by Dorothy Love
He didn’t answer. They returned in strained silence to Pelican Cottage. The girls shook the powdery sand from their feet and ran upstairs. Charlotte led Nicholas into the dining room and handed him the documents.
He read the account of the shipwreck and the letter from Therese St. Clair, then picked up the land-grant document. She waited, trying without success to decipher the expression in his eyes. At last he set everything aside. “It seems authentic enough. I suppose I owe you an apology.”
“You said if a deed turned up, you’d recognize my claim.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure my father loved your cousin very much, and then he lost her in the shipwreck. Perhaps the land grant no longer seemed important to him then. Or perhaps he simply forgot as time passed and the matter never came up. Until now.”
He sighed. “This certainly complicates my plans.”
“And mine. I don’t relish the thought of a dispute any more than you do.”
The girls clattered down the stairs dressed in their flannel swimming costumes and carrying blankets, pails, and shovels. Nicholas opened his arms to them and planted kisses on their heads. He caught Charlotte’s eye. “We’ve both had a shock. Let’s enjoy the rest of the day and take up these serious matters later.”
“What serious matters?” Marie-Claire asked. “I hope it isn’t boarding school.”
Nicholas laughed and shook his head. “Have you a swimming costume, Miss Fraser?”
“An old one. I found it when we first arrived here this summer. But it’s terribly out of fashion.”
“The fish won’t care, and neither will I.”
This morning’s revelations and Nicholas’s harsh words had left her in no mood for an outing. She marveled at how quickly he could dismiss their conversation and its implications. “I don’t think—”
“Please, Ma’m’selle,” Anne-Louise said. “The summer is over, and when Papa makes us go away to school, you’re going to miss us terribly.”
That much was true. She might be angry and disappointed in Nicholas, but it wasn’t the children’s fault. She ought not to spoil Nicholas’s homecoming for them. She went upstairs and soon emerged in her old wool-flannel swimming dress and matching pantalettes. Her swimming boots and cap were long gone, but there was nothing to be done about it.
“Very fetching.” Nicholas grinned as she descended the stairs.
She glanced away, unwilling to forgive him for his accusations. Unwilling for him to see that despite it all, his compliment had pleased her.
“Papa, can we please hurry?” Marie-Claire cocked one hip. “It’ll be dark soon, and the water will be too chilly for swimming.”
Charlotte took a blanket from the press in the hallway. They crossed the piazza and returned to the beach. While the girls retrieved the small pieces of wood they’d collected earlier in the day, Nicholas dug a pit in the damp sand. He piled the wood inside, then shucked his coat and kicked off his shoes. “Last one in is a rotten egg.”
With loud whoops, father and daughters rushed into the gently rolling surf. Charlotte waded in slowly, inhaling sharply as a cold swell washed over her and lifted her off her feet. She squinted against the bright sunlight angling across the sea and treaded water, listening to Nicholas spinning a story of mermaids and pirates. His daughters dove and surfaced, their dark hair streaming behind them, their hands undulating like small white fish just below the surface. He caught her eye and smiled before he too dove beneath the waves. She closed her eyes and drifted, trying to empty her mind.
When the sunlight waned they swam to shore, where Nicholas lit the fire and they huddled beneath their blankets. As the fire crackled, sparks flying upward into the softening blue twilight, he entertained them with stories of his adventures in New Orleans and of the interesting people he’d encountered on his long journey home. The girls told him about the Demere orphans and the day Susan hid on the roof. They described Daniel’s visit, the Independence Day fireworks, and the funeral for the dead skimmer.
“You sent him off in fine style,” Nicholas said, his voice grave. He kissed Marie-Claire’s head.
Anne-Louise snuggled against her father. “We love Pelican Cottage. But we missed you more than anything. Didn’t we, Ma’m’selle?”
“You did indeed.” Filled with the languid fatigue that follows a swim in the ocean, Charlotte wrapped the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and dug her toes into the sand.
“When are we going back to Willowood, Papa?” Marie-Claire raked her fingers through her damp curls. “I can barely remember what it looks like. And I want to see if Mathilde has come home.”
“I’m going over in the morning to check on the storm damage.” Nicholas caught Charlotte’s eye. “Is there any chance you’ll let me sleep on the back porch tonight?”
“The hammock has rotted away, and it’s too chilly for sleeping outside anyway. The girls can share my room and you can have theirs.”
“Thank you. I hesitate to prevail even more upon your hospitality, but I’m wondering whether you could possibly let them stay on here for another couple of days while I find out whether our house is habitable.”
“All right.”
On the sea the starlight broke and multiplied. The smell of salt and seaweed rode the sharpening September wind. Charlotte stared into the firelight. She wanted the question of their dual claim settled. The sooner, the better. But would she see Nicholas at all after that? The fever epidemic had brought them close. Working side by side in the infirmary, they had developed an easy companionship on equal terms, something she had not expected when she set out to find him.
Now that the crisis was over, and a legal dispute loomed, perhaps their relationship was at an end as well.
Marie-Claire told her father a joke that made him laugh. How she would miss that sound if they became enemies. She studied his face in the flickering light and thought about how much more she stood to lose.
Thirty
While roof repairs were underway at Willowood, Nicholas and his daughters had gone to visit the Kirks in the pinelands. They’d been gone for more than a week. Without the girls’ constant chatter and bright laughter, Pelican Cottage seemed devoid of life.
“If their absence is making you so unhappy, perhaps you should go over to Fairhaven.” Augusta peered at Charlotte over the top of her spectacles. “There’s nothing to keep you here. And you said you wanted to make some new curtains for the parlor.”
Charlotte’s needle stilled above her embroidery frame. None of the plans for the house that had so excited her upon her arrival last spring held much appeal these days. “I suppose.”
Augusta patted her hand. “Cheer up, my dear. Lovesickness can be quite painful, but it’s rarely fatal.”
Charlotte resumed her stitching. Despite the contested barony, she couldn’t deny her deep yearning to be with Nicholas every day. “I’m not lovesick.”
Augusta glanced at her, a knowing smile on her lips. “A woman can tell what another is thinking by the way she draws her thread.”
Charlotte knotted a pale lavender thread and snipped the end with a pair of tiny silver scissors. “I will admit my tender feelings for Nicholas Betancourt. But I’m worried about how our claims can be resolved. It seems that in such a situation, there can be only one winner.”
“You said he has already had his claim to the barony recorded?”
“Yes, but mine has the earlier date.”
“Perhaps he intends to purchase your interest in Fairhaven.”
“I doubt it. Even if the weather cooperates next year, the rice trade is dying. The chances it can ever be profitable again are practically nil, and he knows that as well as anyone.” She set aside her needlework and bit into one of Augusta’s warm, moist tea cakes. One more thing she would miss when the summer season ended. “On more than one occasion he has alluded to some sort of plan, but I have no idea what he has in mind.”
“I know how much you love Fairhaven, but is that a
good enough reason to hold on to it at any cost? Isn’t it possible that in letting it go you will gain something even more valuable?”
“But I made a promise to my father, even if he wasn’t the man I imagined him to be. And my land is—”
“My dear girl, an old house and ten thousand acres of fallow land will be cold comfort in your later years. Whatever plan Mr. Betancourt has in mind deserves your serious consideration.”
Charlotte watched a small boat beating against the incoming tide. As painful as it was to admit it, perhaps she too was struggling against the inevitable.
“Mr. Betancourt thinks very highly of you,” Augusta said. “I can tell.”
Charlotte thought for the thousandth time of their shared kiss. Had it meant anything to him, or was it nothing more than a brief release from the endless horrors of the infirmary? Every time she thought of it, her stomach went tight, but Nicholas gave no indication he remembered it at all. Perhaps his medical training had taught him to suppress his emotions.
She returned Augusta’s steady gaze. “He has not declared his feelings.”
“He will sooner or later. And his daughters clearly adore you. Even Mrs. Rutledge remarked upon it during the Independence Day celebration.” Augusta rose from the rocking chair on the piazza. “And speaking of Mrs. Rutledge, I must go. I promised Mary to accompany them to Georgetown, and I can’t be late.”
“Thank you for the tea cakes. And the advice.”
Augusta smiled. “Shall I send word to Fairhaven to have Trim row over for you in the morning?”
“I suppose I should go and check on things. Perhaps a change of scenery will clear my head.”
When Augusta had gone, Charlotte cleared their tea things and answered a letter from Lettice. Then she took a walk on the beach, nodding to others as she passed. She collected a broken whelk and a handful of angel wings and set them carefully in the window ledge when she returned to the cottage. Anything to pass the empty hours.
She went to bed early, woke early, and went down to the dock to wait for Trim. Shortly after sunrise, his boat rounded the bend in the creek.
He lifted a hand in greeting. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, miss.” He steadied the boat while she entered. “It’s a hot one today, but frost won’t be long in coming this year. Las’ week I saw a caterpillar already lookin’ fat and fuzzy. Reckon we might have us a cold winter this year for sure. All the signs point to it, anyways.”
Trim turned the boat and began to row. She opened her umbrella against the bright sun and looked out over the marshes. Patches of goldenrod and black-eyed Susans dotted the banks. The last of the red trumpet vines wept blossoms into the brown river.
“Boiled another gallon of molasses yesterday,” Trim said. “Hens been layin’ good too. I collected the eggs for you this mornin’.”
“Thank you.” She trailed her hand in the water, content to listen to Trim’s report.
“Lef’ you some ducks all dressed out on the back porch. They ’bout took over the fields lately. Lookin’ for they own food, I reckon. The boy Dan’l, he been lookin’ after your mare real good. Reckon she’ll be in fine shape to take you visitin’ when folks get home to the Waccamaw.” The oars rattled in the locks as Trim shifted on the wooden seat. “’Course, I don’t reckon they’s many left by now. Mast’ Clifton done gone out west, Mast’ Allston over on the Pee Dee give up on his place; he managin’ somebody else’s land now. And Mast’ Hadley, he seemed some better for a good long while, like the work of lookin’ after your plantation agree with him. But he ain’t doin’ no good these days a-tall.”
Charlotte nodded. Lettice had said as much in her last letter.
Shortly after nine Trim guided the boat to the dock at Fairhaven and held it fast while she disembarked.
He studied the sky. “Gon’ be a fine day on the river. No storms this day.” He grinned. “Yes’, sho is gon’ be a fine day.” He wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve. “Reckon I ought to finish diggin’ the p’tatoes.”
“Are they any good?”
He scratched his head. “Turned out tol’able well, what they is of ’em. Me and Florinda pulled a few beans yesterday. Mast’ Hadley said we could have ’em. That was befo’ we got word you wanted to come over today.”
“It’s all right, Trim.” She headed up the path to the gate, closing her umbrella as she went. “I’m not very fond of beans anyway.”
He laughed as he secured the boat and jumped nimbly onto the dock. “You just like you daddy was. Mast’ Fraser liked his corn an’ collards, but beans wasn’t no excitement to him at all.”
She reached the gate and pushed it open. “I should be ready to go by three or so. I want to be back on Pawley’s before dark.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Cha’lotte. I’ll come to carry you back.” Trim circled the house and headed up to the potato patch.
Charlotte walked the long avenue to the house and let herself in. The air was close and warm. She threw open the windows and went from room to room, feeling restless and slightly out of sorts. Without fabric and her sewing supplies, she couldn’t make curtains today even if she wanted to. And she had no desire to spend the morning roasting the duck Trim had brought. Why had she even come?
She went out to the barn. Daniel had evidently come and gone, bringing Cinnamon in from pasture. The mare had plenty of feed, the water trough was full, and the stall smelled of fresh straw. Charlotte spoke to her gently and, on a whim, decided to ride. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden just for the pleasure of it.
She found a bridle and bit and led the horse down the sun-dappled avenue to the gate. She boosted herself onto the bottom rung, then onto Cinnamon’s back. Without a saddle, she couldn’t go fast or far, but the minute she urged Cinnamon through the gate and onto the road, the sense of joy riding always brought her returned. Charlotte let the mare set her own pace, content to breathe the air and feel the late September sun on her face.
As they neared the road leading to Willowood, she saw something in the ditch up ahead and her breath hitched. Drawing closer, she saw a man in a torn and bloody suit lying facedown in the mud. She halted the horse and slid to the ground.
She knelt and felt for a pulse. “Sir?”
He moaned and turned his head to the side, revealing a swollen and bruised cheek.
“Good heavens. Mr. Hadley?”
Had he taken a tumble while riding? She looked around but saw no horse, wagon, or cart. “Mr. Hadley, it’s Charlotte Fraser. Are you all right?”
He struggled to a sitting position and stared at her through bloodshot eyes. The smell of alcohol wafted from his soiled clothes. He waved one hand in her direction. “Leave me alone.”
Pity and disgust warred inside her. Clearly the poor man still struggled with private demons she couldn’t begin to understand. How in the world had Lettice lived with it for so long?
“You still here?” Mr. Hadley made a shooing motion. “I told you to get away from me.”
She bent over him and fought to contain her anger. “Listen to me. Do you think you are the only one who has ever risen to a bleak morning? We’ve all suffered. And you, sir, are all Lettice has left in the world. She’s trying to carry on, and you owe it to her to get on with life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Rebuild your plantation. Or move to town. But do something to make a life for her.”
He shrugged and blinked at her like a sun-addled lizard.
“What happened?” she asked. “How did you get here?”
“Got robbed, if you must know. By a couple of workers off that fellow Betancourt’s place. But don’t go blabbing it to my wife. She’ll be mad enough at me as it is.”
“And I don’t blame her. I realize you saw some terrible things during the war, and I am truly sorry. But there is no excuse for such shameful behavior.”
He shrugged. “You don’t know the first thing about watching people die.”
“Oh, but I do. I’ve just come from an infirmary in New Or
leans where people died of the fever every day. Including Josie Clifton.”
He frowned and scratched his chest. “Josie Clifton is dead?”
“Yes. And a thousand others too.” She took her handkerchief from her pocket. “Wipe your face.”
He complied as if he were a child. “Josie Clifton. My word. What the devil was she doing in New Orleans?”
“That isn’t important now. Can you stand?”
“I’m not that drunk.” He leaned on her, struggled to his feet, and climbed from the ditch onto the road. “Izzat your mare?”
“Yes.” The strange look in his eye made her suddenly wary. She had known the Hadleys her whole life. For Lettice’s sake she felt compelled to help him, and yet she couldn’t help feeling uneasy.
He ran his hands over the mare’s sleek sides. Cinnamon tossed her head and snorted as if she didn’t trust him either. He cursed and yanked hard on the bit.
“Mr. Hadley, stop. You’re hurting her.”
“So now you know all about horses too.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Is there anything you don’t know, Charlotte Fraser?”
She stepped between him and her little mare. “Plenty. But my father taught me how to handle horses.”
“Oh, that’s right. Saint Fraser was a master of everything. King of the Waccamaw. The most celebrated purveyor of Carolina Gold. The richest and smartest man in the entire Lowcountry. Except for one small thing.” He leered at her, and she recoiled from the sickly sweet fumes wafting from his clothes. “Word has it the arrogant fool never recorded his title to Fairhaven barony, and now you stand to lose every acre of it to that quack who has laid claim to Willowood.”
Tears burned her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her. She wrenched the reins from his hand. “For Mrs. Hadley’s sake, I was prepared to lend you my horse, but you seem perfectly capable of getting home under your own power.”
