Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  After some sounds of movement, Douglas called out good-naturedly from inside, “Come in!”

  Abby opened the door and caught her breath. The man standing behind the desk was Douglas but was also not Douglas. He looked so drastically different from when she had seen him only a few days before, so different that it seemed almost preposterous. Gone was the ragged beard that had sprouted in all directions, giving him the air of a careless eccentric. Gone were the haphazard threadbare garments that he’d so thoughtlessly worn. Here now was a man who was freshly shaven, who had given care to himself as he dressed. The effect was staggering. Had his hair been trimmed too? His entire posture, his presence, had transformed along with his wardrobe. The alteration in the person before her was so complete that it seemed impossible to have occurred in a matter of days, to be the result of simple changes in style, clothes, and hair. It was as if the man she’d been expecting to find in the study had only ever existed in a dream, or perhaps this, now, was the dream.

  As Abby stared, dumbfounded at Douglas, she felt her entire rehearsed monologue slipping from her brain. It was too much. First the conversation with Demett that she’d overheard, and now this, this confusing apparition. It was like learning that her linen writing journal was actually made from emeralds or that her hairbrush once belonged to the queen. Nothing in this place was as it seemed.

  As she continued to scrutinize this new Douglas, Abby suddenly began to feel as though her skin was sizzling. She had to remove herself from the situation at once. This was not the meeting for which she had prepared, not the person, the hapless beast in need of her acceptance and compassion. No, this fellow here was like a fine-spun embodiment of sufficiency and possibility. He looked like he didn’t need anything at all. Had he been laughing at her all this time? Pretending to be some sort of repugnant, grotesque misfit when all along, he’d been this, this other man, so very, very other. Looking him up and down, Abby swallowed, tried to clear her throat. She glanced over her shoulder, evaluating the location of the door. No, there was no way for her to exit gracefully at this point. She had to say something or she would appear even more the half-witted clod than she must already, after all her protracted bumble-headed goggling at Douglas.

  Douglas walked around toward the front of his hefty desk and sat on its outer corner. He seemed relaxed and leisurely as he cocked his brow at her. He was clearly waiting for Abby to say whatever it was that had brought her to the study. When she hesitated, he spoke up to fill the silence.

  “I shaved.”

  She nodded.

  “Thought it time I cleaned up a bit.”

  Abby gave herself a mental kick in the head. Speak, you imbecile!

  “I just came to say . . . well no, I was coming to say, if you wanted to finish the play, well I just hope I haven’t offended . . . I mean, if you wanted . . .” she trailed off, disgusted with herself for allowing her brain to turn into fried eggs.

  “Ugggghhhhh,” she groaned aloud at her own discomfiture. “Larissa and I had an idea. But, never mind then,” she mumbled and turned to leave.

  “Are you feeling well?” Douglas asked as Abby neared the door.

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered without pausing her step. “Just a long day, I reckon. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Wait, would you?”

  She turned, reluctant to look back upon his new likeness, struggling to corral her thoughts about this man whom was no longer recognizable in body or spirit. He searched for something on his cluttered desk as Abby watched him and tried to drown out the words catapulting through her mind. Abolitionist, warrior, pretender, defender. He seized on an item and held up Twelfth Night.

  “Aha. What about the play then?” Before she could respond, he continued, “It was taking so long for you to recover, I did not want my visits to your sickroom to hinder your convalescence. But now that you are up and about again, I see no reason why we shouldn’t pick up where we left off. I hope I wasn’t being fanciful to imagine you were enjoying the play.” Douglas smiled faintly.

  At the hesitancy of Douglas’s smile, his question, Abby remembered her original intentions, as though she’d been lifted out of a maze and set back on a straight path. Perhaps this shinier new version of Douglas was not as self-sustained as his altered appearance made him seem.

  “Actually,” Abby responded regaining a bit of composure, “it was Larissa’s idea, we were thinking the same thing. She suggested that you might read to us both tomorrow evening following supper. If that suits,” she hedged.

  “Splendid,” Douglas answered, sounding genuinely pleased, and Abby thought that yes, her original ideas about his waning desire for isolation may have been on point.

  “It would be lovely for Miss Prue to listen as well, though I trust you’ll catch her up on all she’s missed.” He thumbed through the pages in his hand, as though searching for the place they left off. “It’s settled then,” Douglas concluded. “We’ll meet in the drawing room after you’ve finished dining. You’ll tell Miss Prue?” He looked at her for an answer, his light eyes holding hers for a beat. She felt her world begin to tilt again and wished she were standing closer to the doorknob, a railing, something to steady her. The word “abolitionist,” caught like celery between her teeth, was running a loop over and again through her thoughts. Abolitionist, abolitionist, abolitionist.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she finally answered before she turned to go.

  As Abby exited the study, she heard Douglas settling back down at his desk. She shut the door behind herself and emitted a tempestuous sigh. Leaning against the cool wall, she tried to sort out what had just happened. She would have struggled to face Douglas with composure after overhearing his plans for Clover if he’d still appeared as his former rumpled, slipshod self. On top of that stunning information though, the man she had just encountered looked so strikingly different from what she’d grown accustomed to, it was a wonder she hadn’t fainted outright from the shock of it all. The fact that he was bitingly handsome beneath all his shorn scruff, well that was beside the point. It must have been the surprise that was so unnerving. All this time, Abby had considered Douglas an unsightly man. Not ugly, exactly, but disheveled and straggly. To discover that underneath the unruly beard and worn suits, he was actually dazzling, it would unnerve anyone. His bedraggled whiskers had been concealing smooth, bright skin and a chiseled, Roman jaw. His shorn face was youthful, befitting a man of Douglas’s twenty-six years, despite Abby’s prior impression of him as much older. She suddenly understood all the talk about how Douglas had been such an eligible young man before his marriage. Apparently, it wasn’t just his money that made hearts flutter. Not that he made her heart flutter. Abby pushed her chin up, willing herself together, and walked toward the piano room.

  So she had made a fool of herself in front of Douglas, Abby shrugged as she walked. It was not the first time, and she’d guess it wouldn’t be the last. Could she still offer him friendship despite his prepossessing good looks? Well, of course she could. What difference did it make? Just because he was objectively attractive didn’t mean that he was attractive to her. Abby wasn’t attracted to anyone, she reminded herself. Wasn’t attracted to anyone—ever.

  And anyway, hadn’t she, just hours before, chastised herself for making everything about herself ? If Douglas needed a friend, that need would not change simply because of his improved appearance. Clearly he had more human connections in his life than she’d realized though, if he’d been contacting so many people about Clover’s escape. Were there other escapees too? It could be that Douglas was helping a myriad of Southern slaves all at once, and she’d only happened to hear about one. Her chest swelled at the idea of such admirable work, and then she had another feeling, almost like jealousy. How lucky Douglas was, to be of use, to lighten the loads of others. To be needed.

  She directed her focus to the following evening. She and Larissa would sit with this man, this enigma, chameleon, defender, shepherd, savior. Certainly,
by tomorrow she would have grabbed hold of herself, she concluded, more by way of command than prediction. She would behave as a proper young lady and a friend.

  It would be lovely to listen to Shakespeare’s play again, especially with Larissa for added company. As Abby approached the piano room, she heard Larissa humming softly and practicing notes from Bach’s “Minuet in G.” Abruptly, Abby was able to laugh at her own foolishness. She would not become enamored with this man, whether because of his bold courageousness or his horribly superior appearance. It hardly mattered whether he was the most remarkable man in all the New World. She would never be romantically interested in any man. She was going to be a spinster and a school teacher. Abby had made her mind to that end months ago, and no man was going to distract her from her course. Least of all Douglas Elling.

  AS ABBY DRESSED FOR SUPPER, SHE TRIED TO CALM her nerves. Her lady’s maid, Ida, was stooped behind her, fastening the buttons on the back of her lavender silk gown and chattering away about different remedies to ameliorate Abby’s penchant for biting her nails. Her favorite approach, Ida was saying, was to use the juice from a bitter gourd.

  “You make a paste by crushing the gourd. It looks something like okra inside. You just put the gourd on a sieve to get the juice out. Miss Abigail, you hearing me?” She looked up from the button she’d been working on and fixed Abby with a pointed stare in the mirror.

  “I’m sorry, Ida. I didn’t sleep well last night, I suppose. Please, continue.”

  Abby tried to listen, as the nail biting really was a coarse habit, one that had become worse since just yesterday, but she was so besieged by her own cogitation that it was hard to hear Ida’s words. Since the night before, she’d been able to think of nothing but Douglas. She was not surprised at herself for her interest in his abolitionist activities, as she’d always had a penchant for rebellion, especially in the name of justice. The trouble really, was that each time she thought about his subversive work, she felt a glimmer of something else besides admiration, a feeling that she couldn’t name, but which she felt compelled to resist.

  She found herself rehashing her previous interactions with Douglas, all now infused with new subtlety in the wake of her enlightenment. That day he yelled at her for touching Reggie was not about bigotry, as she had thought, but about protecting them all from suspicion, from discovery. His visits to her sickroom even, had perhaps come at the expense of time he could have devoted to his insurgent endeavors. Realizing that Douglas might have been somewhere, anywhere, other than his lonely office if he had not been with her, she wondered why he had chosen to spend so much time with her. She felt another flicker of something, a swirling in her belly, but she quickly tamped it down, choosing to focus on his actions, nothing else. Even the long hours allegedly passed at his office began to seem suspect, infused with possibilities. She found she wanted to know every last detail about Douglas’s involvement in abolition, not that it was any of her business.

  Two dogs barked outside in the courtyard, jolting Abby from her contemplation. She stepped away from Ida and glanced out the window in time to see Gracie Cunningham hustling herself toward the door of the Elling residence in an obvious dither. A young male slave followed quickly behind her, a stoic expression on his face.

  “Whatever in the world?” Abby wondered as she hastily grabbed her shawl from the vanity stool.

  “I’m sorry, Ida, it looks like we have unannounced guests. I must go and see what the trouble is.” A spontaneous visit was certainly unusual for young ladies with formal Southern rearing like Gracie’s.

  Abby reached the front entryway just in time to hear Gracie apologizing profusely to Larissa.

  “Miss Prue, I would never go visiting unannounced like this, and surely not at mealtime. Oh but I am sorry! It’s just that the carriage wheel came dislodged not more than two feet from your drive. I am simply mortified!”

  Gracie was standing just inside the closed doorway, her porcelain cheeks flushed, her white gloves showing traces of dust from the street. Several tendrils of her dark hair had fallen loose from the intricately plaited bun behind her head. It was the first time Abby had seen the girl looking anything less than flawlessly assembled.

  “Gracie, what’s happened?” Abby asked, concerned for her friend.

  “Abby, please forgive this awful intrusion.” Gracie looked relieved to see Abby and embarrassed all at once. “You must think I’m downright crude, appearing before supper without an invitation. Our carriage broke down, and we weren’t more than a hop away from this house. I thought I’d send Jono back to King Street on foot. But, well, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you all something terrible, I was hoping I could wait here until he fetches another carriage. It does look like it’s fixing to storm out there.” Gracie glanced behind herself as though she was assessing the weather through the closed door.

  “Gracie, you mustn’t be ridiculous.” Abby took Gracie by the arm and led her farther into the house. “I’m sure Larissa would agree that you must stay here with us, and you must stop worrying about your manners around us. True friends should feel comfortable taking certain liberties with each other. Isn’t that so, Larissa?” Abby spoke bravely, despite her worry that perhaps Larissa would disagree.

  “Abigail is correct,” Larissa added. “Join us for supper, and we will prepare one of the bedrooms so you may spend the night. There’s no need to venture out again in the rain.”

  “Oh, that’s an impeccable idea.” Abby concurred, pleased to have the diversion and the additional buffer between herself and Douglas during the evening’s impending reading. “Run and catch Jono,” she added. “He can eat supper here with the other servants, and then Jovian or Demett can drive him back to King Street afterwards in one of Mr. Elling’s carriages. He needn’t walk so far in the cold. He can return for you tomorrow.”

  “Darling,” Gracie turned to her with a dismissive laugh, “his kind are built for physical challenges far greater than walking through a storm. And anyway, Papa would have my hide if I let him sup with a group of free niggers.”

  Abby winced at Gracie’s words but realized she best hold her tongue.

  After Gracie retired for a moment to freshen herself from her ordeal in the street, the women took their seats in the dining room. Jasper was waiting nearby, along with an elderly footman, who began serving the women boiled mutton and corn pudding. “By the by,” Larissa placed her napkin daintily in her lap and looked at Gracie, “you’ve picked an auspicious evening to get stranded with us.”

  Gracie looked puzzled by Larissa’s comment. She glanced quizzically at Abby sitting across from her and caught the end of a tortured grimace on Abby’s face. “I can’t imagine why,” Gracie giggled. “Whatever it is though, the thought has put the oddest expression on Abby. Please, Larissa, do explain.”

  “Whatever you saw on my face,” Abby interjected with too much acidity, “had nothing to do with your conversation, as my mind had drifted to something else.” She paused while she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, as though trying to wipe away whatever Gracie had noticed. “Do forgive my poor attention.” She spoke more gently now, remembering herself. “What was it you and Larissa were discussing?”

  Abby detested that she wore her emotions like a banner about her face, calling out her private thoughts through a subconscious scrunching of her nose or narrowing of her eyes. She was like a weathervane, her mother had chanted time and again when she was younger, foretelling the tidings from the way her mouth curled or her shoulder twisted. As she grew older and circumstances changed, her parents lost the ability to translate what they saw on her face, misinterpreting everything. Hopefully Gracie too would simply misinterpret whatever she saw as some unexplained part of Abby’s contrarian nature. She did not want Larissa or Gracie to gather any inkling about the disturbing effect Douglas was having on her. There was also the subject of Clover, a slave in Gracie’s home. If Gracie connected Abby’s expression to thoughts about Douglas, even if it was a far leap to t
he rest, well, she couldn’t risk exposing anything about him.

  Abby smiled at Gracie in an effort to move the conversation along.

  “Forgive me for making such an uncharitable comment then, Abby,” Gracie pleaded. “I would hate for you to think I was mocking you in any way.” Gracie’s hand flew to her chest as she spoke, her pale fingers stark against the shadowy gray of her dress.

  “Gracie, you needn’t be so proper all the time. What were you two talking about?” Abby looked from Gracie to Larissa.

  Larissa placed her fork and knife on the side of her plate, angling them just so, before she spoke. “I was about to inform Gracie that she’s had the good fortune of arriving on an evening of entertainment.” Turning to Gracie she continued, “Mr. Elling will be providing us with a reading of Shakespeare following supper.”

  “Oh, how delightful,” Gracie clapped her hands together like a child. Abruptly pausing, she wrinkled her nose and asked, “Nothing too melancholy, I hope, knowing the dishumour he’s been suffering and all. I feel so disheartened by plays like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I often feel that way from Shakespeare’s tragedies, as well,” Larissa sipped from her wineglass. “But tonight, we will be hearing a comedy, Twelfth Night.”

  Gracie nodded and patted her mouth with her napkin. “Well then, my arrival on this night does feel fortuitous. I am heartened to learn that Douglas is engaged in such an upbeat activity.” She seemed to be gazing at some faraway object as she concluded, “My family will be thrilled to hear of it.”

  18

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  During the ride back to her family’s King Street home, Gracie tugged nervously at a lock of her dark hair, twirling the strands around her index finger and then watching them unfurl. As she braced to confront Cora Rae about the past evening’s events, she fought conflicting emotions. She’d been livid yesterday when Cora Rae burst into her bedchamber, demanding out of nowhere that Gracie visit the Elling estate forthwith. Gracie knew better than to arrive for an unannounced evening visit. But Cora Rae had persisted until she overcame her sister’s resistance. In fact, when Gracie declared that she wouldn’t intrude on Douglas Elling’s household, Cora Rae had gone so far as to begin penning an actual love note to Harrison Blount. Gracie wondered now, how long had it been since she and Rae shared a genuinely amicable moment? Perhaps she should feel regretful that the kinship they shared as children had long since evaporated, but she was too anxious about her sister’s behavior to feel anything other than frothing anger.