Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [40]
Because I was somewhat of a novelty in Philadelphia—the Hoffmans’ Southern cousin with her quiet, velvety drawl—the invitations poured through our mail slot. All my life I’d been painfully shy and fearful of new situations, and although that hadn’t changed much, it proved no deterrent to my flowering social life. Rosalie was scheming and socially determined, fearing no one; Julia was lively and outgoing, fearing nothing; I simply floated in their wake. My natural shyness and reserve became part of my mystique as a Southern belle. And if the Hoffmans’ cousin Robert was with me, I didn’t even have to finish my own sentences—he finished them for me.
Robert Hoffman had become a fixture around our house that spring. He was Rosalie and Julia’s cousin, not mine, and he lived on the same street that we did. Since his family was invited to most of the same social functions we were, Robert assumed the duty of escorting me. When the weather finally turned nice, he showed me all the sights of Philadelphia, sometimes riding on the new public horsecars that traveled the city streets on iron rails. Robert was fascinated with war, and no matter which site we visited— whether viewing displays of birds and insects at the National Academy of Sciences or strolling in Fairmont Park on a Sunday afternoon—his comments invariably turned into a lengthy monologue about the American Revolution or the second war with the British. Rosalie would tell him plainly to shut up. Julia would sigh and roll her eyes. And both would eventually wander away to leave me his sole audience.
Robert planned to attend West Point Military Academy in the fall, hoping to become a great army general, but I had trouble picturing him as a soldier. He had the same softness that Julia did, like a puppy that hasn’t quite outgrown its baby fat. With his dark, glossy hair, swarthy skin, and soulful, down-turned eyes, he reminded me more of a mournful Spanish poet than a spit-andpolish military commander. His palms were sweaty, his monologues boring, and he danced as if his shoes were on the wrong feet, but I clung willingly to his arm, grateful that I didn’t have to face new people and new situations all alone.
Robert escorted me to the extravagant ball that was given when the Academy of Music’s opera house opened that year, but I quickly lost sight of him in the deluge of young gentlemen requesting the honor of a dance with me. I barely caught the first gentleman’s name and a glimpse of his face before he swept me out onto the dance floor. Then the agonizing task of making conversation began.
“Good evening, miss. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”
“Um . . . I’m Caroline Fletcher. Perhaps you know my uncle, Judge Philip Hoffman?”
“Caroline Fletcher,” he repeated, imitating my Southern accent. “I must confess that I already knew that, Miss Fletcher. I just wanted to listen to your voice. I love the dreamy way y’all stretch out your words,” he said, imitating me again. I excused myself and tried to flee the moment the music stopped, but I was immediately swept away by another would-be suitor.
“Judge Hoffman certainly lives with a house full of beauties,” this one told me. “But I believe you’re the prettiest one of them all. May I have the honor of calling on you sometime?”
I shook my head. His flattery did not gain my interest. “My uncle does not wish me to accept callers,” I lied.
“I hear you’re from down south, Miss Fletcher,” my next dancing partner said. I’d forgotten his name the moment he’d told it to me.
“Yes. I’m from Richmond, Virginia.”
“How many slaves do you own?”
“Why, I don’t own any.”
“Come now, Miss Fletcher. I’m not criticizing you or anything. I