Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  THERE WERE BIRDS, VERY RUDE BIRDS, CHIRPING. ABBY lay in bed with her eyes closed, trying to ignore the trilling. As she became aware that she did not feel the ship’s rocking, she thought groggily that the vessel must have reached port. She rolled over in bed, the satin comforter twisting around her legs. Shaken by the softness of her bedding, she opened her eyes with a start. She was in Charleston now, not onboard the steamship. She was in the most wonderfully exquisite bed, and it was there for her use, only hers, for the next several months. Unless someone decided they’d made a mistake after all. Seven years she had worked in the mills, trudging home covered in cotton dust, to sleep in a damp, rodent-infested tenement. Surely, she was entitled to savor this bed for a moment. At least until she was told to evacuate these quarters.

  Before Wigan, her da had owned a shop in Liverpool, the city where they once had a pink-brick home. He sold furniture, enough to keep Abby clothed in toile dresses and patent-leather shoes, and to provide tutors for her and Gwendolyn. The tutoring for her younger brothers would have begun in short order, as well. If not for the flood.

  Her mind flashed to her uncle, despite herself, and she wondered if she would ever be free of him. There had been days back home when she would bloody up her arms, trying to tear her skin clean off, scratching as if to release herself from her own body. She created new wounds, scrapes and gashes that her family lacked the soap to clean, adding weight to the shoulders atop her mother’s aching back.

  Abby’s stomach cramped with hunger, and she remembered that Larissa said supper would be at nine. The sunlight streaming through the window told her she had long since missed that meal. She rose from the bed, still clad in her frayed cotton dress from the day before. There was only one spare dress in her bag, and that one was no better. She pondered whether she might find a way to bathe today. Surely people at this fulsome estate must be blessed to have a bath whenever the mood might strike. Noticing a small bowl of water near her bedside, Abby splashed her face with the tepid water and used the cloth beside the ceramic bowl to dry off. It helped, but hardly enough. The weeks of sea travel had left a layer of muck and salt on her skin so thick that they required nothing less than full soaking to remove.

  There was a mirror affixed to the wall above the washbowl, a small hexagonal piece of glass, only slightly larger than Abby’s face. She could see in the mirror how the weeks at sea had changed her. Her skin was a new olive color, not the alabaster she remembered. Her cheeks were too hollow, rendering her cheekbones overly prominent. She removed the twine holding her long hair, running her fingers through the brown locks to calm them. Her hair had grown back quickly from when she’d chopped at it with a kitchen knife the year before. She saw determination in her green-gray eyes, her pupils so small they were nearly invisible in the foggy mirror. She arranged her hair into a haphazard plait and stared at herself another moment in resignation.

  The hunger in her gut wouldn’t have her delay any longer before leaving her quarters to search for breakfast. Poking her head out the door, she saw Larissa just rounding the corner.

  “Oh, good,” the governess smiled, her pale blonde bun still neatly in place, another drab outfit beneath it. “You were in such deep slumber when I brought the scones last night, it seemed cruel to disturb you. You must be famished.” The governess linked her arm with Abby’s and led her toward the celestial staircase. “Let’s take care of breakfast and then fetch you a bath. You must be anxious to get clean again.”

  If Larissa knew Abby better, the woman wouldn’t offer such promises. Clean. Abby nearly snorted. She would never be clean.

  AFTER HER FIRST LEISURELY BATH IN SEVEN YEARS, Abby’s skin felt flushed, abraded. She remembered how her da used to sniff her freshly washed hair when she was a young girl, his nose against the crown of her head, and she experienced a longing for home she hadn’t expected. She found Larissa waiting in the second-floor parlor, just as she’d promised.

  Abby settled herself on a foam-green davenport, and Larissa charged straight to business, providing her an overview of her days to come.

  “During the days, you will study in the house, your primary company being only myself and Jasper. We will have to find other ways to entertain you, I suppose. As for Mr. Elling, you’ll see precious little of him, as he spends every waking hour at the wharf.”

  Abby exhaled a slow breath, remembering again the strange scene she happened upon at Douglas’s office. The less she saw of that peculiar man, the better. In fact, keeping mainly to herself in this new life sounded easier than anything she’d done in a long time.

  “In the mornings,” Larissa continued, “we will study more rigorous subjects, arithmetic, history, geography, and philosophy.”

  As she listened, Abby eyed the cucumber sandwiches and peach pastries waiting on the china dish before them, wondering how many would be polite to take. Both would muck up her dress if she tried to pocket extra.

  Afternoons, Larissa continued, were reserved for instruction in feminine accomplishments—painting, quilting, music, French. “I will also instruct you at the pianoforte thrice a week,” Larissa concluded.

  It seemed Abby was being groomed for something. Marriage, presumably. She had long ago decided she would never marry, never submit herself to another person’s whims, someone else’s fate.

  “I know it must seem isolating,” Larissa said. “Being alone all day with only the staff for company. A young lady needs to get out, be part of society. We’ll get you set with the young people of Charleston in no time, and you’ll have more friends than you can corral.” Larissa paused to fiddle with her hair bun again. Abby had the urge to pull out the pins, let the woman’s hair fall in brazen waves. After a moment, Larissa continued, “I’ve been living two and a half years in this house without any worthy purpose. And finally, dear, you are here, so we must make the most of it.”

  “You were the governess for his child?” Abby asked, as understanding dawned.

  “Yes,” Larissa nodded vigorously. “Mr. Elling’s deceased wife, bless her soul, hired me as governess for Cherish. She would be seven years old now.” Larissa was silent for another moment, staring blindly at the pleats in her wool skirt. “Before that,” she finally continued, “I had been teaching at the Hadley School for girls in Massachusetts, near where I was raised.”

  Now Abby understood why Larissa spoke her words with such a flat twang. Beyond the differing accents, she was not particularly knowledgeable about the differences between North and South in America, except to be aware that there was no slavery beyond Maryland or Delaware.

  “Why did you not return home after they died?” Abby asked bluntly.

  “Well, if you must know, my father is a disagreeable man. Living in his house as a spinster . . .” she trailed off as though searching for the correct words. Meanwhile Abby helped herself to a pastry from the platter, syrup seeping onto her fingers. “My father felt too much shame,” Larissa admitted. “He could not abide my failure to marry, and he tormented me for it. After I made Mrs. Elling privy to my circumstance, she begged for my promise never to return to him.”

  “Well, why not go somewhere else? Why stay here?” Abby asked as she chewed. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that this energetic woman had chosen to remain in a Douglas Elling’s house with no purpose whatsoever. She had not taken Larissa as the type to be seduced by the opulence of the estate, so what then, was the impetus for remaining? Perhaps there was something illicit between Mr. Elling and the good governess. Though the ages of it were wrong. Even under all that natty scruff, Mr. Elling was clearly closer to her own age than to Larissa’s. Still, people did odd doings, didn’t they?

  Larissa tilted her head at Abby the same way her ma did when she thought it was charming that Abby was being dense.

  “As an adult woman with no husband, I do not have a cornucopia of choices. No respectable woman can reside in a home without the protection of a man. Whether it’s a father, a brother, or even a son.” Then she add
ed jokingly, “I see we have much to catch up on in our lessons in propriety.”

  The governess could mock Abby all she wanted, study her with those condescending eyes, but the woman’s explanation seemed incoherent all the same. “But Mr. Elling is not your father, brother, or son,” Abby persisted. A curtain was opening in her own mind, letting in the thought to learn from Larissa’s experience what options might be available for herself in the future. Once she had mastered the skills they had discussed, she could do as Larissa had done, earn a living teaching young girls.

  “No, he’s not,” Larissa conceded. “Ours is indeed an unorthodox arrangement, but the community has been gentle about judging this household ever since the fire. As my employer, Mr. Elling is a suitable protector. Especially for one such as myself, who no longer has any real prospects of marriage to fret about losing.”

  It still seemed odd to Abby, Larissa waiting in the house all day with nothing to occupy herself. Abby wanted to ask if Mr. Elling was still paying her for doing naught. But she was starting to like this diminutive woman with the oversized smiles. Abby did not aim to offend her, and so decided to cease the inquiries.

  “By the by,” Larissa continued with another thought, “Mr. Elling informed me about your prior circumstance. None of that matters now that you’re here, where you will be treated in the manner your breeding demands. I know you must miss your family, but since I never did take with a husband, nor have children of my own, I have more than enough love in my heart to bombard upon you.”

  Right, thought Abby, her own inner darkness swirling again, like hateful vapor clouding her mind’s eye. A cautionary plume living permanently where she used to hold her hope. I challenge you, dear governess, to love me like you’ve offered once you’ve seen inside my rotted soul.

  4

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Three Years Earlier

  1842

  Douglas escorted Sarah into the Cunninghams’ ballroom, surveying the throng of gentlemen planters who milled about, joking with each other and flirting with the ladies crowding the room. There wasn’t a single friendly face among them.

  “Make yourself useful, dear, and fetch me a beverage,” Sarah asked, likely sensing his discomfort, providing him a task. “I think I should enjoy a lemonade. Meantime, I’ll go say how-do to Madeline Hart. She has known me too long to snub me in public.”

  Douglas entered the refreshments parlor and walked toward the pack of gentlemen surrounding the oversized bar. The beverages on display ranged from blackberry wine and peach brandy to whiskeys and imported liquors, standard fare for an evening ball in Charleston, but notable here because of the sheer abundance of bottles, each bedecked with a frivolous gold tassel at the collar. He felt a hand grip his shoulder and turned to find Ben Baylis, a friend of his deceased father-in-law. Well into his seventies, Ben was a longtime rice planter of the low country.

  “Douglas,” Baylis’s voice was a quiet rumble. “A word?” He raised his silver eyebrows and jerked his head to indicate Douglas should follow him. After piloting them toward a secluded corner of the room, Baylis charged straight to his point.

  “Listen, talk is spreading like a virus. Upright folks around town, they keep adding your name in sentences with words you want to stay away from, words like abolition, words like traitor and criminal. There were whispers months back, but now, seems I’m catching snippets every damn day. I don’t know, son, what you’re involved in, but I’m charged to watch out for the well-being of my friend Nat’s only daughter. Folks ought to know better around here about what they’d be risking.”

  “Baylis,” Douglas feigned a scoff, “don’t tell me a tough old bug like you has started listening to old ladies’ gossip.”

  “It’s not ladies who’ve been saying it.” People were still filing into the lounge, the crowd growing and buzzing. Douglas stepped closer to Baylis, inching them both farther into the corner.

  “Well then, who exactly has been spreading these rumors?”

  “It’s not just one person, don’t you see? It’s everywhere. You want to sniff out a source, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you start with that Wilson Bly. He may be one ill-tempered son of a bitch, but he’s got a host of farmer friends who cling to his every word.”

  Before Baylis could say more, they were interrupted by Sarah’s approach. “Why, Benjamin Baylis!” Sarah beamed at her father’s friend. “Had I known you were here, I would have spent the last ten minutes combing the property for you. Save me a dance?”

  “Sarah, my darling,” Baylis responded with a warm smile and deepening wrinkles at his eyes, all his former gruffness gone. “If you’ve got room on your dance card for an old fellow like me, I wouldn’t miss it. Now,” he continued as the sound of a waltz began drifting in from the ballroom, “go practice with your husband so you’ll be ripe to handle my fancy footsteps.”

  “Yes, Douglas, let’s,” Sarah agreed as she pulled Douglas toward the ballroom.

  “Happy to oblige, my sweet lady,” Douglas nodded subtly to thank Baylis, trying to indicate he had taken their conversation to heart.

  Sarah led Douglas to the parquet dance floor where they began waltzing, spinning clockwise around the room along with several others. Glancing across the floor, Douglas noticed many of Charleston’s wealthiest planters in attendance with their wives and daughters. He was anxious to recount for Sarah the substance of his conversation with Ben Baylis. It was likely no one would even hear them with the music providing cover. Still, he thought the better of unveiling himself amongst the many merrymakers spinning past them. Apparently, he had grown too careless recently as it was.

  As the song ended and Douglas and Sarah made their way off the floor, they were approached by a sashaying Cora Rae Cunningham, the eldest daughter of their hosts. A girl on the cusp of adulthood, she was confident in her abundant charms.

  “Why, Mr. Elling, don’t you look handsome,” she fluttered her eyelashes up at him. “Ain’t it just a shame you’re a married man.” She put her gloved hand to her breast in a gesture of despair.

  “And nice to see you too, Sarah,” Cora Rae added. “I ought to call you Aunt Sarah, doesn’t it seem, since you grew up with Mama. All those many, many, many years ago,” she finished with a satisfied smirk.

  “Nice to see you too, Rae,” Douglas nodded before turning back to Sarah. “Please excuse us though. I was just taking my fetching wife for a lemonade.”

  Cora Rae flashed Douglas an exaggerated pout and turned on her heel.

  The elderly Madeline Hart appeared beside Sarah, emitting a quiet gasp before she spoke. “It’s shameless, propositioning a married man like that. Since she turned sixteen, that little miss thinks she can do what all she pleases. Just shameful,” she added, outraged.

  Widow Hart then leaned in closer to Sarah, the brandy rank on her breath as she whispered, “You know, dear, I don’t believe a word they say about your husband. He’s just too charming and polished to be involved with any outlaws. You stay by me tonight, and we’ll set everyone right.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” Sarah whispered back with appreciation. “You needn’t put yourself out. We are quite comfortable with who we are.”

  “Oh, nonsense and pishposh is what I have to say to that,” was Mrs. Hart’s retort as she took Sarah’s arm firmly in her bony hand. “Douglas, dear,” Mrs. Hart continued, “your wife and I are going to survey the confectionaries.”

  Sarah flashed Douglas a comic look of defeat as she was pulled away. Smiling, Douglas turned back to the men he had been approaching. A group of local planters congregated at the side of the bar, engaged in rowdy debate. Douglas recognized many of the men, including Grant Howard, who every year harvested fields of indigo, sending his yields to Northern factories via Douglas’s shipping fleet. He also spotted Luke Barndale and Tripp Hanneford, two of the most prolific cotton producers in the county. The men seemed to be commiserating about recent proposals from Northern lawmakers, each pausing periodica
lly to swig from glasses filled with amber-colored spirits.

  “Those Jonathans up North,” Grant Howard complained, “they think they can dictate our operations even though they’re miles away. I don’t see the Yankees producing any raw materials. It’s just factory after factory up there, fields of steel. They’d best leave the planting to the planters.”

  Douglas saw his opportunity and interjected, “That’s right, Grant.” As all heads turned his way, he stepped closer. “The Yankees think they can govern the South without knowing an ounce of Southern truth. We have real issues that need addressing, like getting our railroads running, to point to only one.”

  “This conversation doesn’t concern you, Elling,” Grant responded as he began turning his broad back on Douglas.

  “Sure it does,” Douglas answered, pulling one of the stools out from underneath the far end of the bar, nonchalant as he made himself comfortable. “You all think I’m too young to know my arse from my earlobe, too new to this country, but even if I didn’t begin here, aren’t I now a Southerner anyhow? Haven’t I got all my wealth tied up in South Carolina just like the rest of you?” He nodded as he looked around at the others. “If the Northerners do exactly as they please,” Douglas continued, “there soon won’t be money or privilege remaining for any of us, myself included. And say what you will about me, gentlemen, but you know I like luxury in my life. That’s official.”

  The men considered Douglas, and he could see curiosity entering their faces. There was something else in their eager eyes that seemed more than just party drunkenness. Douglas silently prayed he could win them over. He refused to laud slavery, not even to maintain his cover amongst the Charlestonians, but he was prepared to criticize the federal government for its legitimate flaws if that meant preserving his image with a secure guise.