Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Abby’s shoulders relaxed, and then after a pause, she laughed.

  “What?” Douglas smiled, glancing around self-consciously.

  “No, nothing,” she shook her head with a grin.

  “I don’t think so, Miss Abigail. You can’t laugh in my presence and then refuse to admit the reason. Have you any idea what that does to a man’s pride?”

  “I’m just thinking of you as a physician. You have the most terrible bedside manner.”

  “I, what?” Douglas stood, trying to reign in his feeling of offense. Here he had been running his mind ragged trying to be the perfect damn caregiver to her.

  “It’s a joke! I’m kidding. Yeesh. You can sit back down.” Her tone was laced with suppressed laughter as she smiled at him. He lowered himself into his chair and felt himself smiling back as he took in the way her eyes tilted up when she smiled. He couldn’t get a handle on her. He would have imagined her too timid for such jibes. He was quickly learning that timid she was not. He realized he was regarding her for a beat too long and looked down at his hands so he could reorganize his thoughts.

  “Do you mind if I open the window?” he asked. Suddenly the room felt too warm.

  “It’s your house.”

  “But your room,” he answered over his shoulder as he pushed the window frame to make way for the fresh air. It was a cool day, finally appropriate for the season. The scent of evergreens wafted gently into the room.

  “If I am to be in charge in my own room, then may I demand that you tell me more about your relationship with my da? I like hearing about him before I knew him, when he was still an optimist with an exciting future ahead of him.”

  So, this was positive. Headway that she wanted to talk more.

  “It’s not much of a demand, dear Abigail, if you ask permission first, but I am happy to oblige.”

  Abby picked up a decorative pillow from beside her. “Don’t give the sick girl a hard time,” she reprimanded him as she threw the pillow at his head.

  He dodged to the left and the pillow flew past him as he laughed. He barely had time to register his surprise at her sudden boldness before she continued teasing, “You’re lucky my good arm is incapacitated or that absolutely would have knocked into you.”

  “Well then, I better get back to my story, shouldn’t I?”

  Abby raised her eyebrows and waited for him to start talking.

  “Well,” he began, his voice turning more serious as he returned to his chair. “My mother passed away when I was five years old. Pneumonia.” He told her with the calm detachment that he had mastered over the years, though he was sorry to sober up the lively atmosphere of a moment before. “After that, my father threw himself into his work, professing to his students and advocating reform for medical education, against the wishes of his colleagues. I still needed looking after, so he often deposited me up the road in the care of your father, who was happy to accept a shilling to do as my father asked. Despite our age difference, your da and I grew attached at a swift rate. Soon my father was leaving me off regularly without the least bit of guilt over it. And he was right, as I relished the time spent in your father’s company. He knew so much about the world. He’d already figured out tobacco and girls. Fighting, too.” Douglas smiled at Abby and admitted, “I was a rather puny child, and many of the other boys took umbrage at my facility with letters and numbers in school. Add to that my father’s work,” he shrugged. “Suffice it to say that if it weren’t for your da, I would have been pummeled rather flat on more than one occasion.”

  Abby sat quietly listening. The breeze from the open window rustled the papers on the bed. When he remained silent, she asked, “What won’t you say? What was the problem with your father? What was his work that made you a pariah?”

  “Ah. Nothing more than a gentlemen’s dispute turned ugly amongst their children. He was part of a movement to train physicians through clinical work, rather than teaching from books alone. He felt it was the more responsible method of practicing medicine.”

  “It seems reasonable,” Abby agreed. “So, it was just your charming personality that led the other boys to despise you?” She smiled, making clear she was joking, that her mood was still in this new, lighthearted place.

  Douglas felt himself grinning back, disarmed by her unpredictability. “Hardly,” he scoffed. “My father’s peers didn’t care for the idea of soiling their hands. Manual labor they called it, and they complained bitterly to anyone who would listen. Not so different from the gentlemen in Charleston if you think about it—keeping their hands clean at the expense of their consciences.” He was getting off topic, and he knew better. Even so, he realized that he hadn’t spoken so openly about any part of his past since before the fire, even his childhood.

  “Well,” Douglas said lightly, “here we are some twenty years later, and progress has been made, at least at many of the hospitals. My esteemed father continues to advocate for his ideals back in London, even at his advanced age.” He reached into his jacket pocket, “I’ve brought Twelfth Night. Should we get back to it?”

  “Yes, please,” Abby responded affably. “I was beginning to worry you’d blabber on all day and never get to it. Perhaps the other boys were annoyed by your constant chatter, not your father’s work, did you ever consider that?” She spoke with a smile in her voice, obviously teasing.

  “Oh, is that how it is then? I see.” He deadpanned as he opened the book.

  Well, well, well. Perhaps they’d had a breakthrough today, Douglas dared to hope, as Abby’s behavior was markedly different toward him today, friendlier and so much less cautious. Douglas began reading aloud, and Abby lay back onto the pillows behind her, closing her eyes to listen.

  As he read about the saga of Viola and Orsino, Abby laughed at the descriptions of Viola’s cross-dressing. She sat up during the telling of sword fights, rapt, and she sighed as she listened to the poetry of unrequited love.

  At some point, Douglas glanced up from the play and saw Abby studying him. He smiled at her lightly and turned back to the text. He felt charged by the fact that Abby seemed to be looking at him, seeing him truly, maybe, for the first time.

  He hadn’t yet determined exactly how he would help her, or precisely what she had endured, but Douglas knew that he had to create a deeper connection with Abby. And truth be told, he wanted it. He was enjoying her company more each day, and they could both use more friends in their lives, if naught else. He could be a loyal friend, whom she could depend on and trust.

  As Douglas neared the end of the scene he was reading, he reminded himself that the paramount way to bring Abby around was to proceed with great care. If he pushed her too hard or too fast, she would only shove back. He had seen again today how quickly she could become defensive. If he failed to tread lightly, she would run in the opposite direction. The superior choice would be to leave their meeting today while she was still enjoying herself. The sooner Douglas could persuade Abby to initiate their visits, the better. Especially since her time on bed rest was quickly coming to an end, which would deprive him of justification for seeking her out so regularly.

  “All right then,” Douglas announced as he stood. “That’s the end of the scene and my cue to let you continue resting.” He bent to retrieve the pillow she had thrown earlier and tossed it lightly to the bed.

  Abby looked up at Douglas surprised. “But . . . oh,” She appeared unsure quite what to say. A few days earlier, she had seemed so offended by Douglas’s mere presence that she would have rejoiced at his departure. Not today though, Douglas fought the urge to smile at his progress.

  “Well,” she told Douglas tentatively, “thank you for reading to me again.” She reached beside her for her father’s letter again, perhaps planning to respond upon Douglas’s departure.

  “It is always a delight, my lady,” Douglas told her with a bow, as he turned to exit the room.

  When he was halfway to the door, Abby burst out, “Wait!”

  “Yes?” Do
uglas turned and flashed her a solicitous grin.

  “You will come back, won’t you? I mean, to finish the play,” she asked.

  “Of course. You have only to invite me. Good day.” As he closed the door behind himself, he felt a growing sense of victory. He had made his move, as though his relationship with Abby was an elaborate game of chess, and he could not help feeling that he had arranged his pieces on the board into a stunning display. Those dark protracted days of wallowing in his own emptiness were finally going to be replaced by something constructive. He was going to get through to this girl and do something decent with himself for the first time in too long.

  AS DOUGLAS DESCENDED THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE IN self-satisfied thought, he noticed Jasper standing in the foyer, staring up at him and holding a rag motionless in midair. “Is something amiss, Jasper?”

  “Pardon? Uh, no, sir,” Jasper stammered, righting himself. “It was just your whistling that caught me by surprise. Please excuse me.” Jasper turned his back and began wiping at the large mirror on the east wall, polishing away invisible streaks.

  Douglas hadn’t realized he was whistling. He felt a quick pang of guilt, regret at the lighthearted mood he had landed in. But then he checked himself. Ever since the fire, he had lived inside the protection of his despair, as though he deserved no other emotion. But as he walked through the foyer, opening the door to the cool January sunshine, he sensed a new pathway expanding in his mind. There was a place somewhere outside of hopelessness, pulling at him. Allowing aspiration in his life was not the same as leaving Sarah and Cherish behind. He would have to stop feeling that he betrayed them each time he felt the urge to smile.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets to stave off the cold, he turned toward his stable, the gravel drive crunching beneath his feet. It was time he called on Midnight, the steed that had injured Abby. Douglas had bought the horse on the supposition that it could be tamed. Reggie, in particular, had a spectacular ability with horses. Had he broken the horse, the animal would have proven a lucrative investment. He was unsure what to do with the beast now, other than examine the animal and decide whether it should be put down or sold. Probably he should sell the horse into the Deep South, Douglas quipped to himself, thinking of the standard punishment for unmanageable slaves.

  The turn in his thoughts was riling him up. Years ago, he’d been unable to refrain from joining the fight, incapable of restraining himself, of remaining inert in the face of the many injustices he witnessed. He had been passionate about the righteousness of his actions, convinced that he should join the battle because freedom was a God-given right. But he had not thought enough about what it could cost him. Young and stupid he’d been. Focusing only on his sanctimonious ideals. When he was a child, his father had often complained that Douglas was too eager to act, impulsive, hotheaded. Reflecting on his reaction to American slavery, he could appreciate that his father had always been correct. As soon as Douglas had achieved a basic understanding of the slavery system, he’d gone running off with cloaks and daggers to squelch it, and look where that got him. Even so, his thoughts returned to Clover. How could he ignore her plight? He knew he must reach a decision and respond to Demett because time was running out.

  A loud whinnying sprung forth from the stables. Douglas reached the door and peered into the dark corridor, where a group of men congregated at Midnight’s stall. Demett and Antonio were watching Reggie and two of the younger stable boys at work. The boys were working a shard of wood out from Midnight’s hoof, and the horse was allowing their ministrations. He was complaining something awful, with whinnies and snorts aplenty, but he was submitting. Other horses in the barn were responding to the animal’s distress with whinnies of their own.

  “What happened?” Douglas shouted over the din the horses were creating.

  “Ain’t nothing too much, sir,” Reggie called back. “This fellow stepped himself onto a fallen branch outside, and a bit broke off in the hoof. We have it almost out,” Reggie assured Douglas, looking up at him quickly and then returning his attention to the horse.

  Douglas shook his head. “We won’t be keeping this beast. Not after the way he treated Miss Abigail last week. I’m relieved to see him behaving though. He may actually fetch a decent price. Demett, after he’s healed, let it be known that he’s back on the market, and let’s see how we do.”

  “Yes, sir. That all?” Demett held Douglas’s gaze, waiting. It was obvious that Demett was still thinking of Clover, waiting for Douglas’s answer. Douglas wasn’t ready yet. He knew which way his heart was heading, but what would it cost him this time? His head was beginning to pound with the weight of the decision he was creeping towards.

  Douglas nodded back and retreated to the opposite end of the stable, where he stopped outside Pawnee’s stall. She was the sandy-colored Shetland pony that he and Sarah had presented to Cherish on her fourth birthday. She was standing quietly in the stall, as if she had been waiting for him. Generally, Douglas was unable to greet Pawnee without a vice tightening on his heart. Today the pain was not so terrible. In fact, Douglas noticed an odd sense of calm as he stood with her.

  As he ran his hand over the pony’s head, letting her nuzzle into his arm, he thought of Abby. It was easier to focus on her than on Clover, as he had already committed to assisting Abby. Even putting aside what might have happened with her uncle, the girl was alone in a foreign land. She was defensive and closed off, keeping herself at a distance from others. Surely, he could do something more to ease the burdens that shadowed her. She deserved a second chance at life.

  At the notion of second chances, Douglas realized that perhaps he should be thinking about himself, too. There might actually be room in his life for something other than obsessive grief. He was not ready to relinquish his sorrow, but maybe, maybe there could be more. He was not doing Sarah and Cherish any service by torturing himself. Whether it was Abigail’s influence or simply the passage of time, something had pushed him into an unfamiliar place. He rubbed his hand over his chin as he considered his evolving outlook. Feeling the unruly hair of his beard, an idea occurred to him. He would start by shaving his beard. He’d not brought a razor to his face in all the time they’d been gone. He had relished his ugliness, an outward reminder to all who gazed on him of the anguish he’d endured. But now it seemed wrong, indulgent to persist as he had. It was time he cleaned himself up. He reached into the feed bag beside him and removed a few pellets, holding them out for the pony. She nibbled them from his palm, her downy lips curving up and tickling his hand. Perhaps if he demonstrated to Abby that he, the most miserable of characters, was granting life a second chance, despite everything, well maybe she could be inspired to do the same.

  His own second chance would start by looking better, and acting better. The beginning of a new beginning. Douglas surprised himself with the vain thought of wondering whether he was still handsome underneath all that fur on his face. He smiled and walked toward the house. The beginning of a new beginning. He liked the sound of that. And Lord almighty, he was looking forward to a good shave.

  16

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  It felt grand to be back in the fresh air. Now that Abby was comfortably seated on the stone bench in the corner of the rose garden, she sensed an eternity had passed since she’d last been outdoors. Though it had been less than two weeks, it seemed like so much had changed during her confinement. There was a new chill in the air, and really, that was the least of it. Abby pulled her wool wrap closer to her body, taking care not to jostle her injured arm. She had been careful, fastidious, trying to keep herself immune to the people in her new life so that none would have power to hurt or control her, to devastate her. Now it seemed she was slipping. She had noticed that her outlook toward Larissa was softening, and more shockingly, her attitude toward Douglas, too. And there was the letter from home, stirring up so many emotions that she would have preferred to ignore.

  The bare rose bushes swayed
in the breeze, a few stray leaves still intact alongside an abundance of thorns. Abby wondered whether this had been Sarah’s garden, a place where she too came for solitude, fortitude. She questioned briefly whether the cold bench beneath her was meant for sitting, rather than only adorning the garden, akin to the sculpted frogs placed strategically along the path back to the house. It irked her that there was still occasion for confusion every day in her new life. She opened her writing journal to peruse what she’d composed the day before. If Larissa found her hard at work, it would bolster Abby’s argument that she was strong enough to resume most activity.

  Larissa surely had the best intentions when she demanded that Abby remain in bed so many days following the accident with Midnight. But Abby, and probably Larissa too, knew that she had been well enough to go about ordinary business for several days already. Mercifully, Doc Markinson had been back yesterday evening, and he declared there was no reason why Abby should resist returning to a more typical daily schedule. Nothing too taxing, certainly no calisthenics, but customary activities for a young lady would be fine, he’d granted, provided she took added care with her shoulder.

  Abby had never been fussed over so much, and the coddling did not sit well with her. She had never before had the luxury for feebleness, and it was unsettling to dabble in fragility now. Perhaps she should realize that it was pleasant, agreeable, to be cared for and doted on, but she was much more comfortable standing on her own two feet. She looked down at the open pages of her folio, attempting to review the introductory portion of her essay on French philosophers.

  As many times as she tried to push Douglas from her mind, she failed. She could not stand the fact that he had altered, changed himself, forcing her to reconsider her own judgments. Her inability to understand him, his actions, it made everything else in her current life feel more tenuous. At least in Wigan, she had known what she was up against. When she had judged Douglas as cruel, that had been clear-cut, easier to understand. And yet . . . Douglas wasn’t wicked. He seemed to care genuinely about her well-being after the accident. Perhaps because her injury was all his fault, Abby sniffed. No, she was certain that Douglas had come to see her out of concern, instead of guilt. And truth be told, she had enjoyed his company, especially listening to him read Twelfth Night. That was, of course, until he simply stopped showing up.