by Dorothy Love
“Don’ know. Tha’s a tall order these days.”
“Are any of Papa’s men still around?”
Trim shook his head. “When the Yankee gunboats come up the river back in sixty-two, Aleck and Hector and Henry run off up north with a bunch of slaves from Richmond Hill. Ain’t had no word of them this long time. Cinda and Molly run off back then too.”
“So I heard.” After the gunboats began their forays up the Waccamaw, Papa had moved her to her aunt Livinia’s small farm eighty miles away. But he had stayed on at Fairhaven until the last possible moment to prepare for Sherman’s arrival, leaving her and her aunt to manage the farm alone. Until then, her place in society had protected her from the rigors of manual labor. But the blockade and the predations of the Union army had left her no choice.
It hadn’t been easy. Aunt Lavinia was old and ill, and the bulk of the labor—planting, hoeing, laundry, and cooking—had fallen upon Charlotte’s sixteen-year-old shoulders. But surviving years of hardship had shown her what she was capable of. How much she could endure.
Trim swatted at a water bug buzzing around his head. “They’s a couple of Mast’ Fraser’s boatmen working down around Winyah these days. And his tailor come to our church las’ Sunday.”
“A tailor won’t do me a bit of good. What about Thomas? Papa said he was the best carpenter in the Lowcountry. He can fix my broken trunks.”
“Maybe. If I can find him.”
“Tell the field hands I’ll give them work on a contract and a share of the profits.”
“Yes’m. I’ll tell ’em. But I can’t make no guarantees. Mast’ Ben Allston over at Chicora Wood hired some freemen to plant his rice the year before las’, but the men run off. I reckon they’s plenty of black folks ’round here don’t want to set foot on nobody’s plantation. Not even this one.”
He crossed the wide lawn to the wagon and drove away.
Charlotte rummaged in a box to find her tea caddy and a china cup. She brewed tea in the battered pan and took her cup out to the porch. Shafts of golden light slanted through the dark pines, casting long shadows across the avenue and the weathered cypress-shingled roofs of the slave cabins. In years past the slave street had pulsed with the sound of many voices and the aromas of woodsmoke, fried fish, and boiling field peas. Children played among the ancient trees while their mothers, home from their tasks in the fields or the house, swapped stories as they tended their own gardens of corn, tomatoes, collards, and okra. To outsiders those evenings might have presented a picture of perfect harmony. But even at her tender age, Charlotte had realized that beneath the calm facade ran a complicated undercurrent of loyalty and betrayal, affection and hatred, resistance and accommodation.
Of course, none of it mattered now. Everything was in ruins, and the planters were on the verge of bankruptcy—scarcely better off than the former slaves.
She sipped her tea and watched a blood-red sun sink into the mellow spring evening. Sunlight rippled through the ancient oaks and pines, the gold turning to fiery red as the sun went down on the river. But the specter of poverty and ruin cast a pall over everything.
Everyone living on the Waccamaw and the Pee Dee—blacks and whites alike—depended on rice cultivation for their livelihood. If other planters couldn’t survive here, how on earth would she?
Three
Wearing a frayed poke bonnet she’d found hanging in the attic and a pair of her father’s old boots, Charlotte stood shin deep in the flooded rice fields. With Trim’s help and that of Thomas, she had managed to repair the rotted and broken trunks. Nine men with teams of oxen had plowed and trenched the fields and then planted twenty-five acres in seed that had been soaked and dried so it would float to the surface when the fields were flooded.
Yesterday at high tide Thomas and Trim had opened the trunks to flood the fields. In three days the men would return to drain the sprout flow. In the meantime, she had sent them to higher ground to plant potatoes, corn, collards, and peas.
She bent to rake a bit of trash from the water, her sore muscles protesting the unaccustomed activity. Every day she worked from sunrise until late afternoon, stopping only for a mid-morning breakfast of biscuits, bacon, and clabber. Day before yesterday she had dragged the wash kettle into the backyard at dawn, hauled water from the river, and made a fire to heat it. With a wooden paddle, she’d stirred lye soap into the hot water, laundered her petticoats and chemises, shirtwaists and skirts, sheets and tea towels, and spread it all on the back porch railing to dry. Now her hands were red and raw, her palms a mass of blisters from wielding the laundry paddle and the heavy rake.
And this was only the beginning. Once the rice germinated, the fields must be hoed and flooded twice more by the middle of July and the water changed when it became too stagnant.
The memory of the stench of standing water in the fields caused her nose to wrinkle. On a hot July day the fields stank worse than an outhouse. But by then she would be miles away on Pawley’s Island, within sight and sound of the ocean. Away from the foul-smelling fields and the threat of the fever that had claimed her mother’s life. Her hired men would be responsible for the hoeing, harvesting, and threshing. She would keep a close eye on everything, though, traveling by boat from the island to the fields just as her father had.
Voices sounded from the road. She left the fields, let down her skirts, and pushed through the garden gate, expecting to find the Hadleys waiting in the yard. In the six weeks since she’d returned to Fairhaven, Lettice and Charles had visited often, bringing eggs, milk, and the mail from Georgetown. Last week she’d received her first check from the New York Enterprise. Most of it would be set aside to retire her debt, but she intended to splurge on a few yards of linen fabric from Mr. Kaminski’s store. She wasn’t a skilled seamstress, but she could manage to cut and hem curtains. New curtains would make the house feel more like a real home.
“Is anybody here?” A small girl in a tattered dress held the hand of an even smaller one whose dirty face was streaked with tears. Both were barefoot and covered in angry red hatch marks, no doubt the result of a tangle with the briars and brambles that covered the riverbank.
Charlotte crossed the yard. “My goodness, what happened to you?”
“Our boat turned over,” the younger one said. “And we got lost.”
The older one, her cornflower-blue eyes wide, bobbed her head. “We wanted to surprise Papa. Now he’ll be mad that we lost the rowboat.”
Recalling her own childhood adventures on the broad, beautiful Waccamaw, Charlotte grinned. “I imagine he’ll be so happy you are safe that he won’t care at all about the boat.”
“Yes, he will,” the older one said. “He says we don’t have any money now that the war is lost, and we can’t afford to be wasteful.”
“I see. But there’s a good chance your boat will drift ashore somewhere and your papa can get it back.”
“Not if somebody else finds it first. It’s a really good boat.”
“Why don’t we go inside and get you cleaned up, and then we’ll see about getting word to your papa.” Charlotte bent to the older of the two. “What’s your name?”
“Marie-Claire,” the child said, with a French-accented roll of the r’s. “I’m nine. But my sister is only six. What’s your name?”
“Charlotte.” She turned to the younger. “And you are . . .”
“Anne-Louise,” said the younger girl. “How old are you?”
“Oh, I’m ancient. Nearly twenty-four.”
Anne-Louise giggled. “I’m hungry. Have you got any sweets?”
“No sweets, I’m afraid. But I have bread and butter. Will that do?”
Anne-Louise shrugged. “If that’s all you’ve got. But I’d rather have cake.”
Charlotte frowned. Where was the mother of these ragamuffins? And why had she not taught them better manners?
She led them into the house and helped them wash up before seating them at the kitchen table with plates of bread and butter. Sh
e put the kettle on for tea and took a cup from the cupboard. Through the window she saw two of the men she had hired cutting through the woods, hoes and rakes balanced on their shoulders, leading a skinny calf on a rope. Where on earth had it come from? And why had they abandoned their tasks in the garden?
She suddenly felt weary. Mr. Allston had been unable to win against the unwillingness of the freedmen. That she would have to fight them too, on top of her other difficulties, sapped her energy. She poured tea and carried it to the table, perching gingerly on the broken chair, which she had temporarily repaired with a board.
Marie-Claire finished her bread and butter, then picked up her plate and licked it clean.
Eyes wide, Anne-Louise reached over and yanked her sister’s dark braid. “I’m telling Papa you were naughty.”
“I don’t care.” Marie-Claire let her plate clatter onto the table. “I’ll tell him it was your idea to take the rowboat.”
“But it wasn’t!” The younger girl’s eyes filled.
“So? Papa believes anything I tell him. You know he does.”
“Young ladies.” Charlotte slapped her open palm on the table, rattling her teacup. “You will not behave this way while a guest in my house. Is that clear?”
“She started it,” Marie-Claire said. “She shouldn’t have pulled my hair.”
“You aren’t supposed to lick your plate,” her sister retorted. “Papa said so.”
The garden gate squeaked outside. Charlotte looked through the window to see Trim coming through, his hoe balanced on his shoulder. Leaving the sisters to their argument, Charlotte went to meet him in the yard. “Trim. I didn’t expect you to finish the planting so quickly.”
“Well, Miss Cha’lotte, tha’s just it. Mercury and Old Pete was feeling poorly and went off to home. Me and the rest got the corn and the collards planted, but we ain’t got the p’tatoes in yet.”
“Then why are you standing here? There’s plenty of time before dark.”
Trim leaned on his hoe and regarded her from beneath his hat brim. “Well, miss, when we signed the contrack, we thought Mercury and Old Pete would be helping. If we gots to do more work, then we gots to have more money.”
Of course they must be paid, but the thought of her dwindling bank account made her stomach clench. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. They won’t be sick forever, will they? Perhaps they will come back tomorrow and help you finish the job. Surely they’ll be back on Thursday to help drain the fields.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Reckon I’ll go on home myself, though. Florinda will have my dinner ready time I get there.”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. She might be young, but she was mistress of the plantation now, and it wouldn’t do to let anyone take advantage—not even Trim. “If you walk off this land now, do not come back. I must have men I can depend on. You and the others made a promise to me, and I expect each of you to keep it.”
A frown creased his brow. “You sayin’ I can’t come back to Fairhaven?”
“Not if you leave before the work day is finished. And what is more, I will tell every other planter on the Waccamaw that you are not a man of your word.”
Trim pressed his lips together, clearly torn, but he finally turned on his heel and headed back up the path to the potato patch.
She let out a shaky breath. Perhaps she had prevailed in this battle of wills, at least for today. “One more thing,” she called after him. “I want to know who owns that calf I saw being led through the woods just now.”
Trim spoke without turning around. “I ain’t the law.”
He disappeared into the trees as a horse and rig came down the road, the wheels churning sand in its wake. The driver halted the buggy, opened the front gate, and jogged up the avenue.
“I’m looking for two little girls, about so tall.” He held out one hand waist-high. “One is about—”
“They’re here,” Charlotte said. “Hungry and a bit untidy, but safe and sound.”
“Thank God.” His voice caught, and she saw how scared he’d been. “I shouldn’t have left them at home alone, but their governess quit last week, and I haven’t been able to find anyone suitable. Most of the good ones are employed in Charleston and have no wish for a life in the country.” He stopped suddenly and bowed slightly from the waist. “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. Nicholas Betancourt.”
She blushed as he took in her disheveled appearance and the toes of her father’s boots peeking from beneath the damp hem of her old calico skirt. An amused but not unkind smile played on his lips. His eyes were direct—friendly—yet she couldn’t help feeling there was something hidden in their moss-green depths. She smoothed her wrinkled skirts. “Charlotte Fraser. Please come in.”
She led him up the newly installed steps to the parlor.
“Papa!” Mr. Betancourt’s daughters rushed in from the kitchen and launched themselves at his legs.
“Papa, we were coming to surprise you, and we nearly drowned,” Anne-Louise said.
“Oh, we did not.” Marie-Claire tossed her head. “It’s true the boat turned over and we couldn’t set it to rights because of the current, but we were close to shore and waded out.”
Their father frowned at them. “You disobeyed me, and I am very disappointed. Especially in you, Marie-Claire. You’re the oldest. You should have known better.”
“But—”
“No excuses. Please go play in the yard for a moment.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Charlotte watched them go. “Don’t be too hard on them, Mr. Betancourt. Their motives were pure.”
“Perhaps, but I worry about Marie-Claire. She’s developed a defiant streak since their mother died.”
“I’m sorry.” Perhaps that accounted for the girls’ lack of manners. Now she regretted her unkind assessment of them. “I’m sure it can’t be easy, bringing them up by yourself.”
He leaned against the door frame, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “I’ve had some very good governesses since my wife’s death, but none of them stayed very long. And now that we’ve moved to Willowood, it’s proven even more difficult.”
He watched his small daughters playing near the piazza, his eyes alight with paternal love, and her heart stirred. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Betancourt?”
“I don’t want to trouble you any further. I appreciate your looking after my girls.”
“It was no trouble, truly. I’m afraid I had little to offer except bread and butter. Much to Anne-Louise’s dismay.”
He laughed and she noticed how attractive he was. “She is too fond of cake, I’m afraid.”
They went inside. Charlotte poured tea.
“I couldn’t help noticing your fields as I drove in,” he said. “Would it be unforgivably impolite to ask how many acres you’ve planted?”
“Only twenty-five—a fraction of what we planted when my father was alive.” She sipped her tea. “But now, with labor so scarce, even twenty-five seems too many.”
He stirred milk into his tea. “I suppose you heard Theo Frost went bankrupt last year.”
“Yes. Everyone is having labor problems, especially with the Federals overseeing the contracts. I’m having a hard time keeping my men on the job, though they’re due a share of the profits.” She couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice. “Thanks to the Yankees, nobody and nothing seems to count for anything.”
He wrapped both hands around his cup. “Perhaps things will improve for all of us next year. I’m eager to get my land under cultivation. As soon as I can get my inheritance sorted out.”
“You must be the one Josie Clifton told me about.”
“You know Miss Clifton?”
“We met aboard the Resolute last month, and she mentioned that an heir to Willowood had turned up.”
“That’s me.” He finished his tea and stood. “I should collect my children and go. We’ve overstayed our welcome as it is.”
“Not at all. I�
��m happy to have helped.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you in church on Sunday. I believe Mr. Glennie will be there.”
On more than one occasion, Lettice had encouraged Charlotte to resume attending church, but Charlotte had been too caught up with getting her rice planted on time to do more than read in her Psalter. She had even missed last Sunday’s Easter service, but it couldn’t be helped.
“I’ve been busy getting settled, but I plan to attend services this week. Mrs. Hadley says everyone enjoys Mr. Glennie’s sermons.”
Charlotte followed Mr. Betancourt to the door and waved as he drove out of the yard with his daughters.
Nicholas Betancourt was certainly an intriguing gentleman—and a rice planter like herself. It would be a comfort to have a neighbor to talk to, someone who shared her dream of reclaiming the life she had once enjoyed on the river. Especially now, when her home was in disrepair, her workers unreliable, and the blessings of the past too far away to be remembered.
Four
Church bells pealed as Charlotte arrived for services. A soft morning breeze beckoned her through the wrought-iron side gate and across a yard shaded by moss-draped oaks and cedar trees.
How long had it been since she had worshiped here with Papa? He had so admired the imposing brick edifice with its graceful pediment, tall porch columns, and generously sized windows.
“Charlotte, there you are.” Lettice Hadley hurried across the yard to greet her. “I wondered whether I’d see you today. I brought you some of the first strawberries from my garden. Remind me to get them from the rig after the service.”
“Thank you. I arrived here too late to plant any this year.” She glanced around for Mr. Hadley, but he was nowhere to be seen. “I’m happy to see you. I know it’s a long trip from Alder Hill, and it’s difficult for you to leave Mr. Hadley for very long.”
“He was feeling better this morning and encouraged me to come. I miss having our own minister every week, and Charles knows how much I enjoy hearing Mr. Glennie’s sermons.” She linked her arm through Charlotte’s. “I brought you a proper teakettle too. It’s a bit dented, I’m afraid, but it will do in a pinch. Tell me, is there any news as to when your household furnishings might arrive?”
