Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  Adalia forced down her rising anger. “I am hardly gallivanting. I’m merely attending concerts, plays, and balls. Nothing immoral or illegal. Morgan is kind to me.”

  “Humph.” He pulled out his pocket watch, the gold chain glimmering in the sunlight. “The Rutledges. Scoundrels all, if you ask me.” Gazing at the time, he snapped it shut and returned it to his coat.

  Adalia squeezed the bridge of her nose. The action seemed to relieve some of the pressure attempting to burst through her skull. “What do you have against them, sir? They are a well-respected family.”

  His gaze lowered to the garden outside the window. The lines on his face deepened and seemed to sag. “I had a daughter once,” he said sadly. “Sarah.”

  Emotion rose to join the nausea burning in Adalia’s throat. From a few comments the doctor had tossed around, she had suspected as much. And from the sorrow that continually lingered around the edges of his kind face, she also suspected that something terrible had happened to her.

  “She was beautiful, kind, intelligent.” He gave Adalia a forlorn smile. “Much like you. Although with golden hair and eyes the color of Spanish moss.” He faced the window again. “Like her mother.”

  A palpable sorrow filled the room, misting Adalia’s eyes. Several silent moments passed as the doctor seemed lost in his memories.

  “What happened to her?” Adalia dared ask.

  He snapped from his daze. “Hadley Morgan happened to her.” He cleared his throat. His eyes narrowed, still staring out the window. Cast in bright sunlight, he suddenly looked much older, the lines on his face more defined, his gray hair thinner. “He courted her, charmed her. Much like his brother is doing with you now.” He stopped, obviously choked up, coughed into his hand. “When she informed him she carried his child, he denied it was his and never spoke to her again.”

  Adalia gasped.

  “Nine months later, she died in childbirth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saying the words “died in childbirth” out loud for the first time in years stabbed Willaby’s heart with as much pain as if the disaster had just occurred.

  “I’m so sorry, Doctor.” The tears in Miss Winston’s eyes touched him, drawing out the rest of the tragic tale. Surely if she knew the truth, she would call an end to her foolish liaison with Morgan Rutledge.

  He clasped his trembling hands behind his back, afraid to utter the words that had sealed the tomb on his happiness so long ago. But they must be said. For Miss Winston’s sake. “My wife could not bear to lose Sarah. Though I did my best to comfort her, she died of grief shortly afterward.” He faced her, his jaw clenching so tight, it hurt. Anger was the only way to force back the pain. “Can you see now what monsters those Rutledge boys are?”

  She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “How horrible. What you must have gone through.” Her brow wrinkled in agony. “I agree that Hadley is quite possibly the monster you believe him to be. But not Morgan. He is nothing like his brother.”

  Willaby’s face grew hot. “He has deceived you. He’s all charm and wealth and looks, but he comes from the same seed, Franklin Rutledge. The man is known for his many trysts in town.”

  He saw surprise roll across her face. Perhaps he was getting somewhere. “You must not see Morgan again, Miss Winston.” He gripped the back of a chair, forcing urgency into his tone. “You must call off the relationship. Can’t you see that he will drag you down into a pit of evil? That he will destroy you? As he did my precious Sarah.”

  Willaby fought back the moisture filling his eyes and turned away.

  Back toward the window, where the sunlight defied the darkness growing in his heart. He must give Miss Winston time to think, time to absorb this shocking news, time for the revelation to sink into the rational, godly part of her mind.

  But when he turned around, no resignation, no concession appeared on her face. Instead, her brow furrowed again as she gazed down at her folded hands. “You do not have much faith in me, Doctor, if you believe I would allow anyone to do that to me.”

  Confound it all! Why wasn’t she seeing reason? Willaby slammed his hands a bit too hard on the back of the chair, but at her flinch, he drew a deep breath, trying to contain himself. “It’s not you I am questioning. It’s the Rutledges and all those like them.”

  She rose, drew a hand to her temples, and winced as if in pain. “I promise that will not happen. I will not let it. I believe there is a divine reason for my friendship with Morgan—to help bring him and perhaps his entire family to God.”

  Willaby had not expected that argument. Clever girl. Using God as an excuse. Weaving around the chair, he approached her. Yet as he neared, he found no deceit in her eyes. He hesitated. “A worthy goal, Miss Winston. But perhaps a task not meant for someone as innocent as you. The Good Book says to flee temptation. As Joseph did when Potiphar’s wife threw herself at him.” He smiled. “Sometimes God requires us to run.”

  “Morgan isn’t a temptation, Doctor. Why even last night he did not take advantage of my, my”—she lowered her chin—“situation when he could have. He is honorable.”

  Willaby saw the same look in her eyes that he’d seen so often in Sarah’s. The same mesmerized glaze as if the Rutledges had cast an evil spell on her. Must he endure this nightmare all over again? Outrage bubbled in his gut, threatening to erupt in a tirade of accusations, biblical admonitions, and imposed restrictions. But he wouldn’t let it. It hadn’t worked with Sarah—may have even driven her further into Hadley Rutledge’s arms. Oh, the guilt! Willaby strode to the fireplace. “Why will you not listen to me?”

  “You never informed me that restrictions on my social life were part of my employment. I hope they are not, Doctor. I need you to trust me. Trust my judgment. And trust that God will protect me.” Her voice, so defiant, so confident felt like needles stabbing his back.

  Despair dragged all hope from Willaby. Just like Sarah, he saw now that he would not be able to convince Miss Winston with arguments or punishments. He sighed.

  “Very well.” He waved her off. “Have Mr. Gant take you to the Beauford residence. Mrs. Beauford’s gout is acting up again, and she requested you bring her more of your black sage tea.”

  Miss Winston’s skirts swished. Yet she didn’t leave. She slipped beside him and squeezed his hand—a gesture that brought him a modicum of comfort. “You can count on me, Doctor. I promise you, I will be careful with Morgan. You have nothing to fear.” She gave him a sweet smile then excused herself, leaving Willaby alone.

  Alone to stew in his anger, his fear, his absolute terror that Miss Winston … Adalia would soon find herself in the same predicament as his precious Sarah.

  He walked back to the window and glanced down into the garden. The myriad greens and colorful reds and yellows of spring flowers blurred in his vision. And for a moment, a rare, precious moment, he saw Rachel, his wife, and Sarah dancing among the blooms, chasing butterflies and giggling with delight. His precious, innocent daughter.

  Until she had met Hadley Rutledge.

  Willaby fisted his hands. He would not allow that to happen again. He could not.

  Marching from the room, he hastened up the stairs as quickly as his aged legs would carry him and entered Adalia’s chamber. Closing the door quietly behind him, he scanned the surroundings. The silly kitten curled on the bed pried one eye open and gave him an uninterested glance before going back to sleep. Starting at the dressing bureau, Willaby began opening drawers and rummaging through Miss Winston’s belongings. He hated to lower himself to such despicable measures, but he had to know what she was up to—if she was lying to him about the depth of her relationship with Morgan or about the drinking. As Sarah had done on so many occasions. What he was looking for, he didn’t know. A bottle of rum or wine perhaps to prove her propensity to drink or a love letter from Morgan exposing their affair. If Miss Winston were lying, he must toss her from his home. Before he got too close to her. Before he cared too muc
h and was devastated as another loved one was ruined by the Rutledge’s licentious appetites.

  Shifting his gaze away from her undergarments, he sifted through the drawer carefully. Nothing. Nothing in any of the drawers but a pouch of black pearls. Odd. No doubt they were of sentimental value to her. He moved to the bed stand, searched through her Bible, petted the infernal cat, then headed to the wardrobe, where he inspected her gowns and knelt to examine her extra pair of shoes. Relief swept through him. There was nothing here that would lead him to believe she was lying.

  Sunlight drifted through the window, shifting over something stuffed in the back of the wardrobe. A valise. Dragging it toward him, he reached inside, surprised when his fingers struck a hard, cold object. He pulled out an iron band and examined it. It appeared to belong to a pair of shackles, though the chain had been severed at the edge. He turned them over. Engraving on the side drew his gaze. Holding it up to the sunlight, he read the words.

  Miles Plantation Barbados

  Too stunned to even think, Willaby shoved the valise back in place and headed downstairs. The band seared like hot iron in his hand as he pondered the reasons Adalia would possess such a thing. He wandered in a daze into the sitting room and sat upon the cushions by the bay window, holding the heinous object up to the light. Perhaps they belonged to a slave Adalia’s family had owned—a beloved slave, no doubt. But hadn’t she said her parents were simple farmers? Besides, they lived on Jamaica, not Barbados.

  So lost in his thoughts, Willaby failed to hear the knock on his front door, failed to hear the housekeeper open it, and didn’t realize he had a visitor until Miss Emerald Middleton sashayed into the room.

  “Miss Middleton to see you, Doctor.”

  Willaby set the band down and stood, attempting to mask his confusion with a smile. “How nice to see you again, Miss Middleton. But I’m afraid Miss Winston is not here at the moment.”

  “Oh.” She pouted and Willaby couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was. How wonderful that Adalia had become friends with such an upstanding lady.

  Her blue eyes shifted out the window then down onto the band, gleaming in the sun. She moved toward him. “I was so hoping to ask her out to tea. When will she return?”

  “I’m not sure, Miss Middleton, an hour or two, perhaps?” Willaby said as her eyes snapped once again to the band. She halted before him and pointed a gloved finger at the ring of iron.

  “Whatever is that you have there?”

  “It’s nothing, miss. Just something I found.”

  “In Adalia’s chamber?” She offered him a sweet smile.

  Willaby blinked. “Why do you ask? Has she confided in you?” Perhaps he could glean some information from Miss Middleton that would aid him in his cause.

  “Yes, she confides in me about many things.” She strolled about the room, running a finger over the furniture. “In fact, did you know she has scars on her back? From a whip. She showed me. I wouldn’t tell you except the sight of them caused me great concern. For her welfare, of course.”

  “Whip marks? Unheard of. Where did she get them?”

  “I cannot tell you, Doctor.”

  A thud sounded above stairs. Odd. No one should be up there. Intending to excuse himself to check it out, he started for the door when Miss Middleton touched his arm.

  “I am happy we have this opportunity to speak privately, sir. I’ve been quite concerned for Adalia, you see. It’s Morgan Rutledge.”

  “Concern?” She had his attention now. Perhaps he had found an ally in his quest to protect Adalia.

  “He is not suited for her, Doctor. I fear his intentions are not honorable.”

  Willaby could almost hug the lady. “I quite agree! I’ve been trying to tell her as much.”

  “She won’t listen to me, either, I’m afraid.”

  “No, she’s quite stubborn.” He smiled.

  “Perhaps if I examined that”—she gestured toward the band again—“whatever it is you found, I could help you. If we could figure out more about Adalia, perhaps we could find something that will dissuade Morgan’s attentions.”

  “I don’t see how a …” But Miss Middleton had already scooped up the band and was studying it in the sunlight.

  Only then, when a sinister gleam appeared in her eye, did Willaby feel a pinch of unease.

  Fabian burst out onto the street, brushing off twigs and leaves and cursing under his breath. He found Emerald waiting for him, an impatient look in her eyes.

  “I found nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all that would incriminate her in any way. Though I was tempted to steal her pearls.”

  “Pearls?” Emerald shook her head. “Oh, never mind. I discovered something far more valuable.” She smiled, wove her arm through his, and yanked him down the street, filling him in on her next sordid plan.

  Early the next morning, adjusting his hat against the stiff breeze, Fabian waited for a coach to pass then dashed across Bay Street to Union’s wharves. Dodging around workers, he drew a handkerchief to his nose as the smell of fish and rotting produce assailed him. Several yards off the edge of the quay a brig rocked lazily in the murky waters. Was it the one he sought? Two small boats, weighed down with goods, were tied to the end of the dock where a man stood, papers in hand, surveying the line of incoming supplies.

  Fabian marched toward him, his buckled shoes clapping over the sea-worn planks. The wind nearly tore his plumed hat off his head. Holding it down, he patted the letter secure in his waistcoat pocket and approached the man, who barely gave him a glance above his ledger. “Mr. Saville, I presume?”

  A worker, crate perched on his massive shoulder, bumped into Fabian. Without even a word of apology or a by-your-leave, he knelt and handed the crate to a man in the boat, who stacked it atop the others.

  Amazed at the ill-mannered brute, Fabian brushed his coat and stepped to the side. “Yes. I am Mr. Saville.” His gaze swept to brig, the name Endeavor on her hull now clear in his sight.

  A slave struggled by, a large barrel on his back. Lowering it with difficulty, he left it on the edge of the dock before ambling away.

  “Well, where is it? I haven’t got all day.” The man made a mark on his papers.

  Neither his demeanor nor the smell emanating from his ragged attire fostered much confidence that Fabian’s task would be completed. Nevertheless, he reached into his coat, drew out the letter, and handed it to him. “Can you assure me this will arrive at its destination?”

  Stuffing the papers beneath his arm, the purser held out his other hand. “As long as you pay me what we agreed.”

  With a huff, Fabian unclipped a small pouch from his belt and handed it the sailor. Greedy and uncouth. The man did nothing to change Fabian’s opinion of seamen.

  Opening the moneybag, he counted the coins with his eyes. Then, satisfied, he stuffed the pouch in the pocket of his loose trousers and stared at the letter.

  “Miles Plantation, Barbados, eh? Yes, I’ll make sure it gets there. You can bet on that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Taking Morgan’s hand, Adalia climbed into the brougham. She slid onto the leather seat as he leapt inside and sat across from her. Excitement bubbled within her at the prospect of being formally introduced to his parents at the annual Rutledge party. It wasn’t the introduction that excited her as much as the realization that Morgan wanted to take their relationship a step forward, toward a formal courtship.

  Of course, before any permanent understanding could be reached between them, Morgan would have to renounce slavery. He wasn’t to inherit the plantation anyway, but Adalia must ensure that if he ever did, the slaves would be set free. For she could never marry a man who enslaved others. Oh Lord, could this be Your will all along? To use me to free the Rutledge slaves? And from there, who knew? It was too much to consider! But right now, all she could think about was that Morgan Rutledge was quite possibly the prince Adalia had sought her entire life.

  He tapped the hood, sending the brougha
m rumbling on its way. Sunlight stroked his hair, tied behind him in a stylish queue. He shifted his wide shoulders beneath an elegant black tailcoat and met her gaze. There came that grin that sent her heart fluttering. They had not spoken since the night of the orchestra at Dillon’s Inn, and she knew from the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that he was thinking of their walk home.

  Her face heated, and she drew out her fan, waving it about her neck. “It is most improper for us to ride in a covered carriage without benefit of escort.”

  “We have the footmen. Besides, I’m afraid everyone is already at the party, so I suppose you’ll have to trust that I shall behave the gentleman.” He raised his brows.