Chapter Ten

Richmond 1860

January seemed to last a long time that year. I didn’t venture downtown very often because of the bad weather, nor did I have any more adventures with Jonathan, who had returned to college. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sally St. John’s party and my second encounter with the blue-eyed stranger.

On a blustery day in February—long after I should have forgotten the man—I sat at the table in my bedroom, trying to compose a letter to Robert at West Point. But I found myself remembering my argument with the stranger instead.

“Negroes are ignorant and superstitious,” he had said.“It’s been scientifically proven that the Negro race is inferior.”

“That’s just not true!” I said aloud.

Tessie looked up from her sewing. “You talking to me, honey?”

“No . . . I was talking to that horrible man.”

“The one you writing the letter to?”

“No, not Robert . . . him!” I tossed down the pen, leaving a blob of ink on my sheet of writing paper.

“Well, I just an ignorant old mammy . . . but I ain’t seeing any man in this here room.”

I was so angry I stood up. “You’re not ignorant, Tessie. And that’s exactly what I told him, too. It’s not your fault you’ve never had an education.”

Tessie stared at me, bewildered, then returned to her sewing. “I just gonna mind my own business, now. Ain’t nobody knows what you talking about, except yourself.”

“I can prove it, too. Come here, Tessie.”

She looked up at me in alarm. “Now, why you want to make me talk to a man who ain’t there?”

“I’m not. I’m going to teach you to read and write.”

Tessie looked frightened. “What earthly good that gonna do? Don’t you know colored folk ain’t allowed to read and write?”

“No one will ever know except you and me.” I went to her chair beside the fireplace and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Please, Tessie. This will prove it to him. I know I can teach you.”

“This gonna make you happy, honey?” she asked, stroking my cheek. “Because you know I hate to see you moping around here, talking to yourself.”

“It will make both of us happy. You’ll see. Come on, sit down at the table.”

With a good deal of pushing and prodding, I got Tessie seated, then I wrote her name for her in block letters. I explained how each letter had a sound, how the S made a sound like a snake, and so forth. Then I gave her the pen and coaxed her to copy her name herself.

Tessie did her usual share of good-natured grumbling and grousing—“Don’t see what good this gonna do. . . . Don’t see how this make folks happy. . . .” But I could tell she was pleased with herself. She learned very quickly. By the end of the hour, she had filled several sheets of paper with boldly printed lines of TESSIE. She had also remembered how to write it without looking at my copy.

“You a good teacher,” she said when we finished our first lesson.

“This is only the beginning,” I told her.

“Oh no . . .”

“Yes. We’re going to have a lesson every afternoon, and before long, you’ll be able to read and write as good as anyone.”

“If that’s what you want, honey,” she said hesitantly. “But now there something I have to do. And don’t you go getting mad at me for doing it.”

I watched as Tessie carried her work over to the fireplace and solemnly fed every last sheet into the flames.

Jonathan returned to Richmond along with the spring weather. He showed up on my doorstep one sunny afternoon, begging me for another favor. “Sally has agreed to meet me at the fairgrounds for a picnic on Sunday, but her father insists that we be chaperoned. Won’t you please come with us, Caroline?”

“No, not this time. I would hate being a third wheel. Besides, I don’t think Sally likes me very much.”

Jonathan wasn’t listening. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he continued to wheedle and beg, telling me all the reasons why I was his only hope, I suddenly remembered the bargain we had made the last time I’d done him a favor.

I interrupted his pleas to ask, “Did you ever read that booklet I gave you?”

“What? Oh . . . yes . . . it was very interesting.” He wore the guilty look of a naughty boy. “Why don’t you come on the picnic this Sunday and we’ll discuss it?”

“You’re lying. You didn’t read it.”

“Caroline, don’t you and I always have fun when we’re together?”

“Well, yes. . . .”

“And you won’t be a third wheel. Sally’s brother is supposed to be arriving home from Washington sometime this week. We’ll ask him to be our fourth. Please say you’ll go out with us.”

“But you know how hard it is for me to talk to strangers. I’m not very good at socializing. And I certainly don’t want to be stuck with some shallow, self-centered brother of Sally’s.”

Jonathan refused to yield. He was madly in love, he claimed, and I was his only means of seeing Sally. As he continued to beg and plead, I remembered my mission—change one person at a time. If Jonathan wouldn’t read my pamphlet, maybe Sally’s brother would. Besides, if Jonathan was further in my debt, perhaps I could bargain on Tessie and Josiah’s behalf.

“All right,” I said at last. “You owe me two favors . . . and her brother better not bore me to tears, or I swear I’ll go straight home.”

“I love you!” he said, hugging me. “When Sally and I have our first daughter, we’ll name her after you.”

“If you want to thank me, read the material I gave you,” I called. But he was already out the door.

Jonathan and I arrived at the fairgrounds first and waited on a bench near the entrance for the St. Johns to arrive. At least I waited on the bench. Jonathan was so feverishly excited that I gave up trying to get him to sit down, let alone converse with me. If this was how people in love acted, I hoped it never happened to me.

“That’s Sally’s carriage!” he shouted when he finally spotted the matched team of horses trotting toward us.

“Calm down,” I said, laughing. “You’re dancing, and there isn’t even any music.”

The carriage pulled to a stop. The coachman stepped down to open the door. Sally alighted first, then her brother. When I saw who he was, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

Him again!

I felt my cheeks burning as Sally and Jonathan made the introductions. “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Caroline Fletcher.”

“This is my brother, Charles St. John.”

An icy silence followed their words. Charles and I both knew we were supposed to be polite, to say things like “how do you do?” and “pleased to meet you,” but we coldly stared past each other for what felt like an eternity.

When Charles suddenly began to laugh, I felt insulted. Jonathan and Sally gaped at him, mystified.

“Tell us the joke, Charles,” Sally said.

I made the mistake of looking into his eyes and my heart turned traitor on me, galloping as foolishly as a spring colt in a wide meadow. It was the first time I’d seen laughter in his eyes, and it made them startlingly bright, like the blue in a rainbow.

“You have to admit this is quite ironic,” he said when his laughter died away. “I had no idea you would be the mysterious cousin, and I can see by your reaction that you had no idea I was Sally’s brother.” His smile was so radiant, his face so transformed when he wasn’t scornful or angry, that I smiled weakly in return.

“Do you know each other?” Sally asked.

“Miss Fletcher and I have never been formally introduced until today. But we have bumped into each other before.”

“I remember now,” Jonathan said. “Weren’t you having some sort of disagreement at Sally’s party?”

“Oh, Charles, you’re not going to spoil this nice afternoon for me, are you?” Sally said, pouting.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said smoothly. “Truce, Miss Fletcher?”

“Of course.”

He offered his hand, and I shook it. His grip was warm and firm. A tight little knot in the pit of my stomach seemed to come unraveled at his touch, and I hated myself for reacting to him.

“I’m not hungry yet,” Sally decided. “Let’s stroll around the fairgrounds for a while before we eat.” Jonathan picked up the picnic basket that the St. Johns had brought, and Sally took his other arm. They started down the path ahead of us, Jonathan’s head bent lovingly toward her as they talked.

Thankfully, Charles didn’t offer me his arm. As we walked down the path behind them, I decided to take Cousin Rosalie’s advice and ask him about himself. I learned that he was five years older than me, that he’d graduated from Virginia University in Charlottesville, and that he would probably manage his father’s flour mills one day. But he also loved politics, and he was currently working as an aide to one of Virginia’s senators, traveling with him to Washington whenever Congress was in session.

I told Charles about my father’s business, about my cousin’s plantation, and how I’d attended school in Philadelphia for the past two years.

“Ah! So, that explains it,” he mumbled.

“Explains what?” But I knew exactly what he was going to say.

“How you became brainwashed with all that anti-slavery propaganda.”

“Nobody brainwashed me. I’m perfectly capable of thinking for myself.”

“Let me guess, they had you read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and—”

“For your information, I have never read it. I didn’t need to. My experiences with slavery right here in Virginia were enough to—”

“Your experiences should have told you that Miss Stowe’s book is filled with melodramatic exaggerations.”

“Have you read it, Mr. St. John?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead—”

He stopped short when Sally suddenly pushed between us. “Charles, stop this!” Her voice was hushed with embarrassment.

I had forgotten myself in the heat of the argument, but as I looked around I was shocked to discover that Charles and I had been standing in the middle of the path, shouting at each other. People were staring at us. I felt mortified. Charles looked shaken.

“If you two can’t be civil, then please have the decency to be quiet,” Sally said.

“Fine,” I replied.

“Of course,” Charles agreed.

Sally took Jonathan’s arm again, but they walked behind us this time, ready to douse the flames if the sparks began to fly. Charles shoved his hands into his pockets. “It has turned out to be a beautiful day, hasn’t it, Miss Fletcher?” I was surprised that the spring flowers didn’t wither at the ice in his voice. But I could be coldly polite, too.

“Yes, it’s a lovely day, Mr. St. John.”

We continued in that vein until Jonathan found a peaceful spot on the grass for us to spread our blanket. As we ate lunch, Charles gradually revealed a very charming side of himself, a side I’d certainly never seen before. “I’d like to hear more about your work in Washington,” Jonathan said.

“Tell them about the time you met President Buchanan,” Sally coaxed.

“Right. My shining moment in the presence of greatness,” he replied. I heard gentle laughter in his voice and saw that conceit and self-importance were not part of his nature. Instead, Charles possessed the rare quality of being able to laugh at himself. “I was attending a reception at a Washington hotel,” he began, “and the president mistook me for the British ambassador’s attaché. I didn’t know what to do. It was a huge gathering, and president Buchanan took me aside to ramble on and on about some trade agreement he was negotiating. I couldn’t be rude and interrupt him, so I just kept nodding my head. But then he asked me what I thought. I didn’t know whether I should embarrass the president of the United States by pointing out that I wasn’t the attaché, or simply mimic a British accent and say, ‘I think it’s a jolly good treaty, old boy!’ ”

Charles’ imitation of an Englishman was so amusing that I couldn’t help laughing. “So what did you do?” I asked.

“Luckily, I spotted the real British ambassador just then, so I said, ‘There’s the ambassador, Mr. President. He’s much more qualified to speak to this issue than I am.’ ” Charles used his phony British accent again, and we all roared with laughter.

“Is that the tightest spot you’ve ever been in, in Washington?” Jonathan asked.

“Politically, perhaps. But my most dangerous experience occurred the time my landlady lost her cat.”

“Tell us, Charles,” Sally begged. Charles had such an amusing manner of storytelling, mimicking all the voices and gesturing dramatically, that he might have been a stage actor. I found myself leaning toward him, listening attentively.

“Well, I had just returned to my boardinghouse one afternoon, when my landlady came running out to the front hallway, wringing her hands and begging for my help. Mrs. Peckham is such a sweet little white-haired lady, so small and frail—and at least a hundred years old—so of course I offered to help her any way that I could.

“ ‘My poor little kitty cat has been missing for three days,’ she said, ‘but I heard her crying this morning. I think she’s trapped up in a tree.’

“Now, I’m no cat-lover,” Charles said, “but I do take pride in being chivalrous. Her cat was, indeed, about halfway up the oak tree in front of the boardinghouse. So, like a good Southern gentleman, I removed my hat and coat, fetched Mrs. Peckham’s ladder from the tool shed, and began to climb. Wouldn’t you know, the blasted cat saw me coming and climbed higher and higher to get away from me? By the time she ran out of branches to climb, the ladder was far below me, and we were both teetering at the very top of the tree. The limbs were a bit thin to bear my weight, so I swayed in the breeze like wheat in the wind.

“Well, I finally succeeded in catching the animal, but she fought like a wildcat, scratching and hissing at me. I was already hanging on to the tree for dear life, and I knew I couldn’t hold her and climb down at the same time, so I did the only thing that came to mind: I unbuttoned my shirt, stuffed the cat inside, and buttoned it up again.

“Dreadful mistake. She had claws like razor blades, and she wanted her freedom, so she proceeded to slice my chest into ribbons. Of course, Mrs. Peckham was watching all this from below and singing my praises as a hero. So I had no choice but to grit my teeth, ignore the pain, and start climbing down.

“By the time I reached the ladder, the cat had worked her deadly way around my body and was now shredding my back. I was in such a hurry to end my torment that I accidentally kicked the ladder over in my haste to get down. Tiny, frail Mrs. Peckham couldn’t right it again, so she tottered off, in her doddering way, for help.

“I couldn’t wait. The lowest branch was about fifteen feet above the ground, but I figured if I broke my neck in the fall, at least it would end the misery the cat was inflicting on me. And with any luck, the cursed cat would die, too. I swung from the branch with both hands and dropped to the ground—spraining my ankle in the process. I didn’t care. That pain was nothing compared to those needle-like claws. I quickly unbuttoned my shirt, wrenched the blasted cat off my back, and bundled her up inside the shirt like a sack of potatoes.

“By the time Mrs. Peckham returned with her handyman— who probably should have been sent to retrieve the stupid cat in the first place—I must have looked a sight: sitting on the ground, shirtless, my body bleeding and cut to ribbons.

“ ‘Look like the overseer done whipped you good, Mr. St. John,’ the handyman said. He took the bundle away from me and carefully opened it to present the cat to Mrs. Peckham. That’s when I got the biggest surprise of all.

“ ‘Why, Mr. St. John!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s not my kitty!’ ” By the time Charles finished his story, I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. I couldn’t believe he was the same obnoxious man I’d argued with earlier. And I couldn’t believe that I was having such a good time with him. But when Sally and Jonathan left the two of us alone on the blanket and went to feed the leftover cake to the ducks, the fireworks soon started again.

“Have you picnicked here at the fairgrounds before?” Charles asked me casually.

“No, I never have.”

“Isn’t it nice to see so many people enjoying the fine spring weather?”

“Yes, it is.” But I’d noticed that all of the couples strolling the paths that afternoon were white. It angered me that educated people like Charles couldn’t see how wrong that was. I simply had to speak my mind. “It’s too bad, Mr. St. John, that in this beautiful land of freedom, the Negro population of Richmond is not allowed a day of rest or the pleasure of a stroll.”

His eyes narrowed. “Listen now. Don’t start . . .”

“The truth leaves you without defense, doesn’t it?”

“I have a perfectly good defense, but why waste my breath?”

“Ha!” I said. “I’d like to hear you try to defend the fact that slavery deprives people of their basic rights and freedoms.”

“Why bother? You people don’t listen anyway. All I ever do in Washington is argue with Northern abolitionists, and it doesn’t do a bit of good.”

“That’s because they’re right and you’re wrong.”

“No, it’s because you’ve all been brainwashed with a bunch of overblown rhetoric—”

“Stop it this instant!” We looked up to see Sally standing over us, hands on hips. “Honestly! If you two won’t stop bickering, then we’d better go home.”

Charles held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Don’t let me spoil your day. I promise I won’t say another word.”

“Me either!” I folded my arms across my chest.

“Well, that will make for a cheerful afternoon,” Sally said. “Pack everything up, Jonathan. Charles, fetch the carriage. I want to go home.”

“No, Sally, wait!” Jonathan pleaded. “Let’s give them one more chance.”

But Sally refused. Long before the afternoon should have ended, she and Charles were gone. Jonathan was so upset with me he didn’t say a word on the ride home, and he refused my invitation to come into the house. When he drove off without saying good-bye, I comforted myself with the thought that he wasn’t likely to beg me for any more favors.

The worst part of that whole disastrous day was the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about Charles. Half of the time I would argue with him in my head, and the other half of the time I would be remembering his smile or the sound of his laughter—and then that breathless, dizzy sensation would come over me again, the way it had when he shook my hand. I hated myself for being attracted to such a horrible man—for laughing at his stories and for enjoying myself at least some of the time that I’d spent with him.

As I lay tossing in bed that night, I could still hear the sound of his drowsy voice and the habit he had of saying, “Listen now. . .” I groaned aloud.

Tessie got up and came over to sit on my bed. “May as well tell me what’s bothering you, or neither one of us gonna get any sleep tonight.”

I sat up to face her, sitting cross-legged. “He is the most infuriating man I’ve ever met!”

“Jonathan?”

“No. Charles St. John. I hate him! I never want to see him again! I’ve been arguing with him in my head, thinking of all the things I should have said, and now I know exactly what I intend to say to him the next time I see him.”

“I’m just an old mammy, but . . . why you gonna talk to him again if he annoy you so?”

“Because I want to forget him, but I can’t get him out of my mind. I hope I never see him again, but I’m so afraid that I won’t see him. He has me so confused, Tessie! I wish he would go back to Washington and . . . and drown in the Potomac River!”

“Guess this here James River ain’t good enough to drown him.”

“No! I mean, yes! Tessie, I’m not even making sense, am I? What’s wrong with me? I shake all over when I’m with him, even before he makes me angry. My heart starts going crazy, and I can’t catch my breath, and he makes me laugh—yet I can’t help arguing with him.”

“Let me ask you, honey. That young man who keep sending you letters from West Point?”

“You mean Robert?”

“Uh huh . . . does he do all this ‘heart messing’ and ‘body shaking’ with you?”

Not once. Nor had any other man I’d ever met. I shook my head.

“How you feel about that Yankee man?” she asked.

“I feel . . . I feel sorry for Robert. And I feel safe with him.”

“You want to wake up beside him every morning?”

I remembered my cousin Julia asking me the same thing. The thought horrified me. “No,” I told Tessie.

“Well, then. That’s your answer.”

“What? What’s my answer?”

“You not in love with this Robert.”

“Well, I’m certainly not in love with Mr. St. John, I can tell you that! He’s insulting . . . and . . . and obnoxious and . . .”

“What he look like? He as ugly as he is mean?”

“No, he’s not ugly at all.” My voice suddenly quivered with emotion, and I didn’t know why. “He’s . . . he’s . . .” I saw his face in my mind, the way he looked when he laughed and told stories, not when he was angry.

“He’s what, honey?”

“Well . . . he would be a handsome man if he weren’t so obstinate!” I covered my face and cried. I didn’t even know why.

“Mm, mm, mm,” Tessie soothed as she gathered me in her arms. “Sure do make it hard to hate a man when he’s handsome.”

She let me cry for a while, but as my tears began to fade, she asked, “What you and this man arguing about all the time?”

“Slavery. He defends it! Can you imagine? He thinks it’s perfectly acceptable!”

A smile tugged at the corners of Tessie’s mouth. “Seem to me Cousin Jonathan, your daddy, and just about every white man in Virginia think the same thing. You arguing with all of them, too?”

“No,” I answered meekly.

“Honey, if you looking to find a Virginia man who think like a Yankee, you gonna die an old maid. Guess you better marry that Robert fellow while you still got the chance.”

I recalled what she’d said about Robert. I wasn’t in love with him. But how had she known? “What’s it like to fall in love, Tessie?” I asked.

She gazed into the darkness for a long moment, then her smile widened. “Well, when you see that certain man you heart flies like paper on the wind—don’t matter if you just see him one minute ago or one year ago. When you with him, ain’t nothing or nobody else in the whole world but him. You might be walking down the same old street you walk on every day, but if you with him, your feet don’t hardly touch the ground anymore, like you just floating on a little cloud. And, honey, you want his arms to be around you more than you want air to breathe.”

“Is that how you feel about Josiah?” I asked. She nodded silently. “But you hardly ever see Josiah. Have you ever thought about finding another man?”

“Most people very lucky if love come around once,” she said quietly. “Better not be letting go of it, thinking there be another chance.”

I knew that my father’s grief had healed when he decided to take an active part in Richmond society again. As more and more invitations arrived at our house, he sometimes asked me to accompany him in my mother’s place.

“It’s hard for me to believe, Caroline, but you are old enough to be married already,” he told me one day. “I think it’s time I introduced you to some suitable families.”

Half of the time I worried that I’d run into Charles St. John at one of these functions, the other half of the time I was disappointed when I didn’t. Then one night, nearly a month after the picnic, I accompanied my father to a political fund-raising ball at the governor’s mansion. I was standing near the punch table when Charles appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of me.

“Dance with me.”

There was nothing gentlemanly about it. But it was a command. I wanted to refuse, but I couldn’t stop myself from moving into his arms. It was the first time Charles and I had ever held each other, and my knees trembled so badly I could scarcely move.

“Listen now,” he said after a moment. “If I believed in witches I’d swear you were one.” There wasn’t a trace of humor in his voice. He stopped moving and drew back to look at my face. I’d never seen a bluer pair of eyes before. They smoldered like blue flames.

“Come on, Miss Fletcher, fight with me. Make me angry.”

“Why?” I asked in a tiny voice. I was afraid I was going to cry.

He looked away and started dancing again. “Because maybe then I can stop thinking about you day and night.”

I knew exactly how he felt. I decided I would do it; I would give him one last fight, ending this obsession once and for all.

“Do you believe that Negroes can accept the Gospel?” I asked quietly.

“Certainly.”

“Then wouldn’t that make them our Christian brothers and sisters? The Bible says we can’t love Christ and hate our brother.”

“I don’t hate Negroes.”

“Maybe not. But if you loved Christ, you couldn’t stand to drive past the slave auction on Fourteenth Street, knowing what’s going on in there to some of your Christian brethren.”

He danced silently to the music for a moment, then said quietly, “I don’t have an answer to that. I’m sorry.”

He pulled me closer. His grip on my hand and my waist was firm, possessive. I’d danced with dozens of men before, but I couldn’t recall ever being so aware of a man holding me, so conscious of his nearness or the strength of his presence. Everything inside me seemed to be vibrating, as if I stood inside a clanging alarm bell.

When the music ended, we moved apart. I waited for him to thank me for the dance and walk away, yet I was terrified that he would. I had no awareness of the room, the people, or anything else that was going on around me, just Charles standing in front of me, his eyes studying my face. He hadn’t let go of my hand.

“What are you doing to me, Caroline?” he asked softly. “Do you know I’ve actually found myself thinking about some of the things you said? And some of the stupid things I said—like the Negroes being an inferior race. I don’t really believe that. I’ve been wondering which one of us has been brainwashed with overblown rhetoric.”

I don’t know how long we stood that way. I felt breathless, disembodied, as if I were floating—not only from his words but also from his nearness. It was just as Tessie had described it.

“I argue about slavery all the time in Washington,” Charles continued. “I can do it in my sleep. But I’m not used to debating with a woman—especially such a beautiful woman. And to be frank, I’ve rarely known one who had anything intelligent to say about political matters. You’ve turned my comfortable world upside down, Caroline. And I’m forced to admit that you were right about at least one thing—I should have bought that little Negro boy an apple.”

I was so moved by his words, so captivated by his extraordinary blend of humility and charm, that I couldn’t speak. Suddenly, Jonathan’s friend Roger bounded over and tapped Charles’ shoulder, breaking the spell.

“Excuse me. May I have the next dance with you, Miss Fletcher?”

I had to decide. If I accepted this dance with Roger, then Charles would probably walk away, perhaps for good. If I refused it, Charles would know that I had feelings for him. I thought of Tessie’s words about not having a second chance with love, and I made my choice.

“I’m sorry, Roger, but Mr. St. John has the next dance.”

Charles closed his eyes, briefly, as Roger walked away. I heard him exhale. “What do we do now?” he asked when he opened them again.

“Maybe we could stop arguing for once and listen to each other.”

He pulled me into his arms again and waltzed me smoothly around the dance floor. For a long time neither of us spoke, then Charles said, “There is some truth in your arguments about slavery, but they are too simplistic. Besides, this dangerous rift between North and South is not about slavery. It’s about states’ rights.”

“But the right they want to preserve is the right to hold slaves.”

“Slavery is necessary to the South’s economy.”

“True, but that doesn’t make it morally right.”

His grip on my hand tightened. I could sense that he was waging a struggle within himself. “Even if we agreed to abolish slavery tomorrow,” he said, “what would the millions of Negroes do with their freedom? Where would they live? How would they support themselves? The abolitionists have never come up with a sensible plan. And don’t give me that nonsense about Liberia—do your slaves all want to move back to Africa?”

“No, but surely our lawmakers in Washington could come up with a better plan if they put their minds to it. The Negroes deserve the right to have dreams of their own, to live with their families, to know that their children won’t be sold out of their arms.”

“Listen now. Not every slave owner is that cruel.”

“If even one of them is, then it’s wrong. Have you ever befriended a Negro, Charles?”

“My family has always treated our servants well. I was very fond of the mammy who cared for us when we were small.”

“But are you friends with anyone now, as an equal? Have you listened to his thoughts and dreams?”

“Truthfully? No. Have you?”

“Yes. That’s why I feel the way I do. It’s not because I’ve swallowed all of the abolitionists’ propaganda. It’s because of Tessie and Eli. I wish you could meet them.”

He seemed to wrestle with the idea for a moment before saying, “I think I’d like to.”

When the waltz ended, Charles steered me out of the noisy ballroom, his hand resting lightly on my back. I felt as though I no longer had any bones in my legs. We found a quiet corner outside on the terrace where we could talk.

“I wasn’t sure we could do it,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Talk to each other for more than five minutes without fighting. But see? Nearly twenty minutes have passed, and you haven’t told me once how infuriating I am.”

He smiled. “I knew the first day we met that you were an unusual woman. I’d certainly never met one before who was as outspoken as you—not to mention one who went around clubbing suspected slave drivers with her bag. I thought you were just parroting empty words, Caroline, but you aren’t. You really believe what you say. You really care. I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

“Will you forgive me for allowing the Negro boy to escape?”

Charles laughed out loud. “Certainly. But that little thief is still loose on the streets of Richmond, you know. It would serve you right if he snatched your purse right out of your hand one day.”

I smiled up at him in return. “I’ll take that chance.”

Charles looked at me for a long moment. He seemed to be drinking me in, the way a thirsty man gulps water. “Who did you come to this fund-raiser with tonight?” he asked at last.

“My father.”

“I’d like to meet him. I’d like to ask him if I may escort you home.”

My father was very pleased when Charles asked for permission to court me. “The St. Johns are one of Richmond’s finest families,” Daddy said proudly.

“Not to mention, one of the richest?” I teased.

“Well now, that never hurts, either. But let’s not forget what’s really important—”

“That I’m growing very fond of Charles?”

“No,” he said, laughing, “that he’s a good Southern Democrat.”

Charles and I went everywhere together that summer—to musical recitals and dinner parties, to the theater, and to countless political functions as the upcoming presidential election grew closer and closer. As my feelings for him deepened, so did the guilt I felt concerning Robert Hoffman—especially when Robert’s unanswered letters began to pile up on my desk.

I realized that my cousin Julia had been right; Robert believed he was in love with me. I’d continued writing to him regularly since returning to Richmond, but now that I was falling in love myself, I knew that it was unfair to string Robert along with false hopes. I sat down at my desk one day and wrote him a long, honest letter, gently explaining to him that we no longer had an “understanding.”

At the same time, I wrote to Aunt Martha, asking her to help cushion the news. I felt relieved, but a little worried, when Robert’s letters stopped immediately. I eventually received a very cool note from my aunt saying that she and Robert had talked, but she gave no indication of how he had received the news. My cousin Julia stopped mentioning him in her letters.

I had much bigger things to worry about that fall. The United States that I loved so much seemed on the brink of a terrible crisis. The race for president, like John Brown’s uprising, revealed a nation bitterly divided over slavery. The Democratic Party had split in two, with Northern Democrats nominating Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, and Southern Democrats nominating Kentucky’s Senator John Breckinridge. The Republicans chose a compromise candidate named Abraham Lincoln, who pledged to halt the spread of slavery in any states that joined the Union in the future but promised not to interfere with slavery in the states where it already existed. I thought Mr. Lincoln’s position was a fair compromise; Charles disagreed.

“Lincoln’s views are unacceptable,” he insisted. “Once our slave states are outnumbered in Congress, we will no longer have fair representation. The North could enact any laws they pleased.”

“Is that why South Carolina is threatening to secede if Mr. Lincoln is elected?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why. America broke away from Great Britain for the same reason—her interests were not being fairly represented.”

“Do you think it will come to that, Charles? Another revolution?”

“I pray not.”

But when Abraham Lincoln won the election—with only forty percent of the popular vote—Charles and I both felt a sense of dread. Not a single slaveholding state had voted for him.

Charles and I still disagreed over slavery, but we were able to discuss it without arguing now. He listened to my opinions, and that drew my heart to him. He admitted that slavery was unjust, and I admitted that abolishing it immediately would not only destroy the South’s economy but would leave millions of slaves unequipped to deal with their immediate freedom. Charles was kind and fair to his family’s slaves, even if the bonds of love that existed between Tessie and Eli and me were missing.

Tessie and I continued with our reading lessons in the afternoons, and she made excellent progress. Within six months, she could read simple stories and write down the sentences I dictated to her, even though her spelling was poor. She remained very fearful of being discovered, however, and every afternoon she would make me repeat my promise not to tell a soul what we were doing before she would agree to read or write a single word. What had begun as a way to prove Tessie’s equality to Charles would forever remain our secret.

But I no longer felt compelled to prove anything to him. Charles had admitted to me that some slaves could undoubtedly learn how to read, but he felt quite strongly that they should not be educated. Even though we often disagreed, Charles and I were convinced of one thing: our growing feelings for each other were much stronger than our political differences.

Late that year, on December 20, Charles’ family hosted a Christmas party in their enormous home. All of Richmond’s high society was invited. As I waited for Charles to arrive to escort me, I couldn’t help recalling his sister Sally’s party, just one year earlier.

“So much has changed in a year’s time,” I said to Tessie. “I wonder what I’ll be doing a year from now?”

She was watching for Charles’ carriage from my bedroom window, but she turned to smile mischievously at me. “Think you’ll be waking up beside your Mr. St. John by next Christmas?”

The subject still made me blush, but the thought made my heart race. “I . . . I hope so,” I said shyly.

Tessie clapped her hands together and laughed out loud. “That prove it, then! My baby girl in love! And here come Prince Charming’s carriage now.”

I heard it, too. I waited for the ring of the door chimes, the sound of Charles’ footsteps in the foyer, his languid voice as he greeted my father. They never came. “What’s taking him so long?” I asked.

Tessie peered out the window again. “He standing out in back . . . talking to Eli.”

“Let me see.” I went to the window and saw them there, deep in conversation—Charles dressed in formal attire, Eli in ragged stable clothes. They were the same height, and they faced each other, eye to eye. The discussion seemed to last a long time. Then, to my amazement, Charles extended his hand to Eli. Tears filled my eyes as they shook hands with each other. Never before had I seen a well-bred Southern gentleman shaking hands as equals with a Negro.

“Hey, now! Stop that crying!” Tessie scolded. “Your eyes gonna be all puffy and red.”

“I can’t help it. I love him, Tessie.”

“Well, didn’t I just say that, honey?”

When I came down the stairs and saw Charles waiting for me, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. He took my hand and kissed it, his lips lingering for a moment. He tenderly rested his bearded cheek against the back of my hand, then kissed it again.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

I had no sensation of my feet touching the ground as I floated out to his carriage. We settled in the back, side by side, for the drive downhill to his home in Court End.

When he said, “I want to give you your Christmas present a few days early,” my heart began to pound with joy and anticipation. Charles pulled a small, wrapped box from his pocket. My fingers trembled so badly I couldn’t unwrap it.

“Need help?” He smiled and took it from me again. Inside was a magnificent ruby ring in what looked to be a very old platinum-and-gold setting. “It was my grandmother’s ring,” Charles said. He paused for the space of a heartbeat, then said, “Will you marry me, Caroline?”

I wanted to shout my answer from the top of the capitol building, but I couldn’t seem to raise my voice above a whisper. “Yes, please.” I sounded like a small child accepting a cookie. Charles laughed and pulled me into his arms as I battled to control my tears.

“Listen now. I believe I’ve finally found a way to render you speechless,” he said. “I should have tried this months ago. Here, try it on and see if it fits.” He slid the ring onto my left hand. It was a perfect fit. “I asked your father for permission to marry you a few days ago,” Charles said. “He gave us his blessing. Would it be all right if we announced our engagement at the party tonight?”

I wanted the whole world to know, but all I managed to say was, “Yes. It would be wonderful.” Then another thought occurred to me. “Is . . . is this what you were talking to Eli about tonight?”

“You saw us?” For a moment, Charles seemed embarrassed. “Actually . . . yes. I know what a good friend Eli is to you, and I thought . . . well, I thought I’d like to have him as my ally. He gave us his blessing, too.”

I could no longer control my tears. I hugged Charles tightly, unable to express in words how much his gesture had moved me. He understood me well enough to know that Eli’s blessing meant as much to me as my father’s.

Charles’ parents stood next to Daddy at the party later that night to announce our engagement. We would be married next July. The guests applauded the news. All of Richmond’s leading citizens stood in line to congratulate Charles and me and wish us well. Many remembered my mother and spoke fondly of her. But I couldn’t help wondering if a few were worried, for Charles’ sake, that I would turn out to be like her.

Sally had tears in her eyes as she hugged me. “I’m so pleased that you’ll be my sister,” she said. We had become friends now that she no longer viewed me as her rival. She was fond of my cousin Jonathan but was reluctant to limit herself to only one beau.

Jonathan offered his congratulations, too, along with a hug and kiss. “I must say,” he grinned, “this is one match I never would have bet money on, judging by your first date.”

In the midst of this dizzying joy, Mr. Jennings Wise, editor of the Richmond Enquirer, arrived at the party two hours late. It quickly became apparent that he brought startling news. “We received a late bulletin over the wire this evening,” he said. “It came in just as I was leaving the office. South Carolina has officially seceded from the Union.”

The news wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it rocked the gathering nevertheless, bringing the merriment to a temporary standstill. Even after Mr. St. John told the orchestra to continue playing, and urged us all to enjoy the evening’s celebration, everyone gathered in small, worried groups, discussing the secession in hushed whispers. I couldn’t help feeling afraid. I had seen firsthand the deep rift between North and South after the events at Harper’s Ferry. Now that the first state had broken away, I wondered if anything could stop an avalanche of splintering states.

“Something terrible has begun tonight, hasn’t it?” I asked Charles.

“We don’t know that,” he replied, but I read the concern in his eyes.

“Do you think there will be a war?”

“That depends on how Washington reacts. Every state joined the Union voluntarily; they should have the right to leave it again if the Federal government no longer represents their best interests.”

“Will Virginia leave the Union, too?”

He sighed. “There’s not a lot of support for secession at the moment. But listen now. We can only live our lives one day at a time—and this is our special day. Come with me, Caroline.”

He took my hand in his and led me outside to the terrace. The night was warm for December, but still cold enough to make me shiver in my ball gown. Charles took off his coat and wrapped it around me before pulling me into his arms. He held me tightly. Suddenly all that mattered was this moment.

When I stopped shivering, he pulled back to gaze at me with his beautiful eyes. “I love you,” he said. Then he bent his head toward me and kissed me for the first time. I felt the brush of his beard on my face, the pressure of his hands on my back, the warm touch of his lips on mine, and I knew that Tessie’s words were true—I wanted Charles’ arms around me more than I wanted air to breathe.