Read Online The Velvet Shadow by Angela Elwell Hunt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
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the habit,” Alden answered, frowning.
“Then you won’t mind if I take the window?”
“Not at all.” Alden stood so the whiskered man could take the window seat. Better to have the man spitting out the window than over his lap for the space of the journey.
Once the man had settled himself, Alden took the aisle seat, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped arrangement would allow, and folded his hands over the buckle of his uniform. Whispers ofboulevard traffic drifted in through the open windows, and a trio of children ran down the aisle, leaving a trail of laughter in the smoky car. Passengers were still moving about, and as he looked across the aisle he caught sight of a pretty little girl no more than five years old. Her red hair, a mass of copper-gold curls tied with bright ribbons, reminded him of Flanna O’Connor’s. But Flanna’s hair had that beguiling white streak near her temple, a flash of brightness not unlike her spirit.
The little girl offered Alden a shy smile, then dove for the security of her mother’s lap. Alden looked away as a feeling of homesickness tore at his heart. A military career was not a difficult life in peacetime, and he truly desired to serve his country. But the dark clouds on the horizon were more threatening than his family realized, and his stomach twisted in misery at the thought of Roger’s Charleston sweetheart. Why couldn’t Roger have set his cap for a nice Boston girl?
Strange, how God had placed the two brothers on two separate paths. Alden followed in his father’s footsteps on the path of duty and honor, while Roger followed his mother’s course of public service. And while Alden enjoyed his disciplined way of life and his work, sometimes he envied Roger’s freewheeling social life. Spiritually, as well, the brothers differed. Roger saw God as a benevolent king, lovingly protecting his subjects. In the army, Alden had seen more of God’s justice than his mercy, more wrath than love.
Alden parked his chin in his palm and smiled as his thoughts drifted toward Flanna O’Connor. She had been insulted when he likened her to a whiskey-fed headache. He’d meant no real slight, for he’d found her charming, bright, and cultured—everything a politician’s wife should be. She was probably resilient too. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, nor would criticism hurt her, for women that polished usually held a high opinion of themselves. The concerns of others rolled off them like dirt off a shovel. He had always been amazed at the cool composure with which his mother and her friends distributed food baskets for the poor during Christmas week and turned a blind eye to the needy during the rest of the year. That same quality, no doubt, enabled them torail against the enslavement of Negroes while they treated their Irish servants with less respect than their horses.
But Flanna O’Connor seemed quite unlike the other young women who moved in Roger’s circle. Her voice was not the girlish, empty-headed whisper that so many other young ladies cultivated these days. She spoke in low and dusky tones that would send shivers of awareness down any man’s spine. And she was Southern. But while Roger undoubtedly considered her geographical heritage an advantage in his long-range ambition to rise to the presidency, geography could not completely account for her uniqueness.
When she had spoken of her father, Alden had seen a glimpse of real compassion in her eyes. What other quality would lead a gentlewoman into the demanding and indelicate study of medicine? She seemed too refined and feminine to suffer from a masculine desire to prove herself, and at lunch she had visibly recoiled when his mother boldly stated that women ought to doff their skirts and crinolines in favor of bloomers. Alden had seen a woman dressed in that silly costume once—the lady walked on the street in baggy trousers and a shortened, full-cut overdress that fell just past her hips. The overall
“Then you won’t mind if I take the window?”
“Not at all.” Alden stood so the whiskered man could take the window seat. Better to have the man spitting out the window than over his lap for the space of the journey.
Once the man had settled himself, Alden took the aisle seat, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped arrangement would allow, and folded his hands over the buckle of his uniform. Whispers ofboulevard traffic drifted in through the open windows, and a trio of children ran down the aisle, leaving a trail of laughter in the smoky car. Passengers were still moving about, and as he looked across the aisle he caught sight of a pretty little girl no more than five years old. Her red hair, a mass of copper-gold curls tied with bright ribbons, reminded him of Flanna O’Connor’s. But Flanna’s hair had that beguiling white streak near her temple, a flash of brightness not unlike her spirit.
The little girl offered Alden a shy smile, then dove for the security of her mother’s lap. Alden looked away as a feeling of homesickness tore at his heart. A military career was not a difficult life in peacetime, and he truly desired to serve his country. But the dark clouds on the horizon were more threatening than his family realized, and his stomach twisted in misery at the thought of Roger’s Charleston sweetheart. Why couldn’t Roger have set his cap for a nice Boston girl?
Strange, how God had placed the two brothers on two separate paths. Alden followed in his father’s footsteps on the path of duty and honor, while Roger followed his mother’s course of public service. And while Alden enjoyed his disciplined way of life and his work, sometimes he envied Roger’s freewheeling social life. Spiritually, as well, the brothers differed. Roger saw God as a benevolent king, lovingly protecting his subjects. In the army, Alden had seen more of God’s justice than his mercy, more wrath than love.
Alden parked his chin in his palm and smiled as his thoughts drifted toward Flanna O’Connor. She had been insulted when he likened her to a whiskey-fed headache. He’d meant no real slight, for he’d found her charming, bright, and cultured—everything a politician’s wife should be. She was probably resilient too. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, nor would criticism hurt her, for women that polished usually held a high opinion of themselves. The concerns of others rolled off them like dirt off a shovel. He had always been amazed at the cool composure with which his mother and her friends distributed food baskets for the poor during Christmas week and turned a blind eye to the needy during the rest of the year. That same quality, no doubt, enabled them torail against the enslavement of Negroes while they treated their Irish servants with less respect than their horses.
But Flanna O’Connor seemed quite unlike the other young women who moved in Roger’s circle. Her voice was not the girlish, empty-headed whisper that so many other young ladies cultivated these days. She spoke in low and dusky tones that would send shivers of awareness down any man’s spine. And she was Southern. But while Roger undoubtedly considered her geographical heritage an advantage in his long-range ambition to rise to the presidency, geography could not completely account for her uniqueness.
When she had spoken of her father, Alden had seen a glimpse of real compassion in her eyes. What other quality would lead a gentlewoman into the demanding and indelicate study of medicine? She seemed too refined and feminine to suffer from a masculine desire to prove herself, and at lunch she had visibly recoiled when his mother boldly stated that women ought to doff their skirts and crinolines in favor of bloomers. Alden had seen a woman dressed in that silly costume once—the lady walked on the street in baggy trousers and a shortened, full-cut overdress that fell just past her hips. The overall
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