Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  Confusion muddled his face for a moment before he spiked a hand through his hair and glanced down. “You heard.”

  “I did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No more than I.” She started down the path. “Now, if you please.”

  “Do you intend to walk all the way back to Charleston?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Allow me to call for my carriage.” He blocked her path. “I’ll explain everything on the way back.”

  “I’d rather walk.” She skirted around him.

  “Please, Adalia.” He clutched her arm again then led her to the side of the drive beneath an elm tree. Grabbing her hand, he caressed her fingers. She wanted to pull away, to slap him for hurting her, to hug him for coming to her defense, but the confusion of it all prevented her from doing anything but stand there.

  Even so, this might be the last time she felt his touch. The last time she watched the wind tease the tips of his tawny hair, loosening a strand over his cheek the way it always did. The last time his spicy scent filled her senses.

  “I’m sorry for my father’s cruel opinions,” he said, still holding her hand.

  Her anger returned. “It was not his opinions that upset me. But your lack of them.” She watched him melt beneath her livid tone. He tightened his grip on her hand as if he feared she would run away. “I was too angry to answer him.”

  “Or perhaps you had no answer.” She tore from him, fighting back tears. She must remain strong. She must not give in to the tender, pleading look in his eyes. “You misled me. I am not some tart, as your father put it, to be toyed with and discarded.”

  “You don’t understand.” His jaw tightened. “I never meant to … I love you, Adalia. I do. I cannot help it.” He stepped toward her, his eyes misting.

  She turned away. “But the cost is too high.”

  He sighed and shoved the wayward strand of hair behind his ear. “What would I do without money? How would I survive?”

  Not the answer she expected. But an honest answer, nonetheless. And one that shredded the last remnants of the fairy-tale veil covering her eyes. It had been fabulous these past few months. Like living a dream. But the dream was over now. She knew that by the look of defeat and fear on Morgan’s face. The way he glanced over the plantation as if he could never escape it. As if he were shackled to it like one of his slaves. And suddenly Adalia realized Morgan was as much a slave as she had been. Maybe even more. Despite her anger, her heart went out to him.

  “How would you survive?” she said. “You would work like the rest of us. Find a trade. You’re smart, resourceful.”

  “But there is such risk. If I fail … I will starve.” Pain burned in his gaze. “We will starve. How can I expect you to endure that with me?”

  A breeze flapped the hem of her gown and quivered the leaves in the tree above her, making them sound like a thousand whispers, cheering her on.

  “Life is full of risk, Morgan. It’s what makes life exciting.” She searched his eyes for any sign of understanding, but uncertainty still reigned. “The true measure of a man is not in his fortune or status. But in his courage, wit, and honor.”

  The crack of a whip drew her gaze to the fields beyond the house. A slave bent over in pain before one of the taskmasters. He struck the man again, and Adalia felt the fire on her own back. She tightened the shawl around her.

  “You saw my scars.”

  Morgan studied her. “You were whipped. I can see that. It doesn’t change anything except that it made me want to kill the man who did it.”

  “Don’t you want to know why I was whipped?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He took a step toward her, turmoil burning in his eyes. “It makes no difference in my affection toward you. It’s not like you are a slave!” He let out a sordid chuckle.

  She backed away from him, suddenly chilled.

  No matter how honorable, how kind, how romantic Morgan was, he was still a slave owner. Somehow in all the glamour and romance, she had forgotten that—had hoped she could change that fact. But his unwillingness to part with any of his wealth and the incredulous tone of his last words proved the impossibility of her task.

  “Whether we ever see each other again or not, I beg you, Morgan, do not allow your father to rule your life. If you do, you are no less a slave than those men in the fields.” She hugged herself to keep from touching him. “You must step out and trust God.”

  Yet even as she said it, she wondered if she had been trusting God. She couldn’t remember the last time she had truly spoken to the Almighty, save in passing or at meals.

  Morgan lifted his hand to caress her cheek, but she stepped out of his reach. She swiped away a tear. “Marry Emerald.”

  “I don’t love her.” He swallowed, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just realized the inevitable. “I don’t want to lose you, Adalia.”

  Yet, his tone carried a hopelessness that sealed their destiny. “You can’t have it all, Morgan.” Wiping her face, she lifted her chin. “Now, if you don’t mind having your footman drive me home …”

  When his only response was to order the man to bring the carriage around, the last shred of Adalia’s heart crumbled in her chest.

  And the fairy tale faded into oblivion.

  As Morgan watched Adalia drive off in his brougham, he felt as though his life, his hopes, his dreams rode off with her. She was right, of course. He knew she was right. He couldn’t have both her and his fortune, his status. Not if his father had anything to do with it. He watched until the carriage disappeared behind the curtain of Spanish moss hanging from the trees then turned and trudged back to the house. What should have been a happy occasion—the announcement of his and Adalia’s courtship—turned out to be the worst day of his life.

  He’d certainly expected opposition from Franklin. He certainly expected to put up a fight. But he hadn’t expected the stubborn man to be so cruel as to not only disinherit his son but also disown him. Yes, he’d threatened the same with Hadley and Sarah, but Hadley was his wonder boy, the favored son upon whose shoulders rested the future and hopes of the Rutledge family.

  Not Morgan. Never Morgan. Until today. Why, of all days, did his father decide to make Morgan his heir apparent today?

  He’d wanted so much to tell him he could take his fortune and position to the grave, but fear had clamped his tongue. Then when Adalia had looked at him with those fathomless eyes brimming with tears, it was all he could do not to take her into his arms and tell her he’d forsake everything to be with her. But his fear rose again like a Carolina crocodile snapping its jaws on his determination and courage. He hated to see Adalia hurt. Hated that he’d been the cause. But wouldn’t he hurt her more if he married her without two coins to his name? How many times would they go to bed hungry before that sparkle in her eye would dim? Before she would no longer look at him with admiration and love. But instead with disgust and disdain. She deserved better. She deserved a life of opulence and ease.

  A life he could easily give her if only his father would agree.

  He rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck as he ascended the front steps, spewing curses upon each tread. He should have known better. He should have thought things through, foreseen the inevitable outcome, instead of plunging headfirst into unchartered seas. Now, he had broken not only Adalia’s heart but his own as well.

  Yet, there had to be a way. He fisted his hands. He must think of something. Some way to convince Franklin, blackmail him if he had to.

  That was, if he didn’t die tomorrow in a duel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Daddy, Daddy, look at me!” With hands spread out at her sides, ten-year-old Adalia spun around, staring up at the hundreds of leaves framing a cerulean sky. She felt the lacy hem of her new gown tickle her ankles as she twirled barefooted over the sandy dirt.

  Clapping and cheering filled the air, and she stopped and smiled at her father, who was sitting on a bench before their humb
le home, cleaning a fresh catch of fish.

  “Am I beautiful, Daddy?” Adalia adjusted the sprig of flowers her mother had pinned in her hair and held out the folds of her gown. Her first and only formal gown—a luxury promised to her on her tenth birthday. She would wear it to the yearly harvest festival, where all the local farmers gathered to celebrate God’s bounty.

  Her father dropped the fish he’d been cleaning back into the bucket. His adoring gaze took her in as if she were diamonds and jewels, not a simple farm girl. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world,” he answered with all sincerity.

  Adalia dashed and melted against him. Protective Daddy arms enveloped her like thick wings, covering her, shielding her. The smell of fish curled her nose, but she didn’t care. It was the smell of her daddy.

  Nudging her back, he kissed her forehead. “You’ll always be my little princess.”

  Feeling every bit like royalty, Adalia skipped and danced around the clearing, admiring how the sunlight frolicked in patches of shimmering light over her gown. “Now, all I need is a prince, Daddy.” She stopped before him again.

  “Someday, my precious one”—he tapped her on the nose—“God will send you a prince who will love and cherish you.”

  Adalia giggled with delight. “Do you promise, Daddy?”

  He nodded. “You deserve no less.” Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her cheek, and Adalia closed her eyes, her heart soaring.

  Then the rough hands grew soft and smooth, and the touch pinched instead of loving. Instead of fish, bergamot stung her nose, sending her heart hammering against her chest.

  She opened her eyes to see Sir Walter’s flaccid face inches from hers. Rage and a touch of madness whirled in his dark eyes. Releasing her with a jerk, he backed away. “Princess, you say?” He chuckled.

  Adalia rose from where she’d been kneeling in prayer in her chamber. So caught up in the presence of God, she hadn’t heard Sir Walter enter. Heat flushed through her. He’d heard her petition to someday become a princess, to find her prince.

  “Slaves only become princesses in fairy tales, my dear. And fairy tales never come true.”

  Adalia glanced out her barred window, where a moonless light dripped ebony over the Miles Plantation. When she met Sir Walter’s gaze again, candlelight flickered over a rising maniacal grin. He only came to her chamber at night for one thing.

  Adalia woke with a start. Sweat beaded on her neck. One glance out the window told her it was still night. Thank goodness she hadn’t overslept. She hadn’t decided whether to attend the duel when she’d retired. She’d been far too distraught. She hadn’t been able to think straight through all the tears and the heartache. But sometime during the night, amidst all the nightmares, all the pain, terror for Morgan’s life overcame her anger and her grief. Not that she could do anything. But she must try to stop them.

  Flinging the covers aside, she quickly donned her underthings and gown and headed downstairs.

  Urging Doc Willaby’s horse to a gallop, Adalia reached the edge of town within minutes and headed down the muddy path edged with hickory and pine. Dawn’s blush pinked the horizon, barely pushing aside the shadows of the night, giving her just enough light to see her way down the moss-entangled trail and out onto a lush field where she’d heard Hadley say the duel would take place. She wondered why they chose a spot much closer to town than Rutledge Hall, but then again, dueling was frowned upon in most circles. She doubted Morgan had even informed his father of the event.

  She reined the horse to a stop. He snorted and pawed the mud as she scanned the area. Gray mist swirled in a chaotic dance around spindly grass. In the distance, shadows of looming trees rose like guardians of the night. No sound reached her ears save the croaking of frogs and the distant gush of a creek—muffled, yet magnified in the dank air. A chilled breeze clawed her cloak and scattered goose bumps down her arms even as an eerie feeling of foreboding struck her. It was the perfect place to act out such an obscene play.

  Although dueling was not outlawed yet, there were rumblings among the legislature and sermons from the pulpit against such barbaric traditions. Adalia quite agreed.

  Something caught her eye at the far end of the field, and she galloped in that direction, her medical satchel bouncing over the saddle. Fighting the exhaustion tugging at her eyes, she forced her gaze beyond the tree line, where she could make out blurry shapes moving about. Crashing through the foliage, she dismounted and tied her horse beside six others then marched toward the men with one thought in mind.

  To end this madness.

  She spotted Morgan straight away, leaning casually against a tree as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Absent a waistcoat and cravat, his white shirt flapped in the morning breeze as he shifted one booted foot across the other and yawned. Across the clearing, Mr. Saville puffed upon a cigar, unimpressed by Morgan’s courageous display. Hadley and another man, whom Adalia assumed was Mr. Saville’s second, stood to the side examining a pair of pistols. Two other men whispered amongst themselves.

  “Morgan Rutledge, I insist you stop this tomfoolery at once!” She barreled toward him. His face registered shock, but his features quickly tightened in concern. He took her arm and led her aside as the other men glanced their way.

  “What in the blazes are you doing here?”

  Her anger faded into dread at his closeness. His touch. His scent. The look of love in his eyes.

  “Please, Morgan. This isn’t necessary.”

  “Ah, if it isn’t the marked woman.” Mr. Saville’s voice oozed over her back. “Come to bid adieu to your beau?”

  Morgan stiffened, his eyes locking on Mr. Saville like cannons on a target.

  Adalia ignored the buffoon. “Please stop this. For me?”

  He lowered his gaze, his expression softening. “That’s why I’m here. For you, milady.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Tears filled her eyes.

  He cupped her chin, brushing his fingers over her jaw. “I told you, I love you, Adalia. And if I must, I will defend your honor to the death.”

  “But what purpose will it serve? We can never be together. Walk away,” she pleaded. “Just walk away. What is the honor of a common woman worth?”

  He looked at her as if she’d asked him the value of a chest full of gold. “Everything.”

  The other men approached, Mr. Saville among them, his eyes cold and lifeless.

  Morgan released her and faced his opponent. “This is your last chance to apologize to the lady.”

  “The lady, you say?” He avoided Adalia’s gaze and instead leveled the full force of his contempt at Morgan. “No one is whipped but a slave or a whore.”

  Jaw grinding, Morgan started for him. He didn’t get far before Hadley’s arm held him back.

  Too shocked by Mr. Saville’s vulgar statement, Adalia merely stared at him, wondering at the depths of his hatred, wondering if this was all part of Emerald’s plan to win Morgan. If so, would she rather see him dead than in the arms of another? And where was she, anyway? If she cared so much for Morgan, she should be here to witness the fruits of her labors.

  Morgan ceased struggling against Hadley’s grip and ran a hand through his loose hair. “Please leave, Adalia.”

  “Yes, I do insist,” one of the other men interjected. “Women should not be present at duels.”

  “I am here on business. To help the injured.”

  This brought several snorts from the men, but finally, much to Morgan’s obvious dismay, they agreed. More, Adalia surmised, because they were in a hurry rather than that they wished to appease her.

  Grabbing her satchel from the saddle, Adalia took up a spot on the edge of the small clearing. Her legs dissolved into pudding as the two men moved to choose their weapons. She leaned on a tree and spoke her first prayer in a while, “Oh Lord, please do not let Morgan die.”

  Turning away from the desperate look in Adalia’s eyes, Morgan faced his opponent. He cleared all thoughts, all emotions f
rom his mind and focused on the business at hand.

  “Very well, then.” Hadley opened the wooden box containing the French dueling pistols. Mr. Richards and I have checked the weapons thoroughly and found them equally sound. They are both loaded and ready to fire.”

  Selecting one, Morgan checked the priming, noting the elaborate engraving running down the barrel from the hammer. Mr. Saville, with a rather bored look on his face, plucked the other one and held it up in the muted light.

  Hadley snapped the box shut.

  Mr. Richards gave Morgan a look of pity before he spouted the rules. “We will count ten paces, as agreed, then at my command, you may turn and fire. You have one shot each.”