Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  Willaby nudged him out the door, then stepped out after him. “Try the orphanage hospital,” he whispered. Morgan eyed him with suspicion before he strode away.

  By the time Willaby made his way back into the room, Sir Walter had collected his hat from Mr. Gant and was heading out. “I’ll be staying at the Sign of Bacchus if the Negro minx returns. I trust you’ll alert me.”

  “Of course.” Willaby forced a grin.

  Sir Walter slid his hat atop his head. “Very good. In the meantime I believe I know where to start looking. I thank you for your time, sir.” He gave a mock bow and whistled as he bounded down the piazza steps.

  Willaby could hardly walk back into the drawing room, his feet were so heavy. Nearly as heavy as his heart. How could he have been so wrong? Slavery itself wasn’t wrong, was it? It was why God made the Negro—to serve, to obey. After all, slavery existed in the Bible. But then Adalia had entered his life. Sweet, caring, intelligent Adalia. He’d gotten to know her. Love her. A Negress?

  He’d been so furious at her for lying to him that he’d lost his mind. All he thought to do was to cast her from his home. Teach her a lesson. Rid himself of a mistake that would forever scar his reputation.

  Now, to discover the horrors she must have endured under the cruel and lecherous hand of the madman Willaby had just allowed into his home.

  Sinking into his chair, he dropped his head into his hands. Why had he allowed Miss Emerald to see the iron band—to read the inscription? He should have been more careful. Should have thought things through. “Oh God, what have I done?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Grabbing a glass of Madeira from a passing servant, Sir Walter scanned the crush of Charleston society flitting about the tavern’s main hall. Fortunately for him, having a room in the most prestigious tavern in the city afforded him access to the upper crust and their soirees. A soiree like the concert happening here tonight.

  He sipped his wine, savoring the sweet, pungent taste, and wove his gaze around silk and satin gowns and feathered hats in search of the object of his interest. A cluster of elderly women passed by, offering him pasted-on smiles and scrutinizing stares—no doubt to ensure he belonged among them. He smiled in return, but as soon as they moved from his view, the large frame and light hair of Morgan Rutledge focused in his vision from across the room. Sir Walter watched him for a moment, noting that the young buck seemed highly distraught about something. Quite animated in fact, as he spoke to a group of friends: a light-haired beauty, a rather dour-looking, yet handsome man, and a lanky fop who kept one eye on his friends and another roving over the passing females. Mr. Rutledge ran a hand through his hair and excused himself from the group. The sullen man followed him.

  This was Sir Walter’s chance. Making his way through the crowd, he halted before the fair-haired beauty, dipping his head at her and her companion.

  She gave him a quick glance then sighed as her eyes wandered in the direction Mr. Rutledge had taken. The tall man studied Sir Walter as if he were a servant.

  Sir Walter clenched his jaw and took another sip of wine to calm his anger. “If I may introduce myself, I am Sir Walter Miles.”

  This drew the lady’s avid gaze. “Sir Walter from Barbados?”

  “At your service, miss.” He bowed.

  She held out her gloved hand. “I am Miss Emerald Middleton. I am the one who found the remnant of shackles with your name on it, and this is Hadley Rutledge”—she gestured toward the tall man. “It was my friend, Mr. Saville, who sent you the post.”

  Taking her hand, Sir Walter kissed it while acknowledging Hadley. Indeed, fortune smiled on him tonight. “I owe you my gratitude, miss.”

  “We hadn’t expected you so soon.” Hadley sipped his drink.

  “I just arrived this morning.”

  Miss Emerald touched his arm and leaned closer to him. “Did you find Miss Winston?”

  Sir Walter did not miss the excitement in her voice. “As soon as I stepped off the ship, I went to see the doctor you spoke about in the letter, but he claims she no longer lives with him.”

  Miss Emerald forehead wrinkled.

  “I fear I’ve come all this way only to discover that she has slipped through my fingers.” Sir Walter sighed. “If there’s anything you can tell me about her whereabouts that might help …”

  The beauty twirled one of her pearly curls as the orchestra began tuning its instruments. “We have no idea where she is,” she said with a huff. “Morgan can’t even find her.” She stared into the room where he had disappeared. Sir Walter knew she had found him because her eyes transformed into sparkling sapphire.

  “That’s quite disappointing. I had so hoped to take her far away to Barbados on the next ship”—he dipped his head close to hers—“with no chance of ever returning to Charleston.”

  Miss Emerald’s smile nearly blinded him. Hadley shifted his stance and cocked a brow.

  “Perhaps you could tell me about her time here in Charleston,” Sir Walter pressed. “Did she make any close acquaintances? Besides Mr. Rutledge, I mean.”

  Miss Emerald’s eyes hardened. “Well, she seems quite fond of that slave who’s always following her around.”

  “What slave is that?”

  “Doc Willaby’s slave. Joy, I think her name is. Perhaps they are together even now.”

  Sir Walter pressed his hair back at his temples. Ah, this was getting better and better.

  Adalia dipped her pen in ink and leaned over the piece of foolscap atop her desk. Light from a single candle flickered ghoulish shadows over the paper, taunting her, daring her to write the letter she knew she must. But every time she began, her eyes flooded with tears, and her vision clouded until she could see nothing but nebulous shadows. Setting down the pen, she leaned back in her chair and glanced over her tiny chamber. Though small and cramped and hot, she was ever so grateful that Father Mulligan had taken her back into the orphanage. She had not told him why she’d returned. And he had not asked. He’d simply ushered her back into her old room with a kind smile. Of course they needed help with the sick children. And though they had never paid her before, this time, Father Mulligan offered her a small stipend each day. Perhaps he sensed her desperation, or perhaps God had told him of her need. Either way she was grateful, for she finally had enough to book passage on a ship.

  And leave Charleston forever.

  Hence, the reason for the letter she’d attempted to write two nights in a row without success.

  It was to Morgan, of course. To tell him good-bye. To tell him that she would always love him. She owed him at least that.

  Of course he’d discovered where she was. It wouldn’t be too difficult since he knew she often volunteered at the orphanage. And for the past three days and nights, he’d been pounding on the doors of St. Mary’s, begging Father Mulligan entrance. For one brief second, she thought of seeing him, asking for his help, but how could she with Sir Walter on his way? She would only be prolonging the inevitable. Thankfully, the father had honored Adalia’s wishes and kept Morgan out. He would discover the truth soon enough. And any love he expressed to her now would just be a fanciful illusion.

  She’d been such a fool.

  She was a fool still, for she’d stayed far too long in Charleston. The past week and a half she’d done nothing but pray and cry, trying to find a way to marry Morgan—to have the life she dreamed of with the man she loved. But no amount of time or tears provided any solution other than the obvious one—she must leave town. And quickly. In all likelihood, Sir Walter had already arrived and was searching for her. She could only hope that Doc Willaby would not think to mention the orphanage to him. But why wouldn’t he? And although she’d begged Father Mulligan to not tell anyone she was here, once Sir Walter explained the situation, the priest might very well decide that it was the right thing to return a slave to her owner.

  Adalia’s heart faltered at the thought. A sweat broke out on her palms. She rubbed them on her skirts, longing for
M. The pesky cat always brought her such comfort. She hoped Joy was taking good care of him. She hoped the doctor would allow him to stay with them and not cast him from the house as he had done Adalia. For she couldn’t bring him with her. The longer she stayed in town, the more dangerous it became. She must finish this letter and leave on the first ship sailing out of Charleston in the morning. To where, she had no idea. Some place where she could start all over again.

  Re-dipping the pen, she made another attempt.

  Dearest Morgan,

  By the time you read this, I shall be gone. Please do not search for me. I cannot explain why I’m leaving, but suffice it to say it is for the best. Thank you for making this common lady feel like a princess, if only for little while. I love you with all of my heart. I always will. Be happy, Morgan. Follow your dream, and sail away to that exotic horizon.

  Yours forever,

  Adalia

  There. She folded the paper and sealed it with wax from her candle. Short. Not overdone with useless sentiment. It was better that way. She would send it to the plantation since the season was nearly over. In fact, there was only one party remaining, the Brewton ball, which took place tomorrow night.

  The ball where Morgan would have announced their engagement. But by then, Adalia would be on a ship far away. Rather than curl up and cry herself to sleep, like she’d been doing for so many nights, she flung her night robe over her shoulders, tied it around her waist, and headed out to the sick room to check on the few children she’d been tending the past week. Nothing serious. One had a simple cold, the other a heat rash. After finding them both fast asleep, Adalia gazed out the window at the open space between the orphanage and church. Moonlight tiptoed across the yard, leaving silver footprints in the sand.

  Beyond, the white steeple of St. Mary’s speared into the darkness like a beacon of hope. Movement tugged Adalia’s gaze to the shrubbery edging the courtyard, where a man in white stood gazing up at heaven.

  She clutched her throat. Darting to the door, she burst into the yard, drawing the man’s attention. He lowered his gaze to hers. She inched toward him, holding up a hand, not wanting to frighten him off—praying he would not disappear as he always did. But he remained in place, staring at her with those eyes that looked like transparent pools the closer she came. And peaceful. They were so peaceful. She stopped within a few feet of him.

  His gentle smile put her fears at ease.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “The fear of man bringeth a snare: but whoso putteth his trust in the Lord shall be safe,” he said, and then he cocked his head and examined her as if he found her somewhat confusing. “You are highly favored and precious to the King.”

  His voice sounded like the purl of water across the hull of a ship. Soothing, authoritative. Before Adalia had time to consider his words, he turned, drifted over the courtyard, and disappeared within the church.

  “Come back!” She ran after him. She needed to know who he was. Where did he come from? Why did he always speak to her and then leave without explanation?

  The creak of the aged door filled the sanctuary as Adalia slid inside. Making her way through the inner door, she entered the sacristy. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Only the priests could enter this way. Creeping forward, she emerged into the chancel, where the pulpit, lectern, and choir seats formed out of the shadows. Flickering candles lined the altar. Beyond them, darkness hung over the sanctuary. No sign of the man in white. Skirting the altar, Adalia descended the steps and swung to sit in a pew.

  The smell of tallow, aged wood, and something else—a sweet scent—swept over her. She gazed up at the stained-glass windows surrounding the dark outline of a crucifix. The man in white’s words filled her mind. The fear of man bringeth a snare. She remembered that verse from somewhere. Her childhood. Her father had often quoted it. The fear it spoke of didn’t refer to a natural fear. It meant reverence. It meant something one held in awe, something one held above God. Her father’s sun-bronzed face filled her vision. Adalia was helping him clean fish, and he was discussing Scripture as he always did.

  “It means when you care more for the opinions of men than the opinion of God,” he had said. At the time, Adalia had shrugged, not entirely understanding.

  But that understanding fell upon her now like a death shroud, nearly smothering her.

  That was precisely what she had done. She had cared more about what Morgan thought of her, what society thought of her. Cared more that she was accepted in their pretentious circles than she had cared to please God. She hadn’t asked God if He wanted her to be a part of society. She’d simply forged ahead on the pretense she was helping Morgan draw close to God. But that was a lie. She’d relished in the pomp and glamour, in gentry’s acceptance of her, feeding her need to be loved. Her need to be accepted, not outcast.

  Like a slave.

  She clasped the back of the pew in front of her. “What is wrong with wanting to be accepted?” she whispered. But she already knew the answer. Nothing, except when seeking that acceptance took the place of God.

  She had made the approval of Morgan and the Charleston elite her god. And in the process she had shoved the true God into a corner.

  Grief threatened to choke her. Shame pulled her down to a kneeling position. She dropped her head to the pew back and sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Father. I’m so sorry.”

  All the things the man in white had told her over the past months flooded her mind.

  Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.

  For all that is in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—is not of the Father but is of the world.

  For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.

  The fear of man bringeth a snare: but whoso putteth his trust in the Lord shall be safe.

  She had not only feared the opinion of men but also denied who she truly was. She was Althea Claymore, daughter of Benjamin and Edith Claymore, and one-quarter Negro. She had lied, deceived, and hidden her true heritage all because of a society whose perverted ideas said she was worthless. She’d been embarrassed, ashamed of who God had made her to be. She was His workmanship, His masterpiece!

  Created for good works. Ah, she had failed Him so!

  Even worse, she’d mistreated Joy. She hadn’t wanted others to see her friendship with the slave. Heaven help her, she’d even been willing to lie to her would-be husband about the stripes on her back—to own her own slaves for a time on the Rutledge plantation. After she knew the horrors of slavery firsthand!

  “Oh, Father, forgive me.” She sobbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks and plopped onto the wooden pew. “I turned away from You, and I didn’t even know it.” She’d stopped praying, stopped reading her Bible, stopped conversing with God.

  And because of that, she’d made a mess of things. She’d caused people pain. Morgan, Doc Willaby, Joy. Herself. And now, she was on the run again.

  The man in white. Who was he?

  Adalia lifted her head and wiped her moist cheeks, glancing over the dark church. Still no sign of him. An angel perhaps? Whoever he was, God had sent him to draw Adalia back to the Lord. Each time she was about to slip a little further from God, the man in white had crossed her path with a Word from God. To warn her. But in her desperation to be accepted, favored, she’d ignored him completely.

  Favored. Hadn’t the man in white said she was favored? Precious?

  Folding her hands on the pew, she gazed up at the cross. “Father, how can You think that after what I’ve done?”

  You are forgiven, child. The words drifted by her in a whisper. Heard, yet silent.

  “Am I still Your daughter?”

  Each of the candles lining the altar flickered one by one as if someone walked by. But no one was there. My princess.

  Adalia smiled. Closing her eyes, she raised her hands t
oward heaven. She’d been a fool. Had gotten swept up in a world that was nothing but smoke and ashes. The fickle opinions of men—based on their own twisted ideas of what made someone valuable. Why had she ever sought their approval? Now, as God’s presence and love wrapped around her, filling her to near bursting, she couldn’t imagine ever giving His acceptance up for such a worthless counterfeit.

  Leaning her head back down on the pew, she prayed for Morgan. That he would forgive her and find happiness at sea. She prayed for Emerald and Hadley and Caroline and Drayton. For Doc Willaby that he would see the truth of slavery and let go of his bitterness—that God would comfort him in the loss of his wife and daughter. And she prayed for Joy to find freedom someday.

  She prayed until a loud noise jerked her from her semiconscious state. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced up as sunlight lit the stained glass in a rainbow of sparkling colors—God’s promise of salvation and mercy. She smiled and thanked Him for His unending grace. Shuffling sounded from behind the altar. Adalia rose and darted out the back door before anyone saw her. She made her way to her chamber, a new lightness in her step. She hoped she hadn’t missed the early ships leaving the harbor. Donning her undergarments and a blue gown, she straightened the room, grabbed her valise, and headed out to say good-bye to Father Mulligan.