Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  “Of course you must look after him,” Charlotte said automatically. “I’m very sorry.”

  Tamar shrugged. “When trouble fall, it ain’t gon’ fall on the groun’. Gon’ fall on somebody, and we gotta take it as it comes.”

  Marie-Claire sent Charlotte an accusing look. “We came here on Sunday, but you wouldn’t answer the door.”

  “I was away all day, didn’t get home until dark. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came calling.”

  “Please say we can stay with you, Ma’m’selle,” Anne-Louise pleaded. “Just until our papa gets home.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes. Of course there was no choice but to take the girls under her wing, at least until a better solution could be worked out. But she had the plantation to run. She hadn’t spoken to Mr. Finch in days. It wouldn’t do not to keep an eye on his progress.

  Marie-Claire dropped her valise into the dirt. “I don’t think Papa is coming back.”

  Given all the problems on the river these days, Charlotte could hardly blame the man for writing off his disputed plantation as a lost cause. Ongoing labor problems, too much rain, the predations of the ricebirds were enough to give anyone pause. And he certainly was long overdue. But surely he would not willingly abandon his children.

  She patted Marie-Claire’s thin shoulder. “Of course he’s coming back. He’s simply been delayed for some reason. I expect he’ll return any moment.”

  “Why can’t he at least send a letter?” Anne-Louise set down her valise too. “Tamar said he would write to us if he couldn’t come home.”

  Tamar confirmed this with a nod. “I ain’t been knowin’ they daddy too long, but I know he sets a lot o’ store by these chillun. Don’t make no sense why he ain’t sent a letter.”

  “Perhaps it’s on the way now. Tomorrow we’ll ask at the postal office.”

  Tamar knelt in the dirt and took each girl by the hand. “You ’member you manners now, and don’t be talkin’ back to the teacher, y’hear?”

  Both girls nodded.

  “Don’t forget to say you prayers ever’ night. Ask the Lord to watch over your daddy wherever he go.”

  “We will,” Anne-Louise said.

  “An’ if you think of it, say a prayer for Tamar too, and her boy.”

  Tamar rose, nodded again to Charlotte, and walked back down the avenue, her bare feet slapping on the hard ground.

  Charlotte motioned to the girls, and they picked up their things and followed her inside.

  “Daniel?” Marie-Claire’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

  “Staying for a while. Helping out Miss Fraser.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You weren’t s’posed to come till tomorrow.”

  “And you aren’t s’posed to be here at all.”

  “All right, that’s quite enough.” Charlotte rested a hand on Marie-Claire’s shoulder. “Young ladies. Kindly remove yourselves to the kitchen and pump some water for washing up. You both look a fright.”

  After a hastily concocted lunch, Charlotte settled the girls at the table in the library. Daniel chose a book from the shelf and headed outside to the piazza. Charlotte drew her chair nearer to the open window and sipped her tea. What was taking Nicholas so long? Was he sick or injured? Or had he planned all along to win her good opinion before abandoning his children to her care? He had given up his medical practice; perhaps nothing mattered to him.

  It was an uncharitable thought and one that perhaps was unwarranted. But if his motives were pure, why the long silence? Had he found proof of his claim? Charlotte finished her tea and picked up her book, but the words blurred on the page. Waiting for news of her fate was worse than knowing. Whatever the outcome, she wished it to arrive soon.

  Thirteen

  Careful, ma’am.” Jeremiah Finch reached for Charlotte’s hand as she entered the boat and settled herself near the stern. The Betancourt girls squeezed in next to wooden crates containing dishes and kitchen utensils, bedding, her desk, a large tin tub for washing, and books—the essentials they’d need to begin the summer on Pawley’s Island. Charlotte had delayed her departure for as long as she dared, hoping for their father’s return, but mosquito season had arrived with no word from him. Yesterday she’d made the trip to Willowood to gather the girls’ belongings and leave a letter for Nicholas. Now she set her picnic basket at her feet and opened her parasol.

  “How long will it take to get there?” Marie-Claire shaded her eyes and looked across the river.

  “Not long. We’ll be there by suppertime.” The overseer unfastened the ropes and, with an oar, pushed the long, narrow rice boat away from the dock. It wasn’t in the best repair, but Charlotte felt lucky to have found it at all. She prayed it wouldn’t spring a leak before they reached the island. And she hoped Mr. Finch was skilled enough on the water to get them there without mishap. Trim had gone upcountry and Thomas was ailing. There was no one else she trusted. The boat swayed and settled on the calm water as he turned it and headed upstream.

  Anne-Louise turned her troubled gaze on Charlotte. “Are you sure Papa will know where to find us?”

  Marie-Claire frowned. “You ninny. Papa isn’t coming back.”

  “He is too. He promised.”

  “He hates us, just like Maman did.”

  Anne-Louise burst into tears.

  Charlotte sent Marie-Claire a stern look and reached around a crate of dishes to clasp the younger girl’s hand. “Don’t cry. I’m sure your papa loves you very much and will be home as soon as he can.”

  “If he loves us, why hasn’t he at least written to us?” Marie-Claire asked.

  Charlotte wondered the same thing herself. On every trip to Georgetown, she had checked the postal office, anxious for news, but so far Nicholas Betancourt remained silent. “I don’t know. But I’m sure he has a good reason.”

  “Even if he does come back, we won’t be there,” Anne-Louise said. “He’ll think we ran away.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I left a letter for him at your house and one at the postal office too. When he gets back, he’ll know we’re at the beach.”

  “I’ve never been to the beach before,” Anne-Louise said.

  “You’ll adore it,” Charlotte said. “I spent every summer there when I was a girl. My papa taught me to fish there. I made a collection of seashells. I read magazines all day long. And at night I slept in a hammock on the piazza so I could listen to the ocean singing me to sleep.”

  “May I sleep on the piazza?”

  “Possibly. We’ll see whether the hammock is still there.”

  Mr. Finch guided the boat into Schooner Creek, a deep stream bordered on each side by tall stands of marsh grass intertwined with water lilies, wild roses, and scarlet lobelia. Charlotte pointed out an alligator that slipped from the marsh reeds into the stream, a row of little turtles sunning themselves, an osprey watching their progress from his massive nest.

  Memories of childhood summers came back to her, sharp as a sea breeze. Before the war, moving to the beach each summer had involved loading furniture, bedding, trunks, provisions, even horses and cows, onto large flatboats that left Fairhaven at dawn for the eleven-mile journey along the meandering waterways. Her family had followed in a rowboat, the Negro oarsmen, Cuffy and Abraham, singing the whole way. She still remembered Abraham’s favorite, still could hear his deep rolling voice in her head.

  I believe I’ll count the angel.

  I do believe I’ll count the angel.

  How many angels in the band?

  After her father’s final summer on Pawley’s Island, he had purchased a few pieces of furniture for the cottage—a simple pine dining table and chairs, a settee and chair for the parlor, a bed for Charlotte’s room—thinking ahead to the time when she would make this journey alone and sparing her the necessity of a complicated move. If only he’d taken such care with the deed to her land.

  Marie-Claire shifted on her makeshift seat. “How much longer, Ma’m’selle? I’m hungry.”
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br />   “A few more miles, but we can eat now if you like.” Charlotte opened a basket and handed each girl a sandwich and bowl of blackberries. “Mrs. Hadley sent these before she left for the city. Wasn’t that thoughtful of her?”

  Anne-Louise chewed her sandwich and nodded. “I like strawberries better.”

  Charlotte thought of her first day at Willowood, when Mr. Betancourt had served strawberries. She smiled at Anne-Louise. “Me too.”

  At last the boat emerged into an inlet. Charlotte strained her eyes, looking for the long wooden boardwalk her father had built years before. “There it is, Mr. Finch. Thank goodness the Yankees didn’t destroy it. At least I won’t have any trouble coming and going from Fairhaven.”

  The overseer guided the boat to the boardwalk and nudged it alongside. Steadying himself with one oar, he jumped onto the dock and drew the boat alongside. “No need for you to be traveling back and forth, ma’am. The rice fields are doing just fine, and besides, Mr. Hadley and Mr. Clifton are at the Cliftons’ place up in the pinelands, keeping an eye on their gardens and such. One of us will let you know if anything goes awry.”

  “My father traveled back and forth from here every day, tending the rice. I imagine I can manage a trip or two each week. I don’t doubt your skill or your diligence, Mr. Finch, but I feel uneasy that there is no one to guard my house while I’m away.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But there hasn’t been as much stealing lately. I reckon the thieves have just about took all that’s fit for taking.”

  “Even though I’ve agreed to let Daniel stay on, I’m concerned about my mare.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her, and he will look after her when I’m not around. She’ll be all right.” He lifted the girls out of the boat and set them on the dock, then helped Charlotte out. “Take the children on up to the house. I’ll bring your things.”

  The cottage roof peeked from tall sand dunes where sea oats waved in the steady ocean breeze. The girls ran ahead, their shoes sounding hollow on the sun-bleached boardwalk. Charlotte took her first intoxicating draft of ocean air. She walked to the end of the boardwalk, skirted the dunes, and stopped dead still at her first sight of the rolling waves, the brilliant blue expanse of ocean. The sea mirrored the sun, splintering the light into tiny fires that flared and waned with the ocean’s breath.

  “Is that your house?” Anne-Louise pointed.

  “Yes. Pelican Cottage. I spent much of my childhood here.” She gestured toward a high corner window. “That’s my room. It has windows on three sides so I can see the marshes and the ocean all at once.”

  “Which will be mine?” Anne-Louise asked.

  “Come along, I’ll show you.”

  Together they followed the sandy path to the house and went inside.

  Marie-Claire wrinkled her nose. “It stinks in here.”

  Charlotte threw open the parlor windows to air out the house and led the girls across an open breezeway to the corner room her mother had kept for visitors. Furnished with a mahogany bed, a rocking chair, and a small dresser left over from her childhood, it too faced the sea. Before the war a parade of aunts, friends, and cousins had passed many a languid summer here. No one had slept here since.

  Charlotte opened the window, letting in a freshening breeze that billowed the thin white curtains. “The two of you will share this room.”

  “I don’t want to share,” Marie-Claire said. “I’m practically grown-up. I want a room of my own.”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice—unless you wish to sleep on the floor. The other bedrooms except for mine are empty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because for several years only my father and I summered here. We had no use for so many rooms. Besides, I’d rather spend my time swimming and fishing and reading books than dusting and polishing furniture. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose. But, Ma’m’selle, why can’t I have your father’s room? I bet he didn’t sleep on the floor.”

  “When he became very ill and we moved to the city to be near his doctor, we took his bed with us. It brought him comfort in his final months of life. He said it smelled like the sea.”

  “Oh.”

  Anne-Louise bounced on the bed. “I’m taking this side. I want—”

  “Miss Fraser?” Mr. Finch loomed in the doorway. “Where do you want these boxes?”

  “Just leave it all in the front hall. We’ll sort it out later.”

  “This is the last of it. I put your dishes and provisions in the kitchen and left your washtub out back. Oh, and I brought you some drinking water from the well.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get the Graves boy to come with me tomorrow. We’ll bring your rowboat and take the rice boat back to the plantation.”

  “I appreciate your taking him under your wing. I was hoping the Hadleys would look after him but—”

  “Some days that man can’t take care of himself,” Mr. Finch said, “much less look after a young’un. Like I said, I don’t want the boy working with my Negroes, but I can keep him busy with the garden and such. That is, if he can keep his nose outta the books long enough.”

  “You have the key I gave you?”

  He nodded. “Not that a locked door will keep out anyone bent on thieving.”

  “Let Daniel read whatever he wants from the library, so long as it doesn’t interfere with his work.”

  He glanced out the window. “Looks like a storm may be brewing. Old Thomas says storms break when the tide changes. Reckon I’d better be going.”

  Charlotte and the girls saw him off at the dock. When the boat disappeared into the inlet, she clapped her hands. “Who wants to go shelling?”

  “Me!” Anne-Louise plopped onto the sand, unbuttoned her shoes, and yanked off her stockings. Charlotte and Marie-Claire followed suit. They tucked their skirts into their sashes and raced to the shore. Marie-Claire yelped when the water lapped over her bare feet. “It’s cold.”

  “It won’t feel cold once you get used to it.” Charlotte bent to retrieve a tiny white shell and gently blew away the sand inside. She showed it to the girls. “This one is called angel wing.”

  “It’s pretty.” Marie-Claire slipped it into her pocket.

  “Here’s another one.” Anne-Louise scooped it from the sand. “It’s broken, though.”

  Thunder rumbled, and Charlotte glanced toward the horizon. “I think Mr. Finch might be right about the storm. We should go inside.”

  “But, Ma’m’selle, we just got here,” Anne-Louise said.

  “We’ll look for more shells later.” Charlotte extended her hand, and the little girl took it.

  They retrieved their shoes and returned to the house. From the shelter of the elevated piazza, they watched a curtain of rain move onshore. When the rain blew in, they went inside. Charlotte closed the window, made a fire in the cookstove, and set the teakettle on to boil. They ate a cold supper at the pine table and watched the waves crashing onto the beach. When the gray light leached out of the leaden sky, she read from the Psalms, led the girls in prayers for their absent father, and put them to bed.

  In her room, she set the key to her father’s strongbox on the table and readied herself for bed. She brushed her hair, listening to the girls’ whispered laughter, and was surprised at how happy she was for their company. Without them, she would be alone with her memories. As it was, thoughts of what she had lost and what yet might be in store kept her awake long after the storm had passed, leaving in its wake a sliver of moon and a froth of silvery stars.

  “Halloo! Is anyone home?”

  Charlotte rose from her desk in the parlor and peered out the window. The tide was coming in, turning the wide beach into a narrow strip of sand littered with bits of storm-churned driftwood. A flock of brown pelicans glided overhead. A pair of skimmers darted along the shore, inspecting the mustard-colored seaweed. And just outside the door stood Augusta Milton, whose cottage sat farther down the beach and closer to the
marshes.

  “Augusta. Hello.” Charlotte embraced her old friend. “I wondered whether you’d arrived yet.”

  “Hello, my dear.” With a swish of her skirts, Augusta crossed the bare floor and plopped down on the settee. “Got here last Saturday—just me and the milk cow. I saw Mrs. Weston last evening, and she told me she’d seen you arriving yesterday.” Her thick gray brows went up. “With children in tow?”

  “My pupils. Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise Betancourt. I haven’t had time to write to you about them. Their father went away on business and has not yet returned. I couldn’t leave them alone.”

  “Of course not.” Augusta folded her hands in her lap. “Where is their mother?”

  “Deceased. For some years now.”

  “Oh, what a shame. But then, you were hardly more than an infant when your own dear mother passed, and you turned out just fine.”

  “I was twelve. Not quite an infant. But still, it wasn’t easy.”

  Augusta smiled. “When a person gets to be my age, everyone in the world is an infant. Be that as it may, your dear father did right by you.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte paused, remembering happier times and her father’s habitual kindness. Would she ever stop missing the gleam in his eyes, the sound of his laughter? “The girls aren’t awake yet. They’re worn out from our journey yesterday. I was about to make tea. Would you like some?”

  “Thank you, but I can’t stay. The Seabrooks arrived last week, and I promised to stop by there this morning to help organize the summer mission drive. A new minister has arrived at the Litchfield chapel. The Reverend Mr. Peabody. He’s quite keen on good works.”

  “So I heard.”

  “It seems we’re going to make ice cream and sell it to the Northern tourists.” Augusta’s face darkened. “They can well afford it. And the proceeds will buy blankets for foreign orphanages.”