Darkness filled the air, held back along with the winter's cold by the warm orange glow flickering out of the brick lined fireplace that occupied a fair portion of the west wall of the great room, aided by the scattered candles lit by the maids as evening came. The paintings of long and near gone family, and one turbulent image of a ship about to be lost at sea in a terrible storm lurked upon the walls of the antebellum home. They seemed possessed with the ghosts that surely haunted the old house, dancing back and forth in time with the flames. Her father and mother looked down from the largest painting, brooding over the mantle for no other reason than that they belonged there.
The young woman in a sleeping gown and robe drank her tea from a fine porcelain cup with gold edging, seated in one of two deep winged chairs set before the fireplace, digging her toes into the thick carpet. She stared through the flames, lost in thought. It had been a long day. Between following shipments, dealing with warehouses and banks, holding off amorous ship's captains, and the daily toil that made up the life of one of the city's finest tea merchants. She set her teacup and saucer on the flawlessly carved Chippendale table, and nearly lost both for being startled by the finely tailored young man now in the other chair, where he was not a moment before.
"Damn it, William, you scared me near to death!"
William smiled, pouring himself a cup of tea from the covered pot set on the table, adding sugar but no milk. "Georgette, darling, forgive me," he drawled softly.
"Oh, William, you must be more specific. There are many things for which you should seek my forgiveness," she said, smiling warmly at her brother as he sat back in his chair. The maid slipped in and replaced the teapot with a fresh one. William smiled his thanks to her. Cup and saucer in one hand, he brushed his lap with the other as he crossed his legs, setting a starched lace napkin across it, and settled with his tea, sipping silently. He moved with a grace that belied his gender. He pulled the cuff of his shirt down from under the sleeve of his jacket with a snap, its lace as fine as that of his napkin.
"Pray tell, Georgette..."
She laughed,"You simply must stop insulting my friends, William, lest I find myself without any."
"Ah..." he replied, "my plan to have you all to myself is working. Whom have I 'offended' such that they would see that as grounds for dismissing your loveliness from their otherwise shallow, colorless lives?" His wordiness and sarcastic emphasis on the word "offended" did not escape her, but she ignored it.
"Mrs. Dubois..."
He rolled his eyes and set his cup clattering in its saucer, never letting go of either, interrupting her. "Is a tiresome old harpy who carries on in tears at anyone whom she feels has caused her to choose to be offended. She seems eager to choose to be offended, as it makes her relevant, and she claims it often when it concerns me."
"She doesn't choose to be offended, William, she is sensitive to slights, as you should be to her frail nature."
"What? Why?"
"You need to be gentler, William, that's all I am saying."
"Darling, I am a dandy, I could not be gentler."
"And as such you might be expected to show more discretion. For God's sake, William, speaking your mind when you should hold your tongue is not your gentler nature," she offered with some annoyance. She had turned to stare into the fire again, but William could see she was upset.
"Love, I have always been an honest man, and I dare say it is my strength. That I choose not to lie when given an opportunity to express my opinion should not be seen as a character flaw, surely. Anyone who would choose to be offended perhaps should be encouraged to be more careful proposing an idea, so as to avoid slight. We digress, what have I done to annoy your friend?"
"You came to church."
"Seriously?" He was surprised. He always came to church.
"She exclaimed to anyone who would listen that a sodomite had no business sitting in God's house, and that you should be prohibited, forcibly if necessary, from doing so," she replied.
They sat quietly, he sipping his tea, she adjusting the blanket across her knees.
"I am shocked speechless," he squeaked with a giggle, trying not to laugh outright, the sarcasm thick upon it.
"William, honestly..."
"She is a devout Christian woman, its her nature to judge, I understand that..."
Irritated she snapped back, "You understand nothing!"
Sensing her ire, he answered sincerely,"I see you are upset, certainly not about me, perhaps with Mrs. Dubois and her sanctimony, but what truly bothers you, my dear?"
She looked at her hands, realizing she had clasped them tightly in her lap. "Charleston is our home, William, we have to live with these people, as sanctimonious as some may be. Surely you can see that your open expression of your opinions, particulalry against slavery, causes offense to some of our more sensitve friends?"
"My dear Georgette, one cannot cause offense, one can only take it. It is a choice one makes. Most are annoyed, really, not offended, but offended sounds more odious and compelling. They fail to understand that ideas do not cause reason for the taking of offense. Ideas cause nothing, people wielding them do. Ideas should be discussed, it is their reason d'etre, they are meaningless without discussion." He sipped, then continued softly and casually as was his way. "That weaker minds chose to remain unthinking and discourage reason by claiming offense is itself an offense against the human mind. Unthinking acceptance of dogma cowed reason and brought the Dark Ages, where the church and fear ruled. The return of thought and the discussion of ideas, challenging dogma, brought the Enlightment. That there are those who chose to remain in the dark rather than the light is their choice, and I need not abide it. They need that dark, it supports their sense of order and control, no matter how thin and contradictory its source. They seem to feel that their ideas deserve protection, are somehow sacred and special. Ideas are never sacred, Georgette, that would be dangerous. They are malleable notions, but ephemeral and capable by themselves of nothing. Wielded by a thoughtful person, that person can change the world with an idea. Attaching an idea to one's ego is inviting ruin, for many ideas fail scrutiny. If they chose to be offended when their ideas are hammered, they should first not enter the fray, or present better ideas, rather than cry foul. If they choose to declare their ideas unchallengeable, well then, they are no ideas at all, only dogma. And dogma, its ironic I know, are notions that demand challenge by their very nature."
She had turned back to the light that filled his eyes as he spoke, and continued to study him for a few moments after he had fallen silent. She loved her brother, admired his intellect, and recognized why the college valued him so highly as a professor, but she feared for his trusting nature, and his inability to see the world for what it was.
"William, what has the church always done with thinkers, especially the brightest and most out spoken ones?"
"Why they hang them, dear sister, burn them, and when in a more benign mood, lock them in their houses until they come to their senses and deny reason."
"My point is made, William, that even the sharpest tongue cannot cut the rope with which the likes of Mrs. Dubois would hang you."
"I see... yes, your point is made, Georgette," he replied thoughtfully, fooling her not in the least. "I shall work to abide my gentler nature, to think and share only happy thoughts, to allow the insipid to remain unchallenged, and to hide among all the others, hiding who and what they really are, what they think and feel, so that everyone remains happy on the outside, while frightened to death wondering what everyone is really thinking and feeling on the inside, resentful for being silenced. I shall acknowledge only that all is right with the world."
"Good. Then its settled," she smiled, her humor easing her rebuke. She rose, setting the blanket across the chair and said good night. "I am off to bed."
"Hmm..." She kissed his cheek, he waved after her saucer and cup in hand, smiling as the oversized dog moved from the hearth and took her vacated seat.
"Such is life unfettered by reason, limited by faith. All happy in carefully chosen psalm and verse while ever fearful as God plays at dice with their lives, mocking them all the way, begging their abusive Father to kindness," he said softly to the now sleeping dog. He sat thoughtfully, warmed by the fire as it dwindled. He finished his tea, set it aside, gathered his hat, gloves and walking stick, straightened his collar, and made his way home to his rectory.
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