Veil of Pearls Page 3

  She nodded, her eyes riveted to the floor.

  Adalia wanted to tell her she didn’t have to live like this. She wanted to tell her that she could run away like Adalia had. Find a new life. But could she? Adalia could pass for white, but not this woman. Or her family. The only way they could be free would be to buy passage back to Africa, back to a place they had no memory of, a place where they would feel just as estranged as they did here.

  “God be with you.” Adalia closed her satchel.

  “Oh, the good Lord’s always wit’ us, miss. Always.”

  Adalia smiled, pleased to hear such faith in the woman’s tone. Her own faith had been the only thing that had kept her alive the past seven years. Perhaps God would set these people free someday, as He had Adalia. She would pray for that.

  Hoping to avoid the sight of slaves, Adalia took a different route back to the main house through a small wooded area littered with pine needles and leaves and scented with moist earth and conifer trees. She drew a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the dour mood that had come upon her since she’d ventured onto the plantation. She was employed. She would have a meal tonight and a place to sleep. She had much to be thankful for.

  Emerging onto a field overgrown with grass rippling beneath a cool breeze, she adjusted her threadbare shawl over her shoulders and vowed to purchase a proper coat as soon as she could afford one. Of course by then it would be summer, and she’d heard the temperatures in Charleston would become more tropical—much like those to which she was accustomed.

  Soon the warmth of the sun soaked away her chill, and she gazed across the wide expanse of land. A gushing creek cut across the field. Horses grazed in the distance. The leaves of cedar and hickory trees, festooned in moss, laughed in the wind. So breathtaking. So much land. Did the owners appreciate how much God had blessed them? Or was all this beauty simply a veil that masked the agony of slavery?

  The chime of steel on steel drew her gaze to two men fencing by a small unfinished bridge spanning the creek. No doubt the spoiled Rutledge sons the woman spoke of. Laughter followed the clank of swords, increasing her anger. They were playing, enjoying themselves while hundreds of slaves worked on their land and in their home. Pampered urchins. She knew their type, and she wanted nothing to do with them. Yet, unless she wished to circle back around, she could see no other way to cross the creek save to pass right by them. Fine. She would hold her head high and do just that. Besides, she was done allowing their kind to intimidate her, to dictate her life.

  Clutching her skirts she stormed forward, her gaze on the ground and her heart encased in steel.

  Morgan Rutledge leveled his sword out before him. “Prove me wrong, brother.” He grinned.

  Hadley, ever the epitome of pompous composure, threw back his shoulders and lifted his blade. “Prove that I will always excel you at swordplay? My pleasure, dear brother.” He sneered. “That I excel you at all things we shall prove one by one.”

  Morgan snorted. “I believe you have exceeded both Father and me in one thing—your overexaggerated belief in yourself.” He thrust out his blade. “Not an easy feat.”

  Hadley smirked and met his parry. “Ha! Then you admit I am already ahead.”

  Morgan slashed at Hadley’s right side.

  Shuffling his boots over the grass in a ludicrous display, Hadley met his blade with a mighty clank then swung in on Morgan’s lower right. Morgan repelled each parry with one of his own, defending himself with an ease borne to his station and skill.

  “So, little brother has been practicing.” Hadley backed off, his breathing ragged.

  Morgan grinned. “Ready to forfeit lest we scar that handsome face and your paramours abandon you?” A light breeze flapped his shirt, sending cool air over his moist chest and neck even as the sun’s rays lashed his back.

  “I’d sooner utter a vow of celibacy than forfeit a fight with you.” Hadley ran a hand through his black hair—so different from Morgan’s light wavy hair. Tall, handsome Hadley was rarely seen without his retinue of lady admirers. He gave Morgan a look of boredom then kicked out his front leg and lunged forward.

  Morgan leapt out of the way just in time, wondering how much of this duel was indeed sport and how much vengeance. He spun around and dipped low, striking Hadley across the leg but not allowing the blade to sink any deeper than to tear his nankeen trousers.

  Hadley gaped at the hole. “I just had these tailored, you oaf.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have challenged me.” Morgan laughed, glancing across the vast plantation at the coachman working with a new horse in front of the stables. He ran a sleeve over his forehead.

  “I was bored.” Hadley huffed. “What else to do on such a dull day? I have no parties to attend until next week, and Ellen is furious with me.” Leveling his sword once more at Morgan, he charged forward.

  Morgan met his thrust with a resounding clank, forcing his brother back. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have arranged a tryst with Catherine. You know the two ladies talk.”

  “I didn’t think they would discuss me.” Hadley dove in low, sending Morgan springing backward.

  Spinning around, Morgan brought his blade forward and twirled it tauntingly before his brother’s nose. “You know nothing about women.”

  “And you do?” Hadley swept down from on high. “Miss Emerald has been dropping hints of a courtship with you for months now. And you do nothing.”

  “Perhaps I’m not interested.”

  “Then you are a fool. Emerald is the comeliest woman I’ve ever seen. And she’s worth a fortune.”

  Morgan pitched his sword back and forth, engaging each of Hadley’s thrusts and forcing him back. All true. With her golden curls, skin of ivory, and figure of Aphrodite, Emerald was a fine catch. And being the only daughter of Anthony Middleton III made her dowry substantial.

  “Ellen will come around.” Hadley shrugged and stopped to catch his breath. “And if she doesn’t, there are dozens of others waiting behind her. Maybe I’ll set my sights upon Emerald.”

  “By all means.” Morgan chuckled. “But you’ll have to choose one of them soon.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you will inherit all this from Father.” Morgan swept his sword over the landscape. He gazed at his brother. At seven and twenty, Hadley should have been settled down by now, helping Father run the plantation, learning the business.

  “Bah!” Hadley spat. “I’ll inherit it anyway. And you, dear brother, will serve at my pleasure.”

  “Never.” Morgan lifted his chin along with his sword, determined to prove himself the better man, when a flash of lavender snapped his gaze to the left. A woman he’d never seen before marched across the field like a soldier into battle.

  Intrigued, he watched her, wondering what her face looked like beneath those luxurious black curls.

  “Ah, what beauty doth the fair winds bring our way?” Hadley said loud enough for her to hear.

  Still, she did not look up. The closer she came, the more pleasant her curves formed in Morgan’s vision. Who was this fair maiden? From the ragged state of her gown, a servant girl no doubt. Yet, why had he not seen her before? Surely he—and most definitely Hadley—would have noticed such a lovely creature on the plantation.

  More importantly, how dare she ignore them?

  He moved to block her way. “Milady.” He hailed her with a bow. “Perhaps you can aid us.”

  She halted and slowly lifted her gaze to his. Eyes as dark and rich as the fertile soil speared him with a look of contempt. Her disdain shocked him more than vexed him. Lips the color of brandywine made him lick his own, his mouth suddenly parched. And her fiery cheeks only accentuated her beauty—and her anger.

  She averted her eyes as if displeased with what she saw. “What aid could you possibly need from me?” Her tone, contemptuous and fiery, only intrigued him more.

  “Can you judge who is the master at swordplay, milady? Me or my brother?”

  Adalia fum
ed. She should ignore the pompous scamp and head back to the carriage. But the man stood between her and the bridge. A rather handsome man if she were forced to admit. Hair the color of wheat and as wavy as the sea under a high wind. Eyes, as green as the moss hanging from the trees, glinted mischievously in the sunlight. His taut chest peeked at her beneath his loose shirt that flapped in the breeze. Tight black pantaloons led down to bare feet. Her body heated at his lack of attire. Did he have no shame?

  He gave her an audacious grin, which only infuriated her further. She had been silent too long in front of men like these, and now she had a chance to tell them what she thought without repercussions. For they held no power over her. She must remember that. No one owned her anymore.

  He waved at the other impudent devil. “We shall perform for you, miss, and you may judge the champion.”

  “I need no performance to make my judgment, sir.”

  “Indeed? Then, no doubt, you have been admiring our skill from afar?” The light-haired brat waved his arm with a flourish. “I implore you, do dispense with formalities and deem me the victor.” He chuckled.

  “I will deem you, sir. As nothing but a swaggering, vainglorious despot.”

  A gasp escaped the dark-haired whelp’s lips, followed by a chuckle. At first a choppy sort of I-can’t-believe-she-said-that chuckle but finally ending with a full-fledged belly laugh. The light-haired man gaped at her as if she’d grown a mustache. He planted his sword in the dirt and leaned on the hilt.

  “I do believe the lady is acquainted with you,” the dark-haired man stopped laughing long enough to say.

  But she wanted no more to do with either of them. “Good day to you, sirs.” Gathering her skirts, she headed toward the narrow bridge.

  “I daresay, miss,” the light-haired man called after her. “How can you say such a thing? You hardly know me.”

  “I know your type,” she shot over her shoulder and took a cautious step onto the bridge, which didn’t seem to be very sturdy now that she was up close. The wood creaked beneath her shoe.

  “And what type is that?” His voice grew closer.

  Adalia faced him. “The type who plays idly while men and women are enslaved to do your work.”

  His eyes sharpened. “You do not know to whom you speak, miss. I fear you will be horrified when you discover my identity.”

  “I know who you are, sir.” She continued across the bridge, noting that the railing on the right side had not been fully completed.

  His footsteps followed her, sending the bridge wobbling. “Well then, I demand to know who you are.”

  Demand, indeed. “No one of consequence.”

  “I could have you dismissed and thrown off my land.”

  “I will spare you the trouble. I am leaving.”

  “I insist you tell me your name.” His voice bore more humor than fury.

  Adalia clenched her jaw. She spun around. “You do not own me, sir, as you do the poor souls who work your land. Therefore, you cannot insist I do anything.” She couldn’t believe how wonderful the defiant words felt on her lips. How glorious! How empowering!

  His handsome face scrunched. “You take issue with my slaves? They are only doing what they were bred for!”

  Adalia slammed the heel of her shoe on his bare foot.

  He let out a thunderous growl. Grabbing his foot, he hobbled backward over the wooden planks as the dark-haired man burst into another fit of laughter. But the light-haired brat was not amused. In fact, his face twisted in rage as he continued to rub his foot. Finally, he leaned against the half-finished railing in an effort to balance himself.

  A crack-snap split the air. Before Adalia could react, the railing splintered, and the man toppled over the side into the creek with a resounding splash.

  CHAPTER THREE

  You should have seen Morgan, Father. I dare say, shoved into a creek by a mere slip of a girl.” Hadley sipped his brandy and chuckled as he leaned one arm across the mantle. “And she gave him quite a tongue-lashing as well.” The crackle of the fire joined Hadley’s laughter.

  Cringing, Morgan poured himself a glass of Madeira then glanced over the drawing room, avoiding his brother’s gaze. Their father needed no further evidence to fuel his poor opinion of him—an opinion he never hesitated to spout with great enthusiasm. Bracing for the oncoming lecture, or at the very least, a groan of utter disappointment, Morgan sipped his wine and stared at his father.

  Franklin Octavian Rutledge sat in his stuffed leather chair, newspaper stretched out before him and cigar clenched between two fingers. “Humph,” was his only response.

  Their mother, however, looked up from the divan and set her sewing in her lap. “What girl was this, Morgan?” Her blue eyes sparkled with returning health, though her face still lacked its usual glow.

  Morgan shoved a strand of his damp hair behind his ear. “No one.” Though he would love to know who the mysterious woman was—the insolent servant woman with the sharp tongue. And even sharper heel! He shifted his weight off his right foot, where an ache gave evidence of the latter. Despite the way she’d utterly embarrassed him, he found himself longing to see her again. But by the time he’d pulled himself from the creek, she was gone.

  “A true beauty,” Hadley added in his make-sport-of-Morgan voice. “Perhaps she is a fairy, or a forest sprite? For she vanished as quickly as she appeared.” He waved his hand about tauntingly.

  Their mother laughed. “Oh dear, you read far too much Shakespeare. “

  Their father glared at Hadley over the top of his newspaper. “And not enough of what is important, such as The Southern Cultivator, or pray tell, an actual ledger.”

  His harsh tone dragged the levity from the room. Would that Morgan could leave with it before his father turned his scorn on him.

  Too late. The man’s dark eyes shifted his way.

  Hadley shrugged and sipped his drink. “But that is your job, Father. And you do it so well.”

  Still gripping the paper, Franklin drew his cigar to his lips and took a puff before returning to his reading, his expression one of disgust as if he couldn’t stand the sight of either of his sons. In fact, until the age of five, Morgan believed his father to be naught but a booming voice emanating from the Charleston Courier. Unless one roused the beast and the dragon emerged from his printed lair—scaly faced, anger steaming from his bull-like nose and embers sparking in his eyes.

  Franklin puffed on his cigar once again only affirming Morgan’s analogy, the sting of tobacco filling the room with his reproach. “Who is this woman, boy?” he barked, using the degrading word for Morgan. “I’ll not have you philandering with common servants. It’s bad enough neither of you can cease sampling every filly in town long enough to marry one of them.”

  Morgan’s mother gasped, and she lowered her gaze at the lewd discussion.

  Hadley chuckled. “With so many delectable treats, you can hardly expect me to choose.”

  The clock on the mantle struck seven, the chimes piercing the sudden silence like gongs of doom. Morgan sipped his drink, hoping the sweet wine would smother the bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the final rays of the sun retreat out the window. Much like his own feelings of hope and worthiness did whenever he entered this house. A servant dashed in to light the lamps then scurried away like a frightened mouse.

  Morgan circled one of the Victorian stuffed chairs in front of the hearth, making his way toward his mother, who looked ready to cry. “I was hardly philandering, Father.” Though he most certainly would not have objected if the lady had offered.

  “Oh.” His mother dropped her knitting again. “I’m sure she must have been sent by Dr. Willaby. He said he would send someone to look in on poor Jamon. His mother sent word the lad wasn’t feeling well today.”

  “See, mystery solved, dear brother.” Hadley tossed the remainder of his brandy to the back of his throat. “Though how embarrassing that a common working woman set you on your back.” His chuckle grated over Mo
rgan as it always had since they were young boys. Morgan scoured him with an angry gaze.

  Hadley lifted his glass toward him and grinned.

  “A disgrace, if you ask me,” Franklin mumbled.

  His mother’s eyes lit up. “If she is the woman from the Negro orphanage at St. Mary’s, she sounds rather interesting. I would love to speak with her about her knowledge of healing herbs.”

  Morgan slid beside his mother. Interesting indeed. Not only beautiful and spirited, but intelligent as well.

  Hadley snickered and strode to the window.

  “Regardless,” Franklin said. “I insist you both cease these banal trysts and make your choice. There are plenty of ladies with good pedigree and excellent dowries.”