Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “So you haven’t been pining for a certain young redhead?”

  “You can’t be serious, Sarah. The girl’s behavior renders her utterly displeasing. And anyway, I will only ever have room in my eyes, in my heart, for you. In my hands, too.” He squeezed her on the rump for emphasis and added, “So you must allow me to smother you with love and protection for always.”

  The thought of protecting Sarah prompted Douglas to remember his intention of visiting Wilson Bly. If that rice farmer was the source of the rumors, he would need to be given a new perspective, and soon. Douglas had attempted over the years to maintain his reputation as a foreign eccentric, rather than an outright abolition sympathizer. He thought again about the inexplicable behavior of the wealthy planters at the Cunningham ball and again, he felt a seeping dread, like black smoke, wafting over his bones.

  His visit to Bly would be the first step in quelling the suspicion, as Bly was known to run off at the mouth and would certainly divulge whatever they discussed. It would be better, Douglas reflected as he ran his fingers through Sarah’s curls and deposited small kisses at the base of her neck, to smooth everything over before his next Blockade journey. He could fix this, and he would. Tomorrow. In the meantime, he would take his wife upstairs to see just how much those hands of his could hold.

  5

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1845

  Abby dismounted from Allegra, the four-year-old quarter horse that had become her favorite. She stroked the mare’s abundant black mane and turned toward the stables, where Antonio and Reggie would be waiting to help the animal cool down.

  “That’s my girl,” she whispered, reaching into her pocket for her last sugar cube.

  Both Abby and the horse were winded from a hard ride around the back pasture of the estate. Abby had taken to horseback riding quickly, and she easily convinced Antonio that she should be permitted to leave the corral on occasion. Although the pasture was relatively confined for a bulky animal like Allegra, it was wide enough that they could take several swift clips, where Abby would bend low, relishing the whip of hot wind against her tearing eyes.

  As she approached the barn, Reggie came out to meet her and reached for the reins.

  “I like to see a rider enjoying her animal like that, Miss Abigail. It fills up a horse’s soul when you savor the ride. You look full of joy perched up on her.” He smiled widely at her, the expanse of his bald head reflecting the sunshine of the day.

  Abby didn’t think it fit to call her feelings joy. What she felt atop that horse was more akin to safety, relief. As she looked back at Reggie and took in his kind, dark eyes, his mahogany skin, she didn’t feel the impulse to sass him. In fact, Abby realized, it wasn’t just Reggie, but her constant need to answer back and keep everyone afar seemed to be slackening. Perhaps it was the hearty food giving her better strength to tolerate people, or that she had been in Charleston for several weeks and was beginning to believe she might actually be safe from harm. Certainly, the riding was serving as a balm.

  Reggie and Antonio, both relatively young men, had turned her into a competent horsewoman over the past four weeks. Abby wasn’t entirely sure how the Spanish Antonio had come to be in Mr. Elling’s employ, except that after one of Douglas’s journeys abroad several years earlier, Antonio had returned with him. With a piece of straw constantly dangling from his lower lip and shirtsleeves rolled always to his elbows, Abby thought the Spaniard looked more American than anyone she’d met since her arrival in this country. Unlike Antonio, who was comparatively new, Reggie had been at the Elling estate since before Douglas, back when the home was owned by Nat Henderson, Douglas’s father-in-law. Reggie told her that when Mr. Henderson died, he freed his slaves as part of his last will and testament. Reggie, along with a few others, had asked Douglas to let them stay at the estate as wage earners. Abby had wanted Reggie to tell her more about what that was like, going from slave to freeman, but she didn’t think it was her place to ask, and so instead they spoke of other subjects.

  Each day as Reggie held Allegra’s lead, coaxing horse and rider through circles in the dusty corral, he rattled off for Abby what he fancied best about South Carolina, formulating new answers each day. He listed stately mulberry trees and their tart fruit, salamanders crouching beneath warm rocks, the pungent smell of sweet Carolina grasses. He did not speak much about his personal life, but then, neither did she. He reminded her to keep her back straight or to fix the position of her feet on the saddle’s stirrups, all while he munched on an endless supply of pistachios that he pulled from his pocket.

  Abby felt particularly energized after today’s brisk ride, and she wasn’t yet disposed to return to the gilded caverns of the quiet house.

  “Can I help cool her down? Just show me what I need do.”

  Reggie looked sheepish. “Miss Abigail, grooming down the horse, that’s my duty. Besides, if Miss Larissa Prue see you cleaning the bit or sponging Allegra’s belly, she’ll be spitting mad. It’s no task for a young lady.”

  As much as she was enjoying her time with the horse, Abby did not want to disappoint Larissa or make Reggie uncomfortable.

  As Reggie reached out again for the reins, Abby noticed that his hand was rubbed raw on the palm, probably from carrying the burlap feed bags she had seen him lugging earlier in the day. Remembering her brother Charlie’s constantly chapped hands, Abby thought she could accelerate the healing of Reggie’s raw skin. After all her years caring for her siblings, she was a bit of an authority on ointments for laboring hands.

  “Let me see that,” she said, taking his fist.

  Reggie pulled back immediately, as though scorched by the touch, just as a loud voice called, “Abigail!”

  Abby dropped her still-outstretched hand and turned to find Douglas Elling emerging from the darkness of the stables, storming toward her with anger so palpable she could almost see steam seeping from his skin, rising out from beneath his dreadful, unruly beard. It was early for him to be home from his office, and she wished she could have hidden away in her room like she usually did when he returned to the property.

  “Are you insane?” he demanded. “Grabbing hold of a black man’s hand like that. He doesn’t want you touching him.” He stepped toward Abby as he bellowed, and she could see a vein bulging beneath the scruff on his neck. There was a look of bitterness on Douglas’s face, an expression of disgust that prompted Abby to inch closer to Reggie, but this only seemed to anger Douglas more.

  “Do you not realize this house is not an enclave? We are not so private here that you can go cavorting with the Negroes.” He was getting louder as he stared Abby down, never sparing a look in Reggie’s direction. “This is not bloody England, you know. There are rules here. Your white skin mustn’t touch black skin. You are not to act as though they are the same as you. Not ever!” He stepped even closer to Abby, so that their bodies were nearly touching as he lowered his head, forcing her to meet his icy eyes before he continued.

  “I am duty bound to your parents to allow you to remain here, but I am not obliged to abide your stupidity.” The quietness of these words was even worse than the shouting.

  Abby’s many weeks of fear had finally been realized. This man was indeed wicked, and cruel. She wanted to defend Reggie, but she was frightened. As she looked at the enraged monster before her with his shaggy hair flying in every direction and spittle forming in the corner of his mouth, she saw danger and potential for anguish. She watched his menacing hands clench into fists at his sides and then unclench, and she wanted only to escape. She suddenly pivoted and ran back toward the house, covering her ears with her hands the whole way. She wouldn’t listen to his horrid yelling if he started again, she wouldn’t. She would hide in her room and not come out, not until he was gone again.

  THAT NIGHT AT SUPPER, LARISSA DIDN’T MENTION THE incident with Douglas, and neither did Abby. Perhaps Larissa hadn’t heard about their row, or she thought it unimportant. Maybe Douglas treated people thi
s way regularly, and so it hardly bore mentioning. Abby had watched from her window before the evening meal as Douglas mounted his horse in the circular drive and departed again. She hoped he would be absent for hours and she could continue avoiding him as she had done perfectly well before today. Her face was freshly washed, and now she was trying to focus on the roast ham before her.

  Larissa had been using each meal as an opportunity to provide Abby with instruction in proper manners. She had stated at the outset that social etiquette was different in the States than in England, and so the rules for dining in South Carolina would, of course, be unknown to Abby. Abby was fairly certain that proper table manners must be the same on both continents, but that Larissa was graciously trying to help her avoid feeling unrefined. Abby tried to listen with sharp attention as Larissa explained that women must remove their gloves upon sitting and spread their napkins across their laps. It was important to avoid noises when chewing, Larissa often reminded her, and one must never stare if another’s table manners were lacking. After a bit of coaching at the beginning of each meal, Larissa would generally turn the discussion to topics Abby found more engaging, such as Charles-ton’s history or local vegetation. But tonight, Abby was distracted by the effort of trying not to remember her afternoon.

  “Well, if I cannot garner your attention for etiquette, perhaps my other news will interest you.” Larissa dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the white napkin, a knowing smile twisting her lips, as Abby waited for her to continue.

  “You’ve been invited to attend Gracie Cunningham’s debut.”

  Abby looked at her blankly. She had not an inkling who Gracie Cunningham was or what she might be debuting.

  “It’s a ball, darling. You’re going to your first evening ball.”

  “Oh! That sounds lovely,” Abby perked up, but then felt immediately deflated. “But I’m sure Mr. Elling would never approve it.” Besides, Abby realized after her brief flash of excitement, what would she want with a ball anyway? She wouldn’t know anyone there, wouldn’t know how to behave, wouldn’t be regarded as a suitable companion. She was only the destitute girl siphoning off riches from an asocial curmudgeon, one who apparently used to be more important than he was now. She wondered why she had been invited.

  “Nonsense. I spoke with him just before he left, and we have his full endorsement on the matter. He did mention that he himself would abhor such an event, but he has no intention of standing in our way. He agrees it is appropriate for you to be introduced to society. As a member of Mr. Elling’s household, you will be an honored guest with all the proper pedigree supporting you, I assure you.”

  Abby was caught off guard by the oddity of it all. As of this afternoon, Abby was sure that Douglas Elling found her to be a supreme nuisance, a draining blight upon his property, and a brainless one at that. When he’d barked at her about his duty to continue housing her, Abby had been near equal in her sensations of relief and disappointment. Just as she’d begun to grow comfortable at his estate, he’d materialized to set her straight. If he had set her loose, she would not have returned to Wigan, not for a million pounds. She was reaching the conclusion that it would be wise to hatch a plan, on the chance that he did decide to rescind his generosity, whether now or in a few months. She would not be at the mercy of that man, no matter the consequences.

  How foul he’d been to poor, gentle Reggie, who’d never done anything off target. She could allow that perhaps she had behaved inappropriately, reaching out to touch a man as she had. His color was irrelevant to the propriety of the gesture. How Reggie must have felt listening to Douglas rant that he was inferior to Abby. Especially when Douglas clearly thought Abby was pretty low herself.

  In any case, she couldn’t fathom that Douglas would want her parading about at a social event where she would surely be associated with him.

  “You’re certain?” she asked. “Won’t they all handle me as though I am beneath them? They know all the dirty linen about why I’ve come to stay, I’m sure.”

  “Hardly,” Larissa patted Abby’s hand. “You are the esteemed ward of one of the wealthiest men in Charleston. You’ll see, that is one of the attractive peculiarities of America. It matters not where you’ve come from, only where you end up. It will all be arranged to your satisfaction.”

  An evening ball. Abby speared a piece of ham onto her fork and watched the amber juices drip to her plate as she considered the prospect. After only five weeks in Charleston, she would attend a bona fide Southern ball, the kind she and Gwendolyn had imagined when they played at waltzing as children. Douglas’s approval of her attendance made little sense to her, but there was no reason to spit in the face of opportunity. There had to be a way she could use this chance, take measures to establish her own future. She would have to grow acquainted with people in the community if she hoped to find suitable reason to remain in the States after her patronage expired.

  Larissa explained that since Abby had neither the wealth nor upbringing to host her own coming-out ball, she would make her first foray into society at someone else’s ball. Larissa spoke gently, as though she understood how difficult it must be for Abby to be deprived of her own ball. Abby hardly needing consoling. She was fairly enthused about witnessing the regalia of Southern society while escaping the attention of her own coming-out ball, which sounded quite horrid, in fact, all that staring and fuss.

  She had a transient thought that this event might result in meeting a few friends, provided she could find any young women who would do more than laugh at her lack of suitable heritage, her primitive dance steps, her confusion with cutlery. In Wigan, she had worked too many hours and spewed too many insults to allow for friends, but even when she was wretched, she at least had Gwendolyn. Now, since arriving in Charleston, she lacked any contemporary companions at all and was surprising herself by bemoaning the isolation she thought she craved.

  It was becoming a repeating pattern since alighting in Charleston that again, Abby was feeling overwhelmed. Even with the many privileges she had received since her arrival, she was still emerging from a stupor of poverty, still grieving the years of hardship. For so long, she thought she would never again experience indulgences like thorough personal grooming or frivolous leisure. Yet at present, she could envision herself in an elegant gown, her hair arranged in some complicated fashion, perhaps laced with flowers, or even looped into braids.

  Abby knew girls generally went to balls aspiring to attract husbands, but marrying was not her intention, she declared to herself for the umpteenth time. And besides, she was too busy planning her new life, the life she would have when she found a position as tutor, or governess. She would be permanently free of indigence and defenselessness, of Douglas Elling and insults, of England and agony.

  “It all sounds splendid,” Abby responded, her thoughts dashing onward, bustling with possibilities.

  6

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1845

  Abby gazed down at herself in disbelief. It was hard to fathom that only a few months ago, she had been plucking dirt from beneath her fingernails at a factory table in Wigan, and now here she was. Lavishly bedecked in yet another new gown, she felt splendid enough to pass an evening with Queen Victoria herself. If they kept decorating her like this, with the crinolines and the satins, the hoops and the head-dresses, perhaps eventually she would be so magnificent on the outside as to forget who she was within.

  Ida, a recently hired lady’s maid, was finishing arranging Abby’s hair. At Larissa’s urging, Mr. Elling had approved the enlistment of a few additional staff members to render the estate more hospitable for a proper young lady. Ida was a member of Charleston’s ever-growing population of free blacks, and she had previously been employed as a laundress at an elegant hotel on Broad Street. Abby hadn’t told Ida that her own mother also did washing at a hotel back in England, thinking that if she knew, Ida might resent attending to her.

  “Well, fancy that,” Larissa smiled as she hand
ed Abby the silver-framed looking glass. “You look like more of a fine young lady than seventeen other Charleston belles put together.” Ida had fastened Abby’s dark hair into a small chignon, curling wispy pieces around her face into cascading tendrils.

  How Larissa had gone on and on readying her for this evening. When Larissa attempted to outline the rules for ballroom dancing, Abby had interrupted that she was not interested in dancing. How quickly Larissa had corrected her with pursed lips and a declaration that only the worst of all hosts would allow an unmarried young woman to remain idle at his event. The master of the house would actively recruit gentlemen guests to entertain any lady who seemed to be lacking attention, she’d clarified.

  As if she knew that Abby’s thoughts had now traveled back to the dancing ahead of her, Larissa returned to the subject, as well. “I’m certain you will have plenty of young gentlemen vying for space on your dance card, so best to get in the spirit for that.”

  At Abby’s horrified expression, Larissa laughed.

  “Oh, don’t be such a crepehanger.” She swatted Abby’s shoulder playfully. “You won’t spend much time with any which one of them. You’ll have the same banal conversation with each gentleman who leads you onto the dance floor. You’ll agree it has been unseasonably warm, that the host has chosen lovely flowers, that Charleston is so festive this time of year. And then the dance will be over, and your partner will be on his merry way.” She paused to glance at her own reflection in the small mirror, pulling at a lock to let it escape from her bun, softening her face. Turning back to Abby, she continued, “All the other young ladies will be vying for undivided attention from the gentlemen in attendance. So if you prefer to be left alone, you most likely will be. Perhaps that will help your quest for spinsterhood. Although I am not giving up on you yet.” She patted Abby’s shoulder again.