Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “Cook?” Gracie called as she stepped into the kitchen. Gracie couldn’t remember Cook’s real name. Maybe Thelma. Daddy had bought Cook when Gracie was just a toddler. Cook was large and exuberant, and she seemed to have a soft spot for Gracie, perhaps sensitive to her Mama’s criticisms of Gracie “running to fat.” Gracie wasn’t all that big, just misshapen, too much of herself in the middle, not quite enough up top. And she was much bulkier than her sisters. Cook always saved little treats for Gracie nonetheless, inordinately pleased when a spare cookie allowed her to catch a smile from the girl.

  Gracie stepped farther into the long, rectangular kitchen, past the large copper pots lining the counter, the bags of flour, grains, and rice resting neatly in the corner, when she noticed that the back door was ajar. Perhaps the women were at the smokehouse out back. As she walked toward the door, Cook suddenly came bounding back into the kitchen in a burst of patchwork linen and mismatched scarves.

  “Miss Gracie!” She nearly bellowed. “What you doing in this kitchen? There something I can get for you? You best not let your mama catch you. She’ll chide you double. Once for being too near the slaves, and the other for being too near the sugar.” The dark, rotund woman smiled broadly, revealing the missing tooth on the upper-right side of her mouth.

  “Um, no . . .” Gracie responded as she tried to peer around Cook’s large frame to look for Clover outside the door. Cook stepped to the side, moving her kerchief-covered head directly in front of Gracie, obscuring her view entirely. It was almost as though she had blocked Gracie intentionally.

  “I was searching for Clover,” Gracie explained. “Have you seen her?”

  “Sure, I did!” Cook responded with her characteristic gusto, as if her every sentence were announcement of a triumph. “She went around back to get more water in case y’all wanted a little finish before coming up from the tea with your guest. Thought the Missus might be wanting some nice cool water, and all,” she repeated. “Wash down them sweets. She just yonder,” Cook began to point and then interrupted herself. “Here she is now.”

  As Clover stepped through the door, Gracie noticed again how heavy she was getting with child, round like she’d hidden a fat goose beneath her smock. It was supposedly only a few months into the pregnancy, but Clover was growing at a rampant pace. It was no wonder she seemed short of breath.

  “Miss Gracie here just wondering what was holding you up, girl,” Cook told Clover with a pointed look. “You best be getting them desserts cleared from the parlor, now. You don’t want the Missus wondering where you got off to.”

  “Miss Gracie,” Clover looked flustered, a droplet of sweat slipping down her smooth, tawny face. She was near Gracie’s own age, perhaps a few years older, and so lovely to look at, her long braids and wide eyes giving her an ethereal aspect, even in her pregnant state. “So sorry, Miss. I gone have them desserts and tea out in no time,” Clover said softly as she picked up an empty tray and waddled toward the swinging door that led to the rest of the house.

  Gracie thought the tray alone looked too heavy for the young woman to carry, never mind the weight it would bear when it was loaded with the trappings of afternoon tea. She was tempted to offer help, but her mother would have her hide for it. The only way she could assist Clover was to hold the door open and let her pass through.

  As Gracie made her way back to the drawing room, Clover following several steps behind, Regina appeared in the corridor, lustrous in her lilac dinner gown. “Well it seems our Gracie has saved the day, hasn’t she?” Gracie was struck by the acerbic tone of her mother’s voice. Turning to Clover, Regina added, “Just get it cleared away. And do expect we’ll be speaking later.”

  “Yes’m,” Clover replied meekly, eyes to the ground as she nodded at her mistress. Gracie hadn’t protected Clover from her mother, after all. Just delayed their confrontation.

  Gracie and Regina watched Clover as she disappeared down the hallway into the drawing room, mother and daughter each wrapped up in their own thoughts. As Gracie tried to shake off her aggravation at being discounted yet again, she noticed her mother wiping furiously beneath her eyes, as though erasing evidence of tears.

  10

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  In the Elling Import & Export office overlooking Charleston Harbor, Douglas cracked the knuckles of his fingers one by one, finding no gratification in the loud popping noises. He could not focus on the shipping ledgers today, and it was a waste of his time to try. Ever since the governess had taken Samuel’s daughter to the Cunningham ball the week before, he’d been horribly distracted. And now he understood that the girl had returned today for tea with Regina and her daughters, as well.

  He had worked so purposefully, ever since losing Sarah and Cherish, trying to isolate himself from Charleston society, blaming the wealthy planters, all of them, for his family’s annihilation. He had long been too sad, too defeated to seek revenge, had it even been possible to determine which bandits had been the murderers. He thought only to create this artificial distance from people, his neighbors, friends, and acquaintances alike, to close himself off and indulge in his suffering.

  When Abby departed from the Elling property for the ball the prior week, Douglas had caught but a glimpse of her shimmering skirts as she walked out the door of the house with Larissa. He knew Demett was waiting in the drive for her, perched atop the Growler, the same coach he had ridden in with Sarah the last time they attended a ball together. It was all the same—the ritual of it, the soft evening light, the pervasive smell of jasmine drifting up from beneath the windows, the sense of possibility, and the nagging feeling of foreboding. As he’d stood in the hallway of his nearly empty estate, Douglas had the feeling his eyes had been pasted open, that he couldn’t look away from the stagnancy of his grief.

  How could it be that more than two whole years had passed and nothing had changed, except perhaps that he felt worse? All this time that he had existed in the world without them already, and he hadn’t done a damn thing with that time. Here he sat, still luxuriating in his despair, the deaths of his family not yet avenged, and his own life a hollow shadow of his former reality.

  Douglas’s gaze floated to his window, where he could see amber rings from the late-day sun reflecting on the harbor. He watched a paddle-wheel tugboat as it churned through the water. His thoughts meandered back to his own days at sea, the rush of the Blockade mission, rescuing all those people. After only one mission, he had lost his family, and Southern slavery was as rampant, as insidious as ever. Sarah would tell him that by retreating, by abandoning his abolitionist work, he was rendering her death meaningless. Even so, he simply could not participate in something that had brought such misery upon them. His only involvement now was to allow Demett access to his cellar tunnel for the odd group of refugees. It hardly made him a hero.

  And then there was this business with the Milton girl. Ever since he had found her in the pasture with Reggie, grabbing onto his hand like they were about to say grace, Douglas’s reaction had been nagging at his conscience. When he first arrived home that afternoon, he had watched the girl from afar, taking advantage of the moment to study her, her poise with the horse she rode, her easy smile with Reggie. He had noticed that she looked healthier than when she first arrived from Wigan, with a flush to her cheeks and more meat on her slender frame. He could see that she had Samuel’s high forehead and his nimble grace. Her crisp jawline and shining hair were all her mother’s though. She looked older to him than she appeared at first. Not so much a girl now, but an attractive young woman. Her dark hair had grown longer, and it was arranged in an upsweep of wavy tendrils, a flattering compliment to the disappointingly plain riding habit she wore.

  He recalled while he watched her that Larissa had described the girl’s tastes as simple. The governess had reported Abigail’s reluctance to improve upon the meager wardrobe with which she’d arrived. He hadn’t focused closely on what Larissa relayed about her, registerin
g simply that the girl was getting on fine, that he was doing his duty for his old friend, Samuel. But as he had watched Samuel’s daughter in that moment, flourishing in the sunlight like catmint flowers, he was disgusted at himself, the way he had received her, or more aptly, had neglected her, as a guest in his home. Samuel had been nearly an older brother to him for so many years, sheltering him from torment when others would not. Yet Douglas hadn’t taken the slightest bit of interest in his daughter. For Christ’s sake, he barely knew a thing about her. Other than that she was becoming a capable horsewoman. To say that he was doing his duty to his old friend was laughable, an utter farce.

  He had still been watching her when he resolved to do better. But as he had begun walking toward the barn to greet the girl, that was when she had reached out and taken Reggie’s dark hand. He hadn’t stopped to wonder at her purpose, as it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. Instead, he felt his knees nearly buckle with panic. It was all he could do to shout out from where he stood, to make her understand, remove herself from risk. He had been struck, as if by physical force, with the magnitude of danger the girl could be in, simply from residing in his home. He thought of Cherish then and was moved to act with decisive and immediate action. And so he bellowed. He opened his lungs like gates to the fires of Hell, showering his wrath down upon her. He had raged at her with everything he had, each whooping jab helping to ease his own panic. The invectives erupting from his mouth did not even make sense, like that nonsense he had spewed about white skin never touching black skin. One had only to consider the many slaves who assisted their mistresses with bathing to know he had ranted absurdities, that black skin came into contact with white as a matter of course, many times throughout a Southern lady’s day.

  When he retreated to his study after the incident, a new panic had arisen. What kind of a person had he become? That the only way he could show kindness was by barking reprimands, inciting fear, and roaring in the face of a lady?

  Weeks had passed since that day, and still, he’d done nothing to remedy the situation. Douglas looked back at the ledgers on his oak desk, the numbers scrawled in so many columns. He didn’t need to finish the calculations to know the shipping company was as profitable as ever. He was frivoling away too many minutes trying to focus on one thing while his mind was set to brooding on another. At the present moment, Douglas felt fit only to growl at the moon.

  He found his manservant, Jovian, arranging spools of rope in the store room, and requested to be carried home.

  AS THEY PULLED INTO THE DRIVE, DOUGLAS DECIDED to look in on his horses, an attempt to calm his nerves before heading to his study for a hefty tumbler of whiskey. He meandered toward the outer door of the barn and noticed a slim figure standing at one of the stalls inside. She appeared only as a dark silhouette at the far end of the long stable, but he knew it must be Abigail. She was offering some hidden treat toward the newest stallion in his retinue. He would have expected that skittish thoroughbred to buck or jump, at least to whiny unhappily, in rebuke of the lady’s advances. That was how the charger had been reacting to everyone else. What an impressive waste of money that beast was proving.

  To Douglas’s surprise, the horse nibbled quietly from Abigail’s hand, even nestling its nose against her wrist while she leaned over the stall door. As he watched her operating so evenly with the horse, he decided that this moment could be a superb opportunity to start afresh with her, to begin acquainting themselves in earnest. It was the principled way to behave as her host. Startling himself with the direction of his thoughts, he realized that attending to the girl’s well-being might also provide him a purpose, a direction beyond grief. It wasn’t much, just a nudge against a steel gasket perhaps. Sarah would be furious if she knew how un-congenial he had been to his unfortunate houseguest. Man alive! He almost laughed as he imagined her tearing into him with the brand of outrage that only a good Southern upbringing could engender. Douglas pushed his hands into his pockets and walked purposefully toward the stable, ready to make amends with Abigail.

  As he entered the dark corridor, he heard her murmuring indistinctly to the horse. She was fiddling with the divider, unfastening the door. He realized too late that she meant to go inside with the untamed beast, the animal that Reggie had warned Douglas was unpredictable and highly excitable.

  “Abigail, no!” He called out to her, but she was already entering, his yelling only pushing her farther into the stall in surprise or in terror. Between the sudden noise and the unexpected visitor in his space, the animal commenced an awful commotion, rearing up twice in quick succession, huffing and whinnying. Douglas reached the open stall door as the chestnut steed came rushing out. He jumped out of its way and called for Jovian, hoping that one of his men would catch the animal. When he looked inside, dust high around his face, he saw that he hadn’t moved fast enough to avert disaster.

  There was Abby, lying unconscious on a slick pile of hay against the wall. He could see from twelve feet away that her left shoulder was out of place. The horse must have knocked her down instantly.

  “Jovian!” He shouted. “Demett! We need help!”

  He bent next to Abby, attempting to assess her injuries. He could see the rise and fall of her chest at least. It appeared she had only been knocked into, rather than trampled, but he didn’t dare move her on his own, lest he exacerbate her injuries. If only he hadn’t come upon the girl so suddenly, hadn’t reacted so abruptly. Please, God, she should be okay, Douglas prayed as he thought of his friend Samuel. The man would probably be asleep in bed now, miles away, and already finished with this infernal day. Yet here lay his daughter, unconscious in a barn halfway across the world. Douglas wouldn’t wish the death of a daughter on even his lowest enemy.

  At the sound of hammering footsteps, he called out, “We’re in here! She’s hurt!”

  “Oh, Lordy!” Demett blurted as he poked his head into the stall. “Sir?” he looked to Douglas for instruction.

  “We’ve got to get her inside without disrupting her position. She’s a wisp of a thing, but I think it might take three of us to keep her steady.” Douglas looked at the other stable hands who had arrived, their faces heavy with concern for the crumpled girl. “Reggie, Jovian, help me carry her,” Douglas commanded. “Demett, fetch Dr. Markinson and beg him to hurry.”

  As the three men lifted her, Douglas realized this was the first physical contact he’d had with a woman in years. Or a girl. Whatever she was. He hadn’t quite settled the question, but it didn’t matter at the moment. “Easy,” Douglas cautioned as they walked into the afternoon light with Abby supine between. There were too many of them holding her, he realized. It was another error in judgment, another mistake he’d made today. She was lightweight enough, and they were fat, clumsy bulls surrounding her. It might do more harm to rearrange now though. Douglas noticed Abby’s limp wrist resting against Jovian’s dark forearm as he held her, skin to skin.

  He tried to remember what his father had taught him about head injuries. Was it to wake the patient or let them rest? He decided to talk to her as they walked, “Abigail, we’ve got you. We’re almost to the house.” He felt Abby shudder in his arms. “Hush now,” he spoke gently to her closed eyes. “Hush, and let us get you well.”

  When he looked up, he noticed Jovian and Reggie exchanging surprised glances. Well, let them puzzle, he figured. All that mattered was keeping this young woman alive. He knew the minute he laid hands on her, he couldn’t say why, that his new mission was to rescue her, not only from the immediate incident, but from whatever it was that had pushed her from her British home, ragged and defeated, to him. She was under his protection, and there was a reason Samuel had sent her. Maybe at last he could save just one person who was actually relevant to the story of his own life.

  DOUGLAS WAITED ON THE LANDING OUTSIDE ABBY’S room, grimacing at the closed door, wondering when in Heaven’s name Doc Markinson would emerge. It felt like the man had been in there with her for decades already. He needed to know
she was going to be all right, that she wasn’t suffering terribly, that she wouldn’t be paralyzed or permanently addled in her brain.

  He cursed himself again for his dimwitted behavior. Of course she had been frightened by his approach, Douglas shook his head in revolt. He had barely uttered a word to her since her arrival months ago, except to terrorize her for her kindness to Reggie, and today suddenly he materialized, barreling down upon her in a dark stable. He should have realized the atrocious folly of it all. But because of his obtuseness, here they were.

  At the sound of the door creaking open, Douglas threw his hands into the air.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed into the empty corridor.

  Dr. Markinson emerged, stuffing supplies into a black leather carryall. Douglas waited silently as the white-haired doctor shut the door with painstaking care.

  As the latch clicked, he launched into the man. “Well? What’s the prognosis?”

  “Please, Mr. Elling,” Dr. Markinson held up his hand and moved a few steps toward the stairwell before answering. “The guardianship arrangement makes it troublesome, no doubt, but her parents will forgive this.” He smiled at Douglas, as if that were the whole story, as if they were in cahoots.

  “But what of her condition?” Douglas barked.

  Dr. Markinson sighed, making great effort to show he was indulging Douglas.

  “Miss Milton had a nasty tumble, son, but she’ll recover in time. She dislocated her left shoulder, and she’s a bit concussed from the bump to the head. Likely she’ll suffer a good deal from the arm for the next few days. Heck, maybe a week. But I finished setting it, and she should heal quickly enough.” He looked back at the bedroom door and pushed his round eyeglasses higher on his nose. “Y’all just need to manage the pain. I left the laudanum with the governess. It’s to administer as needed, and certainly enough to keep the young lady senseless for the first days. You’ll want to switch to willow bark when the pain begins to subside.” Dr. Markinson put his hand on Douglas’s arm in a gesture of comfort, as if he’d only just noticed that Douglas was genuinely concerned.