Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  My sister is gravely ill. None of the doctors can help her. You are our last hope. Please come quickly.

  Morgan Rutledge

  Folding the paper, she hugged herself. She’d received the note early that morning. Her first thought was to rush to the plantation as quickly as possible, but Doc Willaby insisted there was nothing to be done—that he’d heard from several of his colleagues and the illness was apparently some strange tropical fever beyond the help of modern medicine.

  So, tucking the note away, she’d gone about her duties. Yet the desperate words called to her all day long from the pocket of her apron—the pleading, the wailing of a sick, desperate child. What if there was something she could do to help this poor girl? Having been raised in the tropics, Adalia had often come in contact with unusual fevers.

  She plopped onto her bed, where M lay coiled in a ball, sleeping. She could not force herself to call him Morgan for the memories the name evoked, so M would have to suffice. Yet what did it matter? Either way, the Rutledge son was forever planted in her thoughts. The kitten opened his eyes, stretched out his front legs, and yawned. He rose, crawled into her lap, and curled into a ball again. Adalia stroked his fur. “Lord, tell me what to do.” She spoke the same prayer she’d uttered all day. And the answer she kept hearing was still the same. Go.

  Pulling a chair to his sister’s bed, Morgan sat down and dropped his head into his hands. He felt like crying, but he didn’t dare. Rutledge men didn’t cry. Didn’t show emotion. Unless it was anger or pride.

  Lizzie had been ill for nearly a month. The ravages of disease were evident on her frail body: sunken, hollow cheeks; purple shadows beneath dull eyes; and breathing that rattled as though the air passed through a sieve. He took her hand and caressed her tender skin, so hot to the touch. Too hot for a body to be for so long. Three doctors had attended to her. They’d bled her twice and placed leeches on her belly—Morgan shivered at the memory. One doctor had insisted she keep her bare feet in a tub of fresh milk for a day. Another rubbed lard over her legs and arms. But she kept getting worse. In truth, none of them knew what was wrong with her.

  Lizzie was the only good thing that had come from his parents’ union. Her sweet, kind spirit filled the house like the fresh scent of the sea. Just the sound of her laughter bubbling from room to room gave Morgan hope to go on each day. A reason to return to the plantation from town. And, oh, how she loved to sing. Already at age six, she had the voice of an angel. He eased his fingers over the bumps on her arm, red, swollen sores that gnawed away at her flesh like the leeches that had sucked her blood. If God took her home—if God stole her from Morgan—the final brick would be laid on Morgan’s wall of belief that the Almighty had no good plans in mind for him at all.

  A sliver of gray squeezed through the closed curtains as dawn broke. Morgan could still see his mother’s anguished face as she’d paced before Lizzie’s bed all through the night. She would still be here if not for Franklin, who’d stolen her away, insisting she partake of breakfast with him. Yet, if her stomach was as curdled as Morgan’s, she wouldn’t be able to consume any food. In the corner of the chamber, Hadley slumped into a velvet chair, his chin on his chest. His snores melding with the muted trill of birds outside.

  Morgan dropped his forehead onto Lizzie’s arm. “Dear God. Please don’t take her away from me,” he whispered his first prayer in years.

  Lizzie’s raspy breathing was his only reply. Each pant of her chest, each puff of breath escaping her lips, tightened a cinch around his heart in fear it would be her last.

  Upon rising early, Adalia dressed, grabbed her medical bag, and took the doctor’s horse out to the Rutledge plantation. Regardless of her desire to stay away from Morgan, as well as Doc Willaby’s incessant warnings, she couldn’t ignore a plea to help a sick child. Even if there was nothing she could do, she could offer comfort to the family. She left Joy at home, not wanting the poor girl to suffer as she had the last time they visited the plantation. Yet, now as Adalia stood at the massive oak door, with its beveled glass windows, her knees began to quake.

  The same black woman answered the door.

  “I’m here to see Miss Elizabeth Rutledge. Mr. Morgan Rutledge called for me.” Adalia lifted her satchel, hoping to dispel the confused look on the woman’s face.

  “Who is it, Mavis?” A male voice, as deep as Morgan’s yet much harsher, preceded an elegantly rugged man with thick dark eyebrows and long gray hair tied behind him. With every clip of his boots over the ceramic tile floor, Adalia’s nerves strung tighter. This must be the infamous Franklin Octavian Rutledge, Morgan’s father. Behind him, a slender woman in her forties slid into the room as if she skated on ice. Though a bit disheveled, her golden curls and crisp blue eyes belied her age—deep, turbulent eyes that reminded Adalia of Morgan. Her gentle smile did much to loosen Adalia’s nerves.

  “A woman to see Elizabeth.” The maid lowered her gaze and backed from the room.

  “Humph.” Mr. Rutledge eyed Adalia from head to toe. “I sent for no servant girls. Who are you?”

  Adalia swallowed and opened her mouth to answer him when Morgan’s voice shot down the stairs. “She is Miss Adalia Winston, Father. Aide to Doctor Willaby.”

  Mrs. Rutledge’s face brightened. “Oh, my dear.” Approaching Adalia, she gathered Adalia’s hands in hers. “I have so desired to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much of your herbal healing.”

  Stunned, Adalia took a step back beneath the woman’s exuberance. But it was Morgan who drew her gaze. A wrinkled, stained shirt hung loose around his brown trousers. Strands of light hair escaped his queue and swayed over his stubbled jaw with each tread he descended. But it was the dark blotches shadowing his red-rimmed eyes that nearly broke her heart.

  “Mumbo jumbo, if you ask me,” Mr. Rutledge barked. A familiar shiver etched through Adalia at his degrading tone—the tone of a man who had the power of life and death over others. “You may leave, Miss Winstone.” He dismissed her with a wave.

  Mrs. Rutledge’s joy of only a moment before slipped from her face.

  “Winston, Father,” Morgan reached the bottom step and gazed at Adalia as if she were the answer to all his prayers. “I invited her to see if she could do anything for Lizzie.”

  “Balderdash! What can this mindless servant do that three skilled doctors could not?”

  Mrs. Rutledge faced her husband, hands clasped together. “Please, Franklin, allow her to at least try. What have we to lose?”

  “Our reputation for one. When news gets out that we’ve allowed a witch doctor into the house“—he tugged on his white neckerchief, his face reddening—“we’ll be the laughingstock of the entire county, not to mention invoke the scorn of the clergy.”

  Adalia clutched her satchel until her fingers ached. Anger and fear battled a war in her belly. She should leave. But the look of pleading in Morgan’s eyes forbade her. He stepped between her and his father. “Is our precious status worth more to you than Lizzie, Father?”

  The older man narrowed his eyes—eyes that were sharp, yet vacuous.

  “Please, Franklin.” Mrs. Rutledge laid a hand on her husband’s arm.

  With a huff of disgust, he jerked from her and stomped from the room, grumbling about living with a bunch of loutish imbeciles.

  Shocked at the man’s treatment of his family, Adalia nearly jumped when Morgan touched her. He set her hand in the crook of his elbow and comforted her with a smile. “Don’t mind him,” he said as he led her up the stairs. “It’s his way.”

  “He means well.” Mrs. Rutledge’s voice followed behind them.

  Morgan’s grip on Adalia’s hand tightened.

  She swallowed, overwhelmed by the rising pressure to help this little girl. What if she failed? What if Elizabeth died? Terror consumed her, blurring her vision so that she barely noticed the winding marble staircase, the exquisite oil paintings of relatives lining the walls, the Ming vase, crystalline chandelier, the gold-fringed tapestry that gr
eeted them on the second floor. Barely.

  However, when she saw the shrunken little girl, scarcely a sliver in the middle of a huge bed, all the trappings of wealth around them faded. What was all this worth if they lost this precious child? The putrid smell of sickness filled her nose, her lungs, and hovered in the dark corners. Tears burned behind Adalia’s eyes as she eased onto the bed and felt the girl’s skin. Clammy yet feverish. She tested the muscles in her arms and pressed on her abdomen. Swollen liver. She gazed into her mouth, nose, and ears and examined the sores on her skin. Dread forced Adalia’s heart into her stomach. No, Lord, not this. “Has she eaten?”

  Morgan sank to a chair on the other side of the bed. “Not in days.” The agony in his eyes as he gazed at his sister threatened to release Adalia’s tears. His mother stood behind him, rocking on her feet, hugging herself, her eyes locked upon her daughter as if the invisible band of love between them would keep her among the living. The little girl moaned and shifted on the bed. Adalia made her way to the window, flung open the curtains, and lifted the pane. A breeze swept into the room, bringing with it the fresh scent of morning and the happy twitter of chickadees.

  “The doctors said to keep the window closed, my dear.”

  Adalia hated to contradict such a stately lady as well as a bevy of doctors. “The fresh air will do her good, madam. Please trust me. And sunshine too, as long as you keep her warm. Also, she must drink as much fresh water as possible.”

  The woman nodded, her concerned look shifting back to her daughter.

  A growl spun Adalia to the left. Morgan’s brother, Hadley, sat up in his chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. His sleepy eyes scanned the room, as he squinted at the sunlight streaming through the window. They widened upon seeing Adalia. “Scads! What is she doing here?”

  “She’s helping Lizzie.” Morgan circled the bed to stand between them. A protective act that warmed her heart.

  Hadley let out a groan of displeasure and grabbed a bottle of amber-colored liquid from the table beside him. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then settled back into his chair.

  “Can you do anything, Miss Winston? What ails her?” Mrs. Rutledge’s voice brought Adalia’s attention back to the girl. Lizzie tossed her head back and forth over her pillow. Her damp curls matted to her cheeks.

  Adalia had seen this type of ailment before. Stomach cramps, restricted breathing, high fever, and an inflamed rash. There was nothing she could do except give her something to lessen the fever, comfrey for her rash, and eucalyptus to ease her breathing. But it would not stop the illness. Soon her lungs would fill with fluid, the rash would turn into festering sores, and the fever would become an inferno. She’d seen too many die in Barbados from the same disease.

  But how could she tell this woman that?

  “I can try to make her comfortable, Mrs. Rutledge, but I’m afraid the doctors are right. There is naught to be done.”

  Throwing a hand to her mouth, Mrs. Rutledge began to sob. She stumbled, and Morgan caught her and led her to a chair. Hadley moaned and took another swig of whatever devilish brew he imbibed.

  Pray.

  The words spoken, yet unspoken, drifted around Adalia. Morgan dropped to his knees beside Lizzie and grabbed her hand, caressing her fingers. Agony thundered across his features.

  Adalia’s eyes misted. “However, I can pray for her.”

  Morgan squeezed his eyes shut. Hadley chuckled. Mrs. Rutledge looked numbly up from her chair. “That would be lovely, Miss Winston.” Her tone dragged with hopelessness.

  Adalia’s hands grew moist. What was she doing? They’d invited her here to heal their daughter, not offer a prayer. Perhaps it had been silly to even suggest it. But no. She had prayed over many of the sick children under her care. Some had recovered. Some not. Yet, God would have His way in the end. Prayer was just a means through which His power flowed, through which His will was done.

  Easing to her knees beside Morgan, she laid her hand on Lizzie’s arm. Hot, searing flesh met her fingers. Adalia swallowed and drew a breath to settle her nerves. She gazed at the little girl, still fidgeting beneath the fever, only a shadow of the precious golden-haired child Adalia had seen in town. A shadow of agony now reflected in Morgan’s eyes. Glassy and pained, they shifted to Adalia, begging her without words to save his sister. She remembered the way he had swept Lizzie off her feet and showered her with affection, the love that saturated the air around them both. Oh Lord. Please. Adalia wiped the moisture from her eyes and bowed her head.

  “Father in heaven. I rebuke all sickness and disease in this precious girl. Cast from her the source of this illness. Restore her to full health and vibrancy that she may glorify You with her life. In the precious name of Jesus. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Mrs. Rutledge added.

  When Adalia opened her eyes, Morgan gazed at her with astonishment. He rubbed his face and stood, helping her to her feet.

  “Thank you, Miss Winston.” He swallowed and forced a smile.

  “I wish I could do more.” Adalia cringed at the lack of faith infused in her statement.

  Lizzie gulped in a breath, drawing everyone’s gaze. Her mother darted to the bed. The girl wheezed as if desperate for air then turned her head to the side.

  Adalia flung her hands to her mouth as trembling overtook her. Oh no, Lord. Please don’t let her die!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Morgan closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch his baby sister die. Couldn’t watch her die. But slowly, instead of the rasp of fading life, the sound of steady breathing drifted past his ears—like the calm caress of waves on a sandy shore. At first, he thought he was hearing things, that he’d invented a pleasant sound to drown out her death throes. But when he lifted his gaze, it was to Lizzie sleeping, her chest rising and falling in a harmonious rhythm beneath the coverlet. No more wheezing. No more gasping. No more thrashing.

  His mother drew in a shuddering breath.

  Tears spilling down her cheeks, Adalia dropped to her knees and took Lizzie’s hand in hers.

  Morgan’s legs gave out. He grabbed the bedpost. Could God have healed his sister? Impossible. When had God ever answered one of Morgan’s prayers? Or any prayer, for that matter?

  “That’s the first time she’s slept so peacefully in weeks.” His mother’s voice was full of amazement. And something else he hadn’t heard in a while.

  Hope.

  Hadley’s boots thumped over the floor toward them. Suspicion darkened his brow. He took another swig from the bottle, and his gaze bounced from Adalia to Lizzie and back again. “This has nothing to do with her prayer,” he spat, gesturing toward Adalia. “Pure coincidence.”

  Adalia stood and wiped her face. She withdrew a pouch and a tin from her satchel and handed them to Morgan’s mother, who remained frozen by Lizzie’s bedside as if one movement would disrupt the happy turn of events. “Prepare some tea with these yarrow leaves. It will help relieve her fever. And rub this comfrey salve on her rash.” She glanced down at Lizzie. “But allow her to sleep as much as she wants. When she awakes, try to get her to eat something. Just chicken or beef broth at first.”

  His mother nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Winston.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Truth be told, I still don’t know if she’ll recover.” She glanced at Morgan. “But I do believe God touched her.”

  Hadley rolled his eyes. “Gullible fools!” He stomped out, taking his brandy and bad attitude with him.

  Bending over her, Adalia wiped Lizzie’s damp hair from her forehead. Her shoulders rose in a sob as she placed a kiss on the girl’s hand. She truly did care. Even after his father had been so rude. And his brother behaved the cad. What a wonder this woman was.

  She straightened and snapped her satchel shut. “I should be going.”

  “May I walk you out?” Morgan asked.

  She smiled and nodded. As they descended the stairs, her steps faltered, and
she trembled. Morgan gripped her elbow, wondering if it was the shock of Lizzie’s recovery that caused it, for he felt equally unsettled.

  “Thank you.” She tucked an ebony curl behind her ear. “I suppose I’m a bit out of sorts.”

  “I’m quite amazed myself.”

  “That God heals or that He would use someone like me to do so?” Her tone was sarcastic, playful even, as she continued downward.

  The butler opened the door, and Morgan escorted her onto the porch to a blast of sunshine and cool air. “No, milady, that God cares enough to answer prayers at all.”

  “Please don’t call me that.” Her lips pursed, and she glanced over the scenery. “I’m sorry you have such a poor opinion of God, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Morgan.”

  She snapped her eyes to his—dark velvety eyes. “Like my cat?” she asked.