The Invention of Wings(47)

            After the excuses and the trivialities, Father got right to the point. “Tell us, Mr. Williams, what is it that your father does?”

            “Sir, my father owns the silver shop on Queen Street. It was founded by my great-grandfather and is the largest silver shop in the South.”

            He spoke with unconcealed pride, but the stiff silence that had preceded his arrival descended again. A Grimké daughter would marry a son of the planter class who would study law, medicine, religion, or architecture in order to occupy himself until he inherited.

            “A shop, you say?” Mother asked, giving herself time to absorb the blow.

            “That’s correct, madame.”

            She turned to Father. “A silver shop, John.”

            Father nodded, and I read his thought: Merchant. It rose in the air above his forehead like a dark condensation.

            “We’ve frequented the shop often,” I said, beaming as if those occasions had been the highlight of my life.

            Mother came to my aid. “Indeed we have. It’s a lovely shop, John.”

            Mr. Williams slid forward in his chair and addressed Father. “Sir, my grandfather’s wish was to provide our city with a silver shop that would live up to the one your own grandfather, John Paul Grimké, owned. I believe it was on the corner of Queen and Meeting, wasn’t it? My grandfather thought him to be the greatest silversmith in the country, greater than Mr. Revere.”

            Oh, the adroitness of this man! I twisted in my chair the better to see him. In the guise of a compliment, he’d let it be known he was not the only one in the room descended from the merchant class. Of course, the difference was that John Paul Grimké had parlayed the success of his shop into cotton ventures and large land holdings in the low country. He’d been ambitious and prudent, and toiled his way into Charleston aristocracy. Nevertheless, Mr. Williams had landed his punch.

            Father eyed him steadily and spoke two words. “I see.”

            I think he did see, too. In that moment, he saw Mr. Williams quite well.

            Tomfry served Hyson tea and biscuits, and the conversation turned back to trivialities, an interlude cut short when the curfew drums began. Mr. Williams rose, and I felt a sudden deflation. To my wonder, Mother entreated him to visit again, and I saw one of Father’s luxuriant eyebrows lift.

            “May I see him to the door?” I asked.

            “Of course, dear, but Tomfry will accompany you.”

            We trailed Tomfry from the room, but once past the door, Mr. Williams stopped and placed his hand on my arm. “You look enchanting,” he whispered, drawing his face close to mine. “It would ease my regret in leaving, if you favored me with a lock of your hair.”

            “My hair?”

            “As a token of your affection.”

            I lifted the hen feathers to cover the heat in my face.

            He pressed a white handkerchief into my hand. “Fold the lock inside my kerchief, then toss it over the fence to George Street. I’ll be there, waiting.” With that titillating directive, he gave me a grin, such a grin, and strode toward the door, where Tomfry waited uncomfortably.

            Returning to the drawing room to face my parents’ evaluations, I halted outside the door, realizing they were speaking about me.

            “John, we must face reason. He may be her only chance.”

            “You think our daughter so poor a marriage prospect she can draw no better than that?”

            “His family is not poor. They are reasonably well-to-do.”