High temperatures meant “the season” in Charleston was nearly at an end and soon the elite would scamper back to their plantations and estates to ride out the sweltering heat at home. She wondered if Morgan would stay away from town as well. Of course he would. It was what was expected of his class. And Morgan seemed quite obsessed with maintaining the respect of society.
She sighed and twirled a curl dangling about her neck. Soon there would be no more cotillions, concerts, plays, or horse races—or at least very few. The thought dampened her mood. Not that she would be able to attend any more of the extravagant functions without Morgan.
His silence could only mean one thing. That he had not yet been able to convince his father to allow their courtship. Or worse, his father had refused again. But why hadn’t Morgan sent word?
Sudden dread clenched her stomach. What if his wound had become infected? What if something horrible had happened to him? Would his brother alert her? Probably not. Nor would his parents or Emerald, or even Drayton.
Dashing to her looking glass, she adjusted the pins in her hair and dabbed some beet juice on her lips. Then donning a lacy pelisse, she grabbed her medical satchel and headed downstairs. One peek inside the sitting room revealed the doctor snoring with Bible spread across his lap and spectacles sliding down his nose. Good. She wouldn’t have to make an excuse for her improper behavior.
She crept outside and gazed at the lowering sun. She had just enough time to go to the Rutledge townhome, check on Morgan, and be home before supper. Yet as she slipped out onto Calhoun Street, she suddenly felt like a fool. It was highly improper for her to call on a gentleman. Only wanton women visited men in their homes alone. But it couldn’t be helped. She must know if Morgan was all right. And if so, she must know his answer. She must know in what direction her future lay. For to be suspended thus between two worlds was nothing but torture. If Morgan rejected her, it would be better to find out now and be done with it. And give her heart time to heal.
If that was even possible anymore.
She made her way through the busy streets of Charleston, weaving among the throng of both workers and slaves. The heat of late afternoon had driven most of the gentry inside, but a few greeted her as she passed. The smell of fish rose from an open market where an old fisherman hawked his daily catch, flooding her with happy memories of her daddy. A slave crossed in front of her, his eyes downcast and a heavy crate weighing down his back. Adalia glanced at him in sorrow and then pressed on. A lady, decked in a satin walking dress and fringed parasol, sauntered past, a package-laden servant scurrying behind her.
An odd feeling gripped Adalia. All three of her worlds, her happy childhood, past slavery, and hopeful future took on scent and form and drifted before her on this bustling street. Each one having nothing to do with the other. Separate and distinct. As if even acknowledging the other’s presence would cause a catastrophe.
Somehow Adalia had a sense they were all about to collide. But like oil and water, sweet and sour, black and white, she doubted they would mix well.
Halting before the Rutledge townhouse, she tried to settle her thrashing heart. The three-story building that sat gable-end to the street was much more elaborate than Doc Willaby’s home. She hadn’t given it much notice when they’d brought Morgan here after the duel. But now it ascended like a palace out of the sand. The great double piazza attached to the southern walls, enclosed with ivory balustrades that matched the window grilles, and the intricate R surrounded by wrought-iron buds and flowers on the main gate did nothing to settle her nerves and more to make her feel like a pauper begging a prince for a favor.
Squaring her shoulders, she ascended the steps and knocked on the door. After a few moments, the butler answered, looked her over, and then stuck his head out the door to see if anyone else was with her.
“I’m here to see Morgan Rutledge,” she said.
He raised his bulbous nose. “I’m afraid he is not home at the moment.”
“Do you know where I may find him?” At the man’s petulant attitude, Adalia tapped her foot.
Before he could answer, a slender hand adorned with a massive ruby curled around the edge of the door and swung it farther open. The surprise in Hadley’s eyes faded into a twinkle.
“Ah, Miss Winston. Do come in. That will be all, Mr. Lane.” He waved the butler away with one hand while he raised a drink to his lips with the other.
Was the man ever without his alcohol? “No thank you. I’m looking for Morgan.”
“He is not here.”
“So your butler declared. Where may I find him?”
“Hmm.” He pressed a finger over his chin and glanced both ways out the door as if he were looking for his brother. “Well, I cannot be entirely sure.”
A gust fluttered the hem of Adalia’s gown and brought the scent of brandy to her nose. She sighed her impatience at the man’s theatrics.
“He could be at Miss Dianna’s or”—he frowned—“at Miss Silvia’s.”
Adalia shook her head, the names carried away with the wind. “I beg your pardon, who did you say?”
Hadley leaned on the door frame and crossed one foot over the other. “Well, I can’t be sure which one. You see, he has so many.”
“So many what?” Needles pricked down Adalia’s back.
“Paramours, of course. Lovers, if you prefer the more candid term.”
Those needles now punctured her lungs, releasing the air. It bubbled from her throat in an unladylike grunt.
“Oh my, look at your face! You didn’t know, then? I thought you understood about us Rutledge men. We marry women we don’t want and bed women we can’t marry.” He chuckled as if he’d uttered a grand adage.
Adalia felt the blood drain from her face.
He pointed his jeweled finger at her. “Which is probably why you find yourself standing here. Morgan hasn’t called upon you since the duel, has he?” Hadley clucked his tongue in feigned disgust. “You see our beloved father once again denied Morgan’s request to court you.”
The needles moved to stab her heart. Adalia took a step back and nearly stumbled on the steps. She grabbed the post.
“Don’t despair, Miss Winston.” He slammed the last of his brandy down his throat. “I’m sure he meant to tell you. It was no doubt too painful. But since he can neither marry you nor bed you, well, that is most likely the reason for his absence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ah, there you are.” Doc Willaby’s voice startled Adalia. She quickly wiped the moisture from her cheeks and turned her face away. “Whatever are you doing out here in the dark?” He eased onto the stone bench beside her.
Adalia tried to collect her wits. And her voice—strained from hours of sobbing.
Leaning forward, the doctor peered at her then laid a gentle hand on her arm. “When you didn’t join me for supper, I worried. But when you didn’t appear for our evening Bible reading, I knew something was wrong.”
“I fear I’m not suitable company.”
“You are always good company, Miss Winston.” He paused. “What brings you out to the garden at this time of night?”
Adalia drew in a deep breath and gazed over the yard, so bright and lustrous in the light of day, but in the darkness, nothing but clusters of shadows lit by moonlight diffused through clouds. Still, it had been the only secluded place where she could pour out her agony undisturbed. Or so she had thought. “I needed to sort through some things.”
“You sound distraught, my dear. Is there something wrong?” The concern in his voice brought more tears to her eyes. She raised a hand to her nose. “You were right about the Rutledges.” Though she hated to admit it. Though she hated to even say it out loud. For doing so made it all the more real. But of course it was real. She’d heard it from Hadley’s own lips. And, unlike Emerald, he had no reason to lie.
Morgan had lovers. A bevy of them from the sound of it. At first, she had refused to believe it, but then she remembered that Morgan had
spoken of a lascivious past before he’d met her—of multiple lovers, of certain expectations of men of his station. He had spoken of it with such disgust that she’d thought he was done with it, that he regretted his actions, that he wanted to start anew with Adalia. But perhaps his father’s refusal of their courtship had, indeed, forced him back to that life, if only to dull the pain. She wished she had some way to lessen her own agony.
Thankfully, the doctor did not expel a litany of “I told you sos.” Instead, he let out a heavy sigh and took her hand in his. His warm squeeze brought her a modicum of comfort. “I’m sorry, Adalia.”
“I’ve been such a fool.”
“You’re not the first woman to be taken in by the Rutledge charm, my dear. But at least no damage was done. There was no damage done?” His tone was worried.
It took a minute for Adalia to realize what he meant. “Of course not!” She took her hand back then regretted her harsh tone. “The damage is merely internal, for I believe death would be less painful than this ache in my heart.” An ache that throbbed with the thought of never seeing Morgan again, never feeling the touch of his hand on her back, her arm. Never feeling his embrace. Never seeing that rakish half-smile of his, the adoration in his green eyes. The way he made her feel like a princess. It was all over. This was one fairy tale that did not have a happy ending.
A lump formed in Willaby’s throat. He didn’t know what to say to cheer the poor girl. Instead, he sat in silence and allowed her to spend her tears. Her sobbing woke memories he preferred to keep dormant. Memories of his precious Sarah sobbing much like Adalia was doing now. Only her wails had been far louder and more violent and had continued for days. No amount of consoling by either him or his wife had brought her comfort. As a doctor, he’d never felt more useless and weak. He could fix almost anything that ailed his precious daughter.
Anything but a broken heart.
After weeks of such desolate melancholy, he’d had to force food down her to keep her alive—her and the baby she carried. Hadley Rutledge’s brat. In the months that followed, she wandered around the house at all hours of the day and night like a homeless specter. A soulless person with dark circles beneath her vacant eyes and her skin pale and languid.
That was when his wife, Rachel, became ill.
Adalia’s sobbing stopped, jarring Willaby from his morbid memories.
“Forgive me, Doctor.” She wiped her face and gave a stuttering sigh. “I have forgotten myself.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear. I wish I could bring you some comfort.”
She stood and pressed down the folds of her gown. “You have. Just by listening.” He thought he saw a glimmer of a smile in the darkness. “I should retire,” she added.
Willaby rose to his feet. “If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
He barely saw her nod before she faded into the shadows and disappeared in the house. Bowing his head, he lifted up a prayer for the girl he’d grown to care for as his own. “Oh God, please heal her broken heart. Please do not allow her to wilt away like my Sarah.”
Guilt tugged at his conscience. He wished he hadn’t betrayed Adalia’s confidence by snooping about her chamber. Wished he hadn’t been so foolish as to allow Miss Emerald to see the band he’d found. The lady was up to something. What, he couldn’t imagine. But why else would she lie about whip marks on Adalia’s back? Preposterous! Yet nothing had come of her seeing the band. Perhaps she had forgotten all about it or, even better, found no link to Adalia. Even still, he should have allowed matters to work out on their own, knowing the Rutledges would show their true colors eventually. He should have trusted God.
Morgan caught himself whistling. Whistling? He hadn’t whistled in years. But of course he knew the reason. The past two and a half weeks his father had kept him at the plantation—time in which Morgan proved to his father that he possessed a mind for business—had paid off. More than paid off! He’d finally convinced Franklin to allow a courtship with Adalia. Of course there was a price to be paid. A huge price. Morgan would slowly begin to take over the running of the Rutledge estate: managing their ten employees and sixty slaves, inspecting crops, purchasing equipment, maintaining all the buildings, looking after their collection of rare Marsh Tacky horses, and keeping the books. Just listing all the tasks caused a sick feeling to well in his belly. He’d rather be a swabby out at sea than be landlocked with such mind-numbing duties.
But Adalia was worth it.
Which was why he was sauntering down Calhoun Street in his finest attire with a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand and a song on his lips. Not to mention, gathering quite a few curious glances as he went. Today, he would make his relationship with Adalia official. And after a respectable courtship, he would make her his wife. His wife! He could hardly believe it. The most beautiful, kind-hearted, intelligent, courageous lady in the world would soon be his.
With an unavoidable smile on his face, he opened the gate to the Willaby home, took the stairs in two leaps, and knocked on the front door. Their man, Mr. Gant, answered, the flat line of his lips sinking into a frown at the sight of Morgan.
“Miss Winston, please.”
The tall, lanky man adjusted his neck cloth as if it had suddenly grown tighter.
“Who is it, Mr. Gant?” the doctor’s voice blared from inside.
“It’s Mr. Morgan Rutledge to see Miss Winston, sir.”
The doctor’s footsteps thudded, and Mr. Gant’s face relaxed, as if he’d been relieved of some heinous duty. Shoving the man aside, Doc Willaby scowled at Morgan. “How dare you show your face here, sir!”
Morgan blinked, unsure if he had heard the man correctly. He knew the doctor didn’t care for him, but he’d never been so belligerent before. “I have something urgent to discuss with Miss Winston. Is she here?”
“Haven’t you done enough damage?” Hatred and disgust sparked across the doctor’s eyes.
Igniting Morgan’s anger. “To what do you refer, sir?”
“Never mind.” He straightened his coat. “Miss Winston does not wish to see you. Now nor ever.” He waved him away.
Morgan shoved the flowers forward. “At least give her my flowers and tell her I called.”
His answer was the door slamming in his face.
Bewildered, Morgan stepped back and slowly descended the steps. He rubbed the back of his neck and gazed over the garden to the street beyond. What just happened? Perhaps he’d caught the doctor at a bad time. Perhaps the man had just received some tragic news. Or worse, he’d decided to keep Adalia away from Morgan because of what Hadley had done to Sarah.
Morgan began to wonder if Adalia had received any of the notes he’d sent her the past few weeks, telling her where he was, what he was doing. That his father forbade him to ride into town. Morgan laid the flowers on the porch railing and made his way to the street. The good doctor couldn’t keep her locked inside that house forever. Sooner or later she’d emerge to see a patient or run some errand. Somehow she would discover that Morgan had come to call, and she’d figure out a way to see him.
Yet another week passed, and Morgan had not heard a peep from her, nor had he caught a glimpse of her in town. At least not alone. Never without the doctor. One time when he’d seen her sitting next to the doctor in his carriage, he’d dashed out into the street to hail them, but Doc Willaby snapped the reins, and the carriage sped down the street. Morgan had made a spectacle of himself running after it until the ache in his legs and strain of his lungs forbade him to go farther. In fact, he seemed to have ascended the throne of Charleston’s latest gossip. Everywhere he went, members of society and even servants snickered at him behind their hands.
“Ditched by a common woman, he was.” “Making a fool of himself for a woman below his station.” Their snide quips assailed him. Though they grated on him, he knew their interest would shift elsewhere soon.
So, he’d done the only thing he knew to do. He sent dozens of posts, flowers, and gifts to
Doc Willaby’s home. He had no doubt the man tossed them in the refuse, but surely Joy would see to it that one of the gifts would sneak through to Adalia. One of his posts begged her to meet him at a specific time and place. Yet, she did not come. No notes of thanks. No explanation. Not even a “Please, leave me be!”
He had done everything he could to contact her. But to no avail. He foresaw months, even years passing in which she continued to ignore him. He couldn’t let that happen. Nor could he think of anything he’d done to deserve such treatment.
Though Miss Emerald attempted to hide her utter glee over this recent turn of events, she remained at a distance—like a predator biding her time, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Caroline accused Emerald of being the cause of Miss Winston’s absence, while Drayton merely shrugged and declared that women were fickle creatures.
Veil of Pearls Page 27