by Dorothy Love
“That boy is not the only one. When I first got here last winter, I rowed upriver past Litchfield, nearly to Brookgreen, looking for boundary markers. Didn’t find a single one, but I saw plenty of people just barely scraping by.”
“Perhaps their lot will improve as rice production does.” She motioned to the girls to finish their lessons. “You were looking for the markers for your property?”
“Yes. Ever since I decided to settle here, I’ve been working on claiming legal title to my plantation. As I understand it, Willowood, Oatland, even this place were part of a barony going back to the early 1700s. My Huguenot ancestors were the original owners.”
“Of Fairhaven?” She shook her head. “I’m sure you’re mistaken about that. Our family has been in possession of this property for nearly a hundred years.”
“I don’t doubt it. But possession and ownership are not precisely the same. I assume you have a deed, or papers of some sort, to back up your claim.”
Her stomach clenched. “You are standing in my parlor, telling me that you own my land?”
“Papa?” Books in hand, Marie-Claire came into the hallway and gave him a paper. “Look what I did today. An essay . . . and a poem for you.”
He smoothed her hair and slipped the folded paper into his pocket. “I’ll read it at home when I have time to appreciate it properly. For now, you and your sister will kindly wait for me in the yard.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you fighting with Ma’m’selle?”
“Not at all. I’ll be there in a moment.” He pointed a finger at her. “I do want to talk to you about that strange boy.”
“He isn’t so strange,” Marie-Claire said. “He knows just about every song that has ever been written, and he knows more arithmetic than I do. And aren’t you always telling us we should be kind to others less fortunate?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “He walked all the way from Richmond Hill, and he hasn’t any shoes.”
She threw her father a stern glance before hurrying outside.
Nicholas turned his hat in his hands. “Forgive me if I’ve upset you. You may be right about your land. Other baronies in these parts were divided into parcels and sold. Perhaps mine was as well. But without any documents, we’ll never know. I wouldn’t want to invest in planting rice, only to discover it’s on someone else’s property. I doubt you would either.”
“Of course not.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. He didn’t know she lacked a deed for Fairhaven. Perhaps one could be found before he—
“There must be a record of my property somewhere. If I cannot find it here, I’m going back to New Orleans. General Longstreet has settled there. Our families were friends, and I served under him during the war.”
“As a physician?”
He gave a quick nod but didn’t elaborate. “I’m counting on his hospitality for a few days while I look into the matter there.”
“My father said boundary disputes were quite common when he was a young man. And were often quite unpleasant.”
“I have no wish to cause trouble, but I do need to settle the matter. I’ve written to a distant cousin in Languedoc. Eugenie must be past seventy now, but perhaps she knows where the records are.”
She saw him to the door, determined to remain calm. What good would it do to get upset? Besides, he had no proof of his claim either. “Enjoy your berry picking.”
“It’s early for blackberries, but the girls have their hearts set on an outing. If we find any, I’ll save you some.”
He climbed into the rig and drove away. She returned to the library to find Daniel still immersed in his book.
“School’s over,” she said.
He looked up and blinked. “Already?”
“Yes, it’s almost three, and you have a long walk home.”
He handed her the book. “Sure is a good story. Can I come back tomorrow and finish it?”
“I’m afraid not. And I must warn you not to go near the Betancourts’ place again.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have to cross their land. I can get here in my rowboat. They don’t own the river. Besides, bein’ poor don’t make you a bad character.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t. You’re a smart boy, Daniel. I hope one day you get a fine education as well as the boat you’re dreaming about. But I can’t take you on as a pupil.”
“Because he can pay you and my pa can’t.”
“That’s part of it, yes. But I plan to teach only until Mr. Betancourt can send his daughters to boarding school. I’m not really trained for it, and I have my plantation to run.”
“You won’t have it if he finds that land grant.”
“Daniel, it isn’t polite to eavesdrop.”
“I couldn’t help it.” He rose. “Guess I ought to go.”
He headed for the door, his shoulders drooping.
“Wait.” She caught up to him and handed him the book. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
“But—”
“It’s old and worn out. I doubt I’ll ever read it again. You may as well have it.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.”
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, gathering her scattered thoughts. Turning away such an eager pupil had left her feeling unexpectedly unsettled and disappointed, but Nicholas Betancourt’s startling claim brought bewilderment and terror.
Nothing in her father’s will proved their ownership of Fairhaven. For more than a hundred years, her family’s right to it had never been questioned. But suppose Nicholas was right and his French cousin proved his claim?
Suppose Fairhaven was not hers after all?
Eleven
Hat in hand, Jeremiah Finch leaned against the door frame and waited while Charlotte wrote a check for his services. She blotted the document and handed it to him.
He glanced at it before tucking it into his breast pocket. “Much obliged, Miss Fraser. I trust you’re pleased with my work.”
Through the library windows she studied the greening rice field in the distance. “I haven’t been to the field downriver this week. How is it faring?”
“Drained it yesterday. We’ll start the first hoeing as soon as it’s dry.” He scratched his head. “Gabe and Peter went home sick. Reckon I might have to find somebody to replace them to keep everything on schedule.”
“At church on Sunday Mrs. Clifton mentioned that one of Trim’s nephews has returned from upstate. Perhaps you could ask Trim about it.”
“Trim already told me.” The foreman shrugged. “The boy may show up, or he may not. There’s no telling these days. Everything’s all ajumble.”
“I wonder if you would consider hiring a young white boy. His name is Daniel Graves. He’s keen on getting an education, but he wants to earn money too. To buy a boat. He came here once with my pupils, and I—”
“Afraid not. I hired a couple of white men from Calais Plantation when I first got here, but it didn’t take long to figure out that blacks and whites can’t work together. Too many resentments and too many arguments. I spent all my time trying to keep ’em from each other’s throats. Wasn’t worth the aggravation.”
“I see.”
He frowned. “You worried about the boy?”
“I would like to help him if I can.”
“You say he wants education. Maybe you ought to expand that little school you’ve got going.” He indicated the pine table piled high with textbooks, maps, and the Betancourt girls’ latest artwork.
She shook her head. “I’m only helping out Mr. Betancourt temporarily.”
“Lambert said that Tamar told him Mr. Betancourt has left town again. Off on some business errand.”
“Yes.” The thread of fear that had wound itself around her heart since Nicholas Betancourt’s departure for New Orleans tied itself into a hard knot. He should have been back on Saturday. According to Marie-Claire, no one had heard from him. And the time was fast approaching when planters would pack up and leave
for the seashore until the threat of yellow fever was past.
Just last night she had begun making a list of what she would take to the Pawley’s Island cottage and what would be left behind, at the mercy of thieves and the elements. Someone would have to look after dear Cinnamon. Charlotte hated the thought of leaving the little mare behind, but there was no shelter for her on the island.
Mr. Finch fished a paper from his pocket and thrust it into her hands. “Almost forgot. I need some supplies to get my men through the season.”
Charlotte scanned the paper: a dozen bottles of sarsaparilla, two bottles of paregoric, three pounds of Epsom salts, two packages of German vermifuge, two ounces each of laudanum and quinine, three gallons of castor oil and coal tar. Below that list was another: broadaxes, hoes, handsaws, chisels, hatchets, and a hundred pounds of tobacco.
She looked up at him. “All this will cost a fortune.”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon it will. But I can’t keep the men healthy and fix your broken equipment and bring in your crops without the right tools and supplies.” He shook his head. “I know it don’t seem right, you having to concern yourself with their welfare, providing medicines and such, when they don’t belong to you anymore. But those Yankees have the final say on the contracts, and they—”
“I understand.” She opened her bank book and wrote out a draft to Kaminski’s store.
“The tobacco is my idea. Keeps them happy, I reckon.” He tucked the bank draft into his pocket but made no move to leave.
She looked up. “Is there anything else?”
”I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.” He gestured toward the library shelves. “You’ve got a book of Byron’s poems over there, and I’m kinda partial to him. Would you consider lending it to me?”
“I noticed you carry a book of verse in your pocket.”
He blushed. “Walt Whitman. A present from my wife before I left North Carolina. She’s not much of a reader herself, but she figured I’d enjoy it.”
“Some people have said Mr. Whitman is a bit too—”
“Too frank?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But I like how he puts words together. Mary Susan said the poems might keep me from being so homesick, but I can’t say I’ve enjoyed any benefits in that regard.”
“I understand. I waited out two years of the war separated from my father. I missed him terribly.”
“Sometimes when I get to studyin’ on my wife and young’uns, it’s all I can do not to tuck tail and run.”
She took the book of poems from the shelf. “I hope this proves a good distraction. I’d be very upset if you went home before my rice is harvested, and I’m certain Mr. Hadley and Mr. Clifton feel the same way.”
He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door. “One more thing. I feel like I ought to apologize for the way I spoke to you when I first got here. You’ve been fair with me, and I can appreciate how hard you’re working to make a go of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Finch. Even though everything is different now, I still feel protective toward my father’s old bondsmen. Thomas especially.”
He nodded. “Well, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I am sorry. I’ll do my best to see you through, but it’s a powerful long time till winter.”
Dear Miss Fraser,
I regret to inform you that due to a decline in subscriptions, the Enterprise has temporarily suspended publication. Enclosed please find a check in the amount of twenty dollars for the two reports of yours that we were pleased to publish. The others are being returned to you with regret and with our sincere hope that we might resume publishing them when our situation improves.
Sincerely,
Edwin Sawyer, editor
Fighting disappointment, Charlotte tucked the letter into her reticule and left the postal office. It had taken longer than she expected to post her letter to Mr. Betancourt in care of General Longstreet, and now she was in a hurry to finish her shopping before Mr. Kaminski closed the store. She would have to figure out what to do about this latest news from Mr. Sawyer, but the noisy, smelly bustle of Georgetown was not conducive to rational thought.
Fishing boats creaked and bobbed at anchor on the Sampit River, filling the air with the smells of salt, seaweed, and the day’s catch. Groups of Negro men, several of them barefoot, unloaded lumber, barrel staves, and bolts of fabric on the wharf while their children jostled each other and played tag among the row of wagons waiting in the street. The blacksmith’s hammer rang. Bells tinkled as shoppers came and went from the bakery and the shoe repair shop.
According to the notice posted near the ferry landing, the Resolute was due to arrive in an hour. Already a line of buggies waited to meet the arriving passengers. Charlotte glanced at the clock tower and hurried along the boardwalk to Kaminski’s Mercantile.
“Miss Fraser.” Josie Clifton waved and crossed the street, hiking her skirts to avoid the dirt and horse droppings.
Charlotte was in no mood for socializing, but she forced a smile. “Good morning.”
“I saw you coming out of the postal office. I’m so glad I caught you,” Josie said. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you, and I didn’t see you at church last week.” Josie snapped open her fan, stirring the thick, humid air. “Do you think we might find shade somewhere and something cool to drink? I can’t believe how warm it’s been, and June is not yet upon us.”
“I’m afraid I’m in a hurry,” Charlotte said. “I must collect some more supplies for my pupils, and Mr. Kaminski closes in—”
“Mr. Betancourt’s daughters,” Josie said. “Exactly why I wanted to speak to you.”
“Oh?”
“It seems that you and Mr. Betancourt are quite close,” Josie said. “Judging from the way he looked at you the night he escorted you to Mrs. Hadley’s birthday party. Why, he scarcely took his eyes off you all evening. And don’t bother telling me you didn’t notice. A woman always notices the attentions of an attractive man. And Mr. Betancourt is quite attractive.”
“Yes, he is. But—”
“I want him,” Josie said.
“What?”
“I want to marry him. I know you saw him first. And you have the advantage, being his daughters’ teacher and all, but you can’t imagine the pressure my father is putting on me to find a suitable match. It’s even worse now than it was before the war, and there’s hardly anyone left to marry.”
“That’s true enough.” Josie’s plight was very real. Spinsterhood meant social death to those who cared about such things. But it amused Charlotte that Josie gave her credit for far more influence than she actually wielded.
She took out her handkerchief and blotted her face. “Well, Josie, I imagine that Mr. Betancourt will decide whom he will marry. I won’t have a single thing to say about it.”
She swallowed a sudden pang. Heavens above, was she jealous? Of the man who was trying to wrest ownership of her land? Absurd.
“Then you don’t mind if I flirt with him in church on Sundays?”
“I have no claim upon his affections. But you might encounter resistance from Marie-Claire. She’s quite possessive of her father. Anne-Louise, on the other hand, is desperate for a mother.”
Josie’s eyes widened. “But you mentioned that he plans to send them to school in Charleston soon. I don’t imagine they’ll be in the way for long.”
Charlotte frowned. “In the way?”
“Don’t misunderstand,” Josie said in a rush. “They’re all right as children go, but you must admit that even the most charming children are an impediment to courtship. And when we’re married, we’ll want some time alone. Perhaps Nicholas and I will take a trip to Europe. Spend a whole summer.” She sighed and fanned her face. “His family is French, after all, and I’ve always dreamed of seeing Paris. Father promised me a trip, but then the war ruined everything.”
The clock in the bell tower pealed the half hour. Charlotte shaded her eyes and looked toward the landing where a crew of men uncoiled a large rop
e to receive the Resolute, now a white speck on the horizon. The hot sun beat down, shimmering on the river. The bad news from the newspaper editor weighed heavily on her mind. She needed to collect her supplies and return home. And she was in no mood to discuss Nicholas Betancourt with anyone. “I really must go.”
“Wait a minute.” Josie’s eyes, clear and hard as Venetian glass, sought hers. “You aren’t cross with me, are you?”
“Of course not. I simply have too much to do today and too little time.”
“I was hoping you might recommend me to Mr. Betancourt.”
“Recommend you?”
“You know. Just casually remind him that I’m from a good family. And that I am not averse to his attentions.”
The Resolute’s whistle sounded. Charlotte tucked away her handkerchief. “I’m running late. You must excuse me.”
Josie huffed and flounced away. Charlotte completed her shopping just before Mr. Kaminski locked the door. Then she climbed in her wagon and guided Cinnamon along the river road, her thoughts jumbled. The conversation with Josie had rekindled her fears about Nicholas Betancourt’s search for his land grant and what it might mean for her own future. Why could she find no record of her own claim? Papa had kept meticulous records of everything he owned at Fairhaven—from slaves to oxen to buttons. How could he have been so careless in preserving the documents that proved the plantation was theirs?
“Come aboard, miss!” The ferryman who had fallen into the water the night of Lettice’s party, now working the Waccamaw crossing, seemed fully recovered. Grasping Cinnamon’s bridle, he guided the wagon onto the ferry. Two women in a black buggy followed. The ferrymen pulled on the heavy ropes and the ferry entered the river.
Charlotte watched the fish jumping in the water, her mind once again filled with worry. She owed it to Papa to write to his lawyer once again and inquire whether news had surfaced. Fairhaven was her father’s legacy. She had made a solemn promise not to let anyone deprive her of her last link to the world she once knew. Not even someone as appealing as Nicholas Betancourt.
