Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Undeterred, Douglas continued. “How can you tell me not to look at you when I see you everywhere I look? It is with dire admiration that I look upon you. You have risen so far above the squalor you were forced to endure. While I detest Matthew Milton, it plays little into my opinion of you that he raped you in your youth.”

  “Raped me?” Abby’s head snapped to attention. “He never raped me,” she glowered at him. “He never touched me like that. Never like that. Touched himself plenty,” she nearly spat. “He used me for aesthetic purposes, grabbing bits and pieces of me and slobbering his nastiness on me. He threatened to suspend my da’s allowance if I didn’t stay quiet. Don’t look at me, Douglas!” she yelled again. “You couldn’t possibly see me as anything but disgusting.” She stared at him in defiance.

  “On the contrary,” Douglas answered softly. “I know that you are stronger and more beautiful for all you have survived. In fact,” he reached into his pocket, “I’ve brought you something to show you how deeply I believe in you.”

  Abby looked at the box in his hand and turned away. “I don’t want any more of your gifts. Now you are trying to buy me? Or do you think you already own me, for your charity and care, and this is just a pity present before you have your way with me?” She looked at him accusingly.

  “No,” Douglas answered, “this is a gift for you to wear so that you may know my affection is always with you, surrounding you and keeping you safe, no matter what ills should befall us. A good-luck charm.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Abby answered quietly.

  “Please,” Douglas began opening the box. “Haven’t I earned your trust yet? Enough to let me keep trying at least?”

  He made a fair point that he’d done nothing to undermine her trust in him since the day they’d met. He had been forthcoming with her, and gentle. He’d tried repeatedly to assist her, from the incident with the horse to saving her from too many unpleasant dances at the Montrose ball. Above all, he’d hosted her in his home for half a year, treating her person with naught but respect since her arrival.

  After a moment Abby asked, “So this is real then? Between you and me?”

  “Yes!” Douglas exclaimed. “You are the only thing I am of sure of in this world, Abby. This,” he said, as he motioned from himself to her and back, “this is genuine as bedrock.”

  He removed the velvet top of the box he was holding and revealed an oddly-shaped gold charm covered in diamonds so small they resembled snow winking in sunlight. In spite of herself, she stepped closer to examine it and realized the charm was a representation of a horse, caught with its legs outstretched in front and behind, as though suspended in midair.

  “Truth be told,” Douglas began as he removed the pendant from the box, “I had it commissioned just after the accident with Midnight. Meant it first as a gesture of apology, a reminder of the beauty of horses or something inane like that, but then I lost my nerve to give it to you. I’ve been carrying the thing around with me like a talisman for weeks.” As he held the charm out to her, Abby saw it was affixed to a delicate gold chain, made up of unusual repeating links, resembling vines. She wanted to run her fingers over the links, twist the glittering horse in the light.

  “It’s grand,” she nearly whispered in her regret, keeping her hands at her sides. “But I cannot accept it.”

  “Yes, you can,” he countered. He walked behind her and placed the chain around her neck, brushing her hair to the side as he dexterously fastened the clasp. “It’s been made specifically for you, so really it’s incumbent upon you to accept it.” He circled to the front of her, assessing the effect of the necklace. “The chain is new though. I had it switched out last week because I wanted to give you something especially strong that would surround you and symbolize my commitment. The goldsmith recommended this one. It’s called a wheat chain, meant to be less vulnerable despite its slight appearance.”

  Abby ran the chain between her thumb and forefinger, as if to test the strength, wanting fiercely to trust Douglas’s every word. “Your commitment surrounding me?” she asked.

  “For as long as you’ll have it.”

  “You mustn’t tell anyone,” she started, “about Matthew. Especially not my da. And you mustn’t mention it to me again. Not ever.”

  “I will not betray you. Not on this, or anything else.”

  Abby looked at Douglas’s piercing eyes, his straight nose, and angular chin. She saw her reflection in the dark centers of his pupils. And she believed him.

  27

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  Abby was battling with a bush of quince flowers in the back garden, huffing as she pulled at its stems, when she heard a greeting ring out behind her.

  “Yoo hoo! Oh, no, what are you doing to that defenseless shrub?” Abby dropped the sprig she had been pulling at and turned with the garden shears poised between her teeth to see Gracie hovering at the entry to the garden.

  She hastily removed the tool from her mouth, sorry to have been caught so inelegantly by her friend. “Gracie,” Abby smiled sheepishly. “Thank goodness, come and help me. I am trying to fix a bouquet for Larissa, and I haven’t any idea what I’m doing. I can’t even dislodge the confounded blooms from the hedges.”

  “How lovely,” Gracie placed the beaded purse she was holding on a stone bench beside her and approached Abby. “For what occasion?”

  “No occasion. Just a gesture of thanks for all the time she has devoted to me. I have a tendency to be short with her, and I’ve been feeling poorly about it. I thought, a token of appreciation for all the hours, I don’t know . . .” Abby trailed off as she began to recognize that something had shifted inside her since her lunch with Douglas the day before. She was feeling quite generous with her emotions, and she was suddenly embarrassed by her sentimentality.

  “Well look at you,” Gracie teased, her tone almost cutting, “turning into quite the genteel lady, more each day.” She took the shears from Abby and deftly snipped at the flowers.

  “Well while we work, we have much to discuss, don’t we? I’ve been chomping at the bit to review the Montrose ball with you, but Mama’s had me all tied up on her annual Cherries Luncheon.” Gracie walked farther into the garden with a flippant shrug, dandling the blossoms on one bush then another as Abby followed. “This was the first I could get away.” Gracie began clipping at small yellow flowers that Abby could not name. “How darling,” she smiled hurriedly at the flowers, adding three blossoms to the bouquet, then pulling one back out and tossing it to the ground. “Mama chooses a different theme each time, though it’s always based on cherries, because of the plantation’s namesake.”

  “Gracie,” Abby interrupted, concerned by Gracie’s uncharacteristic bearing, her prattle and nonchalance. Reaching out for the growing jumble of flowers, she asked, “Is something disturbing you?”

  “No, no,” Gracie protested, looking away. “It’s just, like I said, we have so much to discuss, you and I, starting with Harrison, continuing with the decor at the party. We have to review each of the ladies’ dresses, and also their hair, and well, I’m so overwhelmed by all of the topics I don’t know where to begin,” she laughed stiffly. Abby figured she best resign herself to Gracie’s blathering until the girl was ready to lift the lid on whatever was troubling her.

  “Oh, by the by,” Gracie turned to Abby with the shears raised between them, “I met Douglas on my way in, and he asked if you would visit him in his study. He said it was quite important and requested for you to go at once. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner, but all the other clutter in my mind prevented that bit from staying put.”

  “Oh,” Abby turned toward the house and then looked back at Gracie, startled. It was unusual for Douglas to send for her like that, especially when he knew she had a visitor.

  “I hope nothing is amiss. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll just run and see what the matter is.” Abby started off in the direction of Douglas’s study, droppin
g the bouquet carelessly beside Gracie’s purse. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll send Jasper with tea.”

  As Abby neared Douglas’s study, she ran her hands over her rose-colored day dress, checking for stray bits of shrubbery that might have followed her indoors. She absentmindedly fingered the new charm around her neck as she wondered again what could be the urgency. Hopefully not a letter from Wigan bearing bad news.

  As she reached the study, she heard muffled words followed by a woman’s laughter. The door was partially open, and she peered tentatively inside, wondering if she should knock against the open door, or simply show herself in. Her questions were quickly forgotten as she was greeted by a display so unexpected that she struggled to make sense of what her eyes were seeing.

  Douglas was standing with his back against his desk, and a woman was in his arms, her hair singing out behind her like a crimson invective. The woman, who could be none other than Cora Rae Cunningham, had her mouth pressed against Douglas’s lips, and his hands were clutching her arms, as though he was unable to withdraw. As the meaning of the image before her began to crystalize, as she understood the scene to be a passionate embrace, Abby tasted crushing emptiness, and then loathing.

  Suddenly, she was a torrent. “You worm!” she screamed, as he and Cora Rae broke apart and looked to her in the doorway. “You corrosive, vulgar, pretending bastard!” She couldn’t look at them with their startled expressions, couldn’t stand to think about what she was losing or how she had been duped.

  “No, Abby,” Douglas began advancing on her. She certainly wouldn’t tarry to talk about any of it. Instead, she turned on her heel and ran. She barreled as fast as her feet could carry her back down the dark hallway, toward the foyer.

  She heard Douglas calling from behind her, but she didn’t break her stride. “Abby, Abby, come back!” He was screaming after her, but she didn’t hesitate, just kept chasing the air.

  She fumbled with the locks at the front door, yanked at the door, and ran straight into the Charleston evening. She felt her feet connect with the gravel drive, the scrape of pebbles sliding beneath her, then the cobblestones on Meeting Street. She held her skirts and kept running. She ran past carriages and ladies meandering homeward for their suppers, past palm trees and porches, past merchants and hope. It was as though the faster she ran, the better she could escape from her thoughts. All she heard was the pounding of her feet on the road, the sound of dirt and dust enshrouding her.

  DOUGLAS RAN INTO THE HALLWAY AND GLIMPSED THE last swell of Abby’s skirts disappearing from the front door. He wanted to scramble after her and explain, catch her and undo what she had seen, but he second-guessed himself and fought down his drive to go after her. Being hunted, pursued through the Charleston streets, that was not what Abby would want. How easily he had transformed into another villain in her life. He would not exacerbate this moment by turning her into prey, tracked by a man she no longer trusted. He stepped out the door toward the drive, where not even a shadow of disturbance fluttered in the night, as though Abby had never been there at all.

  “Damnation!” He cursed to himself and turned back from the door, leaving it open in desperate prayer. He tore back into his study, where he found Cora Rae waiting for him, perched on the side of his desk with a coy smile on her shimmering face.

  “Good God, woman!” he shouted at her. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Douglas, darling,” Cora Rae rose and began to approach him.

  “Have you no scruples?” Douglas demanded, and she halted at his words, her smile faltering. “To barge into my study uninvited and manhandle me like a common harlot? What were you about? What would your father say? No, don’t answer. Just get out of here. Collect yourself and go.” He stood against the study’s open door with his arms crossed, waiting for her to leave.

  “Douglas,” Cora Rae nearly purred, “you can’t mean that.” She stalked towards him as she was speaking. “There’s always been a special connection between us.” She cocked her head to the side and began twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “You can’t deny you’ve felt it, too.” She was now standing a hair’s breath away from him, and she raised a hand as if to stroke his face. Douglas grabbed her wrist, hard, halting her palm midjourney.

  “Don’t,” he seethed as he held her wrist in a vice grip. “There has never been anything between us. You had better hope, Cora Rae Cunningham, that I am able to undo the damage you have done here today.” He shook his head, looking at her with revulsion. “You had better hope,” he warned again. He dropped her wrist abruptly, as if he suddenly realized that he was holding something rancid.

  “But Douglas,” Cora Rae began, “don’t you see, I did this for us. It’s better she learns now that a girl like her has no future with a man of your stature. I’ve done everyone a favor. When I heard the click of her heels marching toward us, I had to seize this opportunity.”

  “You meant for her to see this farce?” Douglas demanded. “My life is not a game to be meddled with. Out!” He pointed toward the foyer and waited. He saw a flicker of genuine bewilderment cross Cora Rae’s face. “Now!” he roared. Flinching, she stepped away and slowly made as if to exit the tense space, but not before turning back towards Douglas with a last coquettish glance. As she faded into the darkness of the hallway, he breathed in the silence of her departure and then wiped a hand aggressively across his mouth as if to rid himself of the memory of her, and wiped it again, unable to purify himself sufficiently for Abby. He turned and walked to the courtyard, where he planned to wait until she returned.

  UNEASE, LIKE STRANGLING VINES, WRAPPED ITSELF around Douglas’s limbs as he watched Jasper light the estate’s outdoor torches. He had been waiting in the courtyard nearly two hours for Abby’s return. The Herculean restraint he’d shown in not chasing her was dwindling fast, as the night sky seemed to grow perceptibly darker, more ominous, with his every breath.

  Enough waiting. He needed to find her and explain that he had not betrayed her. He would tell her everything, that Cora Rae had appeared, uninvited, just as he’d returned home from the docks. She had been jabbering on to Douglas about meaningless drivel, when she suddenly advanced on him and pushed her unwelcome lips against his. When Abby looked into the study, Douglas had been trying to dislodge Cora Rae’s mouth from his face. She had fought his physical rebuff so fervently that they were almost wrestling. He would have removed her more quickly if he hadn’t been afraid of hurting her, and now he was sorry he’d tried to act the gentleman.

  From Abby’s perspective, Douglas and her uncle Matthew were probably equivalents now, correlative scoundrels. The only difference between them was that Douglas hadn’t yet robbed her of any physical dignity, save for a few kisses. He couldn’t stand the thought of her, wherever she was, detesting him because she saw what looked like deceit, fraud.

  Surely she knew better than to stay out alone past nightfall. He resolved to find Demmet. They would arrange a search party to ferret her out of the darkness and bring her home. He already knew what Demett would say. “She ain’t gone like it,” he’d warn. “If she need some cooling off time, I don’t think she’ll want us wresting her back here.” Well, she could cool off during the goddamn daylight hours, Douglas growled to himself as he hustled toward the stable.

  NINETEEN HOURS LATER, DOUGLAS STOOD AT THE wharf, dusty and drained, staring out to the harbor in frustration as the tall stevedore beside him persisted in denials.

  “I’m telling you, I ain’t seen any such a lass.” All the sailors were saying the same. No one matching Abby’s description had been seen at the docks. He felt like strangling himself for not considering earlier the possibility that Abby might have gone to the docks directly. Of course she might have tested the idea of returning to her own family.

  Douglas had been searching ceaselessly since the night before, and now he forced his eyes wider in an effort to fight the growing fatigue that came from hours of scraping the Charleston streets, and from the d
awning realization he might never find her. He figured she wouldn’t have had money with her to pay for passage on a ship. But, one of his own ships had set out that very morning for Liverpool, stocked with indigo and rice. His mind shot back to the day Abby met Walt and the other stevedores in the shipping office. They’d have known her, been eager even to oblige Douglas’s houseguest with an accommodation. She could have claimed a family emergency, or anything really, said that Douglas sent her to join the voyage, and they would have lowered the gangplank for her with little question.

  It was easy enough for a woman to blend in during the early morning bustle at the wharf, Douglas reasoned. It was not so extraordinary that few remembered seeing her, especially if she wrapped a shawl around her luminous hair and kept her soulful eyes on the ground.

  “Actually, now, maybe I did see a girl like that,” the longshoreman interrupted Douglas’s thoughts, the man’s eyes narrowing with the effort of concentration. “I can’t be certain, now, but there might have been a one, getting on the vessel with the indigo, your vessel. Had I known it to be important, I’d have paid more heed.”

  Douglas considered the stevedore’s recollection. He was desperate for a direction in which to chase, and this was the nearest he had come to finding a lead.

  He shuddered when he thought of her returning to Matthew Milton, and he prayed her rage would keep her strong. The journey across the Atlantic could last as long as two months. Douglas had learned earlier that a second ship, a steamship, left for England that morning, bound for Bristol. If Abby was spotted near his vessel but not aboard the craft, it was equally possible that she had gotten herself aboard that steamship, as a stowaway even. If she had boarded the ship to Bristol, she would need to complete a second crossing from Bristol to Liverpool, likely by boat, as well.

  He turned back to the muddled man beside him, noting for the first time that the fellow had a wooden leg.