Eight-year-old Adalia pressed her knees against the pony’s tummy. “See, this is how you make him go,” she instructed her younger sister, Delphia, who sat in front of her atop the soft, warm gift their father had given them for Christmastide. “You squeeze his belly and tap the reins on the side where you want him to go.”
The pony obeyed, heading down a pathway to their right.
“Let me try! Let me try!” Four-year-old Delphia tugged on the reins. Adalia relinquished them but kept a hold beneath her sister’s tiny grasp.
Delphia pulled the reins to the left and squealed with delight when the pony turned around and loped back the way they’d come. “I did it. I did it!”
Adalia hugged her little sister, inhaling the sweet scent of her lilac soap. The same scent that always clung to their mother. They emerged from the jungle path into the clearing before their modest home. To the right, Adalia spotted her father in the fields tugging their stubborn mule, Fred, through furrows of fresh dirt. Beyond him, palm trees swayed in the tropical breeze. And beyond that, she could hear the waves of the Caribbean tumbling ashore. If her father wasn’t attending the crops, he could be found in his boat fishing upon the sea.
Their mother waved from the front porch of their single-story brick home. “Be careful, dears,” she shouted.
“Faster, faster.” Delphia bobbed up and down. Adalia tapped the horse’s belly and clicked her tongue as she’d seen Papa do, and the pony broke into a trot. Delphia giggled as they bounced down a small trail, leaves caressing their faces and the distant bubbling of a creek joining their childish laughter.
Then the memory faded and another took its place. Delphia’s pale, sweat-laden face sinking into her ratty mattress. Her hollow cheeks and cracked white lips. Her dark hair matted to her forehead. The life ebbing from her eyes. Adalia crumpled into a ball by her side, begging her to live, begging God for her life. Offering up her own in the place of her sister’s. But she was gone at only nine years old. Before her life had begun. Before Adalia had found a way to escape their enslavement.
Sir Walter tore Adalia from her sister’s body and ordered two men to take Delphia away and bury her. Adalia screamed, fisting him with her hands. His slap stung her face.
She bolted upward, gasping for breath. Perspiration glued her nightdress to her body. Shadows formed in the darkness. Unfamiliar, yet safe. She was in her chamber at Doc Willaby’s. Swinging her feet over the bed, she dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Delphia. I miss you so.” She drew in a staggering breath. “I’m so sorry, Mother, Father. I tried to take care of her. I tried.”
But she had failed.
She never knew what disease had forever robbed her of her sister. She never had a chance to treat her. Sir Walter had forbidden her to use any of her herbs. “Black magic. The devil’s elixir,” he had called them.
Her door creaked. Wiping her eyes, she leapt to her feet. Joy crept inside, her gown slightly askew as if she’d donned it in a hurry. “Miss, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You was screaming.”
Shame stung Adalia. She glanced out the window, where dawn’s glow tiptoed across the tree tops. “Was I?” She sank back onto her mattress.
Closing the door, Joy stumbled over something before stopping beside the bed. She moved her hand as if to clutch Adalia’s but then halted, biting her lip. “Who is Delphia?”
The name spoken aloud caused Adalia’s throat to clog. She drew in a shredded breath, trying to clear it. “My sister. At least she was.”
“I’s sorry, miss.”
“It was a long time ago.” Adalia wiped her moist cheek and stood. “She would have turned fifteen this year.”
“Same age as me.” Joy eased Adalia’s hair back over her shoulder.
The caring gesture warmed Adalia. Especially since she knew the risk in touching a master without permission. But perhaps Joy sensed she had nothing to fear from her.
But then the girl took a step back and lowered her gaze. “Forgive me, miss.”
“For what? You were being kind to me.”
Joy dared a glance at Adalia as if to gauge her sincerity. She must have been satisfied, for her gaze remained steadfast. After offering her a reassuring smile, Adalia wandered to the window. The arc of the sun peeked above the massive live oak in the center of Doc Willaby’s garden. She squinted at the bright light splintering through leaves as they frolicked in the morning breeze. “Have you ever lost anyone, Joy?”
“Never had no one to lose, miss.”
The girl’s nonchalant tone spun Adalia around. “No family?”
Joy shook her head and then glanced out the open door. “I’ll go fetch water for your basin, miss.”
“I can fetch my own water, Joy.” Adalia longed to know more of Joy’s story, but the girl seemed uneasy with the question.
“I don’t mind doin’ it, miss.” She started to turn then halted. “That Mr. Rutledge came by agin yesterday when you was out wit’ the doctor.”
Adalia shook her head, her glance landing on the card atop her dressing bureau with the name Mr. Morgan Rutledge scrawled across it in fancy letters. What did the infernal man want? And, more importantly, why would he not leave her alone? Thankfully, she’d not been home on either occasion when he’d come to call.
“The doctor was none too happy when he saw his card sittin’ on the receivin’ table.” Joy gave her a sideways glance.
Adalia wondered why but simply shrugged. “Well, I suppose Mr. Rutledge will stop coming when he sees his interest is not reciprocated.”
Joy smiled. “I best be goin’, miss. Cook will need help with breakfast.”
Two hours later, Adalia slipped into the massive sanctuary of St. Michael’s Church. Though she attended every Sunday with Dr. Willaby, the sight never failed to amaze her. Behind the altar, exquisite stained-glass windows depicting magnificent angels arched to a massive half-dome in blue and gold designs. The largest organ she’d ever seen, now regaling them with “Rock of Ages,” sat behind a mahogany pulpit perched high above the pews. Separating from the doctor, she headed up the stairs to sit in the balcony with the other servants and those who could not purchase a pew box.
It wasn’t until she took a seat on the hard oak bench that she saw him. Morgan Rutledge sitting in a box about midway toward the altar beside an elderly man and woman, a small girl no more than six or seven, and the man he’d been sword fighting with that day on the plantation. His brother. As she stared at Morgan, much to her horror, he turned around and scanned the balcony as if he were looking for someone. Before she could turn away, his gaze latched upon hers, and a grin lifted one corner of his lips. Heat rose up her neck.
Infernal, pompous man.
Thankfully the service began as the choir filed in from the side in their black cassocks and white surplices. During the recitation of the creed and the singing of the hymns, Adalia kept her eyes closed and her mind focused on God. She knew most of the words anyway. They were implanted in her memory and heart by a father who put God above everything else. She could still hear his melodious baritone belting out hymns as he worked the fields. Now, with the beautiful organ music and the harmonious voices of the choir, Adalia could almost imagine what it would be like to sing praises to God before the throne in heaven. She felt her spirit rising upward, wishing that day would come soon. For she had nothing left here on earth to capture her heart. No family. No friends. In fact, she could see no reason why God had taken everyone she loved.
And left her all alone.
Still she would not blame Him. Neither for that, nor for the cruelty of Sir Walter. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. She could still see her papa look up from his reading of the book of Job and smile. “There’s a reason for everything that happens, good or bad,” he had said. “Just trust and obey.”
Adalia bowed her head. I’ve done my best, Lord.
I know, precious one.
Emotion burne
d in her throat as warmth swirled about her. She was not alone, after all. God was there.
Soon the music ended and the reverend mounted the pulpit. Though she tried to focus on the sermon, Adalia could not help but notice that Mr. Rutledge’s gaze repeatedly swung in her direction. In fact, he didn’t seem to be listening to the message at all. Rather he fidgeted in his seat, stretching his broad shoulders against the back of the pew and tapping his fingers atop the box frame. As well as repeatedly glancing over his shoulder at her! Adalia feared someone would notice. How could she focus on God when the incorrigible man kept staring at her? Finally she plucked out her fan and, though a chill permeated the church, she waved it beside her face, blocking him from view. At the end of the service, she couldn’t exit the building quickly enough. Unfortunately, Dr. Willaby was detained within the foyer conversing with a couple of older gentlemen.
Slipping through the crowd amassing before the huge pillars of the church porch, Adalia found a spot out of view to wait for the doctor.
Unaccustomed to having such nice attire, she adjusted the lace at the cuffs of her Sunday gown. Well, not so nice if she compared it to the silk skirts, velvet sashes, and wool shawls adorning the genteel women exiting the church. But Adalia had purchased her cream-colored muslin gown with her own money. And she was proud of it.
She didn’t see him coming until the tips of his boots slid up to the toes of her shoes. She knew it was him before she lifted her gaze. Her stomach tightened in a knot. In frustration, no doubt. But yet, something else lingered in her emotions.
When she did meet his eyes, he gave her that boyish grin that only further cinched her midsection, making it hard to breathe. Dressed in tight pantaloons of broadcloth, a fine cashmere waistcoat trimmed in gold, high boots, and a black overcoat, he presented quite the gallant.
“Why were you staring at me, sir?”
He leaned toward her, his warm breath wafting over her cheek. “Because you are beautiful, miss.”
Her stomach unwound and fluttered. He smelled of exotic spices. She stepped back, trying to regain her senses. “There are plenty of comely ladies present.” She pointed toward one particularly stunning blond who glared at them from afar—Miss Emerald Middleton, if she remembered her name. “Please do me the favor of casting your vain flatteries elsewhere.”
“I meant no offense.” The humor left his voice, and the odd longing she’d seen before filled his eyes. Over his shoulder she saw the elderly couple who’d sat with him in church climbing into a fancy carriage. The little girl, however, upon spotting Morgan, started toward him, a grin on her lips. She seemed to be making every effort to keep society’s strictures and walk, not run, though a rebellious skip broke through her careful stride once or twice.
Upon reaching him, her face beamed even brighter, as if he were the most precious person in the world.
The sight stunned Adalia. Morgan hoisted the girl into his arms and spun her around in a twirl of petticoats and giggles. Adalia’s thoughts drifted to her sister at the same age, and she swallowed at the tender display, so at odds with her first impression of the planter’s son.
“Morgan, come with us in the carriage,” the little girl said, clinging to his neck and giving him a pout. Golden curls sashayed in the wind around a face like a cherub’s. But it was the adoring way Morgan looked at her that kept Adalia frozen in place.
“Not this time, Lizzie, but I’ll come home soon.”
“And then you’ll take me on a pony ride like you said?”
“Of course.” He tapped her on the nose.
“And you’ll read Mother Goose to me?”
“Until you beg me to stop.” He chuckled.
Morgan’s gaze slid to Adalia as if only then remembering she was there. He set the little girl down and took her hand. “Lizzie, this is Miss Winston. Miss Winston, this is my sister, Lizzie.”
The little girl dipped a curtsey, graceful and dainty.
“Pleased to meet you, Lizzie.” Adalia smiled.
“Elizabeth!” A male voice boomed from within the carriage as the elderly woman leaned out the window and stared their way.
Adalia thought she saw a spark of fear cross the girl’s beautiful green eyes.
Morgan knelt and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll come see you soon. Be good for Mother.”
Her frown was miserable enough to melt a warrior’s resolve. But then she nodded and squeezed her brother one last time before she dashed to her parents. Morgan’s affectionate gaze followed her until she was snug in the carriage and safe on her way.
As if the girl had clipped a piece of his heart and taken it with her, Morgan gazed at the vehicle until it rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. The scene caused a piece of Adalia’s own heart to soften.
“She’s a charming girl,” was all she could think to say.
“I adore her. She’s the only bright spot in my otherwise dismal life.” He faced her, and she saw emotion misting his eyes.
But his statement had already shattered any possible effect. “Ah, yes, poor rich boy. All that wealth, all those parties.” She turned to leave.
He slipped beside her, keeping her pace. “I know you must think me some foppish primcock, but you know nothing of my life.”
She wanted to respond curtly that of course she didn’t, how could she? but the sorrow in his tone stopped her. She turned to face him. The usual devilish twinkle in his eyes dissolved beneath a hollow melancholy. She shrugged off the sympathy it caused. No doubt it was but another one of his tricks to enslave an innocent woman’s heart.
It wouldn’t work with her. She thrust out her chin, glancing over the massive columns of St. Michael’s, desperately wanting to change the topic to something … anything that would bring the priggishness back to his eyes and the shield back around her heart. “I haven’t seen you at church before.”
“I don’t normally attend St. Michael’s, though now that I know where to find you, I’m sensing a call to deeper spirituality.” He grinned and acknowledged the greeting of a passing gentleman.
She narrowed her eyes. “The only thing you are sensing is your own carnal nature.”
“Ouch. Milady wounds me deeply.” He pressed a hand over his heart.
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“No.” He sobered. “I find no humor in receiving no response to my many calls to your home.”
“No doubt you expect me to dash to your side every time you drop off your calling card?”
His green eyes flashed. A breeze loosened a strand of hair from his queue, leaving it dangling over his impervious jaw. She noted the way the sunlight glinted specks of gold in the dark whiskers on his chin. “Yes, now that you mention it, I do,” he said with a grin.
She’d wager that most women did precisely that. Frowning, she eyed the parishioners exiting the church. Still no sign of Dr. Willaby. Surely it would be safe enough to walk home alone in the daylight. Anything to rid herself of this rogue and the odd feelings he invoked.
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the grate of wheels grew louder as a landau passed. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rutledge.” Turning, she started to leave.
He leapt beside her and offered her his arm. “May I escort you home?”
“You may not.” She forged ahead.
“Why do you hate me so?” A pinch of sorrow spiced the shock in his voice.
She must remind herself that it was only the sound of his injured pride, not any true feelings he held for her. “I don’t hate you, sir. I merely know your kind.”
“And what kind is that?”
She stopped and eyed him. The social season had begun in
Charleston, and much like the season in London, it was a time when the affluent and powerful forsook their plantations to converge on the city for balls, plays, concerts, and general frivolous amusements. That was all she was to him—an amusement.
“The kind who have more wealth than they can ever spend, who fritter away their time in idle
and often immoral amusements, and who think they are better than everyone else simply by nature of their birth and fortune.”
Morgan rubbed his chin, an unavoidable grin raising one corner of his mouth.
“I insult you, and you smile at me.” She bit her bottom lip and blew out a sigh. Her dark eyes flitted about, looking for someone, or perhaps just avoiding him. How he longed for another glance into their fathomless depths. In the meantime, he satisfied himself by admiring the rest of her. Even in a plain white gown with a cambric frill, she stood out from among the dozens of more richly attired women. The garnet-red velvet bow tied about her straw bonnet matched the color of her luscious lips. A breeze brought her scent of rosemary to his nose and sent one of her ebony curls dancing across her neck.
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