Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  “At least you’ll be more comfortable in the meantime.” He swept a hand toward the loaded wagon. “I brought your things from Charleston. Mrs. Milton sends her regards.”

  “Oh, I am delighted. I’ve been making do with odds and ends, camping here with the barest of necessities and relying upon Mrs. Hadley for milk and cream.” She peered into the wagon. “I don’t suppose you’ve a cow in there?”

  “Afraid not. But there are rugs and bedding and winter curtains, plus your mother’s walnut dresser and a few chairs.”

  “And Mama’s china? I don’t expect I’ll be giving any fancy parties anytime soon, but I want it just the same.”

  “It’s all here, assuming it didn’t get broken on the trip. We hit some rough water just before we reached Winyah.” He cast an eye to the lowering clouds and climbed onto the wagon. “We’d better get all this inside.”

  She opened the gate and Alexander drove up the long avenue to the house. While Charlotte rummaged in her pantry for something to eat, he unloaded trunks and crates and dish barrels.

  She served tea and bread with honey and a few slices of bacon Mrs. Hadley had brought. Alexander buttered a slice of bread and drizzled it with honey. “Mr. Crowley said you are writing articles for some Yankee newspaper.”

  “Yes. The New York Enterprise. It doesn’t pay much, but I hope it will help retire my debt to the bank this winter. Next year I’ll have enough seed of my own and won’t have the expense of buying it.”

  “But you’ll still have the expense of hiring workers.”

  “True.”

  He ate a piece of bacon and sipped his tea. “Is there anyone you can rely upon?”

  “Sadly, no—unless you’d like to stay. Perhaps the workers will more readily respond to a man overseeing them than they do to me.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Why not? I think it’s a wonderful idea. You need a home, and I need help. And there’s still time to plant more rice.”

  “Are the floodgates in repair?” He helped himself to another cup of tea.

  “Only the trunks in the field I’ve already planted. But Thomas—”

  “Even if we could get them fixed in time, there’s still the plowing and raking out to be done. We couldn’t possibly plant until the end of May, and then what would be the point? The maybirds would eat it all before it had a chance to mature.”

  She brushed away the hot tears stinging her eyes. “I see. You don’t want to help me.”

  “Charlotte.” He set down his cup. “I will admit I made a mess of the situation by keeping silent for so long and letting you think I was dead. But I brought your things, didn’t I? And at my own expense too.”

  “Thank you. I don’t intend to seem ungrateful.” She stirred her tea and watched it swirl in the cup. “I didn’t think it would be this difficult. I thought the Negroes would be happy to work here, especially those who belonged to Papa. Before the war they seemed to take such pride in their work. But now it seems there is little I can count on.”

  Alexander nodded and munched another slice of bacon.

  “Remember how Papa gave prizes every year for the best hoe hand and the best plough man, the best thresher?”

  “I do.”

  “Trim was nearly always declared the best hoe hand. But now he comes and goes like the wind. He readily acknowledges that he signed a contract, but he always finds reasons not to honor it.”

  “There is no shame in admitting that you made a mistake in coming back here.” Alexander pushed away his empty plate and swatted at a fly buzzing about his head. “Mr. Crowley says anyone who tries to grow rice these days is a fool.”

  “Yes. He said as much to me as well. But I promised Papa. I can’t quit now. It would feel like the worst kind of betrayal.”

  “I know, but Uncle Francis couldn’t have known what it would be like. Maybe the lawyer is right and you should close up this house and move back to Charleston.”

  “And do what? Take in sewing? Work in a shop?”

  “There are worse fates.”

  “Name one.”

  “Wasting your beauty and youth on some vanished dream. Your father wouldn’t want that, no matter how much he loved this place.”

  “I made a promise.”

  He sighed and got to his feet. “You’re just like Uncle Francis.”

  “You’re the second person to tell me that.” She rose and cleared the table. “Mr. Frost said the same thing at church a couple of weeks ago. He seemed almost angry with me for even trying to restore this place.”

  Alexander leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m leaving you the wagon and the horse, if you’ll drive me back to Georgetown.”

  “Of course I will, but won’t you need them yourself?”

  “I’m leaving next week for Atlanta, for a job in a bank there. I’m taking a room in town. A horse and wagon would be an extra expense I can ill afford.”

  “I see. I wish I could afford to pay you for them, but—”

  “It’s all right. The fellow who sold them to me in Georgetown this morning gave me a good price. He’s giving up on farming himself and heading back to civilization.” He glanced out the window. “I should get going.”

  “So soon?” Charlotte came to stand beside him at the window. The sun had disappeared behind a thick cloud that cast a dark shadow over the garden.

  “I’m afraid so. Captain Arthur is expecting heavy seas and wants to get underway as soon as possible in the morning.”

  “Wait while I change my dress.”

  Half an hour later, with Alexander at the reins, they set off for Georgetown. As the horse trotted down the shady road, Alexander kept up a steady stream of conversation about his new position, the new buildings going up all over Atlanta, and a certain young woman he had been introduced to upon his first visit. All too soon they reached Georgetown and the landing where the Resolute waited.

  Alexander pressed his calling card into her hand. “Do write to me, Cousin, and tell me how you are getting on.”

  “I will.” She caught his face in her hands. “I still can’t believe you’re alive and well. If only your parents—”

  His brown eyes went bright with tears. “Yes. I wish they knew I came through the war all right.”

  He reached inside his pocket for his ticket. “I should go aboard. For what it’s worth, I do hope you succeed. Uncle Francis always said you could be the best planter on the Waccamaw—besides himself, of course.”

  She clasped his hand. “Come to Pawley’s this summer. I’ll be there by early June. It’ll be like old times when we were children.”

  “I can’t promise. We’ll see.” He started up the gangplank, then turned back. “Oh. I found your daddy’s old pistol in the bottom of one of the packing crates. I hid it in the woodbox behind the stove, in case you need it.”

  Papa had taught her to handle a pistol, setting up targets on an old log across the river. But she couldn’t imagine ever actually having to use it.

  The wind picked up, ruffling the water. Alexander clamped his hat to his head. “You’d better go on home before the storm hits. Write to me, Charlotte.”

  With a final wave, he hurried onto the Resolute. Feeling more alone than ever, she glanced at the darkening sky and turned her new horse and wagon toward home.

  Yesterday a dear cousin I assumed was lost in the war came to Fairhaven bearing the pitiful, long-hidden remains of my father’s household: a few pictures and rugs, my mother’s curtains stowed in muslin bags, some odds and ends of furniture, and china meant for dinner parties I will never give. Still it is a comfort to have those few possessions that by clever concealment survived the Union army’s destruction.

  On the way home from the steamboat landing in Georgetown, driving the unwieldy wagon hitched to an unfamiliar little mare I have named Cinnamon, I raced against a storm that was both frightening and thrilling. Passing a friend’s house, I saw several cattle standing in the road, their heads bowed against the rain, and
the loose limbs of trees flying past. At the ferry that would take me across the Waccamaw, the horse shied as the flatboat dipped and slid against the current. For a moment I feared she would bolt, but one of the boatmen stood close by her as we were propelled from the riverbank, and she quieted.

  By the time I reached home, the sky was black as pitch and the wind was rattling every door and window in this old house. About midnight, with the storm still raging, I lit a lamp and went up to bed, but the roar of wind through the trees, the sound of breaking branches sharp as rifle fire, and my worry about my rice field rendered sleep elusive.

  Now it is afternoon. The sky is gloomy and dark, and trees are down across the avenue. This morning I ventured out to check on my new horse. Lacking a proper barn for her, I had left her in the leaky shed that stands behind the remains of the smokehouse. She seemed none the worse, but I rubbed her dry and led her down to the old pasture, where she seemed quite content to crop the new grass.

  I took a walk about Fairhaven to assess the damage: some uprooted trees, a twisted section of fence. Loose shutters at the windows along the piazza. The tender shoots of my corn crop are torn and tangled. I hadn’t the heart to check on my rice field. I fear the worst.

  Charlotte blotted the pages and set them aside for mailing to the New York Enterprise. When the teakettle shrieked, she went out to the kitchen, spooned tea leaves into the pot, and added the boiling water. While the tea brewed, she sliced a pear Alexander had brought and rummaged in the pantry for bread and honey, her thoughts swirling like the river current. She needed hay and oats and a proper barn for the horse. Nails for repairing the shutters and the fence. Sugar and salt. A couple of chickens and a cow—she couldn’t depend upon Lettice’s generosity forever. And all of it would cost money. Perhaps all the naysayers were right and she had taken on more than she could manage.

  Something tapped against the windowpane. She looked up to find a bedraggled peacock pecking at his reflection in the glass. Inexplicably tears stung her eyes. She willed them away. When faced with the impossible, of what use were tears?

  Six

  The wagon rattled along the rutted avenue leading to Willowood. The redbrick Georgian-style house sat nestled in a grove of pine trees that cast ever-changing patterns of light across the gray slate roof. Approaching the front entrance, Charlotte noticed cracked windows and peeling paint, burned-out storage buildings and neglected gardens. A rain-soaked rag doll lay in the muddy yard. Clearly Mr. Betancourt’s plantation had fared no better than hers.

  A dog barked, and Marie-Claire appeared from the side yard, a basket of clothes balanced on one hip. The wary expression in her eyes made her seem far older than her years.

  Charlotte reined in, climbed down from the wagon seat, and straightened her hat. “Good morning, Marie-Claire. Is your father home?”

  “He’s in the library, but I wouldn’t disturb him if I were you. He’s cross as an old bear.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  The child shrugged. “Every time he gets a letter from New Orleans, he’s grumpy for days.”

  “That’s too bad. May I go in?”

  “Suit yourself. He told me and Anne-Louise not to make any noise because he’s too busy trying to think. So we’re doing the wash.” She shifted her basket to her other hip. “Tamar was supposed to do it, but she isn’t here yet.”

  “Perhaps she couldn’t get here because of the storm. Quite a few trees blew down, and the road is still blocked in places. I had quite a time of it my—”

  “Marie-Claire, where have you been?” Anne-Louise pounded across the yard, a scowl on her face. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  Charlotte bent down to the younger girl. “Hello. Do you remember me?”

  The child nodded. “Papa said he wanted you to teach us but you wouldn’t.”

  The door opened and Mr. Betancourt, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows, emerged onto the piazza. “Miss Fraser. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I told her you were busy,” Marie-Claire said to her father. “Don’t blame me.”

  The sisters hurried away, the laundry basket bumping between them.

  He smiled. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. She’s cross these days, but then so am I.”

  “I’ve come at a bad time. Perhaps I should go.”

  “Not at all. I’m in the middle of some correspondence, but it can wait. May I offer you something to drink? Tea perhaps?”

  “Tea would be lovely if it’s no trouble.”

  “I’d welcome a distraction.”

  He ushered her into a wide foyer with polished pine floors and an elaborate crystal chandelier and then into a book-lined parlor furnished with delicate chairs, needlepoint footstools, and mahogany side tables. On the floor beneath the window, a violin rested in an open case. A pair of silver candlesticks graced the fireplace mantel, above which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman wearing a crimson gown and an ermine wrap. Charlotte took it all in, feeling that somehow she had stepped back in time. How had such lovely things escaped the marauding Yankees’ notice?

  As if reading her thoughts he said, “I shipped these here from New Orleans after Christmas. If there was anything good about being occupied so early in the war, it’s that people came out of it with most of their possessions intact.” He indicated the portrait above the mantel. “My wife, Gabrielle. This was painted in New Orleans the year we were married. It was her wedding gift to me.”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Yes. She was quite a beauty.” His voice as he studied the portrait was laced with pain that reminded her of her own wrenching loss.

  The moment passed. He indicated a chair by the window. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m without any help today. Mrs. Hadley recommended Tamar, who appeared eager for steady work, but it seems she’s often delayed of late.”

  “I remember her,” Charlotte said. “When I was young and visiting Mrs. Hadley with my mother, Tamar occasionally accompanied her mistress to Alder Hill. Tamar was beautiful in those days. I thought she was brave too.”

  His brows went up. “How so?”

  “She made no secret of her wish to hire out as a seamstress in Georgetown in order to save enough to purchase her freedom and that of her infant son. I’m sure a lot of slaves dreamed that same dream, but I doubt many of them were bold enough to say so.”

  “And was she successful?”

  “I don’t know. After my mother died, I was mostly away at school or with my father. But at any rate, she’s free now.”

  “Yes, and she’s a wonderful housekeeper—when she’s here.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Luckily I do know how to boil water. I won’t be long.”

  She picked up a slender volume of poetry lying on the side table and thumbed the pages, reading random passages. A gentle breeze, fragrant with spring, drifted through the open window and ruffled the pages.

  Soon Mr. Betancourt returned carrying a tray laden with pink china cups, a matching teapot, and a plate of crackers, each one topped with a strawberry and a dollop of cream. He set down the tray and dropped into the chair next to hers, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Tamar brought a few strawberries yesterday. I believe you’re fond of them.”

  Charlotte found herself reveling in the moment. For years she had nursed her father, kept their house, and wrestled with their accounts. Before that she had labored on Aunt Lavinia’s farm. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had taken care of her. “How kind of you to remember.”

  “I remember everything about you, Miss Fraser.”

  Her cheeks warmed beneath his approving smile. “Did you enjoy living in New Orleans, Mr. Betancourt?”

  He poured tea and handed her a cup. “For a time. It is a volatile place now.” He regarded her over the top of his cup. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Once, just before we had to abandon the Waccamaw. A business trip with my father.”

  She remembered the city as a
place of strange beauty and mystery that left her feeling unnerved. From the wrought-iron balcony of their hotel on St. Charles Avenue, she’d watched the changing drama in the street below. Dark-haired Creole girls hawked baskets of tomatoes. Nattily dressed cotton and rice brokers hurried toward the distant quay. A copper-skinned woman dressed in pink satin sold pralines and bonbons from a painted wooden cart.

  On an afternoon carriage ride with her father, she drank in the beauty of magnolias and oleanders and rattling palms growing in secret gated gardens. She remembered a pair of nuns standing in the dim interior of a church and the faint scents of wine and incense wafting from the open doorway. The crowded wharves shifting and creaking beneath the weight of cargo, men, and horses. The odors of fish, tobacco, and burning sugar. At night the soft laughter of olive-skinned women promenading along the banquette rose into the humid air.

  Even at seventeen she had sensed that beneath the city’s genteel surface ran a current of tension that left her feeling on edge. No doubt the city was even more unsettling these days, with the Federals in charge.

  Mr. Betancourt set down his cup and relaxed into his chair. “What brings you to Willowood?”

  She liked his directness. She’d rehearsed her answer, but as she looked into his eyes, memory deserted her. She set down her cup. “Simply put, I lost my corn crop in the storm, and the sea tide ruined half my rice field.”

  “I see. Can you replant?”

  “Perhaps. But to be perfectly frank, Mr. Betancourt, I have taxes to pay and a bank loan coming due this autumn, and replanting will mean more labor costs as well. I need more money than I can possibly earn writing for the newspaper.”

  “You’ve come for a loan, then.” He poured more tea.

  “A—oh no, I wouldn’t presume to ask such a favor. I came to ask whether the position as tutor for your daughters is still open.”

  “But you were quite clear that it was not a job for which you feel qualified.”

  “That’s true. I don’t. But I have written out a proposed curriculum that I am willing to try on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if it proves satisfactory . . .” She handed him a sheet of paper from her reticule.