Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  Adalia clenched her fists behind her back. How dare the woman intrude upon something so personal? Was she truly trying to befriend Adalia or bring attention to the fact that Adalia would always be in a class far beneath Morgan?

  Emerald tilted her head, sending one of her snowy curls dangling over her neck. “Besides, you don’t want to embarrass Morgan, now, do you?”

  Adalia hadn’t considered that. Did she shame him with her common attire? Horrified at the thought, she wasn’t sure quite how to respond.

  Emerald raised her cultured brows and released a sigh. Golden sunlight swirled around her, making her appear like a dazzling ivory statue.

  And Adalia paled by comparison.

  She did have some money saved. And she had been thinking of buying a new gown anyway. What harm would it do to allow someone as refined as Emerald to assist her? Before she knew it, she had accepted the woman’s help.

  Two hours later, after purchasing yards of magenta silk and streams of lace from the drapers, Adalia stood before a massive dressing mirror at the tailors waiting to be measured. Emerald, who’d been nothing but courteous and chatty since they’d left the doctor’s, stood off to the side, examining a wardrobe full of the latest fashions from Paris. Adalia could not fathom the change in the lady. Though Emerald had offered Adalia a modicum of kindness at the theater, her sudden interest put Adalia’s suspicions on full alert. Yet, as the afternoon waned and Adalia could think of no malicious motive for Emerald’s behavior, she’d asked God’s forgiveness for her uncharitable thoughts and responded to Emerald’s kindness, excited about the new friendship.

  A young woman entered the back room, measuring tape in hand. “Now, Miss Winston, if you’ll remove your skirts and petticoats, I’ll measure you for your new gown.”

  Adalia’s heart crammed in her throat. They would see the scars on her back. Why hadn’t she thought of that? How could she explain what were obviously stripes from a whip? “Can you measure it through my gown?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” Emerald approached and began unbuttoning Adalia’s dress from behind. “Such modesty.” She clucked her tongue.

  “That isn’t necessary, really.” Adalia attempted to extricate herself from the flurry of hands, tugging, untying, and loosening, but before she knew it, she had been stripped down to stays and chemise. Jerking away from their prying fingers, she swerved about, frantically tearing pins from her hair and allowing her ebony curls to tumble down her back in an effort to hide her shame.

  The tailor’s assistant fumbled with her gown and petticoats as if she hadn’t seen a thing out of the ordinary.

  But not Emerald. Instead of shock, instead of pity, instead of concern, the woman’s blue eyes sparked with malicious delight.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Snipping off one last Peacock flower, Adalia laid it atop the others in her basket and glanced across the Miles Plantation. She breathed in the moist air fragranced with hibiscus and gardenia and lifted her face to the sun. Sir Walter so rarely allowed her outside that when he’d asked her to collect flowers for the front parlor, she’d not hesitated to obey. He hadn’t even shackled her ankles as he always did when she left the house.

  Not shackled her ankles?

  She glanced down at her bare toes, peeking out from beneath her skirts, and took an oversized step forward. Nothing restricted her movement. A daring, wonderful, incredible thought sped through her mind. She surveyed the sugar fields, empty of workers in the noonday heat. She was all alone. No one watched her. No foreman or footman or master was in sight. And Sir Walter was probably napping in his favorite wicker lounge on the veranda as he always did when the heat became oppressive.

  Heart throbbing, she inched past the smokehouse, then the tool shed, past the vegetable garden, pushed through some thickets until there was nothing but open field between her and the stone wall marking the boundary of her prison. Thankfully, some of the sugarcane had been recently harvested, leaving an open stretch of ground. Clutching her skirts, she bolted across the field, her feet slapping the mud. Spears of severed stalks cut into her skin. But she didn’t care.

  The wall grew closer, each stone more defined in her bouncing vision, empowering her legs and hailing her with freedom’s call. Sweat streamed down her back. Her lungs crashed against her ribs. Could she make it?

  Then the thump of horses’ hooves drummed in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder to see Sir Walter atop his favorite steed, a maniacal look of joy on his face as if he’d expected her to run. In his hand, he gripped a long, coiled rope.

  She faced forward, alarm choking her. She stumbled on a rock. Landed facedown in the dirt. Got up and darted off again.

  “You can’t escape me, my pet. Never!” His laughter stabbed her back, bringing tears to her eyes.

  Thick, braided hemp cinched around her chest, jerking her backward and slamming her to the ground.

  Sir Walter’s face hovered above her, shadowed by a halo of sunlight. Hoisting her to her feet, he dragged her behind his horse like a prisoner of war. Then tying her to a tree, he tore the gown from her back as the vacant eyes of slaves and servants looked on, forced to watch.

  The crack of the whip. Thwack! Sir Walter’s deranged laughter. Pain like a thousand hot knives scored her skin.

  Crack!

  Searing heat. Her legs staggering.

  Thwack!

  Adalia jerked upright in her bed, a cry on her lips. She gulped for air. Shapes formed in the darkness, her dressing bureau, desk, wardrobe. She was in her bedchamber at Doctor Willaby’s.

  Not on Sir Walter’s plantation.

  Not in the room where he had taken her after the whipping. Where he had rubbed salve on her wounds and told her the lashing was for her own good. That he hadn’t wanted to punish her. That he was sorry for her pain. That she must face the fact that she was his forever.

  Before he made it so with his body.

  Shoving aside her coverlet, Adalia flew to the corner and vomited in her chamber pot. She wiped her mouth and dropped to the floor in a heap, sobbing.

  M nudged her leg. “Me-ow.”

  Adalia placed him in her lap and stroked his fur. “I’m sorry, M. I’ll be all right. Just a bad dream.” He crawled up her arm to his favorite spot on her neck, where he nestled against her cheek. A shaft of moonlight drifted over her from the window. Grabbing M, she cradled him in her arms while she allowed the milky glow to bathe her, wishing it would wash away her memories.

  “Thank You, Lord, for delivering me from Sir Walter. But I still bear the shame. The scars. Inside and out.” She hung her head as tears filled her eyes.

  By My stripes you are healed.

  The soft words twirled around her atop wisps of silver light. Adalia batted away a tear. Yes, indeed. How could she have forgotten? Her Lord was also whipped. Scourged beyond recognition. And all for her. Somehow, it made her feel closer to Him.

  I bore your shame.

  Adalia nodded. “But it still remains, Lord.” It clung to her in the pink tracks on her back—stigmas of disgrace. Forever marking her as a slave, as less than human. And now, Miss Emerald had seen them as well. No doubt she would tell Morgan.

  Adalia could already hear the first strike of the clock at midnight, could already feel the fairy tale dissolving around her. She supposed it was for the best. But oh, how she had loved being treated like a princess! How she loved being swept into a world that until now had only existed in her dreams. Accepted, valued, adored.

  Not rejected, scorned, and hated.

  M swiped at the ribbon hanging from her nightdress, caught it in his paw, and began gnawing on it. Drawing him to her face, Adalia kissed his wet nose. “You’ll always love me, won’t you, M? No matter what my race or pedigree?” M responded by nuzzling his face against hers. She took that as a yes. A wonderful yes that helped soothe her sorrow. Too bad the furry scamp reminded her so much of Morgan. For if the truth came out, Adalia must put Morgan out of her thoughts. And her heart. Rising
, she sat on her bed and opened her Bible for her morning reading. “Lord, please help me to forget. Help me to be content with the wonderful freedom, the wonderful life, You have given me.”

  Morgan closed his eyes, wishing the woman away. Wishing he could close his ears as easily.

  “You don’t believe me?” Emerald’s voice was incredulous.

  Morgan gripped the bridge of his nose and glanced over the race track, an oval of sun-bleached sand surrounding a manicured plot of grass. A few yards away stood the massive wooden grandstand in which Charleston society fluttered like a flock of caged birds. Indeed, they cackled and prattled much like birds, some reclining on cushioned chairs, others prancing about in anticipation of the race. Plumes fluttering atop both the men’s and ladies’ hats only confirmed Morgan’s assessment. A bevy of servants and slaves scrambled to the refreshment booths and tables outside the course where they retrieved all manner of drinks, liquors, cakes, sweets, and even mock turtle soup for their masters. A live band to the right of the stand regaled them with spirited tunes. His gaze landed on Adalia sitting up front beside Drayton and Hadley.

  “No, I do not believe you.” He speared Emerald with his gaze.

  She pursed her lips, a red hue rising over the creamy skin of her neck. “Why would I lie about such a thing?” She stamped her shoe onto the dirt and adjusted her parasol. “She had whip marks on her back. I tell you. Whip marks!” Her chest rose and fell beneath her lacy fichu like an angry bellows. “Which can only mean that Miss Winston has been whipped.”

  “Your deductive reasoning is impeccable.” Yet even as Morgan joked, he cringed at the thought of anyone hurting Adalia. “Only slaves and criminals are whipped.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So since she clearly isn’t Negro, you’re saying she’s an outlaw?” he all but growled.

  “She is hiding something. I know it.”

  Morgan raked a hand through his hair. “This jealousy is beneath you, Emerald. Most unbecoming.”

  The creamy skin of her face erupted in blotches of maroon. “Then ask her yourself! If she is such a saint, surely she will not lie.”

  “I will not dishonor her with such a ridiculous question. I’ll hear no more of it.” Before enduring Emerald’s angry retort, he swung on his heels and made his way to the grandstand. Her groan followed him. As did the patter of her shoes. Whipped, indeed. Surely a woman as resourceful as Emerald Middleton could come up with a better accusation. Ludicrous! Adalia may be a commoner, but she had come from a good family, an honorable farming family in Jamaica.

  Whinnies and neighs brought his gaze to the horses approaching the starting line. The animals snorted and pawed the sand, barely able to restrain their energy. His jaw stiffened beneath his own mounting tension. How dare Emerald make such a scathing allegation? If she were a man he’d call her out to a duel immediately. As it was, he had to contain himself with the reins of propriety, much like the thoroughbreds were being restrained now before the race.

  Morgan mounted the steps into the shade of the grandstand and took a seat beside Adalia, instantly rewarded with her smile. She’d seemed a bit uneasy when he’d appeared at the doctor’s to escort her to the races—even shocked. But thankfully, she had settled into her usual joyful, awed appraisal of everything around her.

  She sipped her cool tea and lowered her gaze, fingering the tassel of a gold cord wrapped about the waist of her sprigged muslin gown—a gown he had not seen before, a gown that opened down the front to show a lacy petticoat beneath. And though he had seen a thousand petticoats before, the sight of hers sent a heated cyclone through him. A welcoming breeze danced through the ebony curls at her neck, and he longed to run his finger through one. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and clutched his hands together, hoping the spring air would cool his passion.

  Mr. and Mrs. Richard Singleton passed in front of them. “Good day to you, Morgan, Miss Winston.” Morgan returned their greeting as Adalia nodded with a smile. Though some people remained at a distance, several had greeted her as if she were one of them. Their acceptance of her warmed him. If only Morgan could convince his father of the same.

  Shouting from the commoners crowding the other side of the track drew Adalia’s gaze. “Why must they endure the hot sun while we sit in the shade? They don’t even have chairs or refreshments.” Her voice edged with concern and bewilderment.

  Morgan rubbed his chin, astounded by her question. Astounded that he’d never considered the why of such a thing. He shrugged. “That rabble? They are tradesmen, dockworkers, merchants. Where should they sit? Certainly not here with us.”

  She looked at him as if he’d told her to throw herself on the track to be trampled beneath the horses.

  Horses that now charged forward as the crack of a pistol split the air. Hadley pushed to his feet, glass of wine in hand. No doubt he’d placed a large sum on one of the thoroughbreds. Drayton set his glass on a passing servant’s tray and grabbed another one. Emerald swept past Morgan, chin in the air, and took a spot beside Hadley.

  The band’s tune ceased in mid-note as cheers broke from the crowd on both sides of the track. Thankfully, the excitement drew Adalia’s attention to the race, instead of remaining on Morgan’s blunder. Setting her glass down on the table, she slid to the edge of her seat, her eyes sparkling like glistening onyx as they followed the horses around the track.

  “I am one of your so-called rabble,” she said without facing him.

  Morgan cringed. “I meant no disrespect. It is simply the way of things. I have good friends who are tradesmen.”

  The horses sped past again, their hooves thundering, showering the onlookers with dust and the smell of horse flesh. Ladies plucked out their fans while gentlemen shouted encouragements to their favorite riders.

  “Indeed?” She arched a brow of disbelief. “Who?”

  Morgan huffed. Well, perhaps only one friend. “A merchantman. Captain Kane Bristo. He’s like a father to me.” Even as he said it, he wondered why he’d disclosed something that he had never told anyone else.

  “A merchantman? So, there is more to Morgan Rutledge than you have let on. You must tell me about him sometime.”

  She looked at him with such coy delight, he was sorry he hadn’t told her before.

  “Regardless, Morgan”—oh, how he loved hearing his given name on her lips—“all men, and women I might add, are created equal in God’s eyes, regardless of class, wealth, or education. Or color,” she added emphatically.

  “Perhaps in God’s eyes. But not in society’s.”

  “Which means society dares to defy God’s design and His love for all people.”

  Love? Morgan coughed into his hand as he muffled a snort. He’d always pictured God much like his father, a cruel overlord whom he could never please. “Or perhaps God’s love is not strong enough to restrain the strictures of society.”

  She gave him such a look of disapproval he feared he’d stepped beyond the boundaries of her tolerance. But then her lips lifted on one side. “What am I to do with you, Morgan Rutledge?”

  He leaned toward her, her rosemary scent sweeping away the odor of horses and perfume. “I have some ideas if you’d care to hear them.”

  She must have sensed his intention, for she turned her face away. She was right, of course. He could expect no further affection from a woman like Adalia without an understanding between them. And though his heart ached to initiate a formal courtship, Morgan could make no promises without his father’s approval.

  An approval he needed to maintain his current style of living. An approval he must obtain before his heart was so firmly anchored to

  Adalia’s, that he would never survive being wrenched from her.

  He glanced across the field at the boisterous men, women, and children in tattered garb standing in the hot sun. He had never known anything but privilege. He’d never known want. He’d never had to worry about food or attire or shelter. The town mayor, members of the council, e
ven visiting senators from Columbia tipped their hat at him on the street. And why? Simply because his family had money. Prestige.

  Despite his boredom with it all, he could not imagine how much worse his life would be without the privileges of his class. Better to be bored in luxury than bored in poverty. Though he wouldn’t be bored as a merchantman … But he might be poor, he reminded himself, for how could he be assured of success at sea? What if he couldn’t earn enough to keep his ship? Then what would he do? Beg on the street?