Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  “Soon, I hope. Augusta Milton was kind enough to store them for us after Papa sold the house. The lawyer is arranging for someone to bring them up on the Resolute as soon as Captain Arthur has room for everything. Not that there’s very much left.”

  “I’m sure it will be a comfort to have your mother’s things around you again.”

  Another horse and rig arrived, and Lettice turned. “There’s Josie Clifton.”

  The young woman Charlotte had met aboard the Resolute tethered her horse and crossed the yard, her pale blue skirt trailing across the grass, her hat aflutter in the spring breeze. She waved to Lettice, who responded with a deep frown.

  “I thought you were in mourning,” Lettice said.

  “Grandmother has been gone a year come May, and since Mr. Glennie will be here today, I decided to end my mourning early. I don’t think she will mind.”

  “Perhaps, but propriety demands—”

  “Oh, Lettice, forgive me, but these days no one cares one whit about propriety.” Josie smiled at Charlotte. “At least I don’t. Hello, Miss Fraser. Oh, there’s Mr. Glennie.”

  The minister, dignified in his worn black suit and clerical collar, greeted the small group of worshipers before hurrying inside.

  “We should go in,” Lettice said.

  Charlotte followed Lettice inside. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Theo Frost seated in the first pew and her heart squeezed. The Frosts and the Allstons, whose plantations lay along the Pee Dee River, were among Papa’s oldest friends. For most of her childhood, Mr. Allston had been president of the Winyah Indigo Society, a charitable organization that he and Papa supported for the education of the poor. On the day the society opened its meeting hall, she and Papa joined the procession to the Georgetown Masonic Hall to listen to a celebratory address. Children from the school gathered at the corner of Prince and Common Streets, where Mr. Frost handed out scholarships along with notebooks and peppermint candies. Now, like so many others, he moved beneath a shroud of loss, barely able to meet his own needs.

  Behind her someone giggled, and she turned her head to see Mr. Betancourt enter the church, holding his daughters by the hand. Marie-Claire, her hair in a thick braid adorned with a white ribbon that sat slightly askew, stared straight ahead, her expression sullen, but Anne-Louise grinned and waved to Charlotte as their father ushered them into a pew. He saw Charlotte then and bowed. She dipped her head in greeting as the opening hymn began.

  The minister, now robed in a white alb and stole, stood and pronounced the opening sentences, his rich voice reverberating in the space. “The Lord is in his holy temple . . .”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and relaxed into the familiar rhythm of the prayers, responses, and readings.

  “The psalm appointed for this day is Psalm 95.”

  Charlotte opened her Psalter to follow along. But her thoughts returned to a verse she’d read earlier in the week. She turned to it instead:

  O what great troubles and adversities has thou showed me! and yet didst thou turn and refresh me; yea, and broughtest me from the deep of the earth again.

  It was a powerful thought. She glanced around at the sea of somber faces and the many worshipers still dressed in mourning clothes. Surely everyone in the Lowcountry must be hoping for deliverance from the travails the war had thrust upon them.

  The air inside the church grew warm. Lettice and Josie took out their fans as the readings ended and the homily began.

  Charlotte dabbed at her forehead with her handkerchief. So much was at stake, and so much remained to be done. Easter had passed almost without her marking it. But by Christmas, if her meager furnishings arrived soon and if the rice crop was successful, Fairhaven might look like a real home again. Perhaps she’d place lighted candles in every window and cedar boughs above the door as her mother had done. Invite the neighbors for mulled cider and sweets. In her mind, she flipped the calendar forward to the day when her troubles would be over and she could laugh again.

  At last Mr. Glennie pronounced his blessing and led them in a final hymn, the notes lingering in the close, humid air. Charlotte rose and followed Lettice and Josie outside. While everyone waited to greet the minister, Charlotte excused herself to speak to Mr. Frost.

  His eyes, so pale a blue they seemed colorless, misted at the sight of her. “Dear Miss Fraser. I am deeply aggrieved at the loss of your father.”

  “Thank you. I miss him terribly, but I could not wish him back. His last months were unbearably painful.”

  “I’m sorry for that, and sorry I missed the funeral. I was in Washington and heard of his passing on my return.” He studied her intently. “What are you doing here? I assumed you’d take up residence in Charleston.”

  “I promised Papa I’d try to keep Fairhaven going. It meant more to him than anything. Besides, it’s all I have left, except for the summer house on Pawley’s.”

  Mr. Frost shook his head. “Noble sentiments, to be sure, but I must advise against it. I’m sure it’s no secret that I myself have lost nearly everything, and Ben Allston is not far behind. Stolen blind by those who once depended on us and decimated by last year’s storm, not to mention that prices have dropped to a disastrous level.” He shook his head. “How do you suppose a woman alone with no resources can hope to succeed when experienced men have not?”

  “I’m not completely inexperienced. I’ve worked alongside Papa all my life.”

  “Admirable, but not the same as being in charge on your own.”

  “Perhaps I will fail, but I must try.”

  He jammed his hat onto his head. “Stubborn as a mule, just like your father.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Frost.”

  With a curt nod, he headed for his rig and climbed inside. Lettice hurried over carrying a teakettle, a basket of strawberries, and a jar of cream. “Here you are.”

  “Cream? I can’t remember the last time I had any.” Charlotte popped a berry into her mouth and savored the explosion of sweetness on her tongue. “Oh, how I wish I could afford a cow.”

  “We have only one, but she produces more milk than Charles and I can use. You’re welcome to more if you can use it.”

  “Thank you, Lettice. I don’t know what I’d do without your kindness.”

  “It’s nothing. Now, I must speak to Mr. Glennie before I go.”

  “I suppose I should pay my respects as well.” Charlotte joined Lettice and Josie and a few others and took her turn greeting the minister.

  Mr. Betancourt emerged from the church, his daughters rushing along in front of him. “Miss Fraser.” He smiled down at her in a way that made her heart lurch. With his thick shock of dark hair and strong, even features, he was attractive as could be, but now was not the time to be distracted by sentimental feelings. Not when her future and the future of her plantation hung in the balance.

  “Mr. Betancourt. How are your daughters? No more close calls in the river, I hope.”

  “None. We recovered my boat, I’m happy to say, but I have forbidden Marie-Claire to take it out again until further notice. A restriction she finds most grievous, I’m afraid.”

  She watched Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise playing tag beneath the trees. “They must miss their mother.”

  An imperceptible nod of his head and then: “I was hoping to see you today. I have a great favor to ask.”

  “Oh?”

  “Perhaps it’s presumptuous of me, since we’ve only just met, but I’m in a most difficult situation, and I have no one else to turn to.”

  Josie Clifton hurried over, the satin ribbons on her hat dancing in the wind. “Mr. Betancourt.” She curtsied and offered her hand for a kiss. “How perfectly lovely to see you.”

  “Miss Clifton. You’re well, I trust.”

  “Just fine, sir. And better than ever to know we have such a dashing new neighbor on the Waccamaw. My mother says you must come to dinner very soon.”

  He flushed beneath his tan. “I’ll look forward to it.�
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  “Are those your children?” Josie asked. “I mean, they must be, since they were sitting with you during the service. Aren’t they just the most darling little things?”

  He laughed. “Well, yes, to me they are. But I suppose all fathers think their children are a cut above the rest.”

  “Well, they are darling. Simply darling.”

  Josie stood rooted to the spot and looked expectantly at the two of them. “Oh dear, I’ve intruded upon your conversation.”

  “Actually, I do have something to discuss with Miss Fraser. If you will excuse us?”

  “Oh. Well, certainly.” Josie smiled at Charlotte. “Will I see you at the Ladies’ Society meeting on Wednesday, Miss Fraser?”

  The prospect made Charlotte’s head pound. She’d never felt at home among the women who flitted like gilded butterflies from one social engagement to the next. Reared mostly among men, she’d never been much good at the small talk that was the lifeblood of such gatherings—who was engaged to whom, whose coconut pie was the most delicious, what so-and-so had worn to town last Saturday. “I’m not sure I can get away.”

  “Well, come if you can.” With a sweep of her new skirt, Josie turned and hurried to rejoin her mother.

  The minister left in his rig, and soon the churchyard was deserted. Mr. Betancourt eyed the basket of berries. “Those look good.”

  “Mrs. Hadley brought them. Would you like one?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He plucked a berry from the basket and ate it. “As I was saying, Miss Fraser, I am in a bit of a fix.”

  “I can well believe it. All of the Lowcountry is in trouble these days.”

  “I’m not speaking of Willowood, although my lands are as much in disarray as any.” He inclined his head toward the children who had abandoned their game of tag and were picking violets growing beside the gate. “It’s Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise that are of most concern to me.”

  “I see.”

  “Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to find anyone to teach them.”

  “Perhaps you should write to Mrs. Allston in Charleston. I understand she engaged a new French teacher for her school last year. Mademoiselle Le Prince. Girls from some of the best families in the city attend Mrs. Allston’s. I’m sure your daughters would get on well.”

  “No doubt. However, the tuition and boarding fees are quite steep, and Anne-Louise, especially, still mourns their mother. I’d rather they stay with me if possible.” He paused. “I was hoping you might tutor them. I can’t pay as much as I’d have to pay Mrs. Allston, but—”

  “I’m not a teacher, Mr. Betancourt, either by temperament or by training. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “But you are well educated and well read, judging by the books I noticed in your library the other day. And you treated the girls with great kindness when they appeared at your gate.”

  “I was happy to help. But I’ve a plantation of my own to run, and I know you’re aware of the many difficulties one faces these days in doing so.”

  He let out a long breath. “Then your answer is no.”

  “I’m afraid it must be.” The basket of berries and cream and the teapot grew heavy. She shifted the basket to her other arm. “Have you tried placing a notice in the Charleston Mercury?”

  “Twice. But nobody suitable applied.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He looked around. “I don’t see your rig.”

  “I haven’t one. I walked.”

  “Then you must allow me to drive you home.”

  “You are kind, but I don’t mind the walk, really.” She smiled. “Walking has a most salutary effect upon my constitution.”

  “I’ll say good day then.” Moving with the power and grace of a thoroughbred, he crossed the yard and collected his children. She popped another strawberry into her mouth and stepped through the churchyard gate in time to see his rig disappearing around the bend.

  To be certain, Nicholas Betancourt had his troubles, and she was not unsympathetic to his plight. Perhaps she should have tried harder to help him. But she was too beset by troubles of her own.

  Five

  Leaning heavily on her hoe handle, Charlotte pushed her bonnet to the back of her head and wiped her brow on a sleeve. All morning the sun had beaten down steady and hot. Now clouds were gathering over the sea, and the pleasant April breeze had turned to humid gusts. She shaded her eyes and looked toward the house, shining white in the distance, and to the empty road beyond. Trim had promised to come this morning with half a dozen men to help with the hoeing of the upland garden, but so far no one had appeared.

  She finished hoeing around the corn and went down to her rice field, her heart lifting at the sight of twenty-five acres of moist, dark brown soil dotted with shoots of tender green. Balancing her hoe on her shoulder, she jumped the quarter drains and crossed the narrow plank bridge over the deep ditch that encircled the perimeter of the field. If only reliable workers could be found, she could plant a second field, mill half the crop, and cure the rest for seed.

  She retraced her steps and followed the path to the house, her head pounding from the heat and humidity. Her empty stomach groaned.

  “Miss Cha’lotte.” Two young Negro boys, bare-chested and barefoot, pounded along the path, each of them carrying a string of perch. “You want to buy some fish? Make you a fine dinner.”

  “Yes, they would, but I’m afraid I can’t afford them. I suppose I must catch my own.”

  The taller of the two nodded. “Perch is bitin’ real good on the other side o’ the bridge—in that shady spot where that big tree went down last winter. All you got to do is throw your line in the water.”

  The creak of wagon wheels and the muted drumming of horses’ hooves on the sandy road drew her attention. “Perhaps I will. But for now I must see who is coming along the road.”

  The boys sprinted away, and she hurried along the path to the house.

  “Whoa.” A thin man in a threadbare wool suit, a felt hat pulled low across his face, halted a loaded wagon at the front gate.

  Charlotte ran down the avenue toward the road. Drawing closer to the wagon, she blinked and clapped a hand to her throat. “Alexander? Is that you?”

  “In the flesh.” He jumped lightly to the ground and took off his hat. “How are you, Cousin?”

  “Absolutely stunned at the moment. And terribly happy to see you. We’ve had not a single word from you since we heard you were missing at Gettysburg. We thought the worst.” Her voice wobbled. “After all this time, we’d given up on ever seeing your face again.”

  “There were times I felt like giving up too.” Her cousin leaned against the wagon. “After Gettysburg, I was held in the Yankee prison camp at Ft. Delaware.”

  “Ft. Delaware? I’m sure Uncle Harding must have inquired after you there.”

  “Maybe. It was a madhouse, especially when a sickness of one kind or another paid us a visit. Of course we all wrote letters home, but who knows whether any attempt was made to deliver—Easy there, girl.”

  Alexander reached out to calm his restless horse, a pretty cinnamon-colored mare with a white patch on her muzzle. “By the time I got out, the war had ended—and then I read in the newspapers about the ferry accident.” He shook his head. “During those last months at Ft. Delaware, it was the dream of seeing Ma and Pa again that kept me going. And they were already dead.”

  “We tried to find you, to let you know what had happened, but we never heard a word. And our letter to Fanny went unanswered as well.”

  “I should have come home then, but I—”

  “Yes, you should have.” Unexpected tears clogged her throat. “It wasn’t fair to let us think the worst. Where on earth have you been?”

  “After I located my sister in Philadelphia, I moved in with her and tried working at a factory there. But I couldn’t get used to the winters . . . or the attitude toward Southerners. Fanny is married to a Yankee from Ohio now and—”
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  “My word! Why didn’t she let us know you were alive?”

  He shrugged. “She has put the past and everyone in it out of her mind. It’s no excuse, I know, but that’s the truth. I should have written to you myself. I don’t know why I didn’t. I . . . maybe I was trying to run from the past as well.”

  “But if you do that,” she said softly, “you leave yourself behind.”

  “That’s what brought me home at last. I got to Charleston a few weeks ago and went to see the family lawyer. He told me Uncle Francis had died and you’d returned to the Waccamaw.”

  “Yes. Dear Mr. Crowley.” She leaned her hoe against the fence.

  “I was hoping something was left of Father’s holdings, but he died with hardly a dime to his name.” Alexander shook his head. “Mother tried to warn him against buying Aunt Emma’s place and her slaves, but he felt duty-bound to help her. Then the war came and he lost it all. But why am I telling you this? You know it well enough.”

  “Yes. Papa told me.” She stroked the horse and was rewarded with a soft snuffle. “At least I have the beach cottage. And Fairhaven . . . for the time being.”

  He frowned. “Did Uncle Francis leave you debt-ridden too?”

  “No, but Mr. Crowley can’t find any proof that we own Fairhaven.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course this land is yours. It’s been Fraser land forever.”

  “But I need papers that prove it. Do you suppose Uncle Harding left any records behind? Mr. Crowley said even a letter might do.”

  “I don’t think so, Charlotte. By the time I got home, the bank had taken everything to settle Father’s debts. All that was left was my mother’s wedding ring and a silver tea service.”

  “I see.” She let out a gusty sigh. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Without enough workers, this place may soon prove to be more than I can handle anyway. And Mr. Frost and Mr. Crowley are just waiting to say I told you so.”