Veil of Pearls Read online

  He swallowed down the urge to caress it. “I find your honesty refreshing.”

  “Indeed. No doubt due to its rarity among your friends.” Giving him a look of annoyance, she started walking again.

  Egad, her shrewish tongue! He followed her. He couldn’t help it. She reminded him of the sea: wild, tempestuous, unpredictable, and beautiful. “Would you honor me by allowing me to escort you to a soiree at Craven Hall Friday night?”

  “No,” she said without stopping.

  The woman confounded him. Dozens of ladies awaited his invitation, and she spurned him without a second’s thought. “Are you otherwise engaged?” It was rude to ask, but he could think of no other reason for her refusal. “No.”

  He touched her arm, if only to slow her down. She leapt away from him as if he’d burned her. Her chest rose and fell beneath the ruffle at her neckline.

  “My apologies, Miss Winston. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I simply wish to know why you refuse me.”

  “For the very reason that you are astounded that I would do so.”

  Morgan knew his vanity had been gravely insulted, but he couldn’t help but smile.

  The clamor of the gossiping crowd rang over them. Miss Winston tipped up the brim of her hat and finally graced him with a peek into those dark eyes. “Are you still confused, sir?”

  “No, I believe you have been quite clear.” He frowned, battling a frustration he certainly wasn’t accustomed to with the softer gender.

  She tilted her chin and fingered a black curl fluttering about her neck. The very curl he yearned to run his fingers through. “I suggest you continue attending church, Mr. Rutledge, and do spend more time listening to the sermon next time.”

  Dr. Willaby approached, stepping between Morgan and Miss Winston. “Mr. Rutledge.” His tone was curt as usual.

  “Doctor.” Morgan nodded at the impudent man.

  “If you’ll excuse us.” Taking Miss Winston’s arm, Dr. Willaby stole her away before Morgan had a chance to utter a proper adieu.

  “What business have you with Mr. Rutledge?” The doctor addressed Adalia when they were outside the reach of prying ears.

  “None, I assure you,” Adalia said.

  “I would stay away from the Rutledges, miss. Especially the men in the family. They are a danger to women everywhere.” He patted her hand as a father would a daughter.

  Adalia eyed him, wondering at the cause of his scorn. Surely anyone would consider a match with one of the Rutledge sons a great advantage. Regardless, she had every intention of following his advice. She glanced back over her shoulder only to find Mr. Rutledge standing amongst his friends, the alabaster beauty clinging to his arm. Sunlight shimmered off her silk gown and the jewels strung about her neck.

  But Morgan’s eyes remained fastened on Adalia.

  She faced forward, her mind spinning from their encounter. During the torturous years enslaved by Sir Walter, she’d often dreamed of a charming prince who would come to her rescue. An honorable man who would cherish and protect and love her and take her away to a fairy-tale land filled with beauty and wonder.

  But no such man came. In truth, heroes didn’t exist.

  Especially among slave-owning nobility. Yes, she admired the beautiful women and handsome men she’d seen strolling about town in their elegant attire. She’d heard their laughter and the music from their parties. But Adalia knew she was not destined for such a life. She would always be a pauper. Some days her belly might ache from hunger and her back from too much work. But God would take care of her. She knew that. Yet, as she stole one more glance at Mr. Rutledge mingling among the privileged crowd of aristocrats, she wondered just for a second what it would feel like to be a part of his world.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After one last glance in her dressing mirror, Adalia gathered her gloves, pelisse, and medical satchel and headed downstairs. She now owned three gowns. Three! Could she ever have imagined? Even though one of them was reserved for her Sunday best, she felt devilishly rich. And a bit ashamed. Having a salary for the first time in her life had made her far too frivolous. As she descended the stairs, she vowed not to purchase any more fabric for at least a year. She passed the housekeeper, who was carrying an armful of dirty laundry and a tin of coals. “Good morning, Mrs. Faye.”

  The elderly woman grinned and wished her a good day.

  Adalia smiled as she made her way to the foyer. Every day, she thanked God for Dr. Willaby’s generosity. She had a home, food, clothing, and worthwhile work. Work she was excited to begin on this crisp February day. Though she had assisted Dr. Willaby on several of his medical calls, many days he sent her to help at the Negro orphanage. Which of course she didn’t mind at all. It was only that she’d hoped to learn more about true medicine from the doctor. Today, however, he had promised to bring her along on all his calls.

  Happy at the thought, she bounced into the drawing room, and upon seeing the doctor sitting in his usual chair, cup of tea in hand and open Bible in his lap, she said, “I am ready to leave whenever you are, sir.”

  He looked up at her and smiled above the rim of his glasses. A gentle smile with a hint of sorrow. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans, Miss Winston.” He released a heavy sigh. “It’s the Rutledges.”

  Adalia’s heart grew heavy as she waited for him to continue.

  “It seems they have more ill slaves. You’ll need to attend to them.

  Plus, I’d like you to drop by the orphanage on your way back. Apparently Doctor Patterson is … well, indisposed again.” He huffed his displeasure. Everyone in town knew of the man’s affair with the bottle.

  Adalia tried to hide her disappointment. Rutledge Hall was the last place she wished to go. “Surely there is another doctor who could better attend the Rutledge slaves.” She clamped her lips together, but the words had already squeezed through them. She shouldn’t question her employer. It was just that she was so looking forward to absorbing his knowledge today. Besides, Adalia was beginning to wonder whether the doctor had employed her simply to attend to Negroes. For he always passed any calls to minister to them on to her.

  He frowned. His jaw clenched. Adalia swallowed, chastising herself for ungrateful words.

  “No respectable physician panders to the idle complaints of slaves.” His lips curled in disgust. “Besides, that task normally falls to the matron of the plantation. Why Mrs. Rutledge refuses to do her duty is beyond me.” His dark brows—so at odds with his graying hair—lifted in a stern line. “You will go, Miss Winston. Is that clear?”

  She nodded, acid welling in her belly.

  “Joy can accompany you.” Setting aside his Bible, he stood, the harsh lines of his face softening. “I can see that you are disappointed.”

  Should she dare press her hand? “Forgive me, sir. But I thought you wished me to stay away from the Rutledges.”

  “I do. The men, not the slaves. Besides, I believe those unbridled sons are staying in town for the season.” He glared at her. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, I am happy to help them.” Adalia lowered her eyes.

  “You are a sweet girl, Miss Winston.” Kindness shoved the last trace of anger from his tone. Raising a fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat as if overcome with emotion. “I thank God He brought you to me.”

  The gracious, sincere words, so foreign to her ears, trickled through her mind, awakening fond memories of her childhood, of a father’s love, and washing away all traces of the doctor’s vile attitudes in the process. “It is I who am thankful, Doctor, to have such a generous and good man as my employer.”

  A short while later, Adalia snapped the reins, sending the phaeton lurched forward. Joy clung to the edge of the carriage as they trundled down the street into the path of a cool ocean breeze that fluttered the fringe on the hood above them and brought the scent of fish and rotting wood to their noses. As they passed through Charleston, weaving among other carriages and horses, several gentlemen tipped their ha
ts in her direction. Adalia ignored them, happy when the cobblestones turned to sand and the buildings faded into angel oaks and palmettos. At least the trees wouldn’t ogle her.

  Yet, Joy seemed anything but happy beside her. The farther they went out of town, the stiffer her posture became, and the tighter she gripped the edge of the seat.

  “Are you all right, Joy?” Adalia raised her voice over the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the carriage wheels.

  Yet the girl’s wide eyes remained riveted forward. “I don’t much care for visitin’ plantations.”

  Adalia nodded. It was an emotion she could well understand. Her reaction had been the same the first time she’d entered Rutledge land. Though at the time, her fear had quickly turned to anger. And now at her friend’s reaction, it threatened to do so again.

  “I’s afraid they’ll steal me as their slave.”

  Adalia shifted the reins to one hand and touched Joy’s arm. “They can’t steal another man’s slave, Joy. It’s against the law. So, you have nothing to fear. Besides, I won’t let them harm you.”

  I won’t let him take you, Delphia. I won’t let him make us slaves.

  Adalia’s promises to her sister echoed in her mind like hollow chimes.

  Empty, like her words were now.

  The scent of pine and moss and a hint of rain swirled around them on a crisp breeze. Joy gave her a tremulous smile. But a smile, nonetheless. And that gave her courage to ask, “How did you come to be Doctor Willaby’s slave?”

  Joy folded her hands in her lap. “I was at the orphanage. The one where you hep out.” The wind blew a whip of hair into her face, and she brushed it away. “When I turned ten, I was put up for sale.”

  Adalia’s chest tightened. Humans beings sold like goods. It sickened her.

  “I was a laundress for Mrs. Hentley for four years. But she up and died of the ague last year. Doc Willaby bought me a couple months ago,” Joy continued as she gazed at the passing foliage. “I’s very lucky. A friend o’ mine went to the rice fields. She died from the malaria.”

  Malaria. How horrible. Adalia had heard that over half the slaves assigned to the rice fields succumbed to the disease within their first few years there. “Where are your parents?”

  She shrugged. “My ma died givin’ birth to me. I don’t know where my pa is.”

  The phaeton emerged from the wooded trail onto a wide clearing of tall grass and shrubs. In the distance, the massive iron gate marking the entrance to the Rutledge plantation stood like an open prison door, luring unsuspecting victims. Adalia squinted and urged the horse onward, her heart as heavy and dark as the storm clouds rising on the horizon. She clasped Joy’s hand again. At first the girl tugged it away, but Adalia tightened her grip. “I’m so sorry, Joy, for all you’ve suffered. But surely God has taken care of you. He is your Father now.”

  “My Father?” She huffed. “Naw, miss. He don’t care much for me.” Though her tone was somber, a smile soon washed away her frown. “But the doc treats me well. I’s lucky. Very lucky.”

  Lucky, hmm. Though Dr. Willaby was nothing like Sir Walter, Adalia had not missed the harsh tone he often used with Joy. A completely different tone than he took with Adalia. Still, Adalia wished the girl gave more credit to God for all her blessings. Giving God thanks and being grateful for what He has done opened more pathways to getting to know Him better, to understanding His love, which, in turn, gave one the strength to endure struggles. Something Adalia knew all too well.

  Joy tensed as they passed through the main gate and made their way down the long oak-lined pathway. By the time they stopped before the main house, the poor girl seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  A footman scurried out to tend to their horse, but Adalia told him not to bother. They wouldn’t be staying long. Tying the horse’s reins around a post, she grabbed her satchel and Joy’s arm. “We will check on the sick and then leave as soon as we can. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Together they crossed the field to the slave quarters. But upon arriving, they found the shacks empty save for one elderly woman weaving a basket. “No one sick ‘round here, far as I knows,” she said.

  Blowing out a sigh of frustration, Adalia headed back to the carriage, Joy at her side. The wind flapped their skirts. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Yet Joy kept her eyes on the ground as if seeing a plantation slave would doom her to the same fate. Thankfully, aside from a few women hauling baskets atop their heads and a group of men chopping logs by the stables, there weren’t too many around.

  Halfway across the field, an odd Meroow brought Adalia to a halt. She looked down to see a fluffy, beige-colored cat following on their heels.

  “Where did you come from, little one?” She knelt, and much to her surprise, the cat brushed against her leg and chinned her hand in a brazen request for pets. Which Adalia happily provided. Joy backed away. “It’s only a cat, Joy,” Adalia said. “I had one as a pet when I was little.” One of her many fond memories of childhood. Adalia swept the feline into her arms, noting her rather large belly. “A rather well-fed cat, I’d say.” She chuckled. The cat draped its head and front paws over her shoulder as if it hadn’t a care in the world. Several gentle caresses brought the expected response—deep purrs that tumbled into Adalia’s ears like a waterfall.

  Joy did not seem so convinced.

  “You can pet her, Joy. She won’t bite.”

  The young slave inched her hand toward the animal and hesitantly stroked its soft fur. A smile broke through her lips in a row of sparkling ivory.

  “You shouldn’t be holdin’ it, miss. Don’t it belong t’ the Rutledges?”

  “I don’t intend to keep it.”

  “Greetings, Miss Winston.” Adalia recognized the voice before she turned—that deep timbre with a hint of pompous playfulness. Drat. Why hadn’t she heard him approach?

  Snatching her hand from the cat, Joy stepped back and lowered her gaze.

  “Good day, Mr. Rutledge.” Adalia turned to face him and instantly regretted it. Sunlight streaked his hair in gilt and transformed his eyes into flashing jade. A white shirt, tucked within far-too-tight pantaloons, flapped in the breeze. A flush rose up her neck.

  Looking away, she started walking. “Come along, Joy.”

  “I was pleased when I heard you were visiting us.” His voice followed her.

  “I am not visiting you, sir. I am here attending to your sick slaves.” Of which there were none. A thought jarred her. Halting, she swung around. He nearly bumped into her. He smelled of tobacco and spices.

  “You.” Still holding the cat over her shoulder, she pointed a finger at him.

  He gave her a slanted grin. “Me?”

  “You called me here. There are no ill slaves.”

  “Indeed?” He shrugged. “How would I know?” He eyed the cat curiously.

  Joy backed away from the altercation.

  “Go back to the carriage, and wait for me there, Joy,” Adalia said.

  “Yes, miss.” The words barely escaped her lips before she dashed away.

  Mr. Rutledge fingered a blade of tall grass. “Since you won’t respond to my invitations, you left me no choice.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an imperious look.

  Adalia ground her teeth together until her jaw ached. “You have kept me from important work, sir. And all to feed your over-satiated ego.”

  His brows leveled. “Ego? My ego is quite satiated, thank you, Miss Winston.” He reached out for her, but she leapt back. “I must know why you find me so repulsive. It’s uncanny. Preposterous, really. I cannot shake you from my thoughts.”

  Adalia could only stand and stare at the man. Had he not heard a word she’d said? “You overbearing, self-gratifying”—she growled, attempting to control her tongue. Her attempt failed—“presumptuous, vain, pampered milksop.”

  He jerked his head back as if she’d punched him. Though humor flickered in his eyes, his features tightened like a taut rope.
“Do you know who my father is?”

  “No. Nor do I care.” She swung about and stomped through the grass.

  “He is Franklin Octavian Rutledge, one of the most powerful men in Charleston—no, in all of South Carolina. His father, my grandfather, was a senator.”

  “What difference does that make to me?” She waved a hand over her shoulder.

  “Because you just called his son a number of unflattering names.” He leapt into her path, halting her. “And you are stealing my cat.”

  “I am not …” Adalia pried the animal from her chest and set it down, regretting that she couldn’t take it with her and spare the poor creature such an odious owner. “I was only petting it. You shouldn’t feed it so much. It’s fat.”