Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “Tell me, which other ships are heading to England today?”

  “Nothing else today, sir. It’s well past noon already.” The man seemed to regard Douglas with a new skepticism.

  Right. A ship wouldn’t begin a transatlantic journey so late in the day, of course. Desperation was making him daft.

  “Well, tomorrow. What leaves tomorrow?”

  The stevedore looked about the boats moored below them and then nodded to himself. “Nothing, sir. Until Friday, but then that one, there,” he pointed his arm down to the far end of the wharf. “The packet ship. Just saw them working the cargo.”

  Fine. Splendid. He was not above traveling with the mails and cargo if it meant getting himself to Abby. Douglas recognized the ship as part of Oscar Whittaker’s fleet. Surely Whittaker would wonder why a man with several ships of his own would pay good money to ride aboard someone else’s craft. To prepare one of his own vessels for a journey across the Atlantic might take weeks, and Douglas did not feel the luxury of time in pursuing Abby.

  If it was Wigan Abby was bound for, Douglas would be right on her heels.

  28

  MANCHESTER, ENGLAND MAY

  1846

  The six-hour carriage ride from Liverpool had felt almost more exhausting than the several weeks spent crossing the sea. The driver repeatedly suggested taking a reprieve for the night at one of the inns they passed, but Douglas wouldn’t have it. So close he was now to finding Abby that his blood was swirling, thwarting his efforts to remain composed. The driver let him off at the edge of the village, the roads being too narrow or knobby for the hansom to maneuver through. Trudging now up another hill towards the tenements, Douglas saw candlelight glowing through small windows from homes that seemed to be strewn together in a great heap, one after another, with no regard for air or movement, and he imagined workers settling down for supper after long hours in the mills. As he hurried over the paving stones, he checked the path beneath him, carefully avoiding trickles of sewage that rushed down the hills as fast as he was racing up.

  Throughout his journey aboard Whittaker’s overstocked ship, Douglas had repeatedly suppressed the urge to cut at something with a rigging knife, to abuse any object in striking distance as retribution for his blunders. He should have revealed himself to Abby sooner, so she’d have had more time to build trust in him before Miss Cunningham’s stunt. Or he should have pushed at Cora Rae harder, with greater speed and clarity. At the very least, he should have run after Abby from the start, chased her into the street and begged her to listen. When he imagined what she must have perceived from the study doorway, with Cora Rae fastened to him like a barnacle, it was as though he was choking on air.

  Douglas removed the paper from his breast pocket and checked the address again. Flat number fifty-seven. Despite his knowledge of the Miltons’ limited finances, he had never imagined them in the kind of squalor he was now navigating. Finally his eyes settled on the number fifty-seven, painted in black against the door with broad, haphazard strokes. He pounded on the door, letting up slightly when he noticed its frail attachment to its hinges.

  A young boy in brown trousers and faded shirtsleeves opened the door and looked at Douglas blankly.

  “Well, hello, young man.” Douglas smiled down at the boy, noticing that his hair was the same chestnut as Abby’s. “You must be Charlie.”

  “Charlie,” Douglas heard a woman call from within. “Charlie, who’s there?”

  “Ruthie Milton, is that you?” Douglas called back.

  Ruth appeared behind Charlie with a handkerchief tied over her hair and a soiled rag in hand. When she saw Douglas, she started.

  “Douglas Elling! My God, what’s happened?” She grabbed hold of Charlie’s shoulder. “Is she sick? Dead? Please God, tell me she isn’t dead?”

  “She isn’t here then?” Douglas asked, not entirely surprised. He must have beaten her to Wigan after all.

  “Here?” Ruth looked confused. “No, why would she be here? She is supposed to be with you. Off in the land named after the merry King Charles. What the devil is going on?”

  “Not to worry. I believe I’ve simply arrived before her,” Douglas told Ruth, as he immediately resumed calculating in his head, running the same scenarios he’d been repeating to himself throughout his journey, trying to determine when Abby would land in Wigan. “She is in the midst of her own journey back to Wigan, I think, and I was hoping to meet her here. My ship seems to have traveled at a faster clip.” Ruthie’s features remained strained, and Douglas continued, “It’s all been an enormous misunderstanding, I’m afraid, and I followed her here to set things right.” After glancing down at his hands for a moment, Douglas added, “I suppose I should confess at the outset, I am in love with your daughter.”

  The furrow in Ruth’s brow deepened, but she did not respond. Douglas had known Ruth before he settled in the States. In her youth, she had been a fetching woman, with her smooth skin and teasing quips. Though now she appeared muted and spent. Ruth was only nine years his senior, but her hair was graying at the temples, and the soft lines around her eyes were emphasized too drastically by dark shadows beneath them.

  “Well I guess you’d better come in then.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him pass.

  Douglas entered the flat and felt immediately too large to remain in the cramped space, with its low ceiling and clinging walls. Other than the straw pallet on the floor, the room held a small table and dining chairs, and Douglas stood awkwardly, unsure how to maneuver in this limited area. He glanced again at the table, noticing that someone had begun to lay the table with mismatched dishes for supper.

  Ruth, likewise, was studying Douglas and likely forming her own opinions based on his shining shoes and meticulously stitched coat.

  “Oh heavens,” Ruth pulled out a chair from the table and motioned for Douglas to sit. “What you must think of this place. You see now why Sammy wrote to you for help. We work our hardest, we do, but it just doesn’t provide for more than this, with the debts and all.”

  “Ruth, please do not make apologies,” Douglas answered as he glanced at the chair, wondering how long he would linger. “It is I who must apologize, first and foremost for arriving so close to suppertime. I was just, I didn’t want to waste a moment,” he finished on a heavy breath.

  “Let me pour you a spot of tea,” Ruth responded breezily, as though he were visiting her at an idyllic countryside cottage, as if she weren’t besieged by chores to be handled before her family could settle in for the night. “You must be exhausted from your journey. Once you’ve been refreshed, you must start at the beginning and tell me everything. We’ll make this right yet.”

  “No, please,” Douglas stepped toward the door as Ruth bustled to the stove. “I mustn’t intrude, and you’ve got the others returning soon, I’m sure.”

  “Nonsense.” Ruth placed a tarnished kettle on the fire. “You think Abby’s stubborn, do you? Well, I won’t have you traveling so far only to be turned out without so much as a cuppa. Won’t have it.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her and then opened a small cupboard to reach for something.

  While Douglas sipped his tea, he confessed to Ruth. He thought to lay himself bare, as if forgiveness from Abby’s mother might apply a temporary salve to his wounded soul. As the story spilled forth from his lips, unravelling like a spool of fabric, gaining momentum with each snippet he told, he could feel himself rushing to the good parts, toward the splendor of what he and Abby had begun to build together. He hurried through the details of argument and neglect, the accident with the steed, charging instead toward the Twelfth Night, the Montrose ball.

  “My girl, at a real ball for the first time!” Ruth beamed, momentarily distracted from worry.

  “Actually, it was her second,” Douglas corrected with a grin. “She attended another friend’s coming-out ball a few months earlier.”

  “Well, what a little sophisticate!” Ruth laughed. “Sending her
your way sounds like it was just the thing then. She’s been growing into the young lady she was meant to be.”

  “Well, she was,” Douglas allowed regretfully, “until a few weeks ago.”

  When he reached the part about Cora Rae accosting him, Ruth nodded emphatically.

  “No, she wouldn’t like walking in on that. She’d never stand for that, my Abby. I see then.” Ruth clicked her tongue and brought the empty teacup to the counter.

  “She ran straight out of the house and never returned,” Douglas huffed, a percussive lament still thumping in his chest. “We searched the streets of Charleston to no avail, the rooming houses, parks, everywhere. I finally thought to check the port and found that two ships bound for England sailed from Charleston shortly after she left, one of which may have included a young lady matching her description. I was aboard the very next vessel. She must have secured passage on the ship headed to Bristol. It could be two or three more weeks before she reaches us here.” Douglas rubbed his hand over his weary eyes. “When I think of her spending so many more days under the impression that I was disloyal to her, I want to claw at the walls.”

  “You poor, foolish dear,” Ruth told him, her dark eyes tilted with sympathy. “You’ll stay here with us and wait until she returns. It isn’t anything for us to make space.”

  She spoke imperiously, but as Douglas looked around the two-room flat, it was clear the Miltons could not accommodate him. From what he could tell, there were only two beds for the entire family.

  “No, I couldn’t,” Douglas told her. When Ruth looked like she might protest, he added, “It wouldn’t be proper, with Gwendolyn sleeping so nearby. I will find lodging in town.”

  Ruth gasped with a new idea, “I’ve a better plan. You’ll stay with Sammy’s brother. They’ve plenty of room there, and it’s not far a’tall. You remember Matthew, don’t you?”

  “No, really, no!” Douglas realized he had spoken too forcefully in response to Ruth’s impossible suggestion. “What I mean to say is that I wouldn’t impose.” Douglas was amazed that he located sufficient restraint to answer politely. “I much prefer to have my own space than bunk up with people I hardly know anymore. I would be most comfortable finding public lodging, if you could just recommend somewhere.”

  Ruth sighed. “If that is really how you’ll be most comfortable. There is a suitable inn just by Matty and Bianca’s. I do the washing there. I’ll at least be able to check in on you should you be needing anything. I can send Matty and Bianca to say hello, too.”

  “Wonderful,” Douglas answered, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Now, you mustn’t go anywhere until my Sammy gets back and gets a good look at you,” Ruth smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be wanting to hear the tale of you and our Abby all over again.”

  DOUGLAS TIPPED THE WOOL CAP TOWARD HIS FACE TO shield his eyes from the prickling mist. As he navigated the uneven paving stones, now slick with rain, he halfheartedly cursed the damp English weather. He was heading to the Upperton Mill to await the end of Samuel’s shift, as he had done for each of the last nineteen days, searching for news of Abby.

  After nearly three weeks of waiting, Douglas was losing hope that Abby had chosen to return home to her parents. If he had been less desperate to find her, less frenzied, he might have considered earlier how much she detested Wigan. He had latched too easily onto the longshoreman’s account of a young woman spotted near an eastbound craft, too desperate for a clue. He would not tarry much longer. If she did not appear in one week’s time, he would return to Charleston and start searching anew.

  And good riddance to Wigan it would be. It was no wonder Abby had complained of the place so bitterly. From the decaying homes that created a raging stink throughout the city to the pervasiveness of soot from the factories, it was astonishing anyone stayed in the place. One could hardly travel to market without being confronted by disfigured mill workers, children missing more limbs than teeth. The gentry who lived in wealth nearby were complicit, if not responsible for the harsh conditions. Douglas was disgusted by all of it.

  He was particularly appalled by Matthew Milton. Matthew had rushed to see him at the inn two weeks earlier, on Douglas’s second day in town. Abby’s uncle had learned of Douglas’s visit from Samuel and had arrived at the rooming house as a presumptive host, come to welcome the traveler to Wigan, but it was apparent within minutes that the man had another agenda.

  When he had heard the rapping on the door that evening, Douglas’s first thought was that Ruth or Sammy might be coming to tell him Abby had arrived.

  Yanking open the door, he found neither Abby nor her parents, but an older, bulkier version of the Matthew Milton he’d known years earlier. Douglas’s hands had tightened instantly to fists, ready to strike, avenge, but instead he forced a half smile onto his face.

  “Matthew Milton,” he spoke tightly, “I expected we might rattle into each other at some point.”

  Matthew seemed to take this as an invitation, handing Douglas one of two parcels he held as he walked past him into the rented suite.

  “Biscuits,” he said, motioning to the package. “Bianca was all in a tither that we should send you a hearty welcome, a bit dazzled she is by having a visitor from the Colonies and all.”

  “It’s hardly called the Colonies, anymore,” Douglas began, but he was cut off by Matthew’s next presentation.

  “I fancied this a better offering.” Matthew emitted a small sound of triumph as he unwrapped a bottle of dark scotch from the other paper bundle he held. “Thought we could enjoy it together while we compared notes on business.” He lowered himself into a velvet armchair, the fabric hissing beneath him.

  Douglas stood above Matthew, noticing the layers of fat on his neck, the coarse, uneven hairs of his beard, the bulky gold rings on three of his fingers. He wore a dense wool coat of obvious value, which he was now unbuttoning lazily with his thick hands. Thinking about those hands on Abby’s body, pushing at her, grabbing, he swallowed twice and still could not squelch the bile rising in his throat.

  “Forgive me for refusing the drink,” Douglas leaned against the wall, “unfortunately, the taste of acid is ripe on my tongue tonight.”

  “Pity,” Matthew quipped carelessly. “I suppose it makes sense if I keep the scotch then.” He chuckled as he laid the bottle atop the coat he had tossed onto the chair beside him.

  “Still, might as well catch up. I hear you’re quite a shipping man now,” Matthew patted his belly.

  “That’s right,” Douglas answered, pressing his lips together.

  “I too spend much of my time on sea voyages,” Matthew announced, reaching into his pocket for a cigar.

  “Is that right?” Douglas asked, glancing at the bronze table clock behind Matthew and wondering how long the man intended to prolong this visit.

  “Indeed,” Matthew continued, holding a match to the cigar. He puffed at it twice. “You don’t mind, yes?” He didn’t await a response before continuing. “See years ago, when Sammy and I were each starting our shops, he seemed to equate conducting business with doing favors for friends, lending them pieces on credit and such. Of course, half those never paid up, and as you can see from the hovel they inhabit, it didn’t work out well. I, on the other hand,” Matthew paused for another pull on the cigar, “I figured out how to get an edge as a merchant, if you know what I’m saying.” Matthew raised his eyebrows at Douglas.

  “Well, we all do our best to succeed,” Douglas offered.

  “Even when it might cost us? Might be unpopular in certain circles?” Matthew asked, his voice taking on a new clipped quality.

  “I suppose,” Douglas answered impatiently. He crossed his arms against his chest, willing himself to remain composed for Abby’s sake, bristling further as the pungent cigar smoke made its way across the room.

  “I’m glad you see it that way,” Matthew scratched his chin. “I knew that a fellow as well-off as yourself must make wise decisions,” he conti
nued, his voice dripping with false flattery. “Perhaps you’d like a stake in my next expedition,” Matthew offered. “Most recently, I’ve been to Guinea and the Ivory Coast, collecting exotic specimens for my buyers.”

  At the mention of African areas known to be hotbeds of illegal slave trafficking, Douglas’s interest perked up. Just what kind of trade was Matthew involved in, exactly?

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean by specimens,” Douglas attempted to sound only marginally curious and began pacing casually across the faded carpet beneath him. “Are these items that you sell at your shop? Inventory for your customers?”

  “Ah, yes, well I do bring uncommon pieces that fetch high prices at the shop, that’s true. But I think you know what other specimens I was referencing.” Matthew winked. “Come now, I couldn’t have made all my money from selling armoires and African knickknacks, could I?”

  Douglas stared silently at Matthew as he processed what the man was saying. Was this reprobate admitting, no, bragging, that he was involved in illegal slave trading? In addition to the unspeakable ways he had used his own niece, now this! Douglas’s every muscle began to burn with rage. He wanted to tear into the man and pull him apart bone by bone, but instead he clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain self-possessed. He would risk too much if he let his anger take control. Matthew Milton had a bigger debt to pay than would be satisfied by injuries from fisticuffs alone. This bastard needed something profoundly more devastating than a broken nose and a bit of internal bleeding.

  “This is something you just share with people? No fear I’d double-cross you and report you to the authorities? Why so confident in a person you haven’t seen in years?” Douglas asked.

  “Please,” Matthew waved his hand dismissively. “You’d be surprised by the ubiquitous nature of the trade that continues. What would they do—perhaps slap me on the wrist. It’s worth it for the profane quantities of money. The authorities simply turn a blind eye. Why forego an immense opportunity for profit? You understand.”