Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  But the lawyer seemed irritated by her sudden appearance. He muttered and grumbled and lectured her all over again regarding the folly of her undertaking at Fairhaven. He allowed that perhaps Providence had intervened to save her from a fate even worse than losing her home. He reminded her that Pelican Cottage still was hers. It had a roof and a door to keep out the rain, which was more than could be said for some folks these days.

  “I have done all I can do, child. Now go away and leave me alone.” He consulted his watch and snapped it shut, putting an end to the conversation.

  Now she was on the last leg of her long journey. The ferry from Georgetown approached the southern tip of Pawley’s Island and jolted slightly as it nudged the short pier.

  As Charlotte disembarked, the Reverend Mr. Peabody’s horse and rig clattered down the sandy strip of road and rolled to a stop in front of her. Charlotte grinned. Augusta and the girls had come for her.

  “Ma’m’selle, you’re home.” Anne-Louise tumbled from the rig and leapt into Charlotte’s arms. “I thought you were never coming back. And you found our papa.”

  Behind her sister, Marie-Claire smiled shyly and waved. Charlotte set Anne-Louise on her feet and held out her arms to the older girl, an unexpected rush of love coursing through her. How she would miss them when Nicholas returned and sent them away to a real school.

  Augusta climbed out of the borrowed rig and embraced Charlotte. “What a time you’ve had, my girl. I’m so glad Mr. Betancourt is well. And sorry as I can be about Miss Clifton.”

  “As am I.” Charlotte looked out to sea. Despite her concerns, the waves rolling and shimmering in the early August heat worked their magic, infusing her with a sense of gratitude and peace. Mr. Crowley was right. Regardless of what happened to the plantation, Pelican Cottage and this magnificent beach would always be hers. And it would have to be enough.

  “Papa’s letter said he was sending us a present,” Anne-Louise said. “Did you bring it?”

  “I did. Right here in my bag.” Charlotte opened her travel satchel and took out the doll and the music box. Marie-Claire opened the little lacquered box and listened to the tinkling notes, a pensive expression in her eyes. Anne-Louise squealed and clasped the doll to her chest. “She’s beautiful, Ma’m’selle. What’s her name?”

  “I suppose that’s for you to decide.”

  “I’m going to name her Gabrielle after Maman.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea.”

  The ferryman plopped Charlotte’s baggage at her feet. “Will that be all, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Charlotte handed him a coin.

  Augusta rubbed her hands together. “It’ll be a tight fit, but I reckon we can figure out how to get all your paraphernalia into the rig.”

  A few minutes later, with Charlotte’s belongings packed tightly about their feet and Anne-Louise perched on Charlotte’s lap, they set off for home, the horse trotting confidently along the shady road.

  “I’m glad you got my letter in time to meet me,” Charlotte said. “I could hardly walk home with all this baggage.”

  Augusta grinned. “Mr. Peabody was more than happy to lend me his horse and buggy. He thinks very highly of you.”

  “I was sorry to stop the Demeres’ lessons so abruptly, but I had to know whether Mr. Betancourt was all right.”

  “Papa’s letter said for us not worry because he can’t get the fever,” Marie-Claire said. “He already got it when he was my age.”

  “That’s right.” Charlotte glanced at the girl and smiled. “But I didn’t know that before I went to look for him.” She patted Marie-Claire’s hand. “Now tell me. What have you learned while I was gone? Did you finish reading your books?”

  “Yes, Ma’m’selle.”

  “And, Anne-Louise, did you practice your handwriting the way I showed you?”

  “Sort of.”

  Augusta laughed. “When she wasn’t busy helping me make tea cakes, or fishing in the creek, or a thousand other more interesting things.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for looking after them.”

  “It was no trouble. I had a lovely time. My old house will seem awfully empty tonight.”

  They reached the end of the road. The girls piled out and raced ahead and were soon lost in the dunes, leaving Charlotte and Augusta to follow with her bags, travel satchel, parasol, and reticule.

  They piled everything in the cottage foyer. Charlotte removed her traveling hat and her cotton gloves, soiled from days of train travel.

  “When I got the letter saying you were on the way home, I bought a few things at the store. Mary Banks brought by some tomatoes and corn. And I baked a cake. I figured you’d be too tired to fool with making a meal tonight.”

  “Thank you. I am exhausted.” Charlotte plopped onto the settee. “You thought of everything.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Charlotte released a gusty sigh. “Am I really so transparent?”

  “I’ve known you all your life. I can tell when something’s not right.” Augusta’s faded eyes bore into hers. “Out with it.”

  “Mr. Betancourt found the deed to his property. Apparently it also includes Fairhaven.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes, but then I remembered something Papa told me right before he died. It may mean everything. Or nothing. But I won’t know until I can get to Fairhaven.” She brushed away her tears. “Oh, Augusta, I’m hopeful and scared to hope, all at the same time. If I’m right, I still may have a chance. If I’m wrong, I’ll lose every acre of my land.”

  The older woman let out a low whistle. “That is indeed a kettle of fish. But as long as you have this place, you have a home.”

  “I suppose.”

  Augusta patted her hand. “Something tells me that Fairhaven is not your only concern.”

  Charlotte hesitated. “It’s . . . Mr. Betancourt himself. Dr. Betancourt. I think most highly of him.”

  “You’re in love with him, you mean.”

  “No, I—”

  “Best call it what it is, girl. I can see how you feel about him just by the way you say his name.” Augusta raised a brow. “Does he return your affections?”

  “I think so. But—”

  “Then everything will work out, somehow. Where love is concerned, it’s important to have a little faith.” Augusta rose. “Here come the girls. I’ll see you later. I must return Mr. Peabody’s rig.”

  “Please thank him for me, and tell him I’ll be ready for the children on Monday.”

  Augusta snapped her fingers. “In all the excitement I forgot to tell you. The schoolmaster returned to Litchfield last week, much earlier than expected. The reverend said to tell you the Demere children will attend the plantation school beginning next week.”

  “I see. I suppose he’ll expect the return of his globe and books and the other things he lent us.”

  “I reckon so. But the summer is winding down. The Betancourt girls will be off to school in Charleston once their father gets home. Why not let them enjoy a few weeks free of lessons before then?”

  Anne-Louise pounded along the piazza and burst through the door, her new doll tucked under her arm. “I heard that, Miss Augusta, and I think it’s a stupendous idea.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I might grant you your freedom if you promise at least to practice your penmanship.”

  Anne-Louise wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t sound much like freedom to me.” She made a place for her doll on the embroidered settee. “Is there anything to eat? Gabrielle and I are excruciatingly hungry.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Find your sister and we’ll make supper.”

  At the door, Augusta turned. “I left some mail on the table from my last trip to town.”

  “Thank you.”

  The older woman pointed a gnarled finger at Charlotte. “Don’t forget what I said about Mr. Betancourt.”

  Anne-Louise followed Augusta onto the piazza. Charlotte went
to the kitchen and set about preparing a meal. The girls came back inside, and she sent them to wash up. Marie-Claire returned first and plopped down on the bottom stair, the very picture of dejection.

  “What’s the matter?” Charlotte carried a tray to the dining room and opened the windows wider to draw in the cooling breeze.

  Marie-Claire shrugged.

  “Don’t you like the present your father sent?”

  “I like it. It’s pretty.”

  “I thought so too. And very grown-up.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “No, Ma’m’selle. I feel fine.”

  “Then why the long face? I should think you’d be very happy now that your father is coming home.”

  “I want to see Papa but—” The girl brushed away tears.

  “Scoot over.” Charlotte sat down on the stair beside her. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “When Papa gets home, he’ll send us away to school. And I don’t want to go. I like it here.”

  Anne-Louise clattered down the stairs and plopped down on the stair behind them. “Me too, Ma’m’selle. I don’t want to go away to school. I don’t see why you can’t keep on teaching us.”

  Charlotte twisted around on the stair. “That’s a lovely thing to say, but there are many reasons why you must go to school. For one thing, I simply don’t know enough to teach you everything your papa wants you to learn.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, to begin with, French. I was the very worst student in my entire class, and since leaving school I’ve had few occasions to practice what little I do know. But a command of French is a requirement for every well-brought-up young lady. Along with drawing and needlework and literature and comportment and the many other things we’ve worked on this summer.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Marie-Claire’s blue eyes flashed. “I already know French. Anne-Louise was too little, but I learned French from Papa and Maman. Listen: Non. Oui. Merci. Au revoir.”

  Charlotte hid a smile. “That’s a fine start, but I’m afraid there is a bit more to it than that.”

  “I don’t care,” Marie-Claire said. “I’m going to be a rice planter like you and Papa. Who needs French?”

  “I don’t care about French either,” Anne-Louise said. “I’d rather learn about turtles and birds and hermit crabs. And how to build kites and things. And read books like Countess Kate and Little Women.”

  “I’m sure your teachers in Charleston will make room for those things too.” Charlotte rose and held out a hand to each girl. “Let’s not worry about it today. The new term in Charleston won’t begin until October. We’ve lots of time before then.”

  After their meal, the girls went outside to play. Charlotte looked through the mail Augusta had left. All of it was postmarked weeks before—a note from Lettice Hadley, a letter from Alexander, and a thin envelope in a hand she didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?” A tall bewhiskered man in a white shirt and wool trousers stood at the door, one hand cupped to his eyes.

  Frowning, the letter still in her hand, Charlotte went to the door. “Yes?”

  “Miss Fraser?”

  “Yes.”

  He doffed his hat. “Justus K. Jillson. I wrote to you last week. May I come in?”

  She stood aside and ushered him into the parlor. “I’ve just returned from a long trip and have not yet had time to read the mail.”

  “Even better. I’ve often found it’s more advantageous to plead one’s case in person. May I sit down?”

  “Please.” She motioned him to the settee and took the chair opposite. “What’s this about?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “As you may know, the state of South Carolina intends to establish free public schools in every county. And the sooner, the better—wouldn’t you agree?”

  His salesman-like approach was irritating. Who wouldn’t agree on the importance of schooling?

  “Perhaps you’d best come to the point, Mr. Jillson.”

  “Quite right. I saw the Reverend Mr. Peabody during the Independence Day festivities last month, and he bent my ear for quite a while, singing your praises as a teacher. He said you’ve ignited such a thirst for knowledge in his young charges that he can scarcely keep up with their questions.”

  “That was kind of him.”

  “He says your methods are somewhat . . . unorthodox.”

  “Perhaps. I’m not trained as a teacher. I’m guided by instinct and by the children’s own interests.” She folded her hands in her lap. “They seem to learn more that way than through more formal recitations. I doubt the state of South Carolina would approve.”

  “You’re correct in that assumption. There is much to be said for the tried and true.” He leaned forward, pale hands on his knees. “Still, good teachers are scarce. And we all appreciate your late father’s commitment to the welfare of the young people of our state. As commissioner of education, I’m prepared to offer you a position in the new school we’re opening near Sandy Island next spring. Assuming you are willing to adhere to the more conventional methods of instruction. I’m certain the headmaster at Litchfield will be glad to show you the ropes.”

  He sat back in his chair and beamed at her as if he’d just offered her the keys to the kingdom. “What do you say?”

  The prudent thing to do was to accept his offer. The salary, however modest, would be essential, especially if she failed to find proof of her ownership of Fairhaven. But memories of her own school days crowded in—the long hours spent copying out lessons, struggling with memorization, the daily tedium relieved only by her occasional secret forays to the artist’s studio off Tradd Street. Her teachers at Madame Giraud’s, well-meaning though they were, could scarcely conceal their own boredom and impatience. Even in her precarious situation, she couldn’t trade her sense of well-being for money.

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jillson. I’m honored that you think so highly of me. But I have my plantation to run. I hope to finish restoring my house and to resume cultivation of Carolina Gold.”

  The commissioner shook his head. “I admire your tenacity, but you know as well as I do that those days are behind us now.” He stared at her intently. “You won’t even consider my offer?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re being rash, throwing away a solid offer of employment in favor of a plan that cannot possibly succeed.” He stood and jammed his hat onto his head. “I can see myself out.”

  She watched him disappear among the dunes. As much as she disliked admitting it, the man had a point. Maybe she was chasing a dying dream.

  But there was only one way to find out.

  Twenty-Eight

  The boat rocked on the tide-pulsed waters of the creek. Charlotte unfurled her parasol against the morning sun as Trim set the oars and pushed off through tall stands of yellowing marsh grasses that soon obscured the dunes and the cottage beyond.

  This morning Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise had protested when she roused them from sleep for the short walk across the dunes to Augusta’s cottage. The promise of a bonfire on the beach upon her return mollified them. Now she sat drinking in the quiet beauty of the morning, the ocean’s muted roar, the fine silvery mist rising off the tidal creeks as the clear morning sky slowly gave way to gray clouds and a stiff breeze coming off the Atlantic.

  “Gon’ have ourselves a blow befo’ this day is done.” Trim squinted at the sky and guided the boat past an abandoned alligator’s nest and into a narrow stretch of water carpeted with bright green lily pads.

  She scanned the sky. “I hope it won’t be too severe, this close to harvest time.”

  In another few weeks, her first crop, small though it was, would be cut, stacked, and dried, then threshed and put into barrels for shipping. As a girl she had often stood with her father at the landing while the schooners Perseverance, Waccamaw, and Julius Pringle plied the river, transporting
barrels of Carolina Gold to her father’s rice factors in Charleston. Those days were gone, but at least she would have something to show for all her hard work.

  “Yes’m. We could’ve started cutting rice las’ week, but the tide was too high. Banks was kinda leaky too.”

  Charlotte swatted at a cloud of flies. “How have the other crops fared this summer?”

  “Since you was las’ to home, the sugarcane done real fine. Mr. Hadley hired some women from town to help with the grindin’. We got a barrel of good molasses from it.” He wiped his brow with a bright green bandana. “Lambert and Old Thomas been hoeing the peas and cuttin’ wood for the thrashing machine. My wife, she come up from town now and then to look after the chickens.”

  “How is Florinda? Mrs. Hadley wrote that she was ill.”

  “She been ailing some, but I been doctoring her with mustard plasters. Reckon she’s a little better these days.”

  They entered the whitecapped Waccamaw, blue-gray now beneath the gathering clouds. Charlotte’s heart constricted. She loved every inch of this river. To lose the right to live here would be like losing a limb.

  Another half hour brought them within sight of the house. Daniel waited on the dock.

  Trim let out a long sigh. “That Graves boy turn up here ever’ day, reg’lar as a clock.”

  Charlotte had to smile. Trim might fancy himself a free businessman now, but he couldn’t conceal his love for Fairhaven. Before the war, he had shown a certain possessiveness toward it, hastening to point out to her father or to the overseer a loose hinge, a broken trunk, a bit of falling plaster. It was clear he still felt proprietary about it, even as he strove to assert his independence.

  Daniel waved and helped Trim secure the boat. As Charlotte closed her parasol, thunder rumbled in the distance, and a flash of lightning forked through the darkened sky, sending her hurrying for shelter. As eager as she was to check on her rice, it was foolish to risk a trip downriver with a storm rolling in. She crossed the yard to the house, the solitary peacock—returned from his wanderings—waddling along in front of her. Daniel and Trim brought up the rear.