Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [42]
“Don’t worry. Rosalie would murder me if I dared to find a husband before she did.” As he steamed away, gazing mournfully from the ship’s rail, I wondered how I would ever get along without him. I decided to ask Rosalie for advice.
“For goodness’ sakes, Caroline. I can’t imagine feeling tonguetied when I’m dancing with a suitor.” I had broached the question as Rosalie sat at our dressing table, primping for a round of afternoon social calls. She took forever to get ready, and since there was only one mirror in our room, Julia and I rarely got more than a glimpse of ourselves. That day, I decided to stand behind Rosalie and peer around her as we both brushed our hair. She gazed at my reflection with pity.
“But your shyness is beside the point,” she continued. “The unwritten rules of etiquette say that proper young ladies mustn’t talk too much in the first place. We’re supposed to draw the conversation out of our gentlemen.”
“How do I do that? The only man I’ve ever talked to for any length of time is Robert. And he never runs out of famous battles to discuss.”
“Don’t judge all men by Robert.” She dismissed him with a toss of her head and a flip of her hand. “Most men’s favorite subject is themselves. Ask them a few questions, toss in a few oohs and ahhs, and I guarantee they’ll simply go on and on about themselves. You’ll be lucky to get a word in sideways.”
I tried her advice at the very next opportunity. Before the young man had a chance to say a word, I said, “Tell me about yourself.” He didn’t stop until the music did.
Along with their busy round of social obligations, my aunt and her family also faithfully attended worship services in one of Philadelphia’s beautiful churches. It was the socially expected thing to do, the proper place to be seen—and a very lucrative place to engage in husband-hunting. The family pew had belonged to the Hoffmans since before the Revolutionary War, and pity the poor visitor who mistakenly sat there on a Sunday morning. Their church was very much like ours back home: the same hard, boxy pews; the same slow, somber organ music; the same stained-glass windows with their bronze plaques honoring generous donors; the same flowery oratory in the pastors’ sermons, quietly lulling everyone to sleep.
Sometimes, in unguarded moments, I would recall the slaves’ midnight worship service out in the woods behind the plantation, remembering its joy-filled music and Eli’s heart-stirring sermon, and I’d almost wish I could go back there to clap and dance and sing about Massa Jesus. I’d promised Eli that I wouldn’t forget all the lessons he shared with Grady and me, but after more than a year in Philadelphia, those memories were already fading like scenes glimpsed at sunset.
Then one Sunday morning the entire congregation was suddenly jolted awake. A new minister, fresh out of Yale Divinity School, arrived to fill in for our venerable old pastor who had taken ill. The young Reverend Nathaniel Greene shouted loudly enough to wake the dead in the churchyard, not to mention Aunt Martha. His sermon shook the chandeliers and the chancel rails and rattled the stained-glass saints and the drowsing deacons and dowagers. Blunt and raw, his wasn’t a pretty speech, but it was electrifying in its passion. He spoke as though he really meant every word, the way Eli used to talk about Massa Jesus, as if He were a real live person. Rev. Greene’s text from 1 Corinthians warned that the Lord “will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, make manifest the counsels of the hearts.”
“What really motivates us as we go about our daily affairs,” he asked. “Is it pride in our external appearance? The desire for wealth and recognition? Do any of us have a genuine desire to see the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms of our God and of His Christ? We might hide the dimly illuminated recesses of our hearts from ourselves and from each other,” Rev. Greene warned, “but the time is coming when