by Dorothy Love
He studied it briefly and set it aside. “I’m quite sure you will get on splendidly. And in any case, the situation is temporary. As soon as my affairs are sorted out, I’ll enroll the girls in a proper boarding school, just as you recommended.”
“Are you saying yes?”
“If I can afford your services. Would ten dollars a month be agreeable?”
“Ten dollars a—”
“It isn’t nearly what you’re worth, but as you said the other day, hard times have befallen us all.”
“I was about to say that ten dollars is perfectly agreeable. More than I dared hope for, really. I’m grateful for your kindness.”
“I am learning that poverty is a true test of civility,” he said. For a long moment their eyes met, understanding sparking between them. At last he smiled. “Perhaps it can also be a cornerstone of friendship.”
He picked up his violin and began polishing the wood with a bit of red flannel. “My wife couldn’t bear the hardships of the war. She missed her fashions and her entertainments. I am fortunate that my own favorite pastimes are without cost. My music, for instance.”
He lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, filling the parlor with lush, sweet notes that pierced her heart. She closed her eyes as the music, blended with the birdsong coming through the window, poured out.
He finished on a rich, low note that lingered in the air and left her wishing for another respite from her many troubles. “That was lovely.”
“I’m hardly more than an amateur, but the girls enjoy hearing me play.”
The mention of his daughters brought her back to reality. Suppose her efforts to teach them failed? Perhaps she had too readily agreed to his plan. Perhaps she should reconsider.
“I know they will be delighted to return to their lessons. When can you start?” He returned his violin to its case and fixed her with his calm, expectant gaze. Clearly it was too late to withdraw from their agreement.
“I’ll need a week or so to order some books from Charleston, but we can start without them. What about this coming Tuesday?”
“Excellent.”
They rose, and she offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Betancourt. I shall try my best to be a good teacher.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. And I’m grateful to you for taking us on. My daughters need the steadying presence of a woman in their lives.”
She glanced at the magnificent portrait above the mantel. “I lost my own mother at an early age. I know how your daughters must miss her, and how dearly she must have loved them.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “My wife had many lovely qualities my children were too young to fully appreciate.”
He walked her out and boosted her onto the wagon seat. “We’ll see you soon.”
Charlotte turned the wagon onto the sandy road. Now that her mission had proved successful, she was assailed with doubt. What on earth had possessed her to suggest such a scheme? What did she know about teaching? Her own schooling was a distant memory of endless days of ciphering, writing essays, and reciting poetry in halting French beneath Madame Giraud’s unforgiving eye. An indifferent student, she had cared more for planting rice, riding her father’s blooded horses, and reading her own cache of books.
At a bend in the road she came upon a couple of Negro men working to clear the fallen trees still littering the landscape. She acknowledged their doffed hats with a slight nod, rounded a final bend, and drove up the long avenue to Fairhaven. She unhitched Cinnamon and tethered her to an old laurel tree in the yard. It was not yet noon. Perhaps there was time to write out her order for books and take it into Georgetown for delivery to Charleston.
A rig rattled up the avenue from the road and came to a stop in the yard. Charles Hadley peered out. “Miss Fraser. Good morning.”
“Mr. Hadley. What brings you out this way?”
He climbed out of the rig and lifted a basket from the seat. “Lettice sent you some eggs. And more strawberries.”
“How kind, but you didn’t have to make a special trip.” She studied the man from beneath her hat brim. He seemed perfectly fine this morning—his brown beard neatly trimmed, a fresh linen shirt tucked into a pair of woolen trousers. Perhaps the demons that plagued him had been vanquished after all. What a blessing that would be for him and for his long-suffering wife. “I plan to buy a couple of chickens soon and save you the trouble.”
“No trouble, I assure you. I was coming this way anyhow—to talk to John Clifton and to that fellow up at Willowood.”
“Mr. Betancourt?”
“That’s him. The contracts the Federals are making with the Negroes aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, so I’ve hired a foreman to gather up a crew and help oversee an early June planting. It’s a risk, of course, planting later in the season, but if we have a long summer we might be all right. I thought Clifton and Betancourt might want to get in on it.”
She shifted the egg basket to her other arm. Ideally, planting was finished by early May. But perhaps Mr. Hadley was right and a delayed crop was worth the risk. “I can’t speak for them, but I myself am interested. I’m down to half a corn crop and half a rice field at present, but if I had dependable workers, I might be able to sow another field.”
Hands on hips, he studied her face. “I don’t mean to pry, but begging your pardon, how do you plan on paying them? Lettice said you’re writing up little pieces for some Yankee newspaper to bring in extra cash.”
“That’s true. But I’m tutoring the Betancourt girls as well, and I have money from my bank loan still available. I’ve lived as frugally as possible.” She indicated the egg basket. “And your generosity is most appreciated.”
Mr. Hadley took off his hat and blotted his face with a large, starched handkerchief. “If you want my opinion, you ought to give up on this place and go on back to Charleston. Half the planters in the county have already set off to California and such. I hear Ben Allston is thinking of going to Texas.” He shrugged. “You’re smart and just as determined as your daddy was, and they are fine qualities. But the Lowcountry will never be what it was.”
“Thank you for your opinion. Will you allow me to participate in the hiring of the men or not?”
“If Clifton and Betancourt don’t object, I don’t reckon I will either.” He sent her a half smile. “Besides, my wife would have my hide if I tried to stop you. She thought the world of your mama.”
He settled himself in his rig. “The missus says to tell you she’s planning a dinner for next Friday evening. Six o’clock. It’s her birthday. We know you’re still in mourning, but it seems the old customs don’t count for much anymore.”
Charlotte thought of Josie Clifton’s showing up at church in a new spring frock before her year of mourning was up. Mr. Hadley was right. The old rules meant little in this strange new world.
“Lettice has invited everybody on the Waccamaw and the Pee Dee too,” Mr. Hadley continued. “Leastways it seems so.”
Charlotte nodded slowly. She’d spent the last two years of her father’s life watching his slow decline and mourning his approaching death. Weeks ago the prospect of dressing up and attending a party would have filled her with overwhelming guilt, but she was beginning to see things differently. Perhaps attending a small private gathering of her oldest friends was something she could do for Papa, to prove she was capable of the task he’d set for her. “A birthday celebration sounds lovely. It’s too quiet around here these days.”
Mr. Hadley stuffed his handkerchief into his shirt pocket and gazed toward the river, seemingly lost in thought. “She thinks she can turn back time and make things like they used to be.”
“I suppose we all long for happier days, Mr. Hadley. But perhaps we should indeed take up a social life again now that we’re through with the war.”
“We may be finished with the war, but it isn’t finished with me.”
She recalled the darkened rooms at Alder Hill, Lettice’s anxious face and descriptions of h
er husband’s lightning-quick shifts in mood. “My father often said that even adversity is not without its comforts and hopes.”
“Huh.” He picked up the reins. “The foreman’s name is Jeremiah Finch. Got here the day before yesterday—walked all the way from North Carolina. I’ll send him on by here to talk to you directly.”
“Thank you. And, Mr. Hadley, would it be too much trouble to stop by here on your way back from Willowood? I’ve need of some books from Charleston. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to deliver my letter to Georgetown for posting?”
“No trouble. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“And please tell Lettice I’m looking forward to seeing her on Friday evening.”
“I’ll tell her.” He clicked his tongue to the horse and drove away.
Seven
Look, Ma’m’selle, I did it.” Anne-Louise crossed the shady piazza and thrust a damp paper into Charlotte’s hands. “I figured out how many pints in a quart—all by myself.”
Charlotte set down her pen and studied the paper. “That’s very good. I’m proud of you.”
The little girl beamed. “May I please play in the water tub a while longer?”
“I suppose so—until your sister finishes her sums.” Charlotte glanced toward the open French doors at the opposite end of the piazza, where Marie-Claire had repaired with her book and papers. “But please try not to get your skirts any more soaked than they already are.”
Anne-Louise returned to the wooden tub Charlotte had filled with water this morning. She had provided the girl with a set of measuring cups purchased in Georgetown and left her to discover on her own the relationship of cups to pints and quarts. She hoped her approach would prove more enjoyable to both girls than rote memorization and improve the older one’s attitude. But so far neither the water tub experiments nor the walk they had taken to sketch the herons on the creek had had the desired effect on Marie-Claire. The girl seemed determined to remain unhappy.
A breeze sent her papers fluttering to the floor, and Anne-Louise ran over to help her collect them. “Is it time for tea?” the child asked. “I’m hungry.”
“In a minute. I want to finish this piece before—”
“Hello?” A wagon had halted down at the gate. A thin, wiry man stood beside it, staring up at the house.
“Who’s that?” Anne-Louise slipped her hand into Charlotte’s.
“I don’t know. Wait here with your sister.”
Charlotte went down the steps and hurried down the avenue to the gate.
The man spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Miz Fraser?”
“Yes?”
“Name’s Jeremiah Finch. I reckon Mr. Hadley over at Alder Hill mighta told you ’bout me.”
“He did, and I’m interested in speaking with you about planting another of my rice fields. But I’m afraid you’ve come at an inopportune time.” She swept a hand toward the piazza. “My pupils are here until two o’clock. Would it be possible for you to call again later this afternoon?”
“Listen, ma’am, I walked here clear from North Carolina to get work, and I spent the last week workin’ on Mr. Hadley’s place and tryin’ to round up a decent number of workers I can count on. That in itself is no small job.”
“Yes, Mr. Hadley told me. He says—”
“And then that high and mighty Yankee who has appointed himself the king of Georgetown come by this morning to tell me I can’t make a contract with the blacks without his say-so.” He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “On top of that, from what I hear, most of the plantin’ season is actually gone. I don’t have time to be makin’ extra trips on account of you bein’ too busy to talk to me.”
She sighed. “Very well. Wait while I fetch the children, and I’ll show you the field I have in mind.”
He nodded and spat another stream of tobacco juice.
She returned to the house for her hat and gloves, rounded up the girls, and met Mr. Finch at the gate. They walked the short distance to the dock where her small rowboat was tethered. They climbed inside, and Mr. Finch took the oars. “Which way, ma’am?”
She pointed. “Three miles downriver.”
He steered the boat into the middle of the river. Anne-Louise kept up a constant stream of chatter, asking the names of every bird and plant they passed, but Marie-Claire crossed her arms and stared into the water, refusing to speak despite Charlotte’s efforts to engage her in the conversation.
At a bend in the tree-shaded river, Charlotte directed Mr. Finch to put ashore, and they walked up a slight rise to the field. He took off his hat and surveyed the fallow ground and the broken trunks. “I admit I ain’t got much of a background in rice plantin’, but I already know from my work on the Hadleys’ place that this right here represents a heap of work.”
“I’m aware of that. But I know an excellent carpenter who can fix the trunks. Thomas once belonged to my father. He repaired the ones in my other field. I’m sure he can do it in time for another planting. The question is whether or not you have enough workers to prepare the ground.”
“Mebbe. I got a couple of men from Georgetown who have their own oxen. Rounded up a few field hands from over on the Pee Dee too.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Reckon I’m willin’ to try if the price is right.”
“Ma’m’selle, look!” Anne-Louise ran over, cradling a small turtle in her hands. “May I keep him?”
Marie-Claire shook her head. “You are not keeping that disgusting creature in our house.”
“Papa won’t care. Besides, I’ll make a house for him outside. I won’t let him into your room.”
“You’d better not.”
Mr. Finch cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, do we have a deal or don’t we?”
“How much?”
“Thirty dollars. But that don’t include the seeds or fixing the trunks. Reckon I’ll leave that to you.”
“Thirty dollars!”
He shrugged. “I got a wife and four young’uns back home. I got to make a profit.”
“I suppose so.” She made a quick calculation. She could afford it—barely. And if the harvest proved successful, she’d recover her investment and perhaps earn a small profit. “All right, Mr. Finch. When may I expect you to begin work?”
“Friday, if this good weather holds and that uppity Yankee approves the paperwork. I’ll fetch you to take a look once we get the field ready for plantin’.” For the first time, the man smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I want you to be happy with my work.”
“I’m sure I will be.”
They returned to the boat, Anne-Louise carrying her turtle.
“One more thing,” Jeremiah Finch said, turning the boat upriver. “I have my own way of doin’ things.” The boat creaked as he pulled the oars. “Long as you remember that, I expect we’ll get on just fine.”
The air in the room was thick and warm, and dust motes swirled like snowflakes in the morning light. Kneeling beside the larger of the trunks Alexander had delivered, Charlotte lifted a pale pink dress from its muslin nest and held it up to the window. She studied the dress as one might study a painting, noting the voluminous sleeves that were several seasons out of fashion, a bit of lace trim missing from the bodice. The flounced skirt was flattened and wrinkled from years in storage. But the dress would have to do.
Before the war, her clothes press had bulged with dresses for every occasion—morning dresses, riding costumes, costumes for walking about and paying social calls upon her neighbors, and elaborately adorned and pleated evening dresses for the theater, all of them sewn from yards and yards of the finest silks and satins. No more. Since returning to Fairhaven she’d worn her black crepe mourning dress to church and to town. Here at home she wore dresses in dark blue, gray, or brown over serviceable undergarments that allowed her to move freely about the fields.
Not that she had much choice. Years of the Federal blockade had reduced everyone’s wardrobe to tattered homespun.
The pink gown, created at a fancy store in Paris and carefully hidden in a friend’s house in Charleston for the duration of the war, had been the delight of Charlotte’s twentieth birthday, a bright spot of luxury amidst the deprivation. Now it seemed unfamiliar, a silk penitentiary requiring more layers of undergarments than she ever wore these days. She draped it across her bed and returned to the trunk for her crinoline and heavy petticoats. Had she ever actually looked forward to wearing such torturous garments?
Perhaps years of hardship had turned her into someone more untamed, less feminine than she ought to be. Less concerned with her appearance. During her later years at Madame Giraud’s, she’d had her share of Charleston beaux. She was not unattractive. Her skin had been smooth and fashionably pale, her dark hair thick and glossy, her figure trim. But when she looked into the mirror now, she took little note of her complexion or her small waist or her expressive eyes. What she saw was a young woman unafraid to tackle a hard task. A woman who made choices and saw them through. In her own eyes, intelligence and determination were her most attractive assets.
In the yard below someone shouted, and she went to the window. Jeremiah Finch and his crew, which included Lambert and Moses, two of Papa’s men, headed up the path to the rice field. The morning was still new, but judging from the workers’ muddy dungarees, they had already checked on her second field downriver. She spotted Trim and Thomas, Papa’s favorite carpenter who had repaired the trunks in her main field. Thomas seemed much older since the end of the war. His hair was now a snow-white cap cut close to his scalp, and his steps behind the heavy wagon were labored and slow. He was really too old for the backbreaking task of field work, but apparently he had signed on with Mr. Finch.
Jeremiah Finch shouted again. Thomas flinched and fell hard against the slow-moving wagon. Charlotte clattered down the stairs and into the yard, her unbound hair flying behind her. “Mr. Finch.”
