Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “We’ve been through heavier trials in the past, you and I,” Dr. Markinson told him, referring to the night Cherish was born. Douglas stepped back, unprepared for memories of that night, forcing his focus to remain on Abby. Dr. Markinson charged on, oblivious to the jarring effect of his words. “Dislocating a joint like that, it can smart, but it repairs. As for the concussion, bear with the girl. She mightn’t seem right about the head for a few days, but that’ll just be pain and bruises talking.”

  Douglas nodded, relieved. “And there’s nothing else, no lasting damage?”

  “Rest easy, son,” Dr. Markinson smiled, “it’s just the shoulder, and it’s hardly a permanent injury. She’s fortunate. With a steed like that, it could have been much worse.”

  Douglas watched the doctor shuffle off and then turned back to Abby’s quarters. The governess was inside with the girl, and Larissa would certainly report accurately on the girl’s condition, but he did want to see her for himself. He was the one with actual responsibility for her welfare, wasn’t he? He suddenly felt very weary. He ran his hand over his eyes, as if trying to clear the dust off them, and then rapped lightly on the door.

  “May I see her?” he asked Larissa in a hushed voice.

  “Please,” she motioned for him to enter. Abby was sleeping, her dark hair loose, arrayed neatly around her head, and her bandaged arm held tightly in a sling.

  “Can you stay with her while I go to the kitchen to work out her meals?” Larissa walked toward Abby and retrieved a wool wrap from the chair beside the bed. “She’s going to need mostly broth the next few days. Doc said we should keep her sedated while her arm mends, that we’ll need to feed her while she’s only fractionally conscious.” Larissa straightened her blonde bun absentmindedly.

  “I’ll leave the door wide,” she added as she left the room, and Douglas knew she was thinking of Abby’s reputation, even in the girl’s incapacitated state.

  He looked uncertainly about Abby’s bedroom and walked toward the oversized bed. It occurred to him that he’d never been inside this room, as it had been unoccupied for the duration of his residency in the home. He looked to Abby, motionless in the center of her downy sheets, her head settled on a plump, white pillow with her face turned politely to one side. Her dark lashes rested against her cheek, just grazing her smooth skin. As he stood awkwardly next to the bed and looked down at her, he thought that no one would guess from her appearance what an ordeal she had been through.

  He walked to the bedside chair and sank down, wondering how long Larissa would be. Glancing to the filigreed clock on the nightstand, he realized that Abby would normally have been readying for her supper now, instead of being confined to her bed in this unconscious position. If only he’d acted more thoughtfully. As he watched her, she began to stir in the bed, adjusting her position. First one leg moved beneath the comforter, and then the other, then the first again. She seemed to be gaining momentum with every shift of her frame, becoming increasingly agitated. She began to moan quietly, and then she was thrashing her head from side to side.

  Douglas stood, wondering how to calm her. As he leaned over her, she began to scream, piercing shrieks of alarm, as though she was being hunted by demons.

  “Abigail!” Douglas shouted in alarm. He reached down and tried to steady her, worried most of all that she would damage her arm. He held her in place by the other shoulder, which barely did an ounce of good as her screeching persisted. He needed more leverage and thought to hold her down more forcefully, but it wouldn’t be right to have his hands all over her while they were alone.

  “Abigail!” He leaned closer to the bed and yelled into her closed eyes, trying to reach her through the opiated haze, the raucousness of her cries. “Abigail!” he yelled again. “Abigail, stop this, it’s all right.” She persevered in her screaming and the vigorous writhing, twisting the bed coverings and worrying Douglas. Dr. Markinson had warned about unsettling behavior, but Douglas couldn’t just let her thrash about, else her shoulder might become dislocated all over again.

  He’d never paid much heed to the rules of propriety anyhow. He sat on the bed and took her face in his hands, trying to steady her, as she continued in her fit. “Abigail, can you hear me? You must be still so you don’t injure yourself !” She opened her eyes and looked at him, but it was patently obvious she didn’t see him at all. Her mind was occupied somewhere very far away. She closed her eyes again and continued to flail about, her undamaged arm swatting at him as her voice began to grow hoarse from the screaming.

  “Abigail,” Douglas said again, keeping his own voice steady. “Can you hear me? It’s Douglas.”

  She rolled fitfully out of his grasp, toward the far edge of the bed, and Douglas quickly pulled her back toward himself to prevent her tumbling to the floor.

  “Whoa. You mustn’t move so, Abigail. You’ve injured your shoulder, and you must try to keep still.” He pushed at her gently, trying to encourage her back to the position in which he had found her. As he adjusted her, Abby’s agitation intensified.

  “You!” She screamed through her sleep, as if she had just noticed a presence in her dreams, her eyes open again, blank and frightening. “You!” She roared again, her tone loaded with hatred. “Again! How dare you lay your palms on me! You! You’ve had the last of me. No more!”

  “Abigail!” Douglas shouted at her again, trying to wake her from her hysteria.

  “To the Tower of London!” she screamed into the room.

  “Just relax, Abigail! You are in Charleston. You were hurt. You’re all right, but you must calm down.” They were going to have to rethink the laudanum if this was her reaction to it.

  She began to laugh in her sleep. “You won’t have me again.” She laughed more as her lips twisted into a distorted smile. “Matthew to the guillotine! Huzzah, Uncle!”

  Dear God! Douglas hurried to the console table at the side of the room and poured a hasty glass of brandy for her, thinking he could use one himself. He rushed back to the bed, splashy bits falling onto the pristine rug.

  “Drink this, Abigail. It will make you feel better.” He took hold of her good hand and tried to wrap her fingers around the glass.

  “Get away from me!” Abby screamed and pushed in every direction, sending the glass of brandy soaring through the air and crashing into the vanity table. At the sound of the glass shattering, she let out another piercing scream.

  It was obvious to Douglas that his presence in her chamber was only aggravating her. He moved toward the door to call for the governess, who was already running back up the stairwell.

  “What’s happened?” Larissa demanded as she ran toward the bedroom.

  “I don’t know.” Douglas shouted over the wails. “One minute she was resting peacefully and the next she was out of control. I think I am only upsetting her. Perhaps you will do better.”

  “Yes, yes, let me. Doc said this might happen. All the pain and then the drugs, just too much. I’ll call if I need help.” Larissa disappeared into the room and shut the door quickly behind her. Douglas waited outside, too concerned to retreat further. Within only a few moments, the commotion subsided.

  Douglas put his ear to the door and heard only the indistinct murmurings of the governess. He waited, wondering if there was something he should do. After several minutes of feeling useless, he began to make his way down the stairwell, pausing every few steps to listen for disturbances from above. When he reached his study, he took care to light the extra lanterns, one on his desk, and a matching pair on either side of the sofa. Although Jasper had left the usual sconces alight and waiting for him, Douglas felt he lacked the tolerance for any shadows tonight. He sank down into the leather swivel chair and rested his palms flat on his large desk, a strange restlessness making his fingers dance. What in God’s name had Matthew Milton done now?

  11

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  Gracie sat in the upstairs parlor, along with her mother and sis
ters, entertaining Lorraine Blount and her dull but beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, Millicent. Lorraine had once been a comely woman, but she now appeared ridiculous in her overt pursuit to maintain her vanishing youth. She and her daughter wore their blonde hair in matching styles of upswept ringlets. While Millicent appeared rather darling with the buoyant curls topping off her frothy pink dress, Lorraine only looked drabber for the comparison to her blooming daughter right beside her.

  Regina always made sure to invite the Blounts, who owned the neighboring property to the Cunninghams’ Cherry Lane Plantation, to come calling at the King Street residence during the winter months. If they didn’t extend invitations while they were on retreat from the plantation, Regina told her daughters, there was no telling what life might be like or who would come calling when they returned.

  Gracie had never minded the long days without callers on the plantation, glad to wander the orchards or read on the porch swing, enjoying her own company. Not like Rae and Wini, who would bicker and cry boredom until sunset. Even so, she was heartened by any logic that would lead to her spending time in the company of the dashing young Harrison. Gracie glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the corner and wondered how long it would be until the boys returned for supper.

  Court Cunningham had invited Lorraine’s husband, Preston, as well as their sons, Harrison and young Brody, to hunt pheasant for the afternoon. Regina and her daughters were to entertain Lorraine and Millicent until the hunting party returned and they could all sup together. Sitting now on the pink settee, wedged between Cora Rae and Wini, Gracie tried to stay focused on the conversation, even though it seemed like Lorraine and her mother had been cycling repeatedly through different variations of the same few topics. Someone had closed the door to the verandah earlier, and the air in the room had taken on a stagnant, husky quality. Returning her attention to the conversation before her, she heard her mother complaining, yet again, about the declining demeanor of her house slaves.

  “It’s just been so trying for us, wouldn’t you say?” She looked toward her daughters for validation. “Ever since the Hopwoods’ boy ran off last winter and never got returned, it’s like they all think it’s only a matter of time, like they can cease putting forth any effort.” She pursed her full lips. “We’ve always prided ourselves on the fair treatment of our people, but if this keeps up, I’m fixing to speak with Court.”

  Lorraine offered Regina a knowing smile. “Indeed, my dear. We have the same troubles with ours. We’ve got our work cut out for us, trying to run our homes properly in the wake of constant unpredictability, when you can’t trust a one of them. This one is stealing food again or that one is trying to seduce the overseer. If you want to know what I really think,” she leaned toward Regina with an air of collaboration, her childish curls moving along with her, “I hope South Carolina does secede from the Union, just like Robert Rhett keeps pressing the legislature. Settle the Negroes right back into place. Preston believes Rhett will make senator soon. Oh but all this discussion of politics does make my head ache.” She slumped back in her chair and placed the back of her palm against her forehead in a theatrical motion.

  Gracie knew that she should try to contribute to the discussion, as ladies’ conversation was a skill she had been working on with her mother. Then again, Cora Rae hadn’t had much to say either, apparently just as bored by this monotonous prattle as she. She looked over at her older sister and saw her reaching for the teapot.

  “No, Rae, not today,” Regina admonished her, swatting away her daughter’s hand. “Clover and I had words, and I won’t have us changing our personal customs, pouring our own tea each time we entertain.”

  “Must you always be so hard on Clover?” Cora Rae snapped as she lowered her hand. “Besides, everyone pours their own tea,” Cora Rae argued.

  “Not the Cunninghams.” Her mother’s voice was stern as she glanced again toward the room’s doorway just as Clover appeared with two other slaves following behind her.

  “And here she is anyhow,” Regina told her daughter before turning to Clover and reprimanding her in a harsh whisper that was audible to all. “Too slow.” Regina glanced dismissively at Ginny and Saul, the two other slaves who had appeared with the refreshments, but her gaze returned swiftly to Clover. As the contrite house slave began pouring the tea, Regina’s eyes lingered on the young woman’s growing belly.

  Gracie considered her mother’s perspective. She supposed it was accurate that Clover had been slower lately, less attentive. Gracie had never been able to get into the spirit of punishing the slaves though, demeaning them like animals when they failed to execute their duties with the requisite precision. She did believe wholeheartedly in the necessity of slavery, of course she did, but she abhorred certain aspects of the system. She agreed that each person had their station in life, and it seemed clear enough that the calling of the Negroes was to serve their white masters. But the brutality with which some masters treated their slaves, torturing them, shackling them nightly, whipping them beyond repair, well, Gracie just couldn’t see the humanity in that.

  It was an ongoing problem she supposed, but at the moment, she was most preoccupied with which dress to wear to supper after the men returned from their hunt. This was the first time since Gracie’s coming out that she and Harrison would be together. If she failed to impress Harrison tonight, upon his first occasion with her as an eligible young lady, he might never think of her again. Harrison Blount was the most handsome young man on whom Gracie had ever set her eyes. His flaxen hair and dark-brown eyes were only the beginning. At six foot three inches, he was one of the tallest boys in the county, and his shoulders were broad, his neck thick and strong. He was energetic and clever, too. She felt a freefall in her belly when she thought of the cleft in his chin.

  Gracie sobered at the thought that Harrison would likely be assigned a seat between herself and her overbearing sister. Her parents would be concerned only with maximizing the odds of the Blounts and Cunninghams having a match between them; any daughter would do. He would likely turn to Cora Rae, victim to her pull at the table, before he even had a moment to notice Gracie. That was how occasions always unraveled with Cora Rae—Gracie fading into the background, Cora Rae shining all the brighter.

  Gracie was roused from her musings at the sound of Regina asking her daughters, “Don’t you agree, girls?”

  She dutifully joined the refrains of “yes, Mama,” though she couldn’t begin to guess at what trite statement she had agreed to this time.

  Regina announced it was time to freshen up for dinner, and the ladies began to rise. Gracie watched as Millicent took her white gloves from her lap and placed them onto her hands. She thought to invite the girl to dress along with her in her room. Although Millicent was a bore, she seemed kind enough, and perhaps if they bonded, the girl might say something flattering to her brother about Gracie.

  Wini, who was already walking out from the parlor, called over her shoulder, “Come on to my room, Millicent, and we can ready ourselves together.”

  Gracie cursed herself for her burden of hesitation and the lost opportunity, as she watched Millicent follow after her sister. As Gracie made her way dejectedly to her own quarters, she realized Cora Rae was following purposefully behind her. Weary from the tedious ladies’ afternoon, Gracie lacked the energy for whatever insipid confrontation was looming. Cora Rae entered the room right behind her, closing the door after herself.

  “Is there something you need from me, Rae?” Gracie asked, trying for politeness. “Cora, I mean.” Gracie forced her lips into a smile as she added, “It takes a while to break such a longstanding habit,” referring to how long she had called her older sister “Rae.”

  Cora Rae walked farther into the bedroom, turning her back to Gracie and gazing at her reflection in the large framed mirror above the room’s fireplace. She straightened the vermeil necklace that hung above the neckline of her dress, studying its garnet jewels in the mirror before turning to Gracie
.

  “We need to talk about Harrison,” she declared, and Gracie felt herself stiffen, as though she had suddenly become a stone, dropping to the bottom of a pond.

  “What, why ever, why?” she stumbled.

  “Well, you do fancy him, don’t you?”

  “What business is that of yours?” Gracie felt heat spreading from her neck to eyebrows. For what earthly reason did Cora Rae need to know about this?

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” Cora Rae began, as she paced toward the window in that feline style of hers. “I’ve decided I shall take him for myself.” Cora Rae pivoted back toward her sister with a wicked smile.

  “For yourself ?” Gracie cried, failing to keep her voice steady. “Why? You haven’t the slightest bit of interest in Harrison.”

  “Well, the way I see it,” Cora Rae explained as she seated herself on the edge of Gracie’s four-poster bed and ran her hand over the floral comforter, “if you won’t help me beguile Douglas Elling, despite your advantageous position as the confidante of that stray who’s staying at his house, well, you deserve what you get. I’ll have to find some gentleman or other for myself, won’t I? And Harrison Blount is the second-most handsome man in Charleston.”

  “Cora Rae!” Gracie scolded in shock. “You wouldn’t. Not even you would do such a spiteful thing. You haven’t the slightest bit of concern or affection for Harrison. You’d only be enchanting him to abuse me. I know it!” Gracie looked at her sister in disbelief, stifling the urge to spit at her. “What do you want me to do? Rae! Are there no limits to your selfishness?” Gracie held up her hands in despair, her large eyes grown wider in surprise at her sister’s cunning.