Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  Yet her deception gnawed away at her insides. Morgan had never asked her about her heritage. She had told no lies. Then why, as she entered the magnificent foyer, did she feel that she had perpetrated the greatest hoax ever attempted on Charleston society?

  Is it pride, Lord? Pride that she could mingle so deceptively amongst a crowd who would clap chains around her ankles if they knew her true identity? Or was it simply delight she felt? Delight because she’d never attended a play and she so desperately wanted to enjoy one from the advantage of a society box before they discovered her ruse and condemned her to the pit with the commoners.

  She drew a deep breath. The sting of spirits, cigar smoke, and beeswax blasted over her as her eye was drawn immediately upward to the fresco of angels adorning the domed ceiling. She lowered her gaze to the glittering chandeliers, and then to the mahogany tables framing the room, laden with all sorts of pastries and wine. Those patrons who weren’t busy sampling the delicacies or engrossed in conversations snapped their gazes toward the newcomers. Yet instead of snobbish dismissal, some of the glances held interest—perhaps, dare she hope, even approval.

  Approval she still fought to obtain from Morgan’s companions, who were following behind them. Although Miss Emerald had smiled at her more than once in the carriage, her denigrating whispers regarding Adalia’s gown at the last party still thrummed in Adalia’s ears like the curfew drums for Negroes, telling Adalia she was not worthy to be out with such a noble crowd. Before or after nine o’clock. It made no difference.

  Yet, at the moment, that noble crowd continued to stare at her. She glanced down at her plain skirts. Joy had aided her in adding a lace trim to the festoon of beads at the hem and neckline, and she wore a different sash, but she doubted that was the cause of their interest. In fact, wearing the same gown twice in a row was no doubt a glaring faux pas among this country set. Nevertheless, as Morgan led her farther into the room, the elite swarmed around her like butterflies of silk and satin.

  “Good evening, Miss Winston.”

  “So nice to see you.”

  One particularly rotund lady with red plumes protruding from her stately coiffeur raised a lorgnette to her eyes and studied Adalia as if she were a specimen. “We heard of your miraculous healing of young Miss Elizabeth.” She smiled at Morgan. “Good day to you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He dipped his head. “Mrs. Rennard, how lovely you look.” But the woman’s eyes remained on Adalia.

  Adalia swallowed. “It wasn’t me—”

  “Oh, do give us the details,” the woman insisted.

  “Yes, pray tell,” an older, distinguished gentleman on her right said. “Did you learn charms and chants from the natives on Jamaica?”

  “Of course not!” Adalia was appalled at the insinuation. Yet still the mob pressed in, curious gazes and questions assailing her from all around. The smell of expensive perfume and cedar oil tickled her nose, and she feared she’d sneeze all over them. That would certainly put a stop to their inquisition. Yet despite the exuberance of the few, Adalia did not miss the looks of aversion cast her way from those standing afar off, including Lord Demming, who spat out the words “witch doctor” for all to hear. Behind her, Miss Emerald whispered something to Caroline while Hadley and Mr. Drayton snuck away to the refreshment table. Thankfully, Morgan remained by her side, seemingly pleased with the attention she was receiving.

  Adalia scanned the myriad eyes alighting upon her as if she were a princess—as if she had something of value to say. And if she were forced to admit it, her shoulders rose a bit beneath their approval. Yet her conscience quickly stabbed her like a thorn clawing her blooming pride. She must tell them it was God, not her, who healed Elizabeth. No doubt that would extinguish their regard as quickly as snuffing a candle.

  “Hush now.” Mrs. Rennard silenced the mob. “Let the girl speak.”

  When their chatter dwindled to a whisper, Adalia smiled. “I fear you are mistaken, Mrs. Rennard. It was God who healed Miss Elizabeth, not me.”

  The lady rolled her eyes and tapped Adalia’s shoulder with her closed fan. “Oh, how modest she is. Wherever did you find her, Morgan?”

  “Come now, how did you do it?” a young man to her right asked.

  “I didn’t—”

  But further questions flooded her, muffling out her declaration.

  Finally, Morgan slipped in front of her and held up his hands. “Now, now, let Miss Winston breathe, if you please.”

  A young lady with a pointy chin and nose to match leaned toward her from the side. “We are pleased to have you with us, Miss Winston.”

  Her genuine smile warmed Adalia.

  An announcement that the play would begin in five minutes did more to disperse the crowd than Morgan’s attempts. He swung around and raised his brows. “Seems you have become quite the talk of society.”

  Mr. Drayton and Hadley returned with drinks in hand.

  Miss Emerald fingered a curl of her alabaster hair. “Rubbish, Morgan. You know how fickle these people are.” She gazed over the departing mob, still whispering and casting glances at Adalia over their shoulders. “Miss Winston is an oddity. She brings a temporary amusement. That’s all.”

  Though she knew it was true, the barb cut Adalia. Her gaze sped to Morgan, wondering if his obsession with her was merely a passing amusement as well. What did it matter? Tonight—for just one night—she would relish in the attention. Nobody, save her parents, had ever treated her as though she were special. And never had she been accepted into such a distinguished assembly.

  Morgan frowned. “Must you always be so cruel, Emerald?”

  Emerald laid a hand on Adalia’s arm. “I meant no insult, my dear. It is just the way of things.”

  Mr. Drayton grunted. “I quite agree with Emerald. I wouldn’t put too much stock in their attention, Miss Winston. Next week it will be someone else who captures their heart. And one of us could be cast away.”

  Adalia forced a smile. “Then it is a good thing I’ve never been much for the opinions of others.”

  Morgan cocked his head, his green eyes approving and proud. Her heart flipped in her chest. Not that it needed much incentive. She’d been having trouble settling it ever since she’d laid eyes on him earlier in the evening. He had a way of dressing that was both cultured and refined yet not pretentious or foppish. Or perhaps it was the way the tailored fabric clung to his muscular frame. It mattered not whether it was cotton or wool or silk-jersey—as were his waistcoat and pantaloons this night—his attire seemed only to accentuate his masculinity. Add to that his tawny hair drawn back in a queue, the dark whiskers crowning his chin below a rakish grin, and the man could melt an iceberg in the Arctic.

  “Ah, Joseph, don’t be so morose.” Caroline slinked her arm through Mr. Drayton’s. “These people are our friends. You’ve known them since childhood. Why, there are the Hydes, the Cravens, the Coopers, and the Carterets—all families hailing from the first settlers of this land. We are indeed privileged to be accepted among such a noble group.”

  “If, as in your case, Caroline, that is all you aspire to, then I quite agree.” Mr. Drayton’s voice carried no criticism, but Caroline’s face fell nonetheless.

  Hadley sipped his drink and gave Mr. Drayton a sardonic look. “What would you do without your position and money, Joseph?”

  Mr. Drayton scanned the crowd. “I wonder.”

  Emerald stared at Adalia’s hand still clinging to Morgan. A glimmer of spite sharpened her eyes before she gripped Hadley’s arm. “Shall we go in before we miss the play?”

  Morgan watched Adalia’s eyes light up like a little girl’s in a pastry shop as she took her seat in the Rutledge box. Every smile she sent his way lifted his heart a bit higher until he felt it would leap through his throat. He’d been more than pleased that some of his acquaintances had accepted her into their tight circle. And equally pleased that Adalia seemed to enjoy their attention. Now, as the lights were doused and the actors came on stage, she cl
apped her gloved hands together with glee as if she’d never attended a play before. Perhaps she hadn’t. Though he could not imagine how such a lovely lady could have avoided being swamped with invitations from admirers. Had she even had a coming out? Being a commoner, most likely not. He glanced behind him to where Caroline and Drayton had taken seats—Drayton looking as bored as ever—then over to Emerald, who slid into a chair beside Hadley. The beauty smiled his way before her eyes shifted to Adalia and iced over. Her jealousy baffled him, for he’d never given her any encouragement. Yet something in her look gave him pause. He would have to keep his eye on her. He wouldn’t want her to ruin his evening with Adalia.

  Speaking of keeping eyes on things.

  If anyone had asked Morgan what the play was about, he wouldn’t have been able to say. His gaze lingered around Adalia, watching her every gasp, moan, every lift of her lips and widening of her eyes as she engaged in the story being played out before her. What a charming, fascinating lady. So full of life. So appreciative of everything and everyone around her. It was as if God had opened the heavens and allowed one of His precious angels to escape. God. There Morgan went again, thinking of God. Something that had become a common occurrence since he’d met Miss Adalia. And especially after his sister recovered. How else could he explain it? If God had indeed intervened and healed Lizzie, surely it was this precious lady who drew His attention downward.

  Soon the lanterns circling the theater were lit, the orchestra began playing, and the actors bowed to the applause of the crowd. Adalia clapped and cheered with fervor, then graced Morgan with a smile.

  “Most pleasurable, Mr. Rutledge. Thank you so much.”

  “It is not over yet, Miss Winston. This is only the intermission.”

  “Oh my.” She looked away, obviously embarrassed, her gaze scanning the two tiers of boxes forming a semicircle above the wide room—boxes filled with ladies and gentlemen in their finery and fripperies. So at odds with the plain garb of the people sitting in the pit. As if reading his thoughts she said, “I feel like a princess sitting so high above everyone else.”

  “You are a princess.”

  Her eyebrows dipped together and she gestured toward the masses below. “I belong with them, Mr. Rutledge. As you well know.”

  “Not while you’re with me.”

  She looked at him for a moment, her eyes shifting between his before she lowered her lashes and ran her fingers over the velvet upholstered seat. “I feel like I’m intruding upon a dream.”

  Emerald rose to her feet. Morgan did not miss her whispered, “Indeed,” but thankfully, it appeared Adalia had.

  “Please.” He stood, offering his elbow. “Join me for refreshments in the lobby.” They started toward the back of the box when Emerald dove between them, weaving her arm through Adalia’s and drawing her away.

  “You can’t monopolize Miss Winston all evening, Morgan. Come, Adalia, all the women gather in the orchestra garden during intermission to talk about our men. I guarantee you’ll hear all sorts of delicious gossip.” She gave Morgan a coy look.

  Uncertainty shadowed Adalia’s face, but then she smiled politely and conceded, reassuring Morgan that she would be all right.

  He watched Adalia disappear behind the curtain, wondering if he should have left her alone with Emerald. He’d only invited his friends to join them, hoping that once they grew to know Adalia, they would love her as much as he did. Certainly this time alone with Emerald would aid that cause.

  Hadley leaned against the wood railing of the box, glancing at the long drop below. “Scads, little brother, have you gone mad?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Morgan faced his brother with an indignant huff.

  “I see the way you look at her. Like a slobbering mongrel. It’s pathetic. You aren’t serious about this girl, are you?”

  “What is it to you?”

  “Mother and Father will never accept her. You know that.”

  Of course he knew that. He’d been pushing that thought from his mind ever since he’d met Adalia. “I never say anything about your many trysts, Hadley. I advise you to stay out of mine.”

  “I would be happy to.” Hadley crossed his arms over his chest. “As long as you swear to me that Miss Winston is no more than just that, a passing tryst.”

  Emerald tried to focus on what the tart was saying in response to her feigned interest in Miss Elizabeth’s healing, but the woman went on and on about God this and God that. It was beyond annoying. Besides, she spotted Morgan descending the stairs in all his glorious virility, Hadley fresh on his heels. By the scowls on their faces, Emerald assumed Hadley’s little chat with his brother had not gone well.

  On to plan B. As cruel as it was.

  Morgan’s approach gave her more impetus to put that plan in motion as his eyes sought out Miss Winston like a ship to a lighthouse—oblivious of the dozens of young ladies sending him coy looks from behind fluttering fans. Oblivious even to Emerald. The insult was beyond atrocious! Hadn’t she been able to capture his attention before? Hadn’t she seen the same intensity in his eyes when he’d gazed at her?

  That was before this uncultured hussy came to Charleston.

  Now, the man she loved, the man she’d hoped to marry, laid a hand on Miss Winston’s back in a possessive gesture that splattered Emerald’s insides with the color of her name.

  Emerald slid her arm through Hadley’s, if only to keep from plucking the woman’s hair out strand by strand. “Allow us to get you both refreshments,” Emerald said. The smile she forced nearly cracked her skin.

  Suspicion darted across Morgan’s eyes before he shrugged and faced Miss Winston, then leaned in to whisper something in her ear.

  Spinning Hadley around, Emerald headed for the sideboard. “What happened?”

  “What do you think?” Hadley snorted.

  “You better do something. And fast. The fool is becoming more besotted with her by the moment.”

  “Indeed. But what can I do about my bird-witted brother?” He chuckled, fondling her hand.

  Tugging from him, Emerald opened her reticule and pulled out a vial.

  Hadley drew her to the side, out of the way of prying eyes. “What, pray tell, is that?”

  She grinned. “Something that will cause that chit so much embarrassment, she’ll never show her face in society again.”

  Hadley’s grin became maniacal. “Indeed, you are a devilish sprite, my dear.”

  “Miss Winston. I brought you some lemonade. I remember how much you enjoyed it at the last party.” Emerald’s smile was sweet—almost too sweet.

  Adalia took the glass, shrugging off her vague suspicions. It was too pleasant a night to entertain unsettling thoughts. “Thank you, Emerald. How thoughtful of you.” The sweet lemony smell taunted her taste buds. The lovely lady certainly seemed to be making an attempt at kindness. She included Adalia in conversations—had even asked about Lizzie’s healing. Perhaps Emerald had changed her opinion about her, after all. Perhaps she was trying to befriend her.

  “And some wine for you, brother.” Hadley took one of the glasses in his hand and gave it to Morgan.

  Morgan seemed less inclined to believe the best of his brother and his friend as he studied them both curiously.

  Caroline slipped beside Adalia, drawing out her fan and waving it around her. “It’s so warm in here, isn’t it? Oh, lemonade.” She eyed Adalia’s glass. “I’m simply parched.”

  “You’re welcome to my glass, Caroline. I haven’t touched it yet.” The poor girl looked like she needed a drink more than Adalia.

  “Truly? How kind of you.” Caroline took the glass and drew it to her lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Miss Emerald’s gasp brought all eyes her way. She covered her mouth and took a step back. Dumbfounded, Adalia gazed at her, wondering if the woman had overindulged in wine. Then seemingly embarrassed at her outburst, she waved a gloved hand through the air, begging the apology of the curious crowd, who promptly went ba
ck to their merrymaking.

  “Whatever is wrong with you, Em?” Caroline swallowed another gulp of lemonade and studied her friend. Her lips puckered. She stared at her glass. “A bit tart this evening.”