Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  The wagon halted. The foreman broke off his tirade and frowned at her. “What do you want?”

  “Is it necessary to shout at this man? He’s—”

  “Lazy and insolent, like the rest of this bunch.” Finch spat a stream of tobacco into the dirt. Lambert and Moses, hats pulled low over their faces, regarded him and Charlotte with wary eyes.

  “He most certainly is not lazy. My father thought highly of his industry—and his competence. I won’t have him mistreated.”

  Thomas turned his rheumy gaze on her. “It’s all right, young miss. You best go on back yonder to the house and stay outta the way.”

  “For once you’re making sense, Thomas.” Finch took out a stained handkerchief to wipe his face, and Charlotte caught a glimpse of a thin book of poems tucked into his breast pocket. This hard, uncouth man was a reader of poetry?

  “I told you from the beginning not to interfere,” Finch said to her. “Either you want your fields cultivated, or you don’t. It don’t matter to me one way or the other. But if you expect me to see to them, then you hold up your end of the bargain and stay clear of me and my men.”

  “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Finch. These men are now free to decide whether or not to work for you. If they all quit, you lose your chance to provide for your family.”

  “And they lose the chance to provide for theirs.” He grasped her arm and propelled her across the yard. “Don’t tell me you’re sidin’ with them.”

  “I’m merely asking you to be kinder to a man of Thomas’s years. Now let go of me.”

  “Now you listen,” Finch said, his voice low. “You’re a lady, and you think these men oughta be treated with respect. I understand that.”

  “So did my father.” Charlotte wrenched her arm free and jammed her fists into her pockets. She glared at Jeremiah Finch. “If he were alive he’d—”

  “But he ain’t alive, and that’s the rub.” The overseer’s voice softened. “Y’ask me, rice farming ain’t a fit occupation for womenfolk. But as you are bound and determined to try it, you need me more’n I need you. So don’t get on my bad side, or I’ll walk away and leave it all to you.”

  Anger and a fierce disgust for him burned in her bones. But Finch was right. Without his men to hoe the tender plants and fill and drain the fields, to say nothing of attending to the harvesting and threshing, she had no hope of succeeding.

  Finch raised his chin toward the men in the waiting wagon. “Since emancipation, they think they’ve got the upper hand, and the Yankees make it worse, feedin’ ’em all kinds of lies. If you ain’t firm with ’em, they’ll take advantage. So you’d best just leave me free to take care of things the way I see fit.”

  Finch called to the young Negro man driving the wagon, and the men hurried up the path and out of sight. Still fuming, Charlotte watched them disappear before turning sharply on her heel and heading back inside.

  In the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil and set her heavy iron on the stove to heat, determined to put the unpleasant exchange behind her. This morning she had washed her hair and polished her best pair of shoes. She hadn’t much experience with an iron, but her dress was wrinkled from long years in the trunk, and there was no one else to see to it.

  Lettice’s birthday party this evening promised to be quite an affair. Last Monday Charlotte had driven her wagon into Georgetown to pick up supplies and send a new article to the New York Enterprise. Coming out of the postal office, she’d met Josie Clifton and her aunt, Mrs. Thornhill, who was president of the Ladies’ Society. Standing on the boardwalk outside the postal office, Mrs. Thornhill had enumerated Lettice’s guest list on her fingers: the Cliftons, the Frosts, the Allstons, the Bankses. Herself, of course. And Nicholas Betancourt.

  The teakettle shrieked. Charlotte measured tea leaves into the pot and poured the water in. Had Mr. Betancourt untangled his legal problems by now? She had scarcely seen him since she’d begun teaching his daughters. Yesterday the girls had walked from Willowood, appearing at her gate promptly at ten. On Tuesday it had rained, and Mr. Betancourt had delivered them in his smart little rig. But he’d offered her only the briefest of waves before disappearing into the mist, leaving her oddly disappointed.

  She checked to see that her iron was hot, finished her tea, and spread the dress on the table. She touched the iron to the hem. Instantly the delicate fabric curled and browned in a puff of smoke.

  “Drat, drat, and drat!” She set the iron aside and inspected the damage, a triangular spot as wide as her palm. She couldn’t attend a fancy dinner party in a burned dress or one of her worn old work dresses. Her other fancy dress, a blue satin with out-of-fashion pagoda sleeves, had a badly torn hem, a rip in one sleeve, and needed a good airing. There wasn’t time to make it presentable even if she had the skills to do so. And appearing in her mourning clothes would defeat the entire purpose of the evening. Disappointing as it might be, there was nothing to do but send word to Lettice that she couldn’t attend the party after all.

  She glanced at the clock. Trim and Thomas and the rest of Mr. Finch’s crew would soon stop work for their midday meal. Perhaps Trim could take Cinnamon and deliver a note to Alder Hill. Mr. Finch wouldn’t like it, but he worked for her, after all. He would simply have to manage without Trim for a couple of hours.

  Leaving her ruined dress on the table, she went to the library to scribble a hasty note to Lettice, then gathered her hat and looked around for her keys. Before the war, keeping the house under lock and key would not have been necessary. But just last week, according to Lettice, Mrs. Banks had returned from Charleston to find her former servants, Dab and Chloe, making off with the parlor rug and her best china.

  “Ma’m’selle?”

  Charlotte looked up to see Marie-Claire, her dark hair in a terrible tangle, cradling a gray cat in her arms. She opened the kitchen door. Girl and cat came inside.

  “What are you doing here today?” Charlotte bent to stroke the cat, but it drew its ears back and hissed.

  “I found her beside the road. She’s not mean. She’s scared because she’s lost.”

  “Does your father know where you are?”

  “Yes, ma’m’selle. He sent you a note. Here, hold Mathilde.”

  “You’ve named her?” Charlotte had to seize the animal by the scruff of the neck to keep her from squirming away.

  “Yes, and I’m keeping her no matter what anyone says.” Marie-Claire produced a crisp white envelope from her pocket and handed it to Charlotte. “Papa says I am to wait for your reply.”

  Charlotte returned the cat to the child and it calmed down. She picked up her dress and they returned to the main house. She opened the envelope and scanned the brief note.

  “I know what it says,” Marie-Claire declared. “He wants to take you to that fancy party tonight.” She nuzzled the cat, who snuggled against her chest.

  “How did you guess?”

  “He talks about you all the time, when he thinks Anne-Louise and I aren’t listening. Just yesterday he told Tamar that you are a woman of substance.”

  “Did he?” Charlotte’s cheeks warmed at the secondhand praise. To hide her feelings, she returned to the library for pen and paper. Marie-Claire and the cat followed.

  “What does that mean, exactly—a woman of substance?” Marie-Claire asked. “I asked Tamar, but she told me it’s none of my business. But it is my business if my papa wants to get me a new mother, is it not?”

  “A new mother? Heavens. I doubt that’s what he has in mind.”

  “But I’ll wager you will go with him to Mrs. Hadley’s birthday party.”

  “Ladies do not wager, Marie-Claire.”

  “Tamar does. She and Trim and Simon pitch pennies every afternoon when Papa is away.”

  “Nevertheless. Do you want to grow up to be like Tamar? Or like your mother?”

  The girl’s features darkened. “I want to be as pretty as Maman, but nicer.”

  “Your mother was lovely. I saw her po
rtrait when I visited your house.”

  “Yes, but she didn’t like us. She liked only Papa.”

  Charlotte hid her surprise. What kind of mother would leave her child with such an impression? Who could resist that sweet face and those wide blue eyes? True, Marie-Claire could be difficult, but she was also smart and hardworking. “I’m sure that isn’t—”

  “Holy cats.” Marie-Claire seemed to have just noticed the garment draped across Charlotte’s arm. “What happened to your dress?”

  “I burned it with the iron, so I won’t be going to the party after all. I have nothing to wear.”

  “You could sew a ruffle on the bottom. Then nobody would know.”

  Charlotte thought of her ruffled petticoat lying on the bed upstairs. “Maybe. But a cotton ruffle on a silk dress might look strange. Besides I’m not very clever with a needle and thread. In the old days, my seamstress would have taken care of it.”

  “You could sew a matching ruffle onto the neckline, and then it wouldn’t look so strange.” Marie-Claire pointed. “There’s some lace missing anyway. Did you know that?”

  “I noticed. I was planning to wear my mother’s cameo to cover it up.”

  “A ruffle would look much better.”

  Charlotte studied the girl. “You may be right. How do you know so much about ladies’ fashion?”

  “Maman loved fashion. She spent hours with her magazines and with Madame du Pont. She was Maman’s dressmaker. Very famous. Sometimes Maman would let me stay in her room and watch her fittings. If I promised not to talk.”

  The girl dropped her gaze and stroked the cat, who had fallen asleep, both front paws draped over Marie-Claire’s arm. “Maman said my voice gave her a headache.”

  “Well, I think you have a very pretty voice. And I won’t be a bit surprised if you grow up to be as famous a dressmaker as Madame du Pont.”

  Marie-Claire shook her head. “I want to be a rice planter, like you and Papa.”

  Charlotte looked past the girl’s shoulder to the shaded avenue and the path leading to her rice fields. Unless conditions improved dramatically, Marie-Claire would need a different occupation. But why spoil a young girl’s dream?

  Eight

  Candlelight trembled on the peach-colored walls, illuminating the faces of the party guests seated around the Hadleys’ dining table. Mismatched dishes, chipped glassware, and a soup tureen missing one handle were arranged with military precision on a pressed white tablecloth. A crystal vase of pale pink roses gave off a faint fragrance that mixed with the spring air coming through the open windows. Despite her misgivings about her hastily repaired frock, Charlotte was glad she had come. The Allstons had not come after all, but the Frosts and the Bankses, who were among her family’s oldest friends, had greeted her warmly, reminding her of how much she missed the alliances that had been such a part of her old life.

  The trip from the Pee Dee ferry to Alder Hill, sitting next to Nicholas Betancourt as his elegant gray trotted smartly along the road, had been pleasant too. He had regaled her with stories of his boyhood adventures on the Mississippi River, his years at school, his efforts to teach his daughters to waltz. The one thing he seemed to want to avoid was any talk of Willowood.

  “Dinner is ready, Miz Hadley.” Dressed in a parrot-green silk gown and a matching turban, Florinda moved from kitchen to table, delivering platters of poached fish and stewed root vegetables.

  Mr. Hadley lifted his glass. “To my wife, Lettice. Many happy returns.”

  Lettice, wearing a simple peach-colored gown several seasons out of fashion, patted the mountain of curls atop her head and smiled at her husband across the table.

  “Hear, hear,” Nicholas Betancourt said. “We toast your birthday, Mrs. Hadley, and thank you for your hospitality.”

  Charlotte caught his eye and lifted her glass, happy to be in his company. Handsome, smart, and with an infectious smile, Nicholas Betancourt charmed everyone at the table.

  Lettice blushed as the guests clapped and lifted their glasses. “I am so glad you all came. Things have been entirely too quiet around here this spring. And I hope you enjoy our supper, though of course it isn’t the same as in the old days.”

  Charlotte heard the sadness in her friend’s voice. She smiled at Lettice across the candlelit table, in awe of the older woman’s courage. Few could accept poverty with such quiet dignity.

  “Nothing is like it was in the old days.” Mr. Frost speared a carrot with his fork. He chewed and swallowed and eyed Charlotte across the table. “I understand you’ve hired Jeremiah Finch to help with your rice crop.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte took a bite of the poached fish. “He seems to be competent enough, but I wish he wouldn’t be so harsh with the workers. I realize one must be firm but—”

  “Sometimes a firm hand is necessary,” Mr. Banks said from the far end of the table.

  “My father never raised a hand to his men. One can be firm without resorting to—”

  “William,” Mrs. Banks said with a slight shake of her head. “Perhaps we should change the subject?”

  “Of course.” He set down his glass. “Forgive me, Miss Fraser. Tell me, how are you getting on at Fairhaven?”

  “My cousin gave me a horse and wagon, and I hired Trim and Thomas to make a few repairs around the place. Like you, though, I’m mostly occupied with my rice crop. I lost some in the storm, but I have hopes for a field downriver—if I can get it planted in time.”

  “And she’s busy with teaching my daughters,” Mr. Betancourt said, smiling at her across the table.

  “Truly?” Josie Clifton set down her fork and turned her wide eyes on Mr. Betancourt. “I had no idea you were in need of a tutor, sir, or I would have offered my services. I am quite proficient in singing and embroidery. I know a little French. And I think your children are simply darling.”

  Mr. Betancourt nodded. “So you’ve said. And I’m grateful for your willingness to help. But my daughters are in need of a solid grounding in mathematics, orthography, and literature. And in comportment, I must admit. Miss Fraser fills the bill quite admirably.”

  “Oh.” Josie pursed her lips in a mock pout. “I’m afraid mathematics is not my strong suit. I try, but somehow numbers just fly right out of my head.”

  “Never mind, my dear,” her aunt, Mrs. Thornhill, said. “A girl as pretty as you need never fret about such things. Don’t you agree, Mr. Betancourt?”

  Just then Florinda bustled in with a large tray and began clearing the dishes. “Is your comp’ny ready for cake and coffee, missus?”

  “We are,” Lettice said. “I’ve been looking forward to cake all day.”

  As the guests lingered over slices of warm spice cake and cups of strong coffee, the talk turned once again to the difficulties of planting rice, the recent drop in prices, and the necessity of moving away from the river during the sickly season.

  “I suppose we will spend the summer with my mother’s people in North Carolina,” Mrs. Clifton said.

  “Oh, Mother, must we?” Josie fussed with the ruffle on her dress. “Why can’t I stay with the Russells in Charleston? At least in town I might have a prayer of meeting some people my own age.”

  “Perhaps you’ll visit us on Pawley’s,” Mrs. Banks said.

  “Oh, that would be lovely,” Josie said. “Much more pleasant than sitting around listening to Aunt Fern complain about the heat.” Her eyes flashed. “I heard that Benjamin Cousins and his family are already back on the island for the season. I’d adore seeing him again. It’s been ages and ages.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Mrs. Clifton said. “This cake is delicious, Lettice. I wonder if you might share your recipe?”

  Lettice smiled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Florinda about that.”

  Mrs. Banks set down her cup and smiled at Charlotte. “I understand you’ll be coming to Pawley’s this summer.”

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve always loved the island, but my father was
too ill to travel last year.”

  “I’m delighted to know we can look forward to your company. And I’m sure the Reverend Mr. Peabody will be glad too. Despite his short tenure at Litchfield, he’s already pressing the Ladies’ Mission Society to raise money to purchase blankets for an orphans’ home in China.”

  “But won’t that be awfully expensive?” Mrs. Thornhill asked. “I don’t see how he can hope to achieve such a lofty goal.”

  “He plans to make and sell ice cream. Or rather, he hopes the ladies will take it on,” Mrs. Banks said. “I think he’s counting on our little island’s attracting more visitors now that the war is over.”

  Mrs. Thornhill shook her head. “I do hope the Tuckers won’t come to regret allowing him the use of their chapel. He seems a bit too ambitious if you ask me.”

  Mr. Hadley finished his cake and stood. “I hate to say so, but I find that I am not feeling well.”

  “What is the matter, my dear?” Lettice got to her feet. The men at the table rose with her.

  Mr. Hadley shook his head. “It’s this blasted headache. I’m afraid I must lie down.”

  “Of course, old boy,” Mr. Frost said. “Think nothing of it.” He bowed to Lettice. “A fine supper, my dear. One to sharpen the mind and soften the heart, as they say.”

  “Thank you, Theo.” Lettice waved a hand to her guests. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. Everyone enjoy your cake while I see to my husband. I won’t be long.” She wrapped an arm around Mr. Hadley’s waist and they went up the stairs.

  “What happened to him?” Josie asked. “During the war, I mean.”

  Mrs. Thornhill frowned. “Josephine Clifton, you know better than to pry.”

  “Well, nobody ever tells me anything. I’m not exactly a child, you know.”

  “It’s common knowledge he had a bad time of it,” Mr. Frost said, settling once again into his chair. “Best leave it at that, Miss Clifton. Poor Charles is a different man than he was before the war.”

  “We were all different men before the war,” Nicholas Betancourt said quietly.