Introduction

Seventeen-year-old Abigail Milton’s family has fallen destitute and sent her from England to America to ease their burden. She carries this loss—and a dark secret—with her.

Widowed Douglas Elling agrees to host Abby as a favor to her father. Douglas’s attempts to guide Abby rekindle his deeply buried hopes of improving people’s lives—and something in him awakens.

Set twenty years before the Civil War, and filled with authentic detail about The Underground Railroad and the Abolitionist movement, TROUBLE THE WATER is a memorable and moving debut novel about painful histories, new hopes, social change, and second chances.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER TWO

Charleston, South Carolina 1845

Abby glanced back from the pier toward the empty steamship, her face sticky with sweat and sea dreck, and she wondered again whether this journey hadn’t been a grand mistake. She despised Lancashire, but at least there, she wouldn’t have been trapped in this stifling Charleston heat, not knowing a soul. It was too late though, and there wasn’t any use in wishing that her foul bastard uncle hadn’t ruined her, ruined her plans, ruined her England. She edged her brow with her soiled sleeve and scanned the Harbor crowds once more, searching for her escort. She had been waiting nearly two hours, watching the crush of people swarming around her while her stomach grumbled for food. Probably it was safe to assume he wasn’t going to show. Her Da’ had sworn to her-- on his only good carving knife-- that Douglas Elling would receive her with generosity. She should risk this journey he had said, accept Elling’s charity, never minding that the man had returned only one of her father’s letters in nearly two years.

She had been foolish to hope that life would be any better for her here. Elling had paid for her passage as a first-cabin passenger aboard the ship, but it didn’t mean he was upright, just rich enough where the money was of no consequence to him. She was a foolish wench for expecting to find anything other than rot waiting here. Abby adjusted the twine in her dark hair, lifted her canvas bag and hopped off the fence where she had been perched. Best to figure something out already. What if no one arrived to collect her? Still wobbly from weeks on the water, she craved a proper bath and a hot cup of tea. Even a damp cloth to cool herself would have felt like extravagance.

Squinting through the harsh sunlight, she looked toward storefronts at the far end of the wharf. There were more Negroes in this crowd of people than she had seen in her life, as many black people as white, perhaps even more, everyone scurrying around with such purpose. Abby’s eye caught on a black fiddle player serenading the bustling stevedores, a rumpled cap by his feet waiting to catch coins. Every last person seemed to be hurrying about, and there were crowds everywhere. Abby wasn’t certain what she had expected of Charleston, but it wasn’t this, this pandemonium.

She felt the urge to shield her eyes from the brightness of the scene before her. She sensed herself disappearing into the sea of people, her worn grey dress rendering her nearly invisible against the women draped in vivid reds and oranges, the men with faces the color of coffee and peanuts, potatoes and milk. Her stomach growled again as she recalled her last meal, so many hours ago, as food stores ran low on the ship. She made her way through the thrumming crowd, consciously dodging eye contact with the men, whites and Negroes alike. She turned sideways to avoid bumping a dark-skinned woman who was laden with baskets in each hand.

She was looking for Elling Import & Export, but the only sign she could decipher from her distance read, “Auction & Negro Sales.” Close enough. Negroes were imported, or they had been in the past, she supposed. Maneuvering through the soupy air, she ignored the hooting peach sellers calling out about sweet juice and the fancy ladies lurking in nooks, pulling at the men passing by. She reached the auction office and peered inside the large picture window. The place was dark. There was a pile of chains sitting atop a cabinet in the corner, irons. Well haven’t we all got our own crosses to bear, she thought, as she straightened her spine and plodded on. She heard an excited yelp down the wharf and turned to see a dark woman running with glee toward a younger Negro man. The woman had dropped her baskets and was shouting chirpy robust words in a language Abby had never heard. As her arms reached out for the fellow, a white man kicked the woman to the ground. Abby felt a twinge, a rising of bile, but she forced the feeling down to that place inside her where she locked all her suffering. This voyage wasn’t about anything but her own survival.

She walked past two more office doors, neither of which seemed like they could belong to Douglas Elling, the man who was supposed to be her new patron saint.

“You lost, darling?” An older gentleman wearing a bow tie and carrying a folded satchel had appeared as if from nowhere.

“Could you tell me where to find the office of Elling Exports?” she asked, speaking for the first time since her arrival.

“That’s an easy one,” he answered in a gravelly Southern drawl. “Just three doors on that way.” He pointed a finger in the direction she had been walking. “A word to the wise, miss,” the lines in his mature face folded deeper, “you’re better off doing what business you’ve got somewhere else.” He tipped his hat and walked on.

Well, that was all well and good, but where, pray tell, could she go instead? She would not add to her parents’ burdens by failing to arrive where she’d been expected. Abby walked on, finding the correct door and pushing it open cautiously. Though the door had been unlocked, the office was empty. Scattered papers and pristine mahogany desks told her that the office was still in use, just unoccupied at present. There were only two or three hours remaining until it would grow dark. Perhaps she could spend the night here and hope someone helpful appeared in the morning. The leather chair in the corner was easily spacious enough to accommodate her for the night. Better than being left alone outside at the port all night. She could at least sit and remove her boots if nobody came.

But then she heard muffled voices and sounds of movement, likely from a cellar beneath her. She knew she ought to call out, let someone know she was there. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? She placed her bag down on the bulky chair, careful to keep quiet, and started for the cellar. She opened the first door she saw, but it revealed only a closet crowded with boxes. She moved to the door across the room and found again a closet, this one stocked with books and papers, inkpots and envelopes. She scanned the large room, turning about in a circle until she noticed a tall bookcase slightly askew from the wall, protruding at an inelegant angle. Peering behind the bookshelf, she saw the staircase for which she had been searching. It was like something from the books she had read as a child, when her life had allowed for luxuries like pleasure reading. This stairwell wasn’t meant for the public. Abby hardly counted as the public though, did she? Houseguest or charity case that she was.

She’d already waited long enough for the hallowed Mr. Elling to remember fetching her. Elling had been a childhood friend of her father’s. More like a much younger brother, her Da’ would say. But what really did they know about the man now? Only that his wife and daughter were long dead and that he’d become something of a bear ever since. The man had made arrangements for her in response to her father’s plea. But there wasn’t reason to credit any of it. She would not allow herself to be hunted again, not by bear or bastard.

Down the steps she went, doing her damnedest to step lightly so that she might catch a glimpse of what lay below her before she announced herself. Curse her factory boots and their clunky soles, made to withstand hours at the weaving loom, never minding how the foot inside felt about it. She managed to creep quietly, reaching the dim landing at bottom in time to make out several men crouching at the far side of the cellar. It was too dark to see clearly what they were doing. It looked as though one man was punching another repeatedly in the gut, but the rustling noises didn’t match the jolting action. She could hear hurried, hushed conversation, bits about haste and payments. She wondered if she wasn’t walking in on something illegal, gambling, or smuggled goods, which might make sense so near the waterfront. Wouldn’t it be just her luck to traverse the entire Atlantic only to find herself with a criminal for a guardian. She resented the word guardian, almost eighteen, as she was. She promised her parents she would endure this arrangement, though really, she was old enough to be on her own already, more weary than someone older too, more tattered. Presently, she simply wanted to determine where she would be spending her first night, and if she had to interrupt the gathering before her to do that, so be it. As she mustered her courage to call out, everything shifted abruptly before her eyes. There were suddenly only two people remaining in the cellar, as though the others had been consumed entirely by the far wall. Left before her were a large black man, wide as a bull, and a white man in business clothes, each with his back to her as they continued speaking in murmurs.

“Hello?” Abby finally called from where she stood on the bottom step.

Both men turned swiftly, clearly surprised they were not alone. The white man spoke first, his British accent immediately discernible.

“My apologies, young lady. Business is generally conducted on the main floor. If you’ll just return upstairs, we can help you momentarily.” He spoke professionally but walked toward her in apparent haste.

The fine cut of the man’s clothes told her that she had found Douglas Elling. She was disheartened to note his flagrantly neglected personal hygiene, obvious even in the dim light of the cellar. It was but one more detail that failed to bode well for his character. He had a ragged mane of dark overgrown hair spilling to his collar and a shocking abundance of facial hair. Just the sort of beard that would capture wayward tidbits of a meal, where they might remain lost for days. How appropriately fetid.

“I’m Abby. Abby Milton?” She hated herself for sounding timid. “I imagine you must be Douglas Elling.”

The man stopped as he neared her, where she still stood on the lowest riser, and looked at her blankly. Then as he squinted his eyes against the dull light, Abby saw understanding dawn. “Abigail?” He asked, sounding rather startled.

She nodded. “But, you’re here now? They said you were arriving on…” He trailed off, looking exasperated. “Oh, damn it. It was today, wasn’t it? Demett,” he looked toward his companion. “You were to collect her from the pier. I reminded Larissa last week but then forgot utterly to tell you. Well, Abigail, come on back up, and we will get you settled.” He studied her a moment longer.

“You do look like your mother then, don’t you?” He asked, his voice softening. She didn’t answer.

They climbed up to the main office, and Douglas motioned for Abby to sit on a corpulent armchair. She could see now that he was younger than he had appeared in the dark basement, and that his suit, which had looked fine from afar, was rather worn, and ill-fitting too, hanging loosely as though Douglas had once been a larger man. Even so, he had a broad commanding frame that Abby imagined would be useful in whatever illegal enterprise he was engaged. He looked at her blindly for a moment, as though he had forgotten who she was. She raised her eyebrows in challenge.

“I’m sorry,” he began, shaking his shaggy head and then moving to the larger desk in the room, shuffling papers about. “It’s been a busy afternoon with too many loose ends. Regardless, welcome to Charleston, then.” He was speaking quickly now. “I’m sorry we left you abandoned like that. Clever of you to find the office. Demett will carry you to the house so you can settle in. Just let him know where you’ve left your baggage.”

“I haven’t got any baggage. It’s just my sack.” She pointed to the canvas bag beside her.

“Oh. Right then.” His speech was still hurried, and Abby was unsure whether he was embarrassed by how little she had brought or if he simply wanted to be rid of her. “Well then, hop to. Off you both go.”

He had devoted under a minute to their conversation. It shouldn’t be surprising, his disinterest. He had agreed to host her only as a favor to her father, and now here she was expecting a lady’s welcome. Clearly it would be paramount for everyone if she stayed out of his way, remained invisible. Despite her parents’ promises of benevolence, she saw little advantage that could come from sharing a home with a grumbling widower. Her parents had also promised that advantages would flow from her uncle’s benevolence back in Wigan. They had exalted the man over and again, insisting that he was so charitable, providing so much for Abby, for her whole family. Well just look how that had turned out.

She thanked Douglas for his hospitality, but he was hurriedly stuffing papers into a large brown envelope, his focus already elsewhere. She looked to Demett, who was reaching for her withered sack.

“I’ve got it.” She snatched the bag from under him by its strap. She might be a charity case, but it wasn’t as though she was useless. She had usefulness in bloody spades.

Abby followed Demett in silence, walking through a backdoor of the office to a quiet alleyway where two horses were tethered in front of the waiting coach. Demett reached to help Abby into the carriage, and before she could stop herself, she recoiled from his calloused hand.

“Forgive me for intruding, Miss Abigail,” Demett lowered his outstretched arm, “but ain’t you never seen no colored folk before?”

“Of course I have,” Abby snapped back, even though her experience with blacks was decidedly limited. There were free blacks in Liverpool, but very few in Wigan, where her family had been living since her Da’s shop flooded. None had worked at the weaving mill where she’d been spending fourteen hours a day since she was ten years old. It was hardly Demett’s color that frightened her anyway. He was actually rather pleasing to look at with his glossy skin and straight white teeth, his hair only beginning to gray at the temples, but all men had the same nasty appetites, and it wasn’t possible to know which ones had cruel thoughts in their heads.

“I just don’t need anyone carrying my bag for me or helping me climb up a step,” Abby quipped as she squared her shoulders. “I can handle it just fine on my own. It’s how I’ve always done.” She climbed into the coach and fixed her eyes toward the opening of the alley, where she caught a glimpse of another horse-drawn carriage passing by, three ladies rooted inside with pastel parasols obscuring their faces.

“Oh, I see, Miss,” Demett answered. “You just want us all to know you ain’t nobody’s burden.”

Abby kept quiet, digesting Demett’s perspicacity.

“Well don’t you fret,” Demett continued cheerfully as he climbed up to the raised bench in front of her. “I just like to help people best I can. If helping you around the Elling estate means staying out of your way, I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Abby answered quietly to the back of his wooly head, now contrite. She turned her gaze toward the scenery as they emerged from the alley. The horses’ hooves clopping against the cobblestone would have been pleasant, like a musical accompaniment as she measured her new surroundings, if not for her nerves, her dread that here, it might only be worse.

As they drove into an area with fewer shops and more homes, Abby regarded the rows of residences, situated neatly together and right close to the street. There were tall houses of red, lavender, alabaster and pink, different colored shutters on them all. Some had porches wrapping around every floor, while others were protected by dark wrought-iron gates. Women came and went from the homes, perhaps to market, in the most impractical dresses. Hoop skirts double the size of what she remembered from Liverpool.

The carriage finally turned onto another, narrower, street, and Demett guided the horses into a tree-lined gravel drive. “Here we are, Miss.”

Abby’s breath hitched as she perceived the Elling estate. To call it large would hardly have done it justice. The stately home sat at the end of the circular drive, picturesque with a red brick exterior, shining arched windows and thick black shutters. It was just how she had pictured homes in the American South, only much, much larger. The home was framed by manicured Magnolia trees and bordered on its side by what Abby assumed was the stables. There had been many impressive homes along the short ride from the Harbor, but this one dwarfed them all.

Her family’s Wigan flat would have fit, in its entirety, on the front porch of this house. It was difficult to grasp that she had forsaken her pallet in the front room, the one she shared with her sister Gwendolyn, and often Charlie too, for a home such as this. Abby thought about what might be expected of her in exchange for her new housing and fought against the acid rising in her throat. She noticed that the far side of the home had a different look, with brighter bricks, as though it had been constructed only recently, added to the existing structure. What absurdity, she thought, that people with so much space, such amplitude, could feel obliged to add more.

Demett pulled to a halt near the front entrance and jumped off the carriage, reaching out his arm to assist Abby. She hesitated but then smiled politely and placed her hand on his bulky forearm for balance, noticing the dirt beneath her fingernails.

“You let me know if you need anything, Miss Abigail,” Demett told her in before leading her toward the main door. “You go on over to the front door and use the big knocker. Otherwise Larissa will never hear you. Normally it’d be Jasper, the butler, who opens the door, but he had to go off on something today.” Abby studied the hefty wooden door but did not move towards it.

“You’ll like Larissa.” Demett encouraged her. “She’s been waiting on your arrival ever since your father’s letter. You’re giving her something fine to do with herself again.” He nodded at her in farewell.

The brass knocker with its engraved E looked to cost more than her Mum earned in a whole year of laundering. A shame to use something so fine for banging on, Abby snorted and then banged three times. She waited but a moment before the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman of fading beauty and a man who appeared to be the butler, despite Demett’s assertions to the contrary.

“Abigail!” The woman seemed inordinately overjoyed. “You’ve finally arrived. You must be exhausted from your journey. I am Larissa, your governess, and this is Jasper, our butler.” The older gentleman nodded at Abby, confirming his identity.

As she showed Abby into the house, Larissa continued talking with refined enthusiasm. “You can’t know how thrilled we are to have you here. The staff, I mean. The house has been horribly quiet for the last two years, ever since the fire. It was coming time for me to take my leave from here already, until we found out about you, that is.” Larissa paused, studying Abby for a moment before adding, “Mr. Elling had given us the impression that a little girl was coming from England, but you are a clearly a mature young lady, not a child at all. Rather pretty, too, I suspect,” Larissa squinted. “Once you get past all the rags and dirt you’re wearing. Come, let me show you to your room.”

Stepping into the front hall, Abby was overcome by the opulence of the home. Never had she seen the likes of it. Not even when they lived in Liverpool, when they spent time with upper-class folk, when they might have been considered upper-class folk themselves. There was gold, mahogany, incandescence, everywhere. In the center of the home, leading up to floors above, was the most magnificent spiral staircase. The marbled stairs appeared to just kept winding upward, floating straight into the sky.

Larissa watched Abby’s eyes growing wide and told her they would have a grand tour in the morning. Except, the woman added, they would not venture into the east wing, as Mr. Elling had closed off that part of the home after the fire, though he first completely refurbished it. Abby realized that the repaired wing must have been the newer construction she had judged harshly outside a few moments earlier. She knew little about the deaths of Sarah and Cherish Elling, only that they perished by fire.

Abby’s parents had insisted that she was helping Mr. Elling as much as he was assisting her. He could use youthful energy in his home they had said, just as she needed a roof to sleep under and suppers that included more than broth. After her last tantrum, they declared it was the only suitable solution. She could not stay in Lancashire continuing to claw at her own skin. Never mind what percentage of the family coffers she filled, with many mouths to feed and endless debt, it wasn’t enough.

If only she could have told her parents about uncle Matthew, but he had threatened and threatened. She had long since determined that feeding her siblings was worth more than her innocence. But then she had been unable to control her actions at home after each of the afternoons she spent with him. The rage she felt in the aftermath of Matthew’s attentions would come at her in violent bursts, and she had no place to stow it. Instead, her anger would seep out, soiling everything.

It was no wonder her parents wanted to be rid of her. Mr. Elling didn’t seem to want her much either. Well, so be it. Abby had decided during her passage over the Atlantic that it was time to start looking out for herself. She would learn from her governess’ teaching until her eighteenth birthday. Then she would find a new path, perhaps become a governess herself. She would go far away and evaporate, where she would never again be a burden or a victim, nor have to think about her squalor, the filthy memories that she would never escape.

But this house, she reflected with growing enthusiasm, this house was an exploit in itself. Abby thought to write to her sister and tell her of all the elegant details, adornments that would have captivated Gwendolyn, except that such a list would have also rendered the girl mad with envy. Abby worried for her sister, left behind so near Matthew’s clutches, and she wished anew that her parents had sent Gwen instead. Yet it was Abby who was here, with the banister beneath her hand, as smooth as blown glass, supporting her burdens as she followed Larissa up the stairs. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Discuss how parents are portrayed in this novel
2. How do friends and friendship define this story?
3. Secrets play a determining role in the lives of key characters. Discuss.
4. Why do you think Friedland chose the title of the book? How does it relate to the story as a whole?
5. Most readers want Abby to succeed. What is it that makes her so compelling?
6. The ending a surprise. Did you see it coming? What do you foresee for the boys?

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