Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Douglas reached the conclusion that he was wasting precious time. Even if Abby would have said anything consequential to Gracie, the girl was clearly so wrapped up in her own tribulations that nothing made an impression. He could not squander any more daylight waiting for Gracie to think of something. He had to keep moving, moving until his eyes were back on Abby, until she was meeting his gaze, hearing the ceaseless plea streaming forth from his lips. He pivoted away from Gracie and charged back out the front door, calling over his shoulder as he raced away, “If anything comes to mind, send word at once.”

  DOUGLAS PACED THE LENGTH OF HIS STUDY, WEARING a path along the burgundy carpet. It seemed all he did these days was pace. He had been back in Charleston nearly three full days, and he was no closer to finding her than when he’d set out for Wigan months earlier. He winced as he thought of Samuel and Ruthie, so foolish to have relied upon him to shelter their daughter. They seemed to trust him still, that he would find Abby and continue to provide her appropriate refuge. He shook his head at their puzzling supply of faith in him.

  “I’ve been everywhere, and there is just no sign of her,” Douglas complained to Larissa, positioning a chair for her in his study and then dropping into the seat behind his desk. “The churches, rooming houses, the port again, it’s all turned up a fat lot of nothing. Perhaps I should start traveling farther, Summerville or Georgetown, begin searching those towns.” Douglas looked helplessly toward the ceiling in thought. “But what, I just pick towns and villages at random? There has to be a better way.”

  “Take heart,” Larissa attempted to comfort Douglas as she walked past the chair he’d adjusted for her and began opening the draperies in the dark study. “If she has not returned to her family, she mustn’t have gone all that far from us. She left with no money, and she’s too full of pride to be begging her way through the States.” Larissa’s pale eyes narrowed as she seemed to parse silently through possibilities.

  True, Douglas thought to himself as he watched the dust motes from the moving curtains dance in the slivers of sunlight arriving from the bared windows. Abby had run out of his house in such haste that she left with nothing. He thought wistfully about the pink dress she had been wearing when he last saw her, the color falling somewhere between a plum and an apricot. How superbly it had played off her fair complexion. Abby’s appearance had been all the more radiant with the glimmering diamonds in the necklace Douglas had given her only the day before.

  “The necklace!” Douglas exclaimed, nearly exploding from his seat.

  Larissa looked up, surprised by his sudden exuberance. “Pardon me?” She asked, putting a hand to her own bare neck.

  “The necklace I gave Abby!” he fairly shouted. “She was wearing it. She could have sold it to pay for a journey out of Charleston!” He pounded his fist on his desk in a gesture of bewilderment. “Why did I not think of this before? Where would she have traveled with that money?” Thoughts began racing through his mind like a vortex of revitalized hope. “It was a valuable piece. She could have gone anywhere from Columbia County to Augusta, Maine.” His mind was swiftly assaulted by a deluge of possibilities. “Where could she have sold it? That’s what we need to discover first. If we can figure out where she obtained the money for her travels . . .” He trailed off and then looked at Larissa expectantly. “Where do you think she might have sold the piece?”

  Larissa pursed her lips, her eyes scanning back and forth as she considered the question. “There is a pawn shop on Cumberland Street. I believe we passed by when Abby and I went to Marseille’s shop for her ball gown,” she proffered. “If you make haste, you might get there before he departs at the close of business.”

  AS DEMETT DROVE THE CARRIAGE TOWARD THE FRENCH shops downtown, Douglas pulled his watch from his coat again, flicking the cover open with an impatient tap. Every minute without her was a maelstrom, more time she would be living under false information. He felt like he was trapped under a fallen chariot, unable to breathe. He had only just begun to understand the weight of his feelings for her, had barely a moment to digest them before she disappeared, and now in her absence, his world had become airless, impossible. It amazed him that in their months apart, his feelings for her had grown only stronger as he was forced to confront all he might have lost. His fingers twitched in his anxiousness to reach the pawn shop before closing.

  He returned the watch to his breast pocket and noticed the crinkling of paper. Reaching deeper, he pulled out the unopened letter from John Colby. He did not remember even picking it up, but he must have done, and placed it in his pocket in his frenzy to leave the house. Douglas had contacted Colby, his former SSLC associate, immediately after collecting sufficient information from Matthew Milton.

  When he had met with Matthew in the storeroom of Milton’s Furnishings & Curios the day after their initial meeting in Wigan, Matthew brought specifics to the business deal he had proposed the evening before, especially the formidable sum he sought from Douglas. Douglas had purported to agonize over the money, firing off questions, and extracting from Matthew nearly every last detail of his slaving activities. Perhaps Matthew was so candid because he knew Douglas possessed knowledge of legitimate transatlantic trading and was attempting to prove his own competency. Whatever the case, Douglas had gathered facts and particulars sufficient to thwart Matthew’s upcoming trafficking expedition, and also to leave both the man’s reputation and his bank account utterly devoid of worth.

  After a bit of posturing at the furniture shop that day, Matthew had admitted that his last two trading voyages had been staggering failures. The first was aborted because of disastrous weather, and the second was terminated prematurely because of a decaying hull. Matthew complained that he had paid handsomely to equip both ships for their intended purposes under the assumption that he would reclaim great profit when he sold off his human cargo. After returning empty-handed from both expeditions, his funds had nearly run out. Many of Matthew’s former associates were now refusing to work with him, so Douglas’s arrival in Wigan was most fortuitous, Matthew explained. The upcoming voyage was his last chance to rebuild his fortune. If the journey was not a success, he would be bankrupt.

  What Matthew was seeking from Douglas was a vessel swift enough to outrun the British Navy, as well as an influx of capital sufficient to fund the journey. There was also the cost of false registration papers and of course, feeding the captives. This trip would be devoted to collecting Yoruba people. The Yorubas, Matthew puffed, could be bought in the Bight of Benin for thirty dollars a piece and sold in the Caribbean for close to one thousand dollars. The potential for profit was astronomical. Given the illegal nature of the enterprise, there were dilemmas to surmount. The delay on African shores was long, as ships could not depart with their African cargo onboard until the coast was free of patrols. Many a crew ran out of foodstuffs before even raising their anchors.

  Partnering with Douglas would be perfect, Matthew postulated, since a superior method for disguising a slave ship was to use that same ship to run legitimate trading voyages between slave missions.

  After nearly two torturous hours, Douglas sighed loudly and agreed to help. The assistance would be contingent, Douglas added, on absolute secrecy and obviously, a large cut of the profits. Matthew eagerly agreed, desperate as he was. Douglas directed Matthew to send his remaining funds to a John Colby in Boston, Massachusetts, who would use the money toward outfitting the craft. Douglas also promised his own investment to be double Matthew’s, or whatever was required to cover the remaining costs.

  Colby, Douglas attested, would provide a state-of-the-art vessel, a newer, faster ship than anything Douglas had available. Since Colby was a Northerner, his involvement in slave trafficking would be more difficult to detect. Finally, Douglas assured Matthew, Colby would surely be able to provide supplemental manpower, as well. Matthew was keen on following Douglas’s every suggestion, his own accumulation of wealth apparently his foremost concern.

  As Douglas sa
t now in the coach, holding the letter from Colby, he regretted that he had not kept abreast of the SSLC and other Underground groups after the fire. But he had at least maintained contact information for certain associates, people like Colby, whom he was certain would be receptive to the contact he initiated. Douglas flattened the crinkled envelope against his thigh and slid his finger under the flap.

  Dear Douglas,

  Your proposal was eagerly accepted by all involved. I suppose you knew that would happen, as the money from Milton arrived only two days after your letter. Per your suggestion, I sent much of the large sum to our common friends. I am sure they will use it wisely. Meantime, I am carrying out the rest of your vision.

  Thank you for bringing this opportunity to our attention. I continue to pray that you might return to the water soon yourself. I look forward to reporting our great success with respect to the Voyager.

  Fondly,

  J. Colby

  As the coach reached Cumberland Street, Douglas folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. Douglas would burn the letter when he returned home. This time he would be more careful. He was pleased to know that Milton’s remaining funds had been donated, unbeknownst to that dim-witted muck-spout, to the American Anti-Slavery Committee.

  As they finally reached the far end of Cumberland Street, Douglas bounded from the carriage before Demett could come to a full stop. Pushing open the door to the pawn shop, he was met by the heavy scent of musk and the sound of a bell tinkling above his head. The shop was larger than Douglas had expected, but tightly packed with items that clientele had seen fit to sell off for one reason or another. There was a shocking number of clocks, large and small, crowding the counters and the floor. As he stepped farther into the shop, he passed a knee-high statue of a white lion, and then a pile of small, rolled rugs. An older man looked up from where he stood reading a catalog behind the counter.

  “Good evening,” he called to Douglas in a French accent. “Let me know if I can assist.” The man glanced at the nearest clock, likely irritated that Douglas had arrived so near closing time and then looked back to the catalog. Douglas maneuvered to the counter, where jewelry was arranged in glass display cases. Looking from one case to the next, his breath caught as he quickly grasped sight of the necklace he had purchased for Abby months before. He exhaled slowly, appreciating the luck of locating the necklace so shortly after remembering it. Looking again at the necklace, he felt a pressure on his chest as images of Abby flashed in his mind. He thought of the sway of her hips and bit down on the inside of his lip. He then glanced around at the other displayed items, snuff cases, a variety of small pistols, bracelets, and other inconsequential jewelry. Abby’s necklace was clearly one of the most valuable items in the ramshackle shop, and Douglas was certain the timeworn man behind the counter would remember how it had come into his possession.

  “This necklace,” Douglas spoke up. “Can you tell me what happened when you purchased it?”

  The man regarded Douglas for a moment before looking to see which necklace he referenced. “No, sir,” he looked back up at Douglas and casually shrugged his shoulders. “I do not very well remember this lady who sell me the stallion.” He shifted his body and looked back at his catalog again.

  Douglas pushed a few bills across the glass countertop. “If this is the game you want to play, have at it. Just please, I’m in a grand hurry.”

  The clerk pocketed the bills without missing a beat. “Now that you mention it,” he perked up, “I do recall the young lady who was here, très belle, very pretty, yes? But she was rushed, in frenzy, perhaps like you, mon ami?” He looked Douglas up and down before continuing. “She was sad, the lady, very sad, too. I don’t know,” he waved his hand dismissing his gentler side. “We agreed on the price, and then voilà,” he clapped his hands together with a flourish, “she was gone.”

  “Where did she go?” Douglas demanded.

  The wrinkled man made an elaborate show of furrowing his brow. “I do not know whether she mentioned anything about a destination. If perhaps I were a younger fellow, like you, it would not be such a struggle to recall, eh, mon ami?” He looked expectantly at Douglas.

  “For crying out loud.” Douglas placed another bill on the counter and suppressed the urge to grab the man by his shirt collar. “Where did she go?” he repeated firmly.

  The shopkeeper took hold of the money and again placed it in his breast pocket. “I do not know for certain. So long ago. Hard to recall, yes? Only she asked about the travel north, wanting to know the best way to reach, what was it, Boston? Said she had to get back to her school, I think,” he cocked his head as though struggling to remember.

  Douglas watched the man’s eyes narrow in concentration, and then, with a sudden and biting clarity, he knew. He knew exactly where she had gone. So many times she had spoken of Larissa’s experience at a girl’s boarding school, how she might be keen on a similar experience for herself. There were other schools she could have chosen, but somehow, Douglas was just certain now of where she had taken herself, could feel it in his bones. He fairly flew forth from the pawn shop, propelled by a surge of new hope as he raced to prepare his things for a journey to the Hadley School for Girls. He needed to make just one stop first.

  31

  STOCKBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  JULY 1846

  Sunday luncheon was the only meal of the week that Abby disliked at Hadley. In the three and a half months since she arrived at the school, she had come to enjoy sitting with the girls at the long tables in the formal dining room, listening to their chatter about friends and projects. It seemed lately, she was even becoming a central part of the daily discourse, with many of the girls anxious for her opinions. But Sunday luncheon was used for instruction only, with little opportunity for conversing. There were incessant lessons about the proper moment to unfold one’s napkin, which knife to use for spreading cream, and so on and so on. It was horribly boring to listen to Belinda Sharp, the school’s aging watercolor instructor and resident expert on table decorum, as she droned on about tines and particular forks. So instead, Abby’s mind would wander. Inevitably, her thoughts would stray back towards Charleston, tethered to the locale by yards of relentless invisible twine. Miss Sharp’s words echoed Larissa’s instruction so thoroughly, Abby couldn’t help but be reminded of her time with her governess, and host. Still, her fixation drove her mad each time she surrendered to it.

  As she stared at the volute wallpaper of the dining room, listening to Miss Sharp expound upon the direction in which a soup spoon should travel, she felt prickling behind her eyes, tears threatening. She almost slammed her own spoon back onto the table, so miffed with her inability to shore up. Wasn’t she supposed to be Abigail Milton from the dregs of Wigan? She should be able to handle worse than this, this disappointment, a failed dalliance, without so much as a backward glance. But no, it seemed her brief time with Douglas had somehow turned her soft, dewy-eyed, and she couldn’t abide it. She chanced another spoonful of her corn chowder, the bits of corn floating in the creamy liquid making her think of small yellow teeth, disgusting her.

  When she fled Charleston in March, she imagined that a bit of distance and time would allow her attachment to Douglas to dissipate. After all, they had barely begun courting before it all went to tatters. Instead, during the months since her departure, she had become only further crestfallen. Her yearning for Douglas, for her life in Charleston, persisted like a nagging thirst. Several times throughout each day, still, something trifling would remind her of Douglas. She couldn’t so much as grin without the fleeting thought that Douglas too would have been delighted by whatever had amused her.

  She was fortunate to have secured a position at Hadley, and she dared not jeopardize her future by revealing her continued despair. The school’s aging instructors, most of them women well past forty, seemed uninterested in idle gossip. Except for Miss Parsons, the teachers seemed willing to accept her fabricated tale of fire with few questions.
But for how long would she be permitted to grieve? With each passing day, as she failed to scrub the recesses of her mind, free them from the images of that man, that woman, she feared the teachers would notice her ongoing dejection and wonder about her suitability for the school. Hadley was a greatly esteemed institution, a school with little reason to tolerate questionable faculty.

  Although Miss Parsons promised that Abby was on her way to a permanent teaching position, Abby had long ago learned nothing in life was assured, not for her. Perhaps her compulsion to recall Charleston bled from the fact that at the Elling estate, she had found a place where her isolation and bitterness, her longstanding elixir of personal rage, was finally subordinated to other endeavors. But now she saw that sorrow was her only true companion, back to squeeze against her heart once more.

  When she recalled how Douglas had behaved during the weeks prior to her departure, the way his eyes pursued her, regarding her as though she was his greatest epiphany, she questioned whether she misunderstood his interaction with Cora Rae. But if there was an alternate explanation for what she witnessed in the study, wouldn’t he have tracked her down and explained by now? Someone with Douglas’s extensive background in escape plans would likely ferret out her hiding spot with relative ease. Especially given all the times she had remarked to both Douglas and Larissa about Hadley, how she would relish the opportunity to teach at such a school, how envious she was of Larissa’s experience. It would not have taken too much, if he paid heed to their conversations, to think of the place she might have gone. In light of his failure to appear, she determined over and again that Douglas simply played her for a fool.

  Still, she did wonder what happened after she left. She imagined he would have checked with Gracie, and then maybe stopped at the rooming houses in central Charleston. Most likely he had given up his search quickly, distracted by his new affair with the ravishing Cora Rae. Each time Abby thought of them together, she felt a scalding pain settle into her chest, a scorching weight nearly impossible to withstand. So instead she would push the image from her mind like an undertaker pounding his shovel at mounds of dirt. How foolish of her to hope even for an instant that Douglas might come find her at Hadley. Douglas Elling had never cared for her in the manner he declared, and she would do well to cease her pointless mourning.