Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  “So, you did receive my gift.” He grinned and followed her down the porch stairs to the footman who was holding her horse’s reins.

  “You should not be giving me gifts.” She clipped her satchel onto the saddle.

  “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Of course it could, Mr. Rutledge.” Her brows folded into an adorable pinch. “You simply learn to control your impulses. It is what separates man from beast.”

  “When it comes to you, I fear that is a hopeless endeavor.”

  “Separating yourself from a beast or learning to control your impulses, Mr. Rutledge?” One brow rose.

  He smiled. “The latter. Although the former is a matter of dispute among certain circles.”

  She gave a sigh of frustration and looked away.

  The horse snorted. Morgan wanted to join him. Why did this woman not respond to his charms?

  He grabbed the reins, dismissing the footman with a wave. “If you wait but a minute, I’ll saddle my horse and accompany you.”

  Withdrawing riding gloves from her saddle bag, she began tugging them on, jerking the leather over her fingers with determination. “I will be quite all right, Mr. Rutledge. You are not my protector.”

  “Indeed. But one can hope.”

  She grinned, feeding his hope. His gaze fell to her lips—lips the color of brandywine and every bit as delicious. Despite the chill of the day, his body warmed at the memory of how soft and moist they were and how responsive she had been. Her thoughts must have taken the same path, for a ruddy hue crept up her neck. She shifted her gaze over the plantation, her eyes locking onto some slaves in the field.

  “What is your opinion of slavery?” she asked, facing him again.

  Morgan ran a hand through his hair, wondering at the odd change in topic. He wanted to say the right words, anything to erase the disdain emerging at the corners of her eyes. But, in truth, he hadn’t given the topic much thought. “I suppose it’s a necessary evil.”

  Obviously he’d said the wrong words because that disdain instantly covered her eyes in a fuming glaze. “If it is evil, as you say, then why is it necessary?”

  Morgan glanced at the slaves, their bare backs leveled to the sun. Lud, this woman challenged him like no other! Why had he not considered the right or wrong of forcing others to work against their will, of keeping them imprisoned on the plantation like animals? “You are right, Miss Winston. It does seem unjust.”

  “Then why not free them?”

  “They are not mine to free. This is my father’s plantation.”

  “But you do not even stand up for them! You do not question your father.”

  Her anger nearly sent him reeling backward. He’d never encountered such opinions. “To my shame, no, I have not.” He sighed, frustration and confusion bubbling within him. “I grew up with slavery. I was told the Negro was incapable of caring for himself.”

  “Do you believe that?” Her tone was clipped.

  He shrugged. “I had not considered otherwise.”

  She turned to leave. He touched her arm, halting her. “Until now, Miss Winston. You have given me much to consider.”

  The fire left her eyes. She searched his as if seeking the truth of his words.

  “Why does it interest you so?” he asked.

  She hesitated, bit her lip. “God has given me a heart for all those oppressed.”

  “It is a heart that puts mine to shame, miss.” He took her hand in his and kissed it tenderly, thrilled when she allowed him.

  The horse sidestepped, nearly bumping them. Morgan grabbed the halter and nudged the beast aside.

  “There’s a new play at the Charleston Theater opening this Saturday night. I wasn’t planning on going due to Lizzie’s illness, but if she begins to recover in the next few days, would you do me the honor of accompanying me?” He glanced over the scenery, bracing himself for rejection.

  Her hesitation gave him hope. He met her eyes. The look within them prodded him on. “It will be dreadfully dull without you, Miss Winston. It’s only a play.”

  “That’s what you said about the soiree.” She settled a straw hat on her head and took the reins.

  “A play requires no dancing, miss. Nor much need for skill in the art and nuances of society’s repartee, as you put it.”

  “What would your father think?” She snapped her head toward the house. “His scorn of my station is evident.”

  “I care not. Nor do I care what anyone else thinks.” He gave her his most charming grin then leaned closer if only to get a breath of her sweet scent. “Do say you’ll come.”

  Grabbing the horn, she mounted the horse with ease. After adjusting her skirts around her, she gazed down at him. He could see the shield soften in her eyes before she spoke. “Very well, Mr. Rutledge.” She gave him a coy smile. “Only if your sister recovers.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to go otherwise.”

  This seemed to please her. “Do let me know how she fares.”

  “I will. And I’ll send word when to expect my call on Saturday.”

  She studied him for a moment. A pleasant sort of perusal that stirred his soul more than his body. Then she nudged the horse and galloped away in a flurry of blue cotton and luxurious black hair.

  With Joy’s help, Adalia lifted the young boy from his pillow and coaxed him to take a sip of rosemary tea. “This will help settle your stomach, Samuel.” She laid him back down. He held his midsection, pain wrestling his features. Joy pressed a cold compress on his head. A light footfall and pleasant sigh brought Adalia’s gaze over her shoulder to Father Mulligan, the priest of St. Mary’s and the man in charge of the orphanage. Adjusting the stiff collar of his cassock, he smiled. “You’re so good with the wee ones, Miss Winston. You have such a caring nature. God has truly given you a gift.” He winked at Samuel. “It doesn’t surprise me that God used you to heal Elizabeth Rutledge.”

  Joy snickered. Too faint for Father Mulligan to hear.

  Heal? Was the little girl truly healed? Adalia still found it hard to believe God had used her to perform a miracle. Yet Morgan had sent word that after only two days Lizzie’s fever and rash were gone and she was eating again. “Then you believe me?” she asked Father Mulligan with a grin.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He lifted both his hands. “God heals, Miss Winston. It only baffles me that people are so shocked when He does.”

  “He heals white children,” Joy mumbled.

  Father Mulligan laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “He loves all children. No matter their color.”

  Adalia took Samuel’s hand in hers. A tiny smile broke through the discomfort on his face. “It’s man, not God, who makes one nation or culture greater than another.”

  “I quite agree, Miss Winston.” Father Mulligan strode to the other side of the cot. “He’s healed many of these orphans. Sometimes God uses people, sometimes medicine; sometimes He has to act quickly, as in the case of Miss Elizabeth.”

  “What ‘bout them that don’t get healed?” Joy asked, keeping her gaze on Samuel. Adalia had often wondered the same thing.

  “We must trust His plan, for He knows all things.”

  Joy grunted. Adalia knew the platitude sounded trite, but to her ears it was the sound of her father’s voice when she was a child, strong and protective, telling her to trust God no matter what. Telling her to be like Job, who refused to curse God when everything was taken from him. To walk on water through the storm like Peter.

  Adalia had learned that lesson the hard way when her parents died. It had become all the more real to her when she and her sister became slaves. Then when Delphia was taken from her, Adalia longed to turn her fury against God, longed to run away from Him forever. But the vision of her father kneeling before her and her sister in the dark, as the winds and rain and tree branches crashed against their small house, kept her focused on the truth.

  “No matter what happens, girls,” he had said, “remember God loves you, and all things work
out in the end for your good and His glory. You must trust Him.” Those were the last words he’d ever said to them. Then after stopping at the door for one last glance at his family, he sped into the violent tempest to save his fishing boat. When he didn’t return in an hour, their mother went searching for him.

  They never saw either of them again.

  Adalia was twelve. Delphia only eight.

  Joy helped Samuel sit up while Adalia coaxed him to take another sip of tea. “Doctor Willaby didn’t believe my story about Elizabeth Rutledge. He believes all miracles ceased after the last of Jesus’ disciples died.”

  “Sounds to me like you have proven him wrong, lass.”

  “If only I could convince him. It would be a shame for him to miss out on one of God’s most important attributes.”

  “I fear there are many who agree with him.” Father Mulligan frowned.

  The rat-tat-tat of drums shuddered the windowpanes, where darkness beyond lurked like a predator.

  Joy leapt to her feet. “Miss, I have to go.” Her lip quivered. “It’s nine o’clock.”

  Adalia stared at her, bewildered. “Do you have an engagement?”

  “No, she has a curfew.” Father Mulligan cast a harried glance out the window. “City ordinance. No Negroes on the streets after nine, Miss Winston. Or they’ll be tossed in jail and whipped.”

  Adalia shook her head. “I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  “I quite agree, but the city is afraid of an uprising since there are far more Negroes here than whites.”

  Handing the cup to Father Mulligan, Adalia glanced once more at

  Samuel, but the sweet lad had drifted off to sleep. “Have Mrs. Charlotte give him some more tea when he wakes up, will you, Father?”

  “Of course. You better leave, Miss Winston.” He set the tea down and gave her a worried look. “I’d escort you, but I’m the only one here at the moment.”

  “I understand, Father.” Adalia grabbed her satchel, their shawls, and scurried out into the dark night. Flinging Joy’s wrap over her shoulders, Adalia took her arm and sped down a back alleyway to a road less traveled. Fortunately, by the sounds of revelry drifting up the streets from every direction, the Charleston elite were well into their parties for the evening, leaving very few people wandering about. Poor Joy hurried along, head down, jerking at every shifting shadow. Her fear spilled onto Adalia, and she found her heart leaping at each silly flutter of leaves or croak of frog. The more she thought about the curfew, the more her fear turned to anger. By all accounts, she shouldn’t be out after nine either.

  A few minutes later, they entered the doctor’s foyer, slamming the door on the insane and unjust law.

  Joy’s sigh of relief was clipped in midair by the doctor’s shout from the sitting room. “Is that you, Miss Winston? Joy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Adalia shrugged off her shawl.

  “Joy, you should not be out this late! Go get me a fresh pot of tea at once.”

  Joy exchanged a glance of dismay with Adalia before gathering her skirts and hurrying down the hallway.

  Hanging her shawl on the hook, Adalia entered the sitting room to find the doctor reading his Bible. She shook her head in astonishment. How could anyone read such holy words while using such a harsh and demeaning tone with another?

  “Sit down, my dear. We need to talk.” Without looking up, he gestured toward a chair across from his.

  Normally Adalia didn’t mind his fatherly tone, but tonight it bordered on commanding. And she’d had enough of being commanded.

  She slid into a seat as Joy entered, service tray clanking in her hands.

  The doctor slammed his Bible shut and laid it aside. He waited until Joy had poured them tea and left the room before picking up a small card from the table. Taking off his spectacles, he held it out to Adalia. “Do you know what this is?”

  She had no need to examine it. She recognized the expensive paper, the fancy writing. “Yes, it is Morgan Rutledge’s calling card.”

  “His footman said to remind you of the play this Saturday. Eight o’clock, I believe he said?”

  Willaby studied his young assistant.

  “Yes, thank you.” Miss Winston set down the card and picked up her teacup. Was that a hint of defiance he detected in her voice?

  He forced down his rising temper. Miss Winston was beautiful, cultured, smart, kind, and generous—all the qualities he could ever hope for in a daughter. All the qualities he would have wanted in his own.

  Had she lived.

  When Adalia had come to stay with him, he’d thought God had answered the prayers of a lonely old man. Now he had someone to love, someone to guide, nurture, someone to share his life. Of course he wanted the best for Adalia. He certainly didn’t expect her to stay with him forever. He wanted her to marry and have children—perhaps even allow him to be a part of their lives. He prayed she would find a suitable husband—an honorable, godly man who would treat her well. But her infatuation with the Rutledge snipe was simply beyond the pale! How could she not see that family’s depravity? Why could she not see that by responding to Morgan’s attentions, she was putting herself in grave danger?

  But he knew not to push her as he had his dear sweet Sarah. He had handled things badly. Prayed for a second chance. And now that he had one, he would not ruin it. He forced a smile. “Do you think attending the play with him is wise?”

  She set her tea down. “I know you don’t approve of the Rutledges, Doctor, but I have found the youngest son, Morgan, to be quite agreeable and charming. I doubt he would do anything to harm me.”

  “Charming. I’ll give you that. But listen to what the Good Book says about flattery.” He opened the Bible to where he had marked it and scanned the page, seeking the verse he’d read just moments before. “For there is no faithfulness in their mouth; their inward part is very wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with their tongue.”

  She listened as she always did when he quoted Scripture. But was any of it taking root in her soul like the good seed in Matthew thirteen? Oh God, I need Your help. He could not allow this precious creature to be ruined by that monster.

  Speaking of monsters, a me-ow sounded, and in bounded a spinning ball of tawny fur. The cat flew through the air and landed on the back of Miss Winston’s chair, digging its claws into the velvet upholstery. “Oh my,” Miss Winston said as she extricated the feline’s paw from the fabric and placed the animal in her lap, but the furry fiend leapt from her arms onto the floral drapes and scrambled to sit atop the rods.

  “I’m so sorry, Doctor.” Miss Winston stood and began scolding the wayward kitten.

  “Where on earth did it come from?” Willaby studied his drapes in horror, hoping the beast wouldn’t rip them to shreds. Reaching up for the cat, Miss Winston mimicked meowing sounds to entice the creature down.

  Despite the mayhem, he smiled at the sight.

  “It’s a he. And he was a gift. His name is M,” she said, her voice straining as she stretched to grab the cat. Finally the furry imp dove into her arms, and Miss Winston drew him against her cheek.

  “An odd name—M?” Willaby asked.

  Miss Winston shifted uncomfortably, her gaze not meeting his. “I’m sorry. I should have asked your permission to bring him into the house. I promise I’ll keep him in my chamber.” She kissed the kitten’s head.

  “No, ‘tis all right.” Tears blurred the doctor’s vision as he watched Miss Winston stroke the animal with such affection, causing another scene to appear before his eyes. This time it was his wife, Ruth, with their cat perched upon her shoulder, batting a loose curl across her neck. She nuzzled against the feline’s face just as Miss Winston was doing now.

  Miss Winston’s voice snapped him from the memory. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’m rather tired. Can we discuss this at a later time?” She peered toward him, concern tightening her brow. “Are you all right?”

  He looked away. “Yes, yes, quite all right. Of c
ourse, Miss Winston. Good night to you.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  He watched her leave then rubbed the tears from his eyes and picked up his Bible again. He spread his hands gently across the sacred pages. No, he would not make the same mistake twice.

  He would not lose another daughter to the Rutledges.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the arm of the most handsome man in Charleston, Adalia Winston braced herself for the scorn of society as she entered the Charleston Theater. Why, oh why, had she accepted Morgan’s invitation? Especially since she had vowed to never put herself through this again. But she knew why. Morgan had been so honest with her at his plantation, so forthright about his attitude toward slaves. How could Adalia blame him for an opinion impressed upon him since childhood? At least he had been willing to consider the wrongs of slavery. And that, alone, had given her hope. Not for any long-term relationship, but for her ability to influence him. Perhaps that was why God had brought them together—the most ill-suited, unlikely couple in Charleston! In order for Adalia to open Morgan’s eyes to the horrors of slavery and perhaps change the opinions of the next generation. Or maybe even to bring Morgan closer to God. He certainly needed a relationship with the Almighty. If she could achieve the latter, God would certainly convince him of the former.