Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Every time Gracie found something new to treasure, anything she considered her own, Rae appeared, threatening to snatch it away. It wasn’t just about Harrison, who had come calling on Gracie in earnest just the day before. Gracie was certain that Rae’s meddling would soon destroy her relationship with Abby, the one friend Gracie had cultivated outside of her family’s designs, the only one who seemed indifferent to her father’s wealth and status. Gracie rested her head back against the leather seat and drew in a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the stench of brine that permeated the Charleston air on these raw days.

  Now that she and Harrison had started courting, she could attest that he was even more engaging than she had imagined. During his visit, the pair had spent an enchanting afternoon playing whist in the parlor, with her mother as chaperone. He had given her every impression that she meant something special to him. Perhaps she should take more pride in herself, declare that if Harrison would be so fickle, would succumb to a letter from her brazen sister, she did not want him anyway. But oh, she just couldn’t risk it, even if Rae’s demands did mean jeopardizing her friendship with Abby. So she had agreed to scuttle off to the Elling residence without invitation in order to prevent her nasty sister from sending that letter.

  Gracie had reasoned that she could call briefly at the Elling residence to ask after Abby’s health, and if she managed to limit her stay to an hour’s time, perhaps the social blunder wouldn’t be so glaring. She still wanted to yank at every strand of Cora Rae’s fiery hair for putting her up to the intrusion, all because Cora Rae had a sudden hankering for an update on the fabulous, fallen Douglas Elling. Or maybe she just couldn’t stand to watch Gracie getting the man she wanted while her own prized stud was nowhere to be seen.

  Unfortunately, Gracie’s mortification had only intensified when the carriage began to fall apart. At the sound of wood splintering, she had uttered a silent oath, cursing her father’s stinginess. Court Cunningham had endless funds available for entertaining guests and making himself appear important, but when it came to something as practical as maintaining his carriages, he clenched his coins. He was the same with his slaves, always ready to purchase another human for status and investment, but those darkies had to be well-nigh on their deathbeds before Court would fetch them a doctor. Pretension without preservation. That about summed up her pa.

  Thanks to the faulty wheel, a visit that was intended as only a brief affront to propriety had lasted so much longer. Thank heavens Larissa and Abby had been so welcoming. She shuddered to think of the reaction her performance would have engendered at the home of other friends. Of course, they would have invited her for dinner just as Abby and Larissa had done, her compatriots of the South being known for nothing if not their generous hospitality. But then she would have been maligned for weeks at ladies’ teas and sewing circles for her unseemly behavior. Abby, however, had clearly been nonplussed by her audacious arrival. At least the slave boy, Jono, had the good graces to arrive early this morning with a repaired carriage. Gracie listened now to the steady rolling of the wheels beneath her, carrying her back to her home, and she wondered if Rae didn’t have something to do with that damaged wheel.

  Gracie gazed out the carriage window into the Charleston morning, the streets just coming to life with people, the cobblestones still slick from the rainstorm during the night. As they passed the large homes on Ann Street, slaves opened shutters at one brightly colored home after another. Gracie watched Negroes pushing at puddles with brooms, driving water toward the street, working to restore order to lawns and porches that had been drenched with the winter rain. She thought about Abby, conceding to herself that her new friend did have a rather distinctive way about her. Even the manner in which she had behaved toward Douglas the night before was unusual. When Douglas had arrived at the drawing room to read to the women, Gracie had been astounded to see him looking dashing and fresh, so much like he had appeared years earlier.

  Douglas had seemed surprised to find Gracie in the drawing room, but he was congenial nonetheless. As he walked toward the room’s hefty sideboard and began pouring himself a brandy, Gracie had noticed that he was not only clean-shaven, but energetic and jovial. The change in his demeanor had been so obvious that she could sense it just from the way he put down the crystal decanter. Until last night, Gracie had forgotten just how disarming Douglas could be. His improved disposition, the warm greeting, and his arresting appearance gave Gracie the disquieting sensation that she had stepped back in time. Here was the old Douglas, the one who had been dapper and charming, lively and magnetic.

  She had felt an unexpected softening toward her sister as she watched him in the parlor, a flash of understanding. It made sense that Cora Rae would pine after a man like that, that she’d be unable to relinquish her dream of beguiling someone so extraordinary. Or, Gracie thought, her hackles rising back up as she took her seat beside Abby, perhaps it was just Douglas’s outrageous wealth that held her sister’s interest all these years. It was so hard to know with Cora Rae. Gracie had sat beside Abby thinking of the many times since Sarah’s death that she had advised Cora Rae to forsake her obsession with Douglas, to realize that the man she’d adored was as dead as his late wife, that he was gone forever and for good. Except as she sat in the glittering parlor in his home, Gracie realized that for all she could glean, Douglas Elling had now returned.

  Even in the clarifying light of morning, Gracie was still reeling from the shock of seeing Douglas so much like his former self. Equally striking had been the puzzling dynamics between Douglas and Abby during the past evening. From the moment the ladies sat down, Gracie sensed that something had changed between them. Abby no longer appeared to chafe at Douglas’s presence. If anything, she seemed distracted by something else entirely. More notable had been Douglas, the way his eyes kept floating back to Abby as he read. He watched her as though his attention was tethered to her by an invisible rope, pulled by her every action. He was clearly quite familiar with the text of Twelfth Night, as he recited so many of the lines while his eyes roved over Abby’s face, barely flitting to the pages in his hands.

  Gracie wondered why she hadn’t considered sooner the possibility of her friend bewitching Douglas. After all, they were not so far apart in age and living under the same roof. Abby was nearly eighteen, and Douglas couldn’t be more than twenty-six years old. Moreover, Abby was actually quite fetching, with her frosty eyes and swollen lips. She had a figure that most young ladies would go mad over, if they ever bothered to notice the seething curves she kept hidden beneath those modest dresses. And she was actually charming too, once you got past all her bluster. Gracie had spent the evening thinking of Cora Rae with panic.

  Now in the carriage, Gracie ran her hand along her wool skirt, trying in vain to smooth out the inevitable wrinkles in a fine dress worn for a second day. She huffed out a sigh and told herself that at least Abby had appeared indifferent to Douglas. She had been so busy staring into her own lap that she seemed entirely oblivious to his repeated glances. What a drastic difference from Cora Rae. Her tart of a sister would have thrown herself across Douglas’s lap after his first overly long gaze.

  Abby clearly had something trapping her thoughts the entire evening, but since she chose to keep it to herself, Gracie would try to respect that. Though now, as Jono pulled the carriage into her parents’ semicircular drive, Gracie found her curiosity getting the better of her. She wondered again what had happened to make Abby so preoccupied the whole evening. What if, contrary to Gracie’s prior assumptions, it actually did have something to do with Douglas? Gracie worried over what to tell her sister. What would it mean for Rae if Douglas emerged from his mourning only to forsake her yet again? What would it mean for Gracie?

  19

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  As Larissa explained the procedures for solving another equation, Abby yawned again. She and Larissa were seated in the same drawing room where Douglas had read to them the p
revious evening, though they were now at the mahogany card table, along the far end of the room. Larissa had proposed this spot rather than the upstairs parlor where they usually met, suggesting they might take advantage of the late-morning light, the crisp January sunshine that would be charging through the arched windows. Abby had been pleased by Larissa’s uncharacteristic spontaneity, and she did mean to focus on what the governess was explicating, but her mind kept drifting. She noticed a few crumbs resting on her wool skirt, remnants of the cranberry scones they had finished with their morning meal. She swatted at them with her hand, and Larissa let out a loud sigh.

  “This is just what I was afraid of,” Larissa complained as she closed the mathematics textbook they had been examining. “It’s been too much flurry and activity for you, too soon into your recovery. Now look how distracted you are. It’s exhaustion. You have shadows beneath your eyes, nearly violet, and you’re doing an abominable job of stifling those yawns.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Larissa,” Abby reached for the book and began opening back to the page they had been reviewing. “I just didn’t sleep well last night. Maybe the meat at dinner didn’t agree with me.” She could hardly admit that she’d been stewing all night, thinking alternately about Douglas and her uncle. She was still overwhelmed to realize she had been oblivious to so much during the months since her arrival. Though she applauded Douglas’s actions, respected him all the better for his clandestine endeavors, something about the secrecy, the double-dealing, had released memories of her uncle Matthew. Through the night, horrid images had arisen from the far crevices of her mind, like black smoke, suffocating her anew. One minute she would think of Douglas, his aristocratic face and surprising ideals, and just as quickly, she would be assaulted with the specter of her uncle, his bloated features and hot breath, the duplicity that none detected. She had lain awake most of the night, greeting the morning shaken and wounded once more.

  “Well, either way, these studies are not in your best interest today.” Larissa pulled the textbook back from Abby and closed it again, this time keeping her hand atop the cover. “Here,” she reached in her bag and handed Abby a book stamped in flowery script. “This is the next novel we’ll be studying. Make yourself comfortable on the settee and read. It’s the best way to make you rest, I think.”

  Larissa packed up the other books, piling them into the burgundy satchel that she brought to all their lessons, and then left Abby to herself in the spacious drawing room. Abby moved over to the plush settee, curling her knees beneath her. Upon closer inspection, she saw that Larissa had given her a copy of Robinson Crusoe, a story she’d never had the opportunity to read. She placed the volume on her lap, thinking to close her eyes for a few minutes first, as she was indeed, quite tired. As she began to doze, she thought about how it had gotten easier, since coming to Charleston, to squeeze the past into a tight hold. But today, her grip was off, and she was failing. Perhaps it was her sleepless night, or the realization that she had so misunderstood her world in Charleston. Suddenly everything felt as fresh as the day her da told her she’d be going to America.

  It was as though she was still sitting there on the front stoop of her family’s flat in Wigan, spreading a salve onto Charlie’s blistered hands, watching her da emerge from the flat with the news. She could remember when her da opened the door, how Charlie had been complaining.

  He had asked in his child’s voice, “How come my hands don’t get calloused like the other men? You’d think by now they’d have grown tougher, yeah?”

  Abby’s father, Samuel, had squatted down next to Charlie and answered before Abby. “Even handling all that twine at the canal, you’re still only a green cub compared to the others. Your hands will beef up soon enough. Meantime, be thankful Wigan is failing to make its mark on you.” He turned to Abby, adding, “I need a word with you, Ab.”

  Abby stood abruptly, “I was actually just heading to the water pump, Da. Can’t it wait? Come on, Charlie,” she held out her hand to her brother.

  “No,” Samuel answered firmly, causing Abby to look up in surprise. “It’s important, and I need to speak with you now. Charlie, go help your mum with supper.”

  Abby stood opposite her father and waited impatiently for him to speak his piece. “Come,” he said, as he sat in what had formerly been Charlie’s spot on the stoop. “Have yourself a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand,” Abby quipped. “What is it, then?”

  “All right, if that’s how you want it.” Samuel shrugged and stood again, dusting his faded pants. “Your mum and I have decided,” he began and then started over. “We know how hard it’s been on you, this life we’ve been living since the shop closed. You weren’t meant to be a weaver, and we all know it. So we’ve gotten you your ticket out of here. You’re going to America.”

  Abby looked at her father, stunned.

  “What? What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Abby,” Samuel began. He stepped toward her and then halted abruptly, probably remembering how she generally shrank from his presence. “Come and sit.”

  She looked uncertainly at the stoop and then slowly started toward it. Samuel sat down again, and continued. “We’ve watched how you struggle here, Abby. Your mum and I, we’ve done all we can for you, but it simply isn’t sufficient. Look at you. Wearing rags, your beautiful hair chopped to bits, crying all the time. It’s not right the way you’ve been, and I don’t know what else we can do for you here.” He ran his hand through his sandy curls and released a defeated breath. “I don’t know what’s changed in you over the past year, but we can’t keep up with your temper, Ab, and it seems that we can’t fix it either. So we thought that maybe this opportunity . . .” he trailed off and looked at her.

  After a moment’s silence, he continued, “Well, I don’t know. Is it, well, would you like to go?”

  Abby looked at Samuel in the deepening gray of the evening. She noticed the new creases in her father’s forehead and the dark grime beneath his fingernails. Time was not being kind to Samuel Milton.

  “I contacted my old friend Douglas Elling,” he continued. “He’s agreed to host you at his estate. You’ll have a governess to teach you the proper subjects, train you to be a young lady, instead of working you straight to your skin, as you’ve gotten with us. He’s agreed to host you a full year.”

  “Isn’t he the one whose family was murdered?” Abby asked. “You want to send me off thousands of miles from here to live with a wrecked widower? I’ve really been that dreadful, that you just want to be rid of me, is it?”

  “Oh, Ab, of course you’ve been dreadful,” Samuel laughed halfheartedly. “But look what you’ve been dealing with. Working sometimes eighteen hours a day, weaving and cleaning, cleaning and weaving. Then you come home to us, where you’ve got your chores and the other children to help look after. Top that off with playing serving girl to your rich old uncle, not a moment leftover for you to simply be who you are. Just hard work and cotton dust. Who wouldn’t be dreadful in your shoes?” Kicking Abby’s foot lightly, he added, “And right ratty shoes at that.” She remembered feeling a rush of warmth toward him in that moment, maybe even smiling back at him.

  “Douglas did lose his family, and he has been grieving hard. But he’s got a grand home with plenty of empty rooms. You’ll want for nothing while you’re under his roof. Your mum and I, well we were hoping that having you around the house might cheer him a bit, too. It’s a bit of a trade, as I see it.”

  Escaping Wigan, Matthew’s slimy hands, how could she say no? She had worried then that Douglas Elling would be a fate even worse than Matthew. Matthew never forced her all the way, never made her have actual intercourse, only touched and fondled her while he gratified himself. There was certainly greater harm that an old, angry widower could do to a young girl sharing his home. But if he turned out a rough and filthy man, at least in America, she could run away without risking the security of her family. Unlike Matthew, Douglas Elling wasn’t providing her pa
rents with any sort of stipend that he could lord over her and use as leverage to force vulgarities upon her.

  “Do I have a choice?” Abby had asked her father.

  Samuel looked at his feet as he answered. “Not really, my girl, no.” He reached for her hand, but as usual, she snatched it away before they made contact. “Your mum and I, we know this is the best thing for you. Arrangements have been made. You’ll be sailing from Liverpool next week.” He stood and walked back into the flat, leaving Abby to stare at the empty stoop.

  She was dumbfounded that they were sending her away. Even though she was older than her brothers, the boys earned better wages. After all, she was only a girl, a pathetic parasite, she concluded. And now she was being shipped off, to a foreign country no less. Well, fine. She thought of her parents and siblings with growing rage, irate that she had been enduring Matthew’s sexual depravity for their well-being. It would be good riddance to them all.

  But what would Uncle Matthew do, she worried. She wasn’t so angry at her parents that she wanted them to starve. Would he withhold his money if they sent her away? Without that monthly supplement from Uncle Matthew, there was no way the family could survive. Even with one less mouth to feed, there were too many debts remaining from the flood at the furniture shop years before, those usurious loans, payments looming always. Reminded of the magnitude of her family’s financial struggle, the stubborn, disastrous debts, Abby softened.