Veil of Pearls Page 4

  Hadley choked on his brandy, exchanging a humorous glance with Morgan. “Are we choosing wives or horses?”

  Franklin cleared his throat, but before he could growl his debased response, Morgan inquired as to his mother’s health.

  She patted his hand. “I am much better, thank you.”

  “I’ve warned you to stop attending those slaves, Mrs. Rutledge,” Franklin said. “You probably caught one of their nasty little diseases. Leave them to this woman from now on.” He lifted his paper back up to resume reading.

  His mother’s disappointment hung in the air around her. Taking care of the slaves was one of the few household tasks she enjoyed. Yet still she did not argue with her husband. She never did.

  So Morgan would. “It is expected of plantation wives to tend to the slaves, Father. Surely you don’t wish anyone to believe Mother is not fulfilling her duties as mistress of Rutledge Hall?”

  Franklin peered at Morgan over his paper. “If you are so concerned with our reputation, boy, perhaps next time you will not allow a baseborn woman to demean you on your own land. Preposterous.” He snapped his paper shut—not a good omen for Morgan. “At least the incident wasn’t witnessed by any of the servants.” He puffed on his cigar before grinding it out on a plate beside him, then faced Hadley, who stood with his back to the window, a rather pleased look on his face.

  “Where were you this morning?” Franklin snapped. “I asked you to receive the inventory report from Jenkins.”

  “I was otherwise occupied, Father.” Hadley stared at the painting above the mantle—a picture of two ships engaged in battle during a storm at sea.

  Morgan had spent his youth getting lost in that painting, dreaming of commanding one of those ships, wondering how it would feel to order a broadside, to march across the heaving deck and breathe in the salty air. As he gazed at the scene, he felt the tug of the sea on him even now, luring him to another world where he had meaning, purpose, and freedom.

  “I told you—” His father’s strident tone yanked him back to reality.

  “I know how to keep the ledger, Father,” Hadley interrupted.

  Franklin rose to his full six-foot stature, his lined face reddening. “You are seven and twenty, Hadley. Old enough to handle the responsibilities of this plantation.” He folded the paper and tossed it on his vacated chair.

  Six-year-old Lizzie bounced through the doors in a flurry of lace and giggles, scattering the dour mood that hung in the room like a demonic presence before an angel. Halting before her mother, she twirled around, sending her pink skirts spinning. “See my new dress, Mama, Papa.” She faced Franklin, blond curls springing around a face that held a look of expectant adoration.

  “Hmm. Yes, indeed. Very nice, Lizzie.” The man placated her with a grin that seemed to crack his aged face.

  Unaffected by her father’s quick dismissal—oh, how Morgan hoped that would be the case her entire life—Lizzie dashed into Morgan’s arms. He gathered the little girl into a bear-like embrace and set her on his lap. She smelled of sunshine and cinnamon, and he wished she would remain this young and innocent forever.

  Hadley made his way to the buffet and poured himself another brandy.

  Franklin’s jaw bunched as he glanced between his sons. “All the two of you do is fritter away your time on gaming and women. You are both a disgrace to the Rutledge name.”

  “Oh dear.” Mary glanced between her daughter and husband. “Must we always fight?”

  “Until my eldest son owns up to his responsibility …” Franklin glared at Hadley. “What am I to do when I die? Hand over the running of the plantation to Morgan here?” His tone spoke of the complete absurdity of the notion.

  The Madeira soured in Morgan’s belly. He distracted himself by tickling Lizzie and allowing her giggles to sweep life into his empty soul. He’d accepted that Hadley was the favored son long ago, preferred it that way, in fact. Then why did the reminder never fail to twist the knife a little further in his gut? Not that Morgan wanted anything to do with the plantation. He enjoyed the privileges and wealth that came with belonging to the landed gentry, but in truth it all seemed oddly unimportant to him.

  “I’ll die before I’ll watch my indolent sons squander everything I’ve worked for.”

  Hadley tossed his brandy to the back of his throat. “Father, you’re too cantankerous to die. Why, you will no doubt live another hundred years.” He gave a caustic smile. “Besides, we have more than enough to squander.”

  “I don’t want Papa to die.” Lizzie’s blond eyebrows drew together. Morgan hugged her as his mother clasped her hand. “He’s not going to die, Lizzie.”

  The maid entered, curtseyed, and lowered her gaze. “Supper is ready, mum.”

  Hadley set down his glass and straightened his waistcoat. “I fear I must miss our evening meal, Mother. I have an appointment in town.”

  “An appointment at the gaming halls no doubt.” Franklin sneered.

  “Hadley, please stay.” Pain laced his mother’s tone. “You so seldom dine with us.”

  “Some other time, Mother.” He gave her an apologetic look then turned and left.

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” Franklin stormed from the room, his steps echoing up the stairs.

  Morgan hated seeing grief shadow his mother’s face. An all-too-common occurrence these past few years. Had she ever been happy? Though quite comely in her day, a permanent wrinkle folded the skin between her brows, and harsh lines framed her delicate mouth. Even her golden curls seemed to hang limp with despondency.

  Scooting Lizzie from his lap, Morgan stood, took his mother’s hand, and bowed gracefully. “May I escort you to dinner, madam?”

  She smiled and stood, placing her hand in his.

  Shoving aside the strife that always permeated the walls of the Rutledge home, Morgan escorted his mother and sister to the dining hall—the only two reasons he spent any time at all at home. But his thoughts drifted to another lady. A dark-haired woman with the prickly tongue. An educated, prickly tongue from her manner of speech. Yet, a mere servant? Regardless, instead of swooning at his feet as most women did, she had shunned him—insulted him! Utterly and completely fascinating. He grinned. What a challenge. And Lord knew Morgan needed something, anything, to add a spark to his humdrum existence. No, he must find a way to cross paths with this bold servant girl soon. Very soon.

  Nerves strung tight, Adalia stepped into the doctor’s drawing room. Rich wainscoting framed the walls beneath paper painted with bright flowers. A woven rug covered the center of the wooden floor. A Hepplewhite settee and chairs sat upon it before a bay window that overlooked the gardens below. Flickering light from a fireplace and two painted glass lamps created a warm glow through the room. Her stomach rumbled. Yet this time, it was in appreciation of the food she’d just consumed: boiled mutton, okra soup, corn, and rice pudding. More food than she’d eaten in weeks.

  Dr. Willaby looked up from his reading, took off his spectacles, and stood. “Do come in, Miss Winston, do come in. Is your chamber to your liking?”

  Adalia smiled. Much to her surprise, she’d been given a beautiful chamber on the second floor, not one below stairs with the servants. But more importantly, it was a chamber that locked from the inside, not the outside. “Yes, it is perfect. Thank you. And supper was quite good as well. “

  “Ah, that would be Mrs. Golding, my cook’s doing. I’m sure you were introduced.”

  “Yes.” Adalia clasped her hands together, unsure of this man’s intentions for her, beyond assisting him with his medical duties.

  “Come. Sit and tell me how you learned to heal with herbs.” He closed the book and set it on the table beside him. Only then did Adalia notice he’d been reading the Bible. Relief loosened the tight coils in her chest. A man who read his Bible was surely a good man.

  The young Negress Adalia had met in the kitchen entered with a tray of tea. Though Adalia had tried to engage the girl in conversation, she had barely gotten a wo
rd out of her. The cook had informed Adalia that Joy was a new slave in the household.

  “Joy, this is Miss Winston.” The doctor’s voice was curt.

  The young girl set the tray down and nodded, keeping her gaze on the ground.

  “She’ll be staying with us and helping me with my patients. You are to assist her with anything she needs.”

  Adalia flinched. “I have no need of a maid, sir.” Especially a slave. She’d rather die than have a slave serve her.

  “Of course you do. Every lady needs a maid.” The doctor frowned at Joy. “Don’t just stand there, girl, go get another cup for Miss Winston.”

  His harsh tone grated over Adalia as Joy bobbed a nervous curtsey and left.

  “Now, tell me how things went at Rutledge Hall.” Doc Willaby said the name as if the mere sound of it poisoned his lips.

  Adalia slid onto one of the chairs, feeling out of sorts conversing with her master—employer—as an equal. “The young boy had a simple bellyache. I gave him nettle tea.” Her thoughts drifted to the Rutledge sons, but she wouldn’t mention the incident. Her insolent behavior was inexcusable and could possibly tarnish the doctor’s good name, something she hadn’t considered in the heat of the moment.

  Joy entered with an extra cup and poured tea for them both. Her hand trembled and Adalia took the cup from her before she spilled any and incurred the wrath of her master, as Adalia had done on more than one occasion with Sir Walter. She offered Joy a comforting smile, hoping to reassure her that she had nothing to fear from Adalia, but the girl wouldn’t meet Adalia’s eyes. The sip of tea turned to ash in her mouth. How could she work for a man who enslaved people—her people? But what else was she to do? Starve on the street?

  Joy set the pot on the tray with a nervous clank and hurried from the room. At the very least, Adalia would do her best to make the young slave’s life tolerable, if not pleasurable at moments. Perhaps that was why God had placed her in this home.

  Dr. Willaby sipped his tea and leaned back in his chair. Though mostly gray, strands of dark brown revealed the original color of his hair. A brown that matched the warmth of his eyes, which now shifted to her with approval. She quickly lowered her gaze, afraid she’d be chastised for looking at him directly.

  “Where did such a charming girl learn about plants that heal?” he asked again.

  “From my mother. She studied healing from the local natives.”

  “Natives?” Disdain marred his voice. “Which island?”

  Adalia hesitated. “Jamaica.” Her insides cringed at the lie, but it couldn’t be helped. She must give no indication of her true past or where she’d come from.

  “And where are your parents now?”

  “They are deceased.”

  “I am sorry, miss.” His sympathetic tone touched her. “And leaving you alone so young.”

  She dared to meet his gaze. “I am nineteen, sir.”

  “Ah, a grown woman.” He chuckled. “I daresay, when Father Mulligan informed me of your skill with the Negro orphans, I knew I’d found the right assistant.”

  “I am very grateful for the employment, Doctor.” She sipped her tea, allowing the warm liquid to unwind her nerves. Peppermint tingled in her mouth.

  Doctor Willaby proceeded to tell her the rules of the house, relaying in great detail the tight schedule he kept. “I expect you to attend church with me every Sunday.”

  “Of course. That would please me greatly.” Adalia set her cup down on the table, trying to hide her enthusiasm. Sir Walter had never allowed her to attend church.

  “You’ll find me a quiet man who enjoys a quiet home.”

  “I assure you, Doctor, you will have no trouble from me.”

  He set down his tea and retrieved his Bible. “Very good. You may take your tea and go to your chamber. I’m sure you are tired.”

  Adalia thought nothing of the quick dismissal. In fact, being beyond exhaustion, she was glad for it. Bidding him good night, she headed upstairs, closed the door to her chamber, and lit the candle on her dresser. Golden light blanketed the room and warmed her heart. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and thanked God for all her many blessings: for a home, a bed, food, and employment. “Thank You, Lord. You do, indeed, supply all my needs.”

  Rising to sit on the bed, she withdrew a velvet pouch from her valise and poured a string of black pearls into her hand. Her mother’s pearls. Pearls her father had purchased with money he’d saved for years. The beads shimmered like silvery onyx in the candlelight, dark and lustrous like her mother. She pressed them to her cheek. Cool and smooth. They were all Adalia had left of her. These and her sweet memories.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured her father clasping the pearls around her mother’s neck then leaning down to nibble on her ear. Her mother giggled then swung around and embraced him, gazing up at him with such love.

  “What about us?” little four-year-old Delphia whined.

  Their father, tall and as handsome as any regal prince, faced his daughters. “You both will always be my precious pearls.” He knelt, and Adalia and her sister flew into his arms, where he showered them with kisses until they all collapsed in a heap of laughter.

  That was six months before the hurricane swept them out to sea, leaving Adalia and Delphia orphans. Two days later, Sir Walter visited their farm on the pretense of checking on his neighbors. With soft words and promises of care, he stole them, frightened and hungry, from their beds. They never saw home again.

  A breeze whistled through the cracks in the windowpanes and chilled the tear spilling down her cheek. Batting it away, she slid the pearls back into the pouch and began unpacking her things—what few things there were. She placed her extra petticoats and chemise in a drawer and hung her skirt on a hook in the wardrobe. After holding the Bible to her chest, she set it on a table by the bed, thankful her father had taught her to read and write. Not only that, but her father had insisted that she and Delphia receive a proper education, consisting of lessons in mathematics, literature, history, science, Latin, and religion. She’d never asked him where a simple farmer and fisherman had learned all these things, but she guessed he used to be a man of means, perhaps even of property and status, whose family disapproved of his marriage to Adalia’s mother. Now, she would never know the truth.

  Reaching back into the valise, her hand struck something hard and cold. The iron band that used to clamp around her ankle—at least one of them. She pulled it out. A chill scraped down her back that had nothing to do with the cool metal in her hands. Why had she kept it? She’d tossed the rest of her shackles into the sea. But not this. The candle fluttered, highlighting the engraved words, Miles Plantation Barbados. She snorted. How Sir Walter loved to brand everything and everyone with his name. She held the band up to the flame, exposing it to the light—if only to prove it had no power over her anymore. No, she would never wear it again. She had kept it as a reminder of just that, a reminder that she had once been a prisoner—a slave. But now, she was free.

  Much the same as what the Lord had done for her and all mankind on the cross.

  And she must never take that freedom for granted.

  Tossing it back into the valise, she stuffed the case into the mahogany wardrobe, changed into her nightdress, blew out her candle, and crawled into bed. Drawing the quilt to her chin, she smiled. Warm, protected, and fed, she hadn’t felt so content in years. So content and exhausted that within minutes, she felt herself drifting to sleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Adalia dreamt of shackles and leather whips and Sir Walter floating down the long hall like an evil specter, calling her name in slurred words. “Althea, sweet Althea.” She cowered beneath her quilt, begging God to make him go away. But instead his voice grew louder. “Foolish girl! You can never leave me. You are mine forever.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Morgan took a spot on the quarterdeck beside Captain Bristo and thrust his face into the wind. Sunshine spread a warm blanket over him as the sce
nt of tar and the briny smell of the sea filled his nostrils. The merchant ship rose on a swell then plunged down the other side. Salty spray showered him. Bracing his boots over the wooden planks, he shook the droplets from his face and ran a hand through his hair.

  “You are looking more like a true seaman every day.” Captain Bristo smiled.

  The compliment lifted Morgan’s shoulders. “Remember my first week at sea when I clung to anything nailed to the deck?”

  “You did provide entertainment for the crew.” The captain chuckled as he folded his arms over the blue coat he always wore at sea. Though taller than Morgan’s six feet, Captain Bristo was slighter of figure. And with his long brown hair pulled back in a queue, he looked much younger than his forty-three years. Many a sailor made the mistake of attempting to take advantage of the captain’s presumed inexperience only to find that behind the gentle demeanor lurked a wise, valiant man who had no trouble maintaining order aboard his ship.