Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “Now tell me what you think you know,” he demanded, his hands on his hips.

  “I heard you,” said Abby, “planning Clover’s escape. The whole thing. It’s no use for you trying to tell me I didn’t or it’s not true.”

  “And so . . . what?” Douglas asked defensively. “Whom have you told? Larissa? Gracie Cunningham?”

  “For goodness sakes, no!” She retorted. “I will not betray you by revealing your participation. I think what you’ve done is,” she searched for the proper words, “admirable, courageous, no, better than that. In fact, I’m only sorry there was no way I could help.”

  “Help?” Douglas stepped back at the suggestion. “The only thing for you to do is to forget what you heard. There is too much here for you to understand.”

  How could she convince him it was safe to discuss this with her? She was awed and inspired by his actions.

  “Douglas,” Abby began, “I’m like you!” She struggled to explain herself. “English, with no allegiance to the people here. You know I was not reared on slavery the way your neighbors have been. You can be comfortable discussing your views with me.”

  “No, no I cannot. My concern is not for myself, Abigail.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before adding, “The last white person I conversed with openly about slavery ended up dead.” He paused and assessed Abby with a doleful gaze. “I will not put another extraordinary young woman at risk.”

  Abby felt the color in her face rise at his compliment.

  “You will not distract me with flattery, Douglas,” she told him, simultaneously trying to convince herself of the same. “I am not as foolish as I may sometimes appear,” especially in your presence, she thought to herself. “I could help if you would let me. And, I may add, I know how to handle myself in dodgy situations. I’ve hardly lived a charmed life.”

  “Abby,” Douglas groaned. “This is a dangerous game,” he shook his head. “You’re at enough risk simply living in my house. And you already know more than you should. We mustn’t speak of this. Never again.”

  When Abby hesitated, he stepped closer to her. “Promise me,” he beseeched her. She looked up at him, unsure whether she should continue arguing.

  “Please,” he placed his hand on her cheek as he told her, “I beg it of you.” His hand against her skin was a revelation, a feast of warmth. How she wanted to lean into it. No, she wanted to step back, remove herself from its force. She stood motionless.

  “If you were hurt by any of this, Abby, I couldn’t bear it,” he told her.

  She wanted to protest further, to convince him, but she couldn’t find the words, not while he stood so close, his hand still cradling her face. Abby finally nodded in reluctant agreement, and relief washed over Douglas’s features.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Douglas’s hand disappeared in a flash, leaving an abyss in its wake.

  “Come,” Douglas said again. “That’ll be Larissa.”

  24

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  Ten days later, as Larissa and Ida flitted about, helping Abby dress for the Montrose ball, she still felt beleaguered by questions. Following Douglas’s directive, Larissa had taken Abby to Louis Marseille’s shop on Cumberland Street, where it stood out proudly, bedecked by a large awning, between Durand’s Pattiserie and Bernard Laurent’s cobbling. The entirety of Cumberland Street was occupied by French merchants, from Pierre Etienne, whose ornate signage advertised silversmithing, all the way to the much grittier sign for LeRoue’s pawn shop down the end of the lane. Feeling as though she had magically hopped across the sea to Paris, Abby had entered Marseille’s shop with an unexpected burst of excitement.

  She had noted briefly that she was more comfortable standing amidst the endless ribbons, hoops, and trims than she had been the first time Larissa had her outfitted. She sorted through fabric samples with enthusiasm, running her hand along silks and velvets, considering the depths of the colors, the way the light played across different threads. She settled on a deep-purple silk with velvet trim in the same hue. Marseille grumbled that he would never be able to create an acceptable garment by the date required, but as Douglas had predicted, the frenzied tailor managed to deliver.

  And now Ida was yanking on the laces of Abby’s corset. Larissa had spent the prior week reminding Abby of proper ballroom etiquette, when to curtsey and smile, when to keep quiet, and when to offer a polite laugh. The endless conventions of the Southern ruling class struck Abby as painfully trivial. Still, she forced herself to listen, to remember, so she might use this evening as Douglas had suggested—to impress the local gentry. If it happened that she managed to impress Douglas, as well, so much the better.

  She scoffed at herself for acting like the type of smitten young lady she generally scorned. Ever since Douglas invited her to the ball, she found herself sleepless at night, fidgety and impatient as she anticipated the evening in his company. She was displeased by the fluttery feeling his presence now produced in her midriff. She swore to herself that she was not smitten, that she would not care to attach herself to a man, to imprison herself in that way. Yet her thoughts kept straying in the opposite direction, bothering about the ball, as though nothing was of greater imperative than delighting the man.

  She had not seen him since the day he issued the invitation, and she had so many questions about how the night would unfold.

  “All finished,” Ida announced as she closed the final eye hook on the back of Abby’s gown. Larissa looked up from where she had been searching through a drawer in the vanity table and considered Abby, her pale lips giving purchase to a broad smile.

  “Ravishing is how you look,” the governess assured her with glee. She handed Abby a pair of opera-length gloves.

  “The other young ladies won’t hold a candle to the beauty that blazes from you tonight,” Larissa told her as she turned to open the chamber door and motioned for Abby to follow. “Come, Mr. Elling and Demett are ready with the coach.”

  Abby followed Larissa down the spiral staircase, one hand on the banister to avoid tumbling. The gown she wore was by far the finest piece of clothing she’d ever owned, but also the heaviest. As she struggled to remain graceful on the staircase, Abby heard a gasp from the foyer down below.

  “Miss Abigail,” Jasper declared from the base of the stairwell, an obvious look of pride about him as he studied her. “What a pleasure to see you appearing in finery worthy of your character. Now you can shine on the outside, as well as from within.”

  “Oh, Jasper,” Abby waved away his words as she reached the bottom of the stairwell, “you needn’t gain my favor with flattery. It’s just a silly costume.”

  “Excuse me for saying so, Miss, but there is nothing silly about it. I think you will see that you are the shining star at the affair tonight. But let us not delay,” Jasper motioned toward the main entry. “Mr. Elling awaits in the courtyard.”

  Abby stepped outside and was pleased to discover that the evening was quite warm for February, with the promise of an early springtime whispering through the mild air. Her eyes had not adjusted to the fading light of dusk before she heard Douglas approaching from her left, his presence belied by a faint, appreciative whistle. She turned to face him, ready to playfully admonish him for his commoner’s salute to her appearance. How would she ever learn to behave like a Southern belle if her escort carried on like a street cart pusher?

  Her joking intentions disappeared as she turned and saw him stalking towards her on the gravel drive. His eyes sailed over her, from her upswept hair to her silk-covered toes, taking in her appearance. She stood and let him consider her, feeling childishly hopeful as he looked back to her face, then her hair, and to her dress again. His eyes lingered on her bosom, which was spilling over the gown’s violet trim. Abby had told Larissa repeatedly that she thought the dress was cut too low in the bodice, though Larissa insisted that the style was conservative in comparison to current fashions. As his eyes return
ed to meet hers, Abby saw appreciation, and something else, something like longing.

  Pretending a calm she did not feel, she raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to speak. The silence allowed her a moment to take in his appearance, too, his fine waistcoat, cut low to expose a shirt front crisp as pressed paper. Dressed in his evening wear, his appearance was extraordinary, almost too striking, an arresting assault to her senses.

  “Forgive me,” Douglas cleared his throat as he stepped closer to her in the twilight. “I’ve not seen you dressed in formal attire before, and I must say that I find the result most becoming. I am at a bit of a loss to . . .” he hesitated and shook his head as if to clear it before he let his eyes glide over her again. Waiting for him to finish, Abby struggled to maintain her posture, despite the sensation that her legs were turning to pastry dough.

  “Never mind then,” he finally concluded. “Suffice it to say, you look most enchanting, and I am honored to escort you tonight.” He held out his arm for her as they walked to the carriage.

  Once they were seated, Abby shimmied to the far end of the velvet bench in an effort to expand the meager distance between them. Douglas, suddenly businesslike, turned toward her and began a near lecture.

  “Right, so let’s go over who you can expect to meet tonight. Obviously, the Montroses. Be polite, but you’ll fare better focusing on guests with young children who might be in need of your services in the future. There are the Wilmots and the Hansons, all of whom were reproducing at a feverish pace a few years back. They are neighbors of the Montroses, so I’d wager they will be in attendance. If I recall correctly, Dotty Wilmot loves to discuss Roman art, or at least she did when I suffered through dinner parties with her. It might be worth showing off some of your classical knowledge, if you can work it into conversation.”

  As Abby tried to focus on Douglas’s words, she was horribly distracted by the memory of his gaze on her just minutes before, the effects of his attention exacerbated now that he was sitting so close. She caught hints of soap and spice emanating in the air around him. She was appalled that he was able to shift into this practical mode so quickly, yet here she was bumbling about with her brain all addled by his presence. Perhaps if she’d had any experience with courting, or with any man other than her vile uncle, she might feel better equipped to handle this situation. As it was, she was still reveling in relief over the fact that Douglas no longer frightened her. It wouldn’t do though for her to swoon over every man who failed to frighten her. She should follow Douglas’s example and focus on the business of the evening. She had plenty of work ahead of her if she planned to erect a future for herself in South Carolina.

  The Cunninghams, the Andersons, the Ardsleys, Douglas was rattling off one family name after another. She forced herself to listen, learning mainly that everyone was very wealthy, each family seeming to own a larger plantation than the next.

  “I imagine I am supposed to act impressed by the enormity of everyone’s holdings?” Abby asked. “If they worked their many acres themselves, then perhaps they would deserve esteem.”

  “Abby . . .” Douglas warned, “this won’t be the place to give voice to anything you’re thinking right now. You gave me your word that we wouldn’t discuss . . . the things that are on your mind.”

  “I don’t understand why you will not trust me, at least to discuss it with you,” Abby argued.

  “I’ve explained to you that this has nothing to do with trust and everything to do with your safety. Now shall I have Demett reverse this carriage and take us home, or can I rely on you to keep your views to yourself ?”

  Abby hesitated a moment, wondering how she went from ogling Douglas to needling him so quickly. He was right, she had promised to refrain from the topic, and certainly this was the wrong moment to be mentioning anything scandalous about slavery.

  “I’m sorry. I was in error. Can we please forget I said anything?”

  “Well, we’d better, since we’ve arrived.” Douglas studied Abby for a moment longer. “Understand that you clasp our lives in your hands,” he told her quietly. He took hold of her fingers and brought them slowly to his lips, holding her gaze as he placed a gentle kiss against her glove, as if sealing some sort of deal. “Now come,” he declared with a new energy, giving her a gentle tug as he exited the carriage.

  And just like that, they were walking into the party, Abby’s hand on Douglas’s arm and her heart in her throat for more reasons than she cared to count. As they stepped through the wide entryway into the Montroses’ city manor, she felt herself transported. The foyer was awash in a golden glow as enticing as it was disorienting. She momentarily forgot the torrential current flowing from Douglas’s arm straight to her hand, nearly forgot he was even standing beside her, as she took in the elaborate adornment and bustle surrounding her. The ballroom lay just beyond the foyer, with all its glory to be seen from one’s first entry into the home. The opulence steeping from floor to ceiling was no less arresting than when she had encountered such excess at the Cunninghams’ party. She heard Douglas speaking and forced her eyes away from the gilded party room.

  “Lisbeth, Charles,” Douglas greeted their hosts, who were waiting at a fixed post in the entrance hall. “A pleasure to see you again. May I present to you Miss Abigail Milton?”

  Abby regarded the older couple, each with the same shade of biscuit-colored hair and hooked noses. They looked more like aging siblings than spouses, the effect bolstered as they studied her with equally unabashed delight.

  “Welcome,” Charles told her cordially before turning quickly back toward Douglas and continuing, “we were most gladdened you chose to attend our event after all this time of . . .” Charles trailed off and regarded Douglas eagerly, apparently waiting for Douglas to offer some information. Abby imagined that the Montroses were feeling quite proud that Douglas had graced their party with his presence, after rejecting so many.

  “Ah,” Douglas seemed to stifle a chuckle, “some things are worth the effort, are they not?”

  Abby watched Charles’s chest puff out with pride before she realized that Douglas had been looking at her while he spoke, and was in fact, still fixing her with a pointed look.

  “Shall we go in?” Abby asked, her voice nearly smothered by violin notes that began wafting through the air.

  As they entered the main party, Abby inhaled the viscous scent of calla lilies and hyacinths, blooms erupting from every crevice and basin in the hall. Gold candlesticks swelled outward from the walls, casting a gilt shimmer on everything within their sweep. As she scanned the room, Abby saw precarious towers of champagne flutes being filled by a tuxedoed slave and a raised platform in the back of the room, where the string orchestra was arranged with their violins and cellos. Douglas led Abby toward the dance cards, and she noticed innumerable heads turning in their direction. Women and men were looking first at Douglas and then at her, no subtlety to their actions. Clearly, everyone was as curious as she why Douglas had brought her to this affair.

  When they reached the table where three matronly women presided over young ladies’ dance cards, Abby eyed the hand-painted cards with trepidation.

  “Not to worry,” Douglas told her quietly as he picked up an empty card. “It’s just the same as Miss Cunningham’s affair.” Douglas wrote Abby’s name at the top of the card using a miniature pencil that was attached to the card by a cord. He scanned the listed songs on the card and then wrote his own name on one of the lines.

  “I hope you don’t mind I’ve reserved a dance for myself. Now I best get out of the way and give the other bachelors a chance to meet you.” As Douglas excused himself, Abby studied the dance card and saw that there were spaces for twenty-two dances. Douglas’s name was in the eleventh spot. A waltz. Abby couldn’t imagine how she was supposed to tolerate dancing with other gentlemen at the ball. She had been so fixated on her evening with Douglas that she neglected to prepare herself for any other men.

  Abby examined the crowd, and she consi
dered escaping to the verandah until it was time for her dance with Douglas. But Douglas had wanted to introduce her to society, and she would not embarrass him by skulking off. She swallowed hard as she saw three young men approaching her. Objectively speaking, all three were probably quite handsome. One was dark and lithe, while his two friends were shorter but broad shouldered, both with flaxen hair.

  When they reached her, the tall one spoke.

  “Miss Milton, my name is Shaw Anderson. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” He reached for her hand as he smiled at her. Abby was not surprised that he already knew her name, given that gossip seemed to spread through Charleston faster than head lice in Wigan. Surely everyone in the room knew she was the English girl living off Douglas Elling’s charity, finally brought out to mingle with decent folk. Abby reluctantly submitted her hand, as Shaw brought it to his lips for a flirtatious kiss. She cringed internally and wondered briefly if this was why women wore gloves to parties.

  “And let me introduce my friends,” Shaw continued. “This here is Charlie Meyers,” he pointed to the man on his left. “And his kid brother, Stu,” he gestured toward the other. Abby nodded at them both, hoping they would not follow their friend’s lead in reaching for her hand. Thankfully, Shaw deprived the brothers of any such opportunity, as he continued to monopolize the conversation.

  “Forgive us for approaching without proper introduction, but we three have been watching you and your purple dress since you arrived, and we’ve agreed that you are the comeliest young lady at this affair. Maybe in all of Charleston, or even all the world,” he laughed, delighted with himself. “And the trouble is we couldn’t settle on who deserved to put his name down on your card first, so we were hoping you could offer some advice on how we should resolve our conflict,” he finished off with a wink.

  Perhaps she should have been flattered to have three vigorous young men competing for her, but standing under their scrutiny like this, with Shaw hovering over her, the dance card committee beside her, she was feeling averse to dancing with any of them, bombarded and affronted. She hadn’t minded the dancing at Gracie’s party, but the way these lads were looking at her was different. Perhaps her arrival with Douglas had given the impression that she was a woman of loose morals, ready to trade her favors too easily. She felt panic taking hold and stumbled to concoct a response.