Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “All finished, Miss Abigail,” Ida stood back and admired her handiwork, a proud smile on her thin lips.

  “Thank you, Ida.” Abby touched the twist of her hair gingerly. “I’d never have known how to do this.”

  “You enjoy yourself now,” Ida told her, placing her hands on her wide hips. The woman nodded, as though satisfied with her creation and added, “Just your shoes now. I’ll be back to tidy up after you get going.” She nodded to Larissa before leaving the room.

  “One more thing to make you all the more fetching,” Larissa said as though she has just remembered.

  Abby watched Larissa rummage through the cluttered mass of cosmetics on the vanity table and willed herself not to snap at the woman for prodding her toward courtship. Larissa finally pushed aside some vials of perfume and seized the item for which she had been searching. It was a yellow winter jessamine flower, just like those blooming on the vines outside Abby’s bedroom window.

  “I know how you love the smell of these,” Larissa smiled as she fastened the bud in Abby’s hair. “May this bloom bring you luck tonight. Perhaps a husband, as well,” she winked.

  “Larissa,” Abby warned. She was nervous enough about the ball as it was. She had already resolved to make the most of this evening, to acquaint herself with women who might one day be mothers of young girls she could teach. That was the goal of it all now, wasn’t it, to position herself for successful spinsterhood? Despite her misgivings about the men, the dancing with its touching and handling, the perusing and gaping, she instructed her nerves to stand down. She should feel comforted, assured of safety by this town’s extensive rules of propriety and the presence of Larissa as her chaperone.

  “You really must come off that notion, Larissa,” Abby told her, trying not to be exceedingly gruff. “I shan’t ever be interested in marrying.”

  “Come now,” Larissa cocked her head, undeterred. “It’s just a matter of finding the right boy. And besides,” Larissa took one of Abby’s hands in both of hers, squeezing gently, “I’m just trying to keep you near me as long as possible. If you don’t find a suitable caller here, your parents will eventually find someone for you in Lancashire, I’m sure. Then you’d leave us for good. There are plenty of charming gentlemen here in Charleston.” Larissa laughed and added, “Perhaps you could save us all a heap of trouble and allow one of them to pick you.”

  “Nobody will be picking anything from me, thank you very much!” Abby snapped, pulling her hand away, her anger boiling over at the faceless men she imagined, grabbing and clutching her, harassing and repelling her. As injury and bewilderment flashed across Larissa’s face, Abby quickly readjusted herself.

  “Wait, don’t get cross with me,” she pleaded as she reached out, reattaching herself to Larissa’s hand. “I don’t know why I am so sharp sometimes.”

  “Don’t think of it another minute,” Larissa answered, the briefest flicker of a shadow crossing her face again as she glanced out the window into the darkening sky. “Let’s just be on our way.” Larissa lifted her pastel cape from where it rested on the bedpost. “I’m sure the Cunninghams’ residence will be resplendent tonight, bedecked from the roof to drive, every last fountain. Don’t forget your shawl, dear. We have to protect all of you from the chill, even your lovely bosom.”

  And just like that, Abby felt it again, that raging anger that she couldn’t control. She didn’t know where it came from or what to do with it. The feelings didn’t seem true to her. Or rather, they were true, but they weren’t truly a part of her. Of course she knew where they came from. They came from the poison that was Uncle Matthew. But she couldn’t let it go, couldn’t get past it, felt the rage at the strangest times, from a bland reference to her bosom. She used to know who she was inside, who she had been until that horrid man wrenched it all away. And now Larissa saw good in her, and for some reason, it only made Abby angrier, uglier. If the woman could stop talking about suitors and bosoms, maybe Abby could focus on something other than the searing hatred in her gut, the nastiness she simply couldn’t quash.

  AS THEY ARRIVED AT THE CUNNINGHAMS’ GRAND ESTATE, Abby surveyed the large group of people mingling on the sweeping verandah. It was just as Larissa had described, everyone in their greatest finery, the light from surrounding lanterns lending the evening a whispering, ethereal glow. Gentlemen in tails and white gloves. Each young woman glistening more brightly than the next.

  “Keep your head up, Abby,” Larissa instructed on a quiet breath. “Shoulders back. You are more entitled to this evening of indulgence than anyone. Now come along and try to smile.”

  Larissa led her up wide brick steps toward the front door. She was grateful that her connection to Douglas Elling and her status as a foreigner had excused her from the need for her own formal presentation. Still, it seemed there would be many introductions for her to suffer through before the evening could be tucked away.

  “Well you must be Abigail Milton,” a mature red-haired woman looked her over from head to toe before meeting her eyes with a smile. The stately woman was waiting just inside the door, first in a line of official receivers that appeared to run at least ten bodies deep. Taking in the woman’s dazzling chartreuse gown, her regal posture, and self-assured movements, Abby understood that she was meeting the lady of the house.

  “I’m Regina Cunningham,” the woman confirmed, as she reached to take Abby’s hand into her chartreuse glove. “I’m so pleased you accepted our invitation. We are all so fond of Mr. Elling,” Regina continued, her light eyes studying Abby’s face. “We were just delighted when we heard he finally added some life back to his empty house. And hello, Larissa. So nice to see you again,” Regina continued, sounding genuine as she nodded to the governess. Observing Regina’s pink cheeks and arched brows, Abby wondered if she had ever seen such a lovely redhead.

  She followed Larissa forward, next meeting Regina’s aging parents. Abby was pleased by the benign elderly man, who was evidently nearly deaf, but smiling and nodding in an enthusiastic effort to keep pace, his wife, gentle and bland beside him. Just as Abby began constructing an internal dash of calm, she discovered Cora Rae, Regina’s eldest daughter. Cora Rae stood fourth in the receiving line, her arresting beauty immediately eclipsing Abby’s appreciation of Regina’s physical appearance. She was taller than her mother, willowy, and magnificent in her youthful vibrancy. Her lustrous red hair was curled in long ringlets, falling around her shoulders in an artful cascade. The red was so vivid, it appeared almost as though the woman was surrounded by red-hot flames. Abby saw a strength inherent in Cora Rae’s fierce beauty, and she found herself envious.

  Abby felt a light touch on her shoulder and pivoted to see that Regina had stepped out of her own place in line. “I have to bring something to my daughter upstairs, but let me introduce you; this is my oldest daughter, Cora Rae.”

  “It’s just Cora now, Ma. How many times do I have to say it?” Cora Rae looked at her mother in exasperation and then glanced toward Abby. “Cora.” She repeated and held out her hand with a stiff smile.

  As Abby answered, stating her own name, the porcelain features of Cora Rae’s face transformed from indifference to something else entirely, something hungry. “You’re the one staying with Douglas Elling.” An accusation. Abby wondered if this was the first assault, if Cora Rae was already mocking her. Still, Abby kept her feet in place beneath the armor of her long dress and nodded lightly. Cora Rae studied her a moment, her eyes leisurely perusing Abby’s person, while a complicated smile twisted at her lips. “Oh dear, we do need to talk.” She laughed breezily and then looked beyond Abby and Larissa to the next guests, implicitly dismissing them both.

  Larissa ushered Abby through the remainder of the line, offering brief and polite greetings as they passed. The receivers consisted of relatives of the Cunninghams, aunts and cousins, rather than other members of the immediate family. All the while Abby pondered Cora, shaken by their encounter, bracing for other discomforts of the evening. Fro
m Larissa’s description of the Cunningham family, Abby now remembered that the oldest daughter was only one or two years her senior, but that statuesque woman on the receiving line seemed too sophisticated for a person still reaching for twenty years.

  Abby followed Larissa deeper into the house and caught her breath as they entered the glittering ballroom. The crowds of people milling about on the parquet floor did not diminish the staggering effect of the room’s lavish decorations. Every corner of the ballroom seemed to be overflowing with fragrant flowers and sparkling threaded beads, looped like vines from surface to surface. The room’s multiple fireplaces had been festooned with garlands of dark greens, red berries, and yellow flowers so large that their blooms looked to have burst forth in an explosion of life. There were ladies in cascading dresses of every imaginable hue. The brightness of the ladies’ wide gowns was tempered by the soft lighting of countless crystal wall sconces. Overhead there were several crystal chandeliers, filled with flickering candles, adding to the room’s elegant glow. It was no wonder these genteel planters enjoyed their social season. Abby was so overcome by the thrilling ballroom that she nearly forgot her own insecurities.

  As the women circulated about in their cumbersome hoops and shining evening gloves, Abby realized they were queuing to receive their dancing cards. Larissa finally spoke from beside her, resuming her litany of instructions. The governess explained that the refreshments and the ladies’ changing room were both just down the hall. She assured Abby that one gentleman or an-other would offer to bring her a lemonade at any moment, and that a proper lady would do no nothing other than accept graciously.

  Before Abby could even decide where to situate herself, she was disheartened by the prompt approach of a young man. The plain-looking gentleman requested Larissa’s permission to introduce himself to Abby.

  “Please forgive my unorthodox approach, Miss Milton, rushing you as I have, but I was concerned I might miss my chance. This is a town that adores new faces when they are as bewitching as yours.”

  The man, who identified himself as James Winters, appeared close to her own age, svelte and simple to look at. He asked Abby to save him a dance. The governess was clearly nervous as she watched for Abby’s reaction, but Abby answered that she would be pleased to add him to her dance card, just as soon as she secured it from the committee. He smiled sheepishly and declared, “My friends call me Lanky.” With that, Lanky James offered her a sideways smile and departed, his gangly arms getting in his way at every turn.

  Abby smiled in relief. This part of it all, at least, was apparently easy. Merely accepting verbal invitations and adding people’s names to her dance card, well, it was little more than a harmless list. The actual dancing, she was not prepared to focus on yet. As she watched James Winters approach another young lady, she was further appeased. She needn’t fret and could focus instead on projecting the right kind of image, just the sort that would cast her as a respectable and refined young woman, perfect for teaching young girls.

  Abby’s dance card was full within only a few minutes of their arrival. Perhaps the local gentlemen had been advised to treat the charity case kindly, or maybe like that James Winters said, she was appealing simply because she was new blood in an old town. With her card closed out, Abby’s focus returned to her surroundings, which she was now free to savor until the dancing began. In contrast to the refined opulence of Douglas Elling’s estate, Abby felt the Cunninghams’ home was rather ostentatious, as though each decoration had been placed to maximize the impression of wealth. Even so, it was hard to resist ogling every lustrous thing before her. She felt like a wide-eyed infant, transfixed by any shiny object.

  As she wondered whether all plantation owners maintained second homes that were equally well-appointed, there was a stir in the ballroom. Larissa leaned over and whispered that it was time for Gracie Cunningham to be presented. This was her official “coming out,” as they called it.

  Guests meandered toward the foyer, waiting at the base of the split staircase, as notes from flutes and violins commenced floating through the air. Gracie’s father, Court Cunningham, appeared on the balcony, walking to the top stair to await his daughter. He was a square-shaped man with a handsome weather-worn face and closely cut, ash-colored hair. As Gracie emerged in a sparkling dress of soft white tulle, there were collective sighs and murmurs of approval. Gracie’s dark hair was pulled into a mass of carefully arranged curls, held in place by a pearl-covered tiara. The girl’s hair, black as a beetle back, was so different from her sister Cora’s deep russet locks, but Abby saw that the sisters had the same perfectly milky complexions. There were glittering jewels sewn into Gracie’s dress that might well have been real diamonds. She approached her father with a cautious smile, her eyes darting rapidly over the guests from her vantage above them all, and Abby could see even from afar that the girl lacked Cora’s self-confidence. Court extended his arm and led Gracie slowly down the stairwell, a self-congratulatory smile resting on his face. Gracie, on the other hand, seemed to be holding fast to her own precarious smile, grasping it with all her might.

  “This is a very grand introduction,” Larissa tilted her head to whisper in Abby’s ear as they gazed up at the stairs. “Recently, more parents have been presenting their daughters in groups at cotillions, rather than individually. But the truly high families, like the Cunninghams, they still have the luxury of presenting girls independently.” Larissa’s eyes traveled back to Gracie and Court Cunningham as they reached the bottom of the flared staircase. Without looking away from the girl on debut, Larissa added rhetorically, “Isn’t it just lovely?”

  Abby nearly shuddered. Perhaps the presentation was lovely, but it appeared rather more like torture for the poor girl on view. She supposed there were other young ladies who would feast heartily on the attention, like that Cora Rae for starters. Gracie’s older sister must have relished her own coming out, Abby reflected, which likely occurred a couple of years prior to this night. Gracie, however, seemed reluctant at best.

  Abby’s thoughts were interrupted by a change in the music. It was time for the formal dancing to commence. Abby turned back toward the ballroom and saw Lanky James Winters making his way toward her. It was perfectly obvious why everyone called him “Lanky,” with his long skinny limbs and his awkward lumbering gait.

  “My lady,” he extended his hand to her with an unexpected grace. “If I may still have the honor of a dance?”

  Abby flinched away from him, opposed to the gratuitous physical contact. She then felt Larissa’s hand on her shoulder as a gentle reminder.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Winters,” Abby attempted a modest smile, “of course.”

  “Please, really, call me Lanky,” he told her, and he led her off toward the dance floor.

  As Larissa had foretold, the dance consisted mainly of spins and turns with a few offhand comments about the weather and such. And then the dance was over. Abby passed three or four equally ephemeral dances with other young gentlemen whom had reserved space on her dance card. Each dance required little more than brief, prosaic conversation, only the most proper and impersonal touching, and so much delightful spinning and twirling. As the evening wore on, Abby grew eager to inform Larissa that she found the dancing to be great fun. She did love to exhaust herself physically, and the endless twirls felt nearly as satisfying as running outdoors or riding Allegra. If only they could spin a bit faster instead of having to be so terribly civilized about it all.

  Eventually, there was a recess to the dancing, and several women began seeking escorts to the refreshments area. Abby thought she would ask Larissa to take her, as well. A lemonade was just what her arid throat needed. As she scanned the group of chaperones standing near the wall, a firm hand clasped her forearm.

  “There you are,” Cora Rae declared with delight. “Come, let me take you for some victuals so we can get to know each other, don’t you think?” Honey oozed from every thick Southern word she uttered. The skin of Abby’s neck prickl
ed, noting something amiss with Cora Rae’s enthusiastic effort to commandeer her.

  “Um . . .” Abby began, searching nervously for Larissa, then catching sight of the woman’s blonde bun far across the ballroom, her head bobbing as she talked with a matronly woman near the violinists.

  “Oh, shush, darling. Your governess won’t mind if I take you off myself. I am one of the hostesses here, aren’t I? I’ve just been waiting with such anticipation to make your acquaintance.” She led Abby out of the ballroom, so much friendlier now, too friendly. “You know, my mama and daddy were very special friends with Douglas Elling before that tragedy that happened over in his house.”

  They entered the refreshments lounge, where a large circular table laden with decadent pastries occupied the center of the room. The setup reminded Abby of the fountain in the courtyard outside, the ladies here swooping like rock doves as they plucked sweet treats from the tiered display of cakes and tarts. There was also a bar, like the kind in the pub room of the hotel where her mother worked, with gentlemen crowded around, calling out for the beverages they were after. Abby too began to make her way toward the bar, but Cora Rae put a hand on her arm, halting her by the room’s entryway and instead directing her toward a line of serving slaves waiting by the wall.

  “Get us two sweet teas, Crispin, and hurry now,” Cora Rae quipped, her attention still on Abby. An elderly black man stepped out of the shadows and scurried away with a quiet “Yes’m.” Until that moment, Abby had failed to notice the many house slaves in attendance at this event, so wrapped up had she been in her own discomfort. Looking around the room, she became aware of several other slaves hovering in the background, awaiting instructions from guests or the hosts. They wore dark pants or simple black dresses, standing quietly at attention, ready to serve. She was ashamed at her blindness, her selfish preoccupation. It was still unfathomable to her that all these people were made to work for no wages at all. At least the pittance she earned in Wigan had been something to bring home at the end of the day.