Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  Florinda returned to pour more coffee. “Any of you ladies and gent’men want more cake?”

  “I do.” Josie handed Florinda her empty plate.

  “No more for her, Florinda,” Mrs. Clifton said, frowning at her daughter. “Keep eating like that, Josie, and you’ll soon be too stout to fit into that fancy new dress of yours.”

  Josie pulled a face. “Oh, all right.” She leaned closer to Charlotte. “What a tiresome evening this has turned out to be.”

  “Wait until the Frosts leave,” her aunt murmured, brows raised. “There will be much to discuss then.”

  Josie brightened at the prospect of new gossip, though it seemed to Charlotte the dignified older couple could hardly be the subject of anything scandalous. Perhaps the Frosts’ financial situation had grown even more precarious, but financial hardship was hardly news these days. Perhaps Josie’s aunt meant only to pacify a young girl who had grown weary of the proceedings.

  “Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?” Mrs. Banks said. “I’m sure Lettice will be returning soon.”

  “I could use some fresh air,” Mr. Frost said. “Would you gentlemen care to join me for a cheroot on the piazza?”

  Mr. Clifton and Mr. Banks followed Mr. Frost to the door. He turned, one hand resting on the rusty doorknob. “Coming, Mr. Betancourt?”

  “In a moment. When I arrived this evening, I saw a painting in the hall that seems familiar. I was hoping for another look at it.”

  The men left, and Mr. Betancourt offered Charlotte his arm. “Shall we?”

  He took up a flickering taper, and they crossed the wide entry hall to an alcove opposite the parlor. The space was empty except for a large, gilt-framed painting. Mr. Betancourt lifted the candle. “Of course it’s hard to tell in this poor light, but I think it might be a Signorelli. It’s similar to one that hung in my grandfather’s dining room in Languedoc. He was convinced that his painting was one of a pair, though there was never any proof that the artist repeated himself.”

  “I don’t think it’s a Signorelli,” Charlotte said.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “For one thing, the brush strokes are slightly different. Signorelli tended to paint in very short strokes.” She indicated a patch of deep green in the bottom left corner. “The colors on this one are more muted. And Signorelli was known for placing a small still life in the larger picture, but I don’t see one here.”

  “Granted. But the darker coloring may mean only that the painting needs a good cleaning. If it is a Signorelli, it’s more than three hundred years old.” He moved the guttering taper. “I don’t see a signature.”

  Above them a door opened and closed, and Lettice descended the staircase. Charlotte was about to ask her about the painting, but the pained look on her old friend’s face stopped her words.

  Mr. Betancourt, too, sensed that this was the wrong time to satisfy his curiosity. He returned the candle to the table, bowed to the ladies, and went out the front door, letting in the scents of tobacco smoke and jessamine.

  “Is Mr. Hadley all right, my dear?” Mrs. Banks asked, her brown eyes full of compassion.

  Tears brightened Lettice’s eyes but she nodded. “As well as he will ever be, I suppose. He is plagued with nightmares that only strong drink seems to cure. His doctors in Charleston told us the drink is responsible for the headaches, but Charles is not willing to give it up.”

  “We will pray for him,” Mrs. Clifton said. “And for you too, my dear.”

  Lettice’s expression hardened. “If prayer could heal my husband, he would have been rid of his demons long ago.”

  Mrs. Banks glanced at the parlor clock. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. We must go.”

  Lettice didn’t protest as the ladies rose with a rustling of skirts.

  “We must say good night as well.” Mrs. Clifton clasped Lettice’s hands. “I do hope you enjoyed your birthday, despite your dear husband’s difficulties.”

  “I was happy to see you,” Lettice said. “We must not wait for a birthday to plan another social evening.”

  “And we shan’t.” Mrs. Frost headed for the door. “I will see you soon, I hope.”

  Lettice stood on the porch while her guests took their leave. Mr. Betancourt handed Charlotte into his rig, and they followed the other conveyances down the darkened road toward the ferry landing.

  “May I ask you something?” he asked as they neared the Pee Dee landing.

  “Of course.” Charlotte watched the ferrymen’s lantern light winking through the dark trees.

  “How do you know so much about Signorelli? Grandfather said he became fairly obscure in his later years and lacked a pupil of any note to keep his reputation alive. Certainly he is not very well known these days. But you seem to know his work well.”

  A girlhood memory rose in her mind, bringing with it a pang of sweet sadness. “It’s a long story.”

  “I would like to hear it,” he said, his voice soft in her ear.

  A shrill whistle sounded. The Cliftons’ rig, traveling just in front of theirs, rumbled across the short bridge and drew up at the ferry landing. A couple of ferrymen hauled on the heavy ropes and drew the flatboat near the riverbank.

  The Frosts’ carriage eased onto the ferry, followed by the Bankses’ rig, but Mr. Clifton’s horse balked. He snapped his whip. The horse shied and whinnied. One of the ferrymen rushed over and grabbed at the harness, but the rig rolled backward, its wheels catching on the edge of the flatboat.

  One of the ferrymen ran to the rig and attempted to rescue the tilting buggy, but lost his footing and tumbled into the dark river.

  “Help!” the other ferryman yelled. “He in the water and he can’t swim a lick.”

  “Wait here.” Mr. Betancourt jumped from his rig and ran to the riverbank just as Mr. Banks dove into the water. Charlotte gathered her skirts and hurried to the landing. Everyone on the ferry had left their rigs and huddled together, eyes anxiously scanning the water.

  Mr. Banks surfaced, the ferryman in tow. “He’s bleeding. Must have hit his head.”

  Mr. Betancourt waded into the water and helped bring the injured man to the riverbank. “Hand me that lantern,” he called to the other ferryman.

  He set the lantern near the injured man’s head, wrapped his hands in his handkerchief, and probed the wound. The ferryman roused and moaned.

  “Be still a moment.” Mr. Betancourt called up to the waiting crowd, “Anybody have a cloth? A clean handkerchief will do.”

  Josie Clifton ran toward him holding the skirt of her bright-yellow frock, as showy and self-conscious as an early-blooming daffodil. “You are most welcome to my petticoat, sir.”

  He didn’t look up. “Thank you. Be quick about it.”

  A ripping sound was followed by another moan from the injured man. A few moments later Mr. Betancourt rose. “That’s all I can do for now.”

  “How bad’s it, sir?” the other ferryman asked.

  “The wound needs cleaning, and he will need a fresh bandage. Something for pain if you have it. But in a few days’ time he should be recovered.” Mr. Betancourt tucked his soiled handkerchief into the pocket of his dove-gray waistcoat.

  “I been knowing his fambly all my life,” the ferryman said. “I’ll carry him on home soon’s I get you folks acrost this river.”

  Mr. Betancourt and the other men righted the Cliftons’ buggy, and soon they were underway. The other passengers remained in their rigs for the brief crossing, but Charlotte joined Mr. Betancourt at the rear of the flatboat. All was quiet save the rushing of the water past the boat and the murmured conversations of the ferrymen. A soft breeze ruffled her hair. Starlight glittered on the dark river.

  “That man was very lucky you were here to tend him,” she said at last.

  “It was nothing. Mr. Banks deserves all the credit for rescuing him.” Hands in his pockets, he nodded toward the starry sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” In the lamb
ent light, Charlotte studied his face. “You seemed very much at ease tending his wound. Are you a physician, Mr. Betancourt? I don’t believe I have ever heard you say precisely what your occupation is.”

  “I’m a rice planter, same as you. Or I will be when everything is settled.”

  “I see. But—”

  “I was a physician once. But not now.”

  She was full of questions, but asking them would presume on their short and mostly professional acquaintance. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He shrugged. “It was a reasonable question.”

  The ferryman blew his whistle, swung his lantern wide, and tossed the ropes to two men waiting on the landing. One by one the rigs rolled onto the road and on toward the Waccamaw.

  Mr. Betancourt seemed disinclined to talk, so Charlotte closed her eyes and let the scented night air and the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves soothe her.

  “Almost home,” Mr. Betancourt said when they reached the Waccamaw ferry landing. This crossing proved uneventful, and soon they arrived at the entrance to Fairhaven. Mr. Betancourt got out, wet shoes squishing, and opened the gate. They drove up the long avenue to the darkened house.

  He walked her up the steps to the door. “Quite an evening.”

  She took her key from her reticule and fitted it into the lock. “Indeed. I feel sorry for Lettice. She tries hard to carry on as if nothing has changed.”

  “Sometimes that’s the only way one can survive.” He paused. “Will you be all right? Shall I wait while you light your lamp?”

  “No need. But thank you. And thank you for escorting me this evening. I quite enjoyed myself, despite the accident at the ferry landing.” She glanced at his wet trousers and shoes. “Too bad about your shoes.”

  He gave a rueful laugh. “And these are my best pair. My only pair, in fact, not counting my riding boots.”

  “I’m glad you can laugh about it.”

  “What good would it do to complain?” He spoke with the cheerful air of someone who expected that circumstances, no matter how dire, must one day come right again. “Besides, there’s nothing like a near disaster to add a little spice to the proceedings. I’m glad the man is all right.” He tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Fraser. Pleasant dreams.”

  “Good night.”

  She went inside, lit the lamp, and watched him turn his rig for home.

  Even though the ferryman’s accident was a minor one, Mr. Betancourt’s calm and competent manner and his concern for the injured man made it clear that he was a gifted physician.

  Why then had he renounced his calling?

  Nine

  My neighbor at Alder Hill owns a painting that takes me back to my school days in Charleston. After our lessons and before evening prayers we were permitted to read or stroll in the secret garden behind Madame Giraud’s house on Meeting Street. As I was the youngest girl in the school, I often tagged after my cousin Della and her friends, who usually treated me with a certain benign affection that was both an annoyance and a comfort. But one afternoon Della was in a cross mood and spoke to me so harshly that I burst into tears. I ran through the garden to the back gate, scaled it, and dropped onto the busy street.

  A black-and-tan hound, nose to the ground, hurried along the street, and I decided to follow him. He led me down Meeting, past Queen Street, past St. Michael’s Church, and then along Tradd Street, toward the river. At last he paused before a gate standing half open and barked.

  An old man emerged from a narrow house situated on an alley and spoke to the dog. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw me. He was small, not much taller than I, with a wrinkled face the color of an acorn and thick white hair that fell about his shoulders like a shawl. Lively brown eyes regarded the hem of my blue frock, which was black with dirt from the street.

  “Signorina, you are lost?”

  “I know my way home.”

  “But you do not wish to go there.”

  “My cousin Della is mean as a snake. I hate her.”

  “I see. Perhaps some tea and a piece of cake would sweeten your mood.”

  The hound jumped up to lick my face.

  “Come,” the man said.

  Madame Giraud forbade us to visit anyone without a proper chaperone, but I was angry with the world, feeling defiant, and I followed him inside. The room was dim and narrow and furnished with nothing but a bed and a table covered with rags and tubes of paint. On an easel opposite the window, a small painting—

  A rig turned in at the gate and rolled up the avenue, interrupting the flow of words. Paper in hand, Charlotte rose and went to the door.

  “Miss Fraser.”

  She smiled at the sight of her visitor, who stood before her wearing patched trousers, a loose-fitting shirt, and a tattered straw hat. His leather shoes seemed none the worse for their time in the river. “Mr. Betancourt. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry if I’ve arrived at an inopportune time.”

  “I’m working on an article for the paper, but it can wait.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, as I’ve come to propose an outing.”

  “Oh?”

  “With me and the girls. They’re playing on your little beach. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Splendid. Get your hat and let’s go.”

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’m expecting Mr. Finch at four.”

  “We’ll be back by then.”

  She thought of several good reasons to decline the invitation. For one thing, Mr. Betancourt was her employer. It was best to keep things on a professional basis. For another, she had summoned her overseer for a talk about the bill he had left on her porch yesterday. Several items seemed overpriced, and she was determined to get an accounting. But Mr. Betancourt looked so boyish and hopeful that she found herself agreeing.

  She donned her hat, locked the doors, and settled herself into his rig. He clicked his tongue to the horse, and they set off for the narrow strip of sand at the river’s edge. Shaded by tall trees, the little beach sloped gently to the swiftly running current. As they rolled to a stop, Charlotte was glad she’d come. This secluded spot had been her favorite escape since childhood, and yet she had spent little time here since her return to the Waccamaw. Mr. Betancourt took a basket and his violin from the rig.

  “Ma’m’selle, I caught a fish.” Anne-Louise, her skirt tucked up around her knees, hurried over to show Charlotte a small perch glistening silver in the dappled sunlight. “He’s too little to eat, though.”

  Her father agreed. “Might as well let him go, ma petite. Maybe you’ll catch him again when he’s got more meat on his bones.”

  “All right.” She regarded the fish dangling at the end of her line, seeming reluctant to relinquish her prize. “Marie-Claire hasn’t caught anything.”

  “Who cares?” The older girl perched on a fallen log, her bright yellow skirt pooling at her feet. Her father called to her, and she looked up and gave Charlotte a halfhearted wave.

  “What’s the matter with her?” Charlotte asked. “She seemed in a much better mood yesterday.”

  “That stray cat she took in has apparently run away,” Mr. Betancourt said. “She’s feeling a bit rejected, I suppose.” He motioned her to a seat on the sand. “I forgot to bring a blanket.”

  “Papa,” Anne-Louise called. “It is time to eat yet? I am about to perish.” She tossed her catch into the stream.

  He laughed. “Come on then. You too, Marie-Claire.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Moping won’t bring that cat back.”

  “Her name is Mathilde.”

  “In any case, you must eat something,” her father said. “Tamar packed all your favorites.”

  Marie-Claire heaved a sigh and plodded over to join the others.

  “I’m so sorry about Mathilde,” Charlotte said. “Cats are an independent sort, I’m afraid. Perhaps she’ll come back. You nev
er know.”

  Marie-Claire plopped onto the sand, took the sandwich her father offered, and bit into it. “She can starve for all I care.”

  “She can look after herself. There are plenty of field mice around.” Charlotte bit into one of Tamar’s deviled eggs and closed her eyes. Perfection.

  Anne Marie went straight for the cake. “Papa, play us a tune,” she said between bites. “Maybe a song will cheer Marie-Claire.”

  “Your wish is my command, ma petite.” He wiped his hands and took his violin from its case. “What would you like to hear, Marie-Claire?’

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Play ‘Buffalo Gals.’” Anne-Louise licked frosting from her fingers. “Or ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’”

  “How about this one?” He settled his violin beneath his chin and began to play “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.”

  “I know who wrote that one,” Anne-Louise said. “Stephen Foster.”

  “It’s too hot out here,” Marie-Claire said when the final notes died into the silence. “I want to go home.”

  “Can we go in the water, Papa?” Anne-Louise asked. “Just for a little while?”

  “I suppose so.” He put away his violin and offered Charlotte his hand. “Why don’t we all go? We’ll go downstream a ways where the current is not as strong.”

  Even Marie-Claire brightened at the prospect of her teacher’s joining in. She ran along the bank to a place where the current slowed. The two girls tucked up their skirts and raced to the water, squealing as the cold water hit their skin.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Betancourt squeezed Charlotte’s hand, and she felt heat creeping into her cheeks. Once upon a time she had owned a proper swimming costume, a royal-blue wool complete with pantalettes that gathered at the ankles and a matching overdress. What had happened to it? Perhaps it was still tucked away somewhere in the Pawley’s Island cottage. She glanced at her brown skirt. “I’m hardly dressed for bathing.”

  “Nor am I, but I’m not going to let that stop me.” Sunlight filtered through the trees and shone on his face, revealing fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He took off his shoes and rolled up the legs of his patched trousers. “Let’s go.”