time I was ready to learn.” Flanna paused, then continued in sinking tones. “And on the night Mammy died, I vowed that I would become a doctor so no woman, black or white, would have to suffer because she would not visit a male physician. I can’t break that vow.”
“Women die in Boston too, Flanna,” Roger said, with a significant lifting of his brows. “You could fulfill that vow here, in Washington, anywhere.”
“But my father is in Charleston. And when I left for medical school, I promised to come back and work with him.”
Roger sighed heavily and released her hands. “I understand, dear Flanna. So be it. I will say nothing to my brother.”
“Thank you.”
“But”—he held up a warning finger—“at the earliest opportunity I will write your father and ask for his blessing upon our future marriage. You promised you would work with him. You did not promise him a lifetime.”
Flanna sat in silence, considering his words. Perhaps she would be unwise to completely reject his proposal. She had given little thought to her life beyond her future as a doctor, and handsome bachelors like Roger did not come along every day. He was a catch; all the girls at the boardinghouse said so. Her vision was still colored with the memory of Mammy, and she could just see the woman rising up, her face as stern as granite, rebuking Flanna for being penny wise and pound foolish. “You’s always disregarding tomorrow for the promise of today.”
“If you write my father, perhaps you should introduce yourself first,” she suggested. “I shouldn’t think he would respond favorably if you ask for my hand outright. I’ve mentioned you in my letters, of course, but he will want to know you on a personal level.”
“Doubtless he’ll want me to visit Charleston,” Roger said, taking up the reins, “which I will gladly do, but only because you are the only woman in the world for me. And while I am winning your father’s good faith and his blessing, you shall take your final examinations and pass them. Are we agreed?”
Flanna stared at him, her thoughts scampering frantically. Why not agree? Roger was as persistent as a mosquito; he would give her no peace until she assented to something in his favor. And though her father undoubtedly would approve of Roger Haynes, he had little time for correspondence, so it might be months before he answered Roger’s letter and granted permission for an engagement. By then Flanna would be back home in Charleston, fulfilling her promise. Roger might lose interest; he might even forget her altogether. Certainly his mother would do her part to make sure Flanna was forgotten. But if Roger persisted, if his feelings for her endured through time and separation and distance, then perhaps he really did love her as a husband ought to love a wife.
Flanna sighed and closed her eyes. She would pray for God’s will, but in the meantime there was little she could do to resist Roger’s relentless energy.
“Are we agreed then?” Roger sat still, the reins suspended in midair, awaiting her response.
“I believe we are—but I must pray about it.”
Roger caught up her hand and pressed it to his lips in a fit of rapture, and Flanna smiled at his impertinence. Roger was all flash and flair, the most charming companion she had ever met, and one of the most considerate escorts. If by some miracle he did forget her once she returned to Charleston, she would certainly never forget him.
Flicking the reins, he urged the horse forward. Flanna pressed her hands together as the carriage moved slowly down the street. Who could tell? Perhaps Roger’s plan actually made sense. She could work with her father for a year, and if Roger was still determined to marry her, perhaps he’d even consider a move to Charleston. They were one Union, he’d said. One country. He could fill a political seat in Charleston as well as in Boston; charming, gregarious men like Roger developed a following wherever they went.
“Whoa, Gertie.”
Roger pulled back on the reins as the carriage drew up outside the tall wooden building that housed sixteen of the forty students at the New England Female Medical College. Flanna noticed a light burning in the parlor window. The housemother, Mrs. Davis, probably rocked there by the fireplace, mentally checking off each girl who returned. In another hour she would bar the door. Any young lady not satisfactorily accounted for would be expelled from the boardinghouse and the college on the grounds of moral turpitude.
Flanna shifted to face Roger. “You may call for me tomorrow but not a word about your future plans. Remember, before we can plan to marry, you must not only win my father, but your mother must approve of me.” That roadblock would probably grant Flanna another year’s grace, for Mrs. Haynes obviously believed that all Southern women were slaveholding monsters.
“Don’t mind Mother.” Roger lowered his head until his forehead brushed the brim of Flanna’s bonnet. “She spends too much time reading the newspapers. She’s upset by all this talk of secession. But I will not allow the word slavery to be uttered tomorrow. One should not talk of politics on Christmas Day.”
“Agreed. I will not speak of slavery, or secession, or women in medicine. I will do nothing but sit by your side and try to charm your mother.” She gave him a heartfelt smile. “I may even tell her I’m willing to stand with those noisy suffragists, if that will charm her.”
“Don’t forget my brother—he’ll need charming too. He wrote that he couldn’t believe I could lose my heart to a girl from South Carolina.” His breath gently warmed her face as he tilted his head. “May I be so bold as to ask for a kiss before I walk you to the house?”
“Miss Flanna?” Right on cue, Charity’s voice rang out from the back of the carriage. “Are we goin’ in now?”
Flanna pulled away from Roger as she turned to answer. “Yes, Charity. Hop on down, and Mr. Haynes will walk us in.”
“You can’t blame a man for trying.” An easy smile played at the corners of Roger’s mouth. “After the official engagement then.” He stepped out onto the carriage block, then extended a hand to help Flanna alight.
“After the wedding, you mean,” Flanna answered, taking his hand and descending as gracefully as she could. “A lady does not kiss a man until the wedding band is on her finger.”
“Is that so?” One of his dark brows arched devilishly. “Then three-quarters of the young women in Boston aren’t ladies.”
“That may be, sir,” Flanna answered, falling into step beside Charity as the maid moved toward the house. She turned and flashed a bright smile over her shoulder. “But you may rest assured that I am.”
Flanna pressed her hands to her cold cheeks as she stamped her feet on the entry rug to dislodge any lingering clumps of snow. The rhythmic creak of the housemother’s rocker halted for a moment, and Flanna called out, “It’s only me, Mrs. Davis. Charity and I are safely returned from the Haynes house.”
Charity helped Flanna slip out of her pelisse, then gathered it in her arms as Flanna smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt. Mrs. Davis liked her girls to look modest and tidy at all times, for the widow had a sterling reputation to maintain. Though she had probably found it difficult to swallow the idea of a female medical college, for the past twelve years her girls had lived and studied under intense scrutiny without a single moral failure. Practically every time Flanna went out the door, Mrs. Davis’s farewell included a cheery reminder that the college’s fate and reputation rested upon her students’ shoulders.
Flanna lifted her chin and walked through the parlor, pausing politely before Mrs. Davis’s rocker.
“A nice evening, my dear?”
“Very nice, Mrs. Davis, thank you for asking. Mrs. Haynes is a gracious hostess.”
The widow nodded, her white cap framing her pinched face. “You’ve been seeing quite a lot of her son. How long have you two been keeping company?”
“Oh, about a year and a half, I suppose.” Flanna gave the landlady a careful smile. “Long enough for me to know he is quite a gentleman. You need not fear when I am out with him, ma’am.”
“A woman can never let her guard completely down.” The old woman’s voice rattled like the wind against the windowpanes. “Shouldn’t he be writing a letter to your father soon?”
Good grief, had the woman been listening at the window? Eager to retreat from the prying questions, Flanna shifted her weight toward the staircase. Her bell-shaped hoop skirt swung forward, betraying her eagerness. “I expect Roger will do whatever a gentleman should do. But he understands I intend to finish school and return to Charleston.”
The old woman closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “I suppose it’s his mother that’s preventing him from proposing. She cannot approve the match.”
Flanna had taken a forward step, but at Mrs. Davis’s last comment she halted, shocked by the woman’s bluntness. “Why would she not approve the match?” Though she knew from firsthand experience that Mrs. Haynes did not approve of slavery, she did approve of Flanna’s plans for a career in medicine. And despite Flanna’s conviction that tonight’s dinner had not gone entirely well, she had not yet met a person she could not charm—if given enough time.
Mrs. Davis let out a three-noted cackle. “A proud son of Massachusetts marrying a Charleston girl? It could never happen. Not anymore. Why, at this very moment the name of South Carolina is as reviled as the devil’s.” The smile she wore was no smile at all, just a wrinkle with yellow teeth in the midst of it. “In a month you’ll be fortunate if you’re received in a single parlor in Boston.”
Flanna stared at her landlady in total incredulity. “Why ever not?”
“Have you not heard?” Mrs. Davis’s skinny frame fairly vibrated with eagerness. “No, I suppose you haven’t. South Carolina seceded from the Union four days ago! It was in the evening paper. Did no one tell you?”
Shock tore through Flanna, numbing her toes and tingling her fingers. Unable to respond, she looked back at Charity, then shook her head as confused thoughts whirled in her brain. It couldn’t be true! Oh, Wesley had written about a group of politicians who had threatened to secede if Lincoln won the presidential election, but she had never dreamed they’d actually proceed with their plan.
Aghast, Flanna glanced about the room until her eyes fell on a folded newspaper. “May I?”
“Of course, you certainly should take it.” Mrs. Davis’s age-spotted hand quivered as she lifted it in permission. “Read what your countrymen have done. And know that if trouble arises between you and Roger Haynes, the fault can be assigned to those hotheaded slaveholders in South Carolina!”
With the older woman’s tirade ringing in her ears, Flanna scooped up the newspaper and tucked it under her arm as she fled for the safety of the stairs.
Flanna thought her heart must have stopped when Mrs. Davis told her that South Carolina had seceded, for it now began pounding much faster than usual, as though to make up for a few lost beats. By the time she and Charity reached her room it was knocking in her chest like a swampland woodpecker.
Her dark eyes wide with alarm, Charity laid the mantle on her bed and searched Flanna’s face. “Miss Flanna, what’s wrong with South Carolina?”
“I’m not sure,” Flanna whispered, half-stumbling to her own bed. She fell on the creaking mattress, mindless of her dress and the medical books strewn there. With trembling fingers, she shook open the newspaper and read the screaming headline: “South Carolina Secedes!”
“It can’t be.”
“What can’t be?” Charity had a round, cheerful face whose natural expression was a smile, but that face was blank now, all traces of humor wiped away.
“South Carolina,” Flanna murmured, thinking of her father, her brother, her aunt, and her cousins. “My state—our state—has seceded from the Union.”
“Seceded?” Charity knelt at Flanna’s feet to unlace her walking boots, but she paused and looked up. “Miss Flanna, I don’t understand.”
“Pulled away, withdrawn,” Flanna whispered, reading the article. “South Carolina and Charleston are no longer a part of the United States.”
Charity responded with a strange gasping sound, but Flanna scarcely heard her, so intent was she upon her reading. According to the newspaper article, calls for secession had been circulating ever since the news of Lincoln’s election reached Charleston on November seventh. The foreman of the grand jury in the federal court, Robert Gourdin, refused to conduct any further business “as the North, through the ballot box has swept away the last hope for the permanence of the Federal government of these sovereign States.” Within days other officials resigned, including Judge Andrew G. Magrath, the United States District Attorney, and the collector of the port.
“Great heavens,” Flanna whispered, only half-feeling Charity’s tug on her boots, “they are quite serious! I never believed it would come to this!”
Secessionist leaders, she read, were comparing themselves to the early American revolutionaries. Palmetto and Lone Star flags, the beloved emblems of South Carolina, were sprouting like wildflowers throughout the state. Many gentlemen of Charleston had decorated their lapels with cockades—gold badges with the palmetto tree, a lone star, and a coiled rattlesnake superimposed on a blue silk ribbon.
“What are they going to do?” Charity’s brown eyes were wide and slightly wet when Flanna looked down at her. “Does the paper say?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Flanna answered, a wave of apprehension sweeping through her. South Carolina couldn’t be an independent country. On a surge of memory, Roger’s words came back to her: “We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.”
What were these secessionists thinking? And why had they done this crazy thing right now, right before Christmas, right before her exams? What if the examining board looked at her file and saw that she was from South Carolina? What if Mrs. Davis warmed to the idea of tossing the secessionist student out of the boardinghouse? Flanna’s dreams would vanish like a pebble in a dark pond, dropping out of sight forever.
“Does the paper tell you anything about the home folks?” Charity’s fingers struggled clumsily with the bootlaces, and Flanna suddenly realized the girl was worried about her parents. They were among the three thousand free Negroes in Charleston, many of whom held slaves themselves. Ever since Flanna could remember, an uneasy peace had existed between Charleston’s white elite, the free browns (so-named because many of them were mulatto), and the city’s white working class. If the city was in turmoil over slavery and secession, this might be a dangerous time to be black in the South—slave or free.
“Leave my shoes. Let me read.” Flanna scanned the page again. “This article says that the city of Charleston was united in its calls for secession…and that on December seventeenth more than 160 delegates from South Carolina met in Columbia to decide whether or not the state would secede. Charleston sent 23 representatives, but an outbreak of smallpox sent the convention back to Charleston. There, in St. Andrew’s Hall, the delegates unanimously adopted the Ordinance of Secession from the Union. That night they signed it at Institute Hall.”
“The colored folks…did they sign it too?”
“I don’t know, Charity.” Flanna read on. “Well—here’s something. Eighty-two brown aristocrats sent a message to the mayor of Charleston that read, ‘We are by birth citizens of South Carolina; in our veins is the blood of the white race, in some half, in others much more; our attachments are with you.’”
Charity’s dark eyes filled with disbelief. She sank back, resting her weight on her heels, and Flanna hoped the information would satisfy her curiosity for a while.
She read further, of church bells ringing as the news spread through the city, of Union flags thrown to the breeze, of artillery salutes thundering in the night. The reporter also mentioned that Charleston officials, fearful of a slave uprising, sent nightly patrols through the city to quell any sign of black unrest.
“Oh, Charity.” Flanna clutched the newspaper and its dread news to her chest. “What are we going to do? This is terrible news, just terrible.”
“We could go home.” Charity lifted one brow in mute supplication. “We don’t belong up here, Miss Flanna.”
Flanna lowered the paper to her lap, her mind spinning with bewilderment. Her father hadn’t had time to write of this incredible news, but he would, she was certain. Would he demand that she come home immediately? Should she go home? She was so close to finishing her degree, but what would her father’s friends think of a man who allowed his daughter to live among and consort with Yankees? A cold knot formed in her stomach as she realized that she was now in a foreign country, a place no longer affiliated with home.
We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.
Not anymore.
Flanna pressed her fingers to her temple as another thought hit her. Roger! If Papa were caught up in this wave of secession hysteria, he’d no sooner correspond with a Yankee Republican than he would with Abe Lincoln himself. He would never approve of Flanna’s engagement. Indeed, he might even reply to Roger’s initial letter with a surly response, destroying any chance of what might have been a suitable match.
And finishing her degree elsewhere was not an option. There was only one medical school for women in the South—Graefenberg Medical Institute in Dadeville, Alabama—but her father had not been impressed with that school’s facility. In Boston Flanna had enjoyed access to a vast array of resources: a real skeleton, lab equipment, and an entire room of normal and pathological specimens in glass beakers. Graefenberg did not even have a decent medical library.
Dear God, what should I do?
Flanna’s gaze fell on her anatomy textbook. She had nearly memorized the entire text, and in just four weeks she’d be tested on the material. That anatomy examination was the last hurdle, all that stood between her and a bona fide medical degree. If they went home now, all her hard work would count for nothing. Surely God would not want her to toss away two years of an expensive and hard-won education.
“We can stay a few more weeks,” she whispered, running her hand over a map of the human body’s arterial system. “Let’s wait until all this excitement dies down. Besides, Papa wouldn’t want us traveling while things are so…undecided.” She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Surely this will pass, Charity. It has to.”
The maid’s face fell in disappointment, but the touch of the textbook calmed Flanna’s pounding pulse. Apparently South Carolina had worked itself into a dither while she lost herself in her studies. If she immersed herself in her studies again, perhaps God would lead South Carolina to straighten itself out. What good would worry do? Her father had sent her to Boston to earn a medical degree, and she could not let him down. He needed her at home, but he needed her as a doctor.
With that decision made, Flanna’s mind shifted to practical matters. Until this secession business had been settled, her father must not know about Roger Haynes and his intentions. News of that development could wait. If it took the better part of a year for the dust to settle, so much the better. She would have earned her degree and begun to fulfill her promise to her father. Roger seemed to have enough ambitions to keep him busy, and if in the interim he found some nice Massachusetts girl who’d make him a better wife, that would be fine. She’d miss his wit and his charm, but if God closed one door, he was certain to open another.
“Charity, bring me pen and paper, please.” Flanna tossed the newspaper to the floor and resolutely pushed South Carolina from her mind. She had to write her father and assure him she was well, and tomorrow she’d have to tell Roger to postpone his letter indefinitely.
Until South Carolina came to its senses, matrimony would just have to wait.