Veil of Pearls Page 36

  The swish of satin sounded. Emerald touched his arm.

  “I’m so sorry, Morgan. She fooled us all.” Though she tried, she could not keep the elation from her voice. Morgan knew her too well.

  He tore from her grasp and backed away. “Don’t.” He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you dare.” He shook his head. “You forced me to come tonight. You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  She attempted a pout. “I did it for you, Morgan. To save you.”

  “Pishaw! It’s always been about you, Emerald,” he spat in disgust.

  She took a step toward him, her eyes swimming.

  “Leave me be!” he shouted. Then spinning around, he marched through the gardens and out onto the street, ignoring her calls.

  Anger, confusion, shame, and heartache brewed a wicked tempest within him. He wanted to punch something, call someone out to a duel, drink himself into a stupor.

  Would he be shunned from society forever? Gadzooks, what would his father say? No doubt Franklin’s new-found confidence in his son would disintegrate, and the belittling would start all over again. Yet, as Morgan stormed down the street, his heart crumbling to dust with each step, none of those things mattered as one dreadful realization struck him….

  He would never see Adalia again. He could never see her again.

  Sir Walter shoved Adalia into the hackney. Pain shot through her palms as they slammed against the floor of the cab. A gasp brought her gaze upward to a figure sitting on one of the seats. The woman angled her face slightly, allowing the lantern perched outside to flood her with light.

  “Joy!” Adalia rose and engulfed the young girl in her arms. She began to sob, latching on to Adalia as if she were a lifeline in a turbulent sea.

  “It’s going to be all right now, Joy.” Adalia rubbed her back. “Shhh now. You are safe.”

  The carriage pitched, and Sir Walter climbed in, plopping onto the leather seat across from them. “Oh, how quaint.” He snickered then pounded the top of the coach for the driver to take off.

  Ignoring him, Adalia gripped Joy’s shoulders and forced her back. She wiped moist hair from her face as the coach trundled down the street.

  Joy’s eyes skittered to Sir Walter. The fear and repulsion sparking in them resurged Adalia’s memories of her years beneath the man’s rule.

  “Where are we going?” Joy managed to squeak out.

  Adalia glared at Sir Walter. “We are going to Doctor Willaby’s to drop you off. Aren’t we, Sir Walter?”

  He cocked his head and studied her. Curtains of light and dark from passing streetlamps swept across his face in a demonic dance. “My, you have changed, my pet.”

  Adalia ground her teeth at the repulsive moniker. She never realized how much she hated it until this moment. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Of course.” He heaved a sigh of boredom. “Of course. I will keep to my bargain.” His eyes glinted steel. “If you will keep to yours.”

  A burst of night air filled the coach, bringing the smells of Charleston: honeysuckle and the salty scent of the bay. Adalia swallowed. She would miss this city. “I will give you no trouble if you release Joy unscathed.” She faced the girl again.

  A tear slid down Joy’s cheek. She gazed at Adalia in disbelief. “You gave up your life for me. Why?”

  “I couldn’t bear for you to end up like me.”

  Sir Walter gave a maniacal chuckle. “Ah, come now. You make me out to be a monster!”

  Joy shook her head. “But you’ll be a slave again.”

  “In body only.” Adalia took her hands and squeezed them. “Not my heart or my soul.” She tapped Joy’s chest. “For true freedom exists within us”—she shot Sir Walter a scathing glance—“and no one can take it away.”

  He snorted and continued looking out the window.

  Adalia brushed a tear from Joy’s face. “Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends. Do you know who said that?”

  Joy looked down. “No.”

  “Jesus. He sacrificed everything to set us free. Free from death and sin. The only two things that can enslave you forever.”

  Joy met Adalia’s gaze, and she squeezed her hand. “You have made me believe that, miss.”

  “Finally.” Sir Walter groaned as they halted before Doc Willaby’s home. “Enough of this nonsense!”

  Light spilled from the drawing room window, where the doctor, no doubt, was reading his Bible. The thought brought a smile to Adalia’s face. She glanced over the iron fence, the roses and jessamine dotting the garden, the gables, and balustrades. The familiar scene sliced her heart. Home, comfort, protection. At least it had been for a short while.

  The footman leapt to the ground and opened the door.

  “Off with you, slave.” Sir Walter waved Joy away.

  “Take care of M, will you?” Adalia asked.

  “Of course, miss.”

  “And please tell the doctor I said good-bye.” Adalia didn’t blame him for his part in this. He had only done what he thought best.

  Joy nodded.

  Sir Walter groaned and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “By the saints, if I have to endure any more of this sentimental poppycock, I’ll stuff rags in your mouths and take you both to Barbados!”

  Joy shrank back at his outburst, her eyes flickering between him and Adalia. But at Adalia’s urging, she rose and climbed from the coach. The door slammed, the carriage jostled, and Adalia hung her head out the window and extended her hand.

  Joy grabbed it.

  “Go and be free, Joy. For now, only on the inside. But someday I know you’ll be free on the outside.”

  “Balderdash!” Sir Walter laughed. The whip sounded. The carriage lurched and started down the road. Joy ran alongside, clinging to Adalia, until their hands finally ripped apart and the young girl halted, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Unable to bear the sight, Adalia sat back on the seat and avoided gazing at the smug look on Sir Walter’s face.

  Thankfully, he didn’t speak to her the rest of the trip. Not when they arrived at the wharves and he paid the driver. Not when his men rowed them out to a ship. Not until he shoved her into a tiny cabin. Only then did he look her up and down with an odd combination of disgust and desire. “Humph. You can dress a slave up like a princess. But she’s still nothing but a slave.”

  With that, he walked out and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Do you know what you’ve done, boy?” Franklin paced the drawing room like an angry bull, his snort only confirming the analogy. “You’ve disgraced this family. Made a mockery of the Rutledge name!”

  Wishing the man would lower his voice, Morgan faced the window and closed his eyes against the incessant pounding in his head.

  “Come now, dear,” Morgan’s mother said, her tone one of pleading and pity. “How was Morgan to know who she was?”

  “Humph.” Franklin growled. Morgan heard him march to the sideboard and pour himself another glass of brandy. “I can smell a Negro a mile away.”

  Morgan turned to face him. “Then why didn’t you warn me, Father?”

  Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “I did warn you. I was against this courtship from the beginning. But no.” His face scrunched like a coiled rope. “You had to have her. Couldn’t control your base impulses. Why, you’re worse than Hadley.” He thrust his glass at Morgan, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides.

  Morgan licked his lips. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now. But that would make his efforts to sober up a complete waste of time. After that fateful night at the Brewton ball, Morgan had spent days hiding among the seediest taverns in town trying to drown his sorrow. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he drank, he could not get Adalia out of his mind.

  Or his heart.

  Everywhere he turned, he saw her face in the crowd, heard her voice in the wind. Even smelled her rosemary scent on the breeze.

  “What a shame.”
His mother gripped the back of the settee, a look of genuine sorrow tugging the lines of her face. “Such a sweet girl. And smart too.”

  “She still is, Mother,” Morgan said.

  “Blast you for a fool!” Franklin’s face bloated. “Surely, you can’t still have affections for this lying slave!”

  Even Morgan’s mother looked mortified. “It isn’t right, son.”

  Martha, one of the house slaves, peeked in the room, but upon seeing Franklin’s face, she skittered away. Morgan sighed and picked up a porcelain figurine from atop a table. He ran his fingers over the smooth glass formed in the shape of a young lady donned in finery. A young lady of class and position and white as the new snow. Memories assailed Morgan of Adalia’s hatred of slavery. How she insisted he set the slaves free after they were married. Her hesitation in accepting his proposal. Now it all made sense. “Mother, you tend to the slaves. You care for them. They are people just like us.”

  His mother moved toward him, clasping her hands in front of her. “They are people, son, but they are not like us.”

  Franklin snapped his drink to the back of his throat and poured another. “Thank God you didn’t marry her. People will forget this reckless blunder before too long.”

  Morgan cringed. Reckless blunder? Was that all Adalia had been reduced to? Still he saw nothing in the situation he should be thankful for. To God or anyone else. God. How often had Adalia spoken of God like a friend, a father. A kind father. Not like the one towering over Morgan now.

  Lizzie tumbled into the room, a bundle of lace and giggles. She halted when she saw her father. “Papa, are you angry?”

  “Not at you, sweetheart.” But his harsh tone sent the girl dashing to her mother, who quickly drew her close.

  Morgan thought of the way Adalia had prayed over his sister and saved her life. She never took credit for it, but gave all the glory to God. But where was her God now? Why had He allowed this to happen?

  Morgan set the figurine down and faced his parents. “What does it matter if she has Negro blood in her?” He voiced the question that had been grinding at him all week, grinding and clawing and poking at his mind, his conscience, and at everything he’d been taught to believe.

  Franklin’s face grew ruddy. His eyes fumed. He charged toward Morgan as if intending to strike him. Oddly, Morgan felt no fear. He felt no remorse, no concern that he’d once again disappointed his father. Instead, he felt nothing.

  Franklin’s gaze landed on Lizzie hiding in the folds of her mother’s skirt, and he halted. Instead, he pointed a finger at Morgan. “If you think to go after that slave”—he gritted his teeth and wiped spit from his lips—“if you dare even consider marrying her!”

  “That option has been taken from me, Father. She is gone.”

  A flash of surprise at Morgan’s commanding tone crossed his father’s face, but Morgan’s heart ached too much to relish in the victory. Adalia was gone. He swallowed down a burst of agony at the thought of what she had endured—what she was enduring at the hand of that bedeviled swine, Sir Walter.

  Franklin turned away. “That you would even consider it disgusts me.”

  Morgan glanced at his mother, but even his sweet-tempered, kind mother was not on his side.

  No wonder Adalia had lied to him. Look at the reaction from his parents. He hung his head. Look how he had reacted.

  Everything he ever believed in, everything he had been taught—the fortress of ideas, values, and beliefs that had formed his world—was crumbling around him.

  “If you chase after that Negro whore,” Franklin spat. “If you marry her, I will disown you. I will toss you on the street without a coin in your pocket. Mark my words!”

  Halting just outside the drawing room, Adalia closed her eyes and lifted up a silent prayer for strength and protection. Though her heart still pounded in her chest, she felt God’s presence surround her, cloak her with love. It was late, near midnight, and Sir Walter had summoned her to keep him company. As he had done nearly every night for over a week. She knew he was besotted before she entered the room. But now as she took a step toward him, she also knew from his eyes and the way he slouched on the sofa that he was angry and libidinous.

  A horrifying threesome.

  “You called for me?” She tried to keep her voice steady but knew she had failed when his lecherous grin widened.

  “Come sit, my pet.” He patted the cushion beside him, but Adalia lowered herself onto the high-backed chair across from him instead.

  He frowned and lifted his drink to his lips, studying her.

  Adalia spread her skirts around her feet, ensuring every inch of her was covered. Though the maid had awakened her from a deep sleep, Adalia had donned her most modest gown. Not that it took more than her presence to elicit that lewd sparkle in his eyes. Still, it had been over two weeks, and he’d not touched her. Though why, she could not say. She sensed something different about him—a hesitation, a curiosity, perhaps even a doubt that seemed to keep him at bay. Instead, he had ordered her about as if she were a field hand, working her from dawn till dusk until she all but fell into bed each night. She clasped her hands in her lap, feeling the blisters on her palms even now.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said.

  Adalia pursed her lips. A breeze fluttered the gauze curtains, drawing her gaze to the window. Thick black coated the landscape much like the darkness that coated her heart.

  He sighed. “You are different somehow.”

  Adalia met his cloudy gaze. Yes, she supposed she was. She’d learned so much in the past six months. She’d wandered away from God. But in returning, she’d grown so much closer to Him. And she’d discovered who she was—who she truly was. Who God made her to be.

  “You don’t have to work so hard,” Sir Walter continued, his words slurring.

  “I am your slave, sir. It is my job to work hard.”

  “And yet there is a better way.”

  Adalia swallowed. “What way is that? To live a life of ease and yet be a slave to your desires. Is that what you consider better? I’d rather work in the kitchen or the fields.”

  Face purpling, Sir Walter rose and tottered to the window. “That can be arranged! I can work you day and night until you fall over dead from exhaustion.”

  “If that is God’s will, so be it.” Adalia tightened her jaw. In fact, she had begged for death every day since she’d arrived at the Miles Plantation. Begged for an end to the ache in her heart—an end to the memories of Morgan Rutledge. An end to the dreams of his love that invaded her sleep at night. And the vision of disgust on his face that haunted her thoughts during the day. She loved him still. She would always love him. And that made his rejection hurt all the more.

  “God, bah! What has He to do with anything?” Sir Walter held out his empty glass. “Get me another drink.”

  Making her way to him, Adalia took the crystal goblet and refilled it from the carafe sitting atop the buffet. “What difference does it make whether you work me to death or keep me in the house? You always take what you want.” She handed him his drink.

  The smell of brandy and bergamot cologne stung her nose. With one hand, he took the glass, with the other he clutched her arm. Pain throbbed into her shoulder. He thrust his face into hers.

  “I want you to come to me willingly.” A momentary flicker of longing—no, vulnerability—appeared in his glassy eyes.

  She tore from his grasp and rubbed her arm. “That will never happen.”

  He sipped his drink then set the glass down on the table … methodically, slowly, like a predator trying not to frighten its prey. Then he struck her across the face. Adalia stumbled to the side, the sting radiating down her jaw and neck.

  “You impertinent wench!” He raised his hand to slap her again and would have if he hadn’t staggered and been forced to grip the back of a chair to keep from falling. He ground his teeth together. “You will obey me.”

  Adalia rubbed her cheek and leveled her shou
lders. “I will.”

  He blinked, his gaze wandering over her. “What did you say?”

  “I said I will obey you. You see, Sir Walter, I have made good use of the long hours you put me to work. I have been praying and talking with God. And He has told me three things. Do you wish to know what they are?” Strength surged through Adalia, encouraging her to continue. To no longer fear this pathetic, little man.

  He snorted but did not answer.

  “The first,” she said, “is that to enslave another person against their will is a grievous sin. Secondly, that as long as I am your slave, I am to obey you and serve you with all my heart until such a time as God delivers me from your hand.”