Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller - [Lights of Lowell 01] (12 page)

‘‘The night air can cause us both to take sick,’’ Alice replied, linking her arm with her granddaughter’s. ‘‘Besides, Martha has promised to have fresh cinnamon scones ready for our evening tea.

You haven’t yet tasted her special recipe. They are quite delightful.’’

Jasmine seemed easily placated with this response. Alice almost felt sorry for the girl. Her innocence made it simpler for Alice to explain away their departure, but her ignorance of the truth was distressful.

They were but a short distance from the church when Alice noticed Nolan Houston walking toward them with a quizzical look on his face. ‘‘Good evening, ladies. I must say I was surprised to see you in attendance, Miss Wainwright. What brings a Southern belle to an antislavery meeting?’’

‘‘I was curious, anxious to expand my knowledge.’’

‘‘And does my brother know you were in attendance this evening?’’ He flashed her a broad smile as if already knowing the answer.

Alice stepped forward and took Nolan’s arm. ‘‘No, he doesn’t, Nolan. And I would be most appreciative if you didn’t mention seeing us. I fear I took it upon myself to bring Jasmine without seeking her father’s approval. I beg your indulgence in this matter.’’

Nolan’s smile faded. ‘‘Of course, Mrs. Wainwright. I would never betray your confidence.’’

Alice breathed a sigh of relief. The handsome young man seemed to easily understand her plight without forcing her to give further explanation. ‘‘Thank you. And if I may be of assistance to you in the future, you have only to ask.’’

He nodded. ‘‘I understand the delicacy of the situation.’’ Turning his attention to Jasmine, he said, ‘‘I hope you found the meeting informative, Miss Wainwright.’’

‘‘I thought the presentation rather one-sided. As I was telling my grandmother, there are many slaves who are happy and well cared for. In fact, we have such slaves on the Wainwright plantations.’’

‘‘That’s good to hear. For when I toured your plantation, I failed to ask the slaves I saw whether they were happy. Of course, most of them were out in the fields laboring in the relentless heat, but when I again visit The Willows, I’ll make it a point to inquire.’’

Jasmine frowned at his seemingly flippant reply. ‘‘You need only ask Mammy. She’ll tell you how happy she’s been living with us.’’

Alice cleared her throat. ‘‘We really must be going home. We have a full day tomorrow. The Ladies’ Society from the church is meeting at my house.’’

‘‘Certainly,’’ Nolan said graciously while tipping his hat.

Once they were settled in the carriage and Martin flicked the reins, Alice took Jasmine’s hand in her own. ‘‘The meeting tonight is
not
something you should mention publicly, my dear, even with those who were in attendance. Caution is the best practice.’’

Jasmine arched her thin, perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘‘So tomorrow I’m not to speak of having been at tonight’s meeting? Is that what you want me to understand, Grandmother?’’

‘‘No need to take umbrage. I make this request of anyone I take to the meetings. Those who attend the antislavery meetings have an expectation their confidentiality will not be breached. I’m asking no more of you than I request from any of my other guests.’’

Jasmine bowed her head. ‘‘I’m sorry. I’m acting like a spoiled child after you were kind enough to take me to the meeting. My lips are sealed. You have my word.’’

‘‘Thank you, dear. I knew I could count on you.’’

But even with her granddaughter’s promise, Alice Wainwright could not settle her discomfort. She could hardly explain her situation to Jasmine. How could she hope for her granddaughter to understand that the very institution that put jewels around her throat and silks on her back was the very nightmare Alice had turned her back on when she returned to live in the North? No, there would be no easy way to explain the matter. To Jasmine, life on the plantation was leisurely afternoons reading and sewing—it was tender care by Mammy, who had raised the girl since infancy—it was a facade of a utopia that didn’t exist.

But I won’t be the one to open her eyes to the truth,
Alice thought uncomfortably.
She’ll see it for herself soon enough. She’s an adult now,
and while protected, Jasmine is no dolt. She’ll learn the truth
.

‘‘And the truth shall make you free,’’
a voice whispered deep in her heart.

‘‘But the truth is often very hard to take,’’ she responded quietly.

Jasmine looked up and smiled. ‘‘What did you say, Grandmother?’’

Alice shook her head and patted her granddaughter’s hand.

‘‘Just the mutterings of an old woman. Nothing of import.’’ But in her heart, Alice knew better. It was possibly the most important lesson Jasmine would ever learn.

Jasmine stood beside her grandmother while affably greeting their guests the next afternoon. The ladies flocked into the house in their plumed hats and silk carriage dresses as though they were attending the social event of the season rather than a meeting of the Ladies’ Society.

Violet grasped Jasmine by the arm and pulled her away from the crowd. ‘‘Did you enjoy the meeting last night?’’

Jasmine cocked her head and met Violet’s intense gaze. ‘‘What meeting?’’

‘‘The antislavery meeting, silly. I saw you there with your grandmother.’’

‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’’ Jasmine insisted.

Violet placed her fingertips to her lips. ‘‘Oh, I understand.

You’re holding fast to the privacy rules. But it doesn’t matter if you talk to me—after all, I was in attendance too. However, I must admit that I was quite surprised to see you at the meeting. What did you think after hearing those poor slaves talk about how they were mistreated? And those dreadful scars on their backs—did you
look
at them?’’

Jasmine chewed on her lip and strengthened her resolve. She would keep her word. ‘‘Would you like a cup of punch? It’s really quite good. I tasted it earlier.’’

Violet sighed and folded her arms across her chest. ‘‘Well, then, let’s talk about your wedding. I’m surprised you’ve remained in Massachusetts. Is your mother making all the plans for your nuptials without you? I would much prefer to plan my own wedding when I get married.’’

Jasmine’s soft laughter floated through the room. ‘‘Nuptials?

I’m not getting married. Wherever did you get such a preposterous idea?’’

‘‘My father told us at breakfast this morning. If you don’t believe me, ask my mother.’’

Jasmine clamped on to Violet’s arm and pulled her out the stained-glass doors leading into the garden. ‘‘Exactly
what
did your father say?’’ Dread rushed over her like a cold, damp breeze.

Violet’s gaze was riveted upon the fingers digging into her flesh. ‘‘You’re hurting my arm.’’

Jasmine loosened her hold but didn’t turn the girl free. ‘‘Tell me what your father said about marriage plans. I don’t even have a suitor.’’

‘‘Of course you do,’’ Violet retorted, shaking free. ‘‘Bradley Houston! He’s been your constant escort since you arrived in Lowell. Although, personally, I find his brother much more appealing. He has the loveliest eyes—don’t you think?’’

‘‘Is
Bradley
who you’re talking about?’’ Jasmine placed her hand on her chest and sighed in relief. ‘‘Bradley’s not my beau. He escorts me as a matter of convenience and safety—at my father’s request.’’

‘‘Really?’’ the fourteen-year-old questioned. ‘‘Well, my father said that Mr. Houston would be escorting you back to Mississippi in mid-November and the two of you would be married during the Christmas holidays. Perhaps your father has requested more of Mr. Houston than you realize.’’

A flash of anger stabbed at her like a red-hot poker. ‘‘Mr. Houston has never asked me to marry him, and I’m certain he hasn’t asked for my father’s consent. In addition, my mother would have written me.’’

‘‘I can’t imagine he’d announce your wedding plans to all of his business associates if he didn’t have your father’s permission,’’ Violet countered.

Jasmine was uncertain how to respond. She had more questions than answers, and right now she wanted only to awaken from this nightmare. The warm afternoon heat closed in like a suffocating shroud. ‘‘He made a public announcement?’’ She shook her head and looked around. ‘‘I must sit down. I feel as though I’m going to faint.’’

Violet helped her to the bench and then sat down beside her.

‘‘I’m sorry I was so unkind, but it never entered my mind you didn’t know. I just thought you were being coy. When Father told us, I did express my surprise that you would agree to marry Mr.

Houston since you’ve told me in the past you did not enjoy his company.’’

‘‘His behavior makes me extremely uncomfortable,’’ Jasmine confided. ‘‘Besides, he’s too old for me. I’m but ten and eight and he’s . . . well . . . he’s much older.’’

‘‘What will you do?’’

‘‘As soon as the meeting is over, I’ll talk to Grandmother and see what she knows of these arrangements. If she, too, is uninformed, we’ll need to talk with Bradley Houston. Until then, I’m going to pray this is all a misunderstanding.’’

So great was her sense of humiliation that she wanted to disappear from sight, and Violet’s wan smile was doing nothing to help buoy her spirits. There was nothing to do but return to the parlor and act as though all was right with the world.

‘‘I suppose we should join the others,’’ Jasmine said, finally staying her nerves. ‘‘But please, Violet, say nothing about this.’’

‘‘I promise I won’t,’’ the girl said, jumping to her feet. ‘‘I cannot vouch, however, for what my mother might say or do. She loves weddings and babies. I think she always longed to have more daughters to plan events for, but alas, she has to suffer with me. Of course, my brother, Michael, keeps her very busy. Mother often says that twelve-year-old boys are much more difficult to contain than fourteen-year-old girls.’’

Jasmine listened only half-heartedly to Violet’s girlish chatter. Inside her head, a million questions were spilling over one another. How could Bradley Houston have made a public announcement of marriage? It was unheard of. The embarrassment he would face when she rejected him would be a hard matter to face among his peers. Why would he put this burden upon himself? Unless . . . Jasmine couldn’t even bear to let the words form in her thoughts. It couldn’t be true. Her father and mother would have said something.

‘‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ve joined us,’’ Lilly Cheever said as Jasmine and Violet came into the room. ‘‘I have someone I want you to meet.’’

Jasmine forced a smile, meeting the dark-eyed gaze of the woman. Lilly Cheever wasted little time pulling Jasmine along beside her.

‘‘Elinor, this is the young woman I was telling you about. Jasmine Wainwright, I’d like you to meet Elinor Brighton. She’s the younger sister of Taylor Manning. His wife, Bella, is that lovely woman speaking with your grandmother.’’

Jasmine met the face of Elinor Brighton and knew immediately that the woman was in no more mood to be at this gathering than was Jasmine. ‘‘I’m pleased to meet you,’’ Jasmine said, struggling with her composure.

Elinor nodded. ‘‘As am I.’’

The brown-haired woman looked immediately past Jasmine as though expecting someone to come through the door. Jasmine had heard from her grandmother that this woman had been recently widowed. In the South she wouldn’t be allowed to join in a public gathering.

In the South a man would never speak out of turn about marrying a woman he hardly knew.

But we aren’t in the South,
Jasmine reminded herself.

Bradley had planned to take the train to Boston, but Alice Wainwright’s message summoning him to her home had required him to postpone the journey. The old woman’s note had been vague and somewhat terse, and he had momentarily considered ignoring her request. But caution prevailed—he dare not upset Malcolm Wainwright’s mother at this juncture. Even though his meeting in Boston wasn’t urgent, Bradley detested the interruption nonetheless.

After all, he’d made arrangements to meet with Mr. Sheppard first thing in the morning to go over the shipping business accounts, and now he’d had to send his apologies and ask to reschedule their appointment. Although Bradley had sold the majority of the family shipping business upon his father’s death, he still retained ownership of two of the newer vessels and a moderate share of the stock. And while he didn’t look after daily maritime operations, Bradley was an astute businessman who knew the wisdom of making an occasional visit to inspect Mr. Sheppard’s books.

Attempting to squelch his irritation as he walked up the steps, Bradley took a deep breath and knocked on Alice Wainwright’s front door. He nodded at Martha as he handed her his silk-banded hat. ‘‘I trust the ladies are expecting me,’’ he commented brusquely.

Martha returned his aloof gaze, her chiseled features void of emotion. ‘‘They’re in the parlor, sir.’’

Although he was none too happy about Mrs. Wainwright’s request for him to make an immediate appearance, he was determined to maintain his composure. Losing his temper with the old woman would not be wise.

Bradley entered the elegant yet simple sitting room. To one side of the room Jasmine stood near a large floor-to-ceiling window. Her gown of pale pink hugged her figure, stirring Bradley’s interest. She might well be the factor that clinched the deal in his business relationship with Malcolm Wainwright, but it certainly was beneficial that she was slender and beautiful.

He flashed her a smile just as she turned to meet his gaze. She said nothing and turned away quickly to take a seat, a frown lining her otherwise worried expression. Bradley turned to greet Mrs.

Wainwright, who sat stock-still in a high-back padded chair.

‘‘I’m pleased to see that you both appear to be in good health.

The vagueness of your message left me wondering what mayhem might greet me when I arrived,’’ he stated.

‘‘Sit down, Bradley.’’

The chill in Mrs. Wainwright’s words sent icy fingers racing down his spine. He glanced toward Jasmine, whose cold stare held the same chill as did her grandmother’s words. Perhaps this matter was more serious than he had contemplated. Bradley startled when Mrs. Wainwright rang for Martha and then instructed her to bring tea. He wanted to forego the ritual. Instead, they sat quietly, saturated by an ominous silence that hovered over the room like a vaporous fog. Waiting. Staring first at some indistinguishable spot on the floor and then the ceiling. Listening as the mantel clock ticked off the minutes. Finally, when he thought he would surely break his resolve and speak out, Martha reappeared with their refreshments, and Mrs. Wainwright ceremoniously poured their afternoon repast.