Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [65]
“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