The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  It was just as well I’d never gotten my hopes up for William Middleton either, as we were also celebrating his engagement to Miss Williams, an heiress. Something I was most definitely not. No, after the Laurens incident, I’d come to peace with the idea of spinsterhood.

  My friend Mary Chardon had recently caught the eye of Reverend Hutson, and I knew our days of Tuesday embroidering and companionship would perhaps become few and far between if they were to marry. In fact, we had not seen as much of each other since the day we’d returned from her home and I’d had my altercation with John Laurens.

  Mrs. Pinckney; her friend Mrs. Cleland, who seemed completely unflappable; and Mrs. Pinckney’s niece were among my only female friends. Indeed, the friendship of Miss Bartlett, though she was younger than I, had come at an opportune time.

  I’d come to the realization that no matter I lived with my mother and sister and Essie and all our helpers, I was lonely. My heart yearned for friendship. For solidarity. For the rare beating wings of belonging. Part of me felt that it was Ben’s presence, along with his unbearable distance, that had made the feeling all the more acute.

  “I must insist you call me Charles. Please. My counsel?” he confirmed. “I’ll help any way I can. I’m glad to know you don’t just seek me out for access to books.” He chuckled.

  “Oh well, that too,” I teased and felt a rush of fondness for him. Charles. Charles was my friend too, though I’d still refer to him aloud as Mr. Pinckney. A very, very dear friend.

  We had spent two Christmases now without my father, and I was so very grateful he’d seen fit to make a friend of Charles Pinckney before he left. In fact, the only joy I felt when we left our home in Wappoo was for the time spent with the Pinckneys. “I did so love the Plutarch,” I answered. “Though I’m not quite done. I learn something important each time I pick it up—”

  “That you feel you must reread it several times,” Charles agreed, stealing my thoughts.

  “Quite.” I laughed. “No, it is your legal counsel I seek.”

  He walked to the chair beside mine and lowered his lithe body, dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit. His dark hair had grown slightly longer and was pulled neatly away from his strong features. Not for the first time I wondered his exact age. Older or younger than Papa? Probably twice my age. But so very pleasing on the eye and the sentiment.

  I hesitated a moment and chewed my lower lip. “Well the thing is, we have had a development in our indigo endeavor. The man from Montserrat arrived late last year, as you know. Nicholas Cromwell. And he brought a Negro man with him. I ... I know this man.”

  “The Negro man, you mean?” Charles looked at me so intently, I dropped my gaze.

  “We, ah, I’d like to think we were friends growing up.” I swallowed and looked back at him to gauge his reaction.

  A faint vertical line appeared between his eyebrows.

  “As children on the plantations in Antigua,” I clarified. “His name is Benoit. Ben. He has a very special knowledge of indigo. Unfortunately, my father had sold him to an indigo maker in Montserrat, but by some divine twist the gentleman Colonel Lucas hired, Nicholas Cromwell, brought him to South Carolina.”

  “That is a coincidence.” Charles assessed me with a narrow-eyed gaze. “When last we spoke you made mention of the Negro Act and the provision regarding importing Negroes for one’s personal use. Is this why you asked me to look into the matter?”

  “Well, yes. The thing is, I know I’ve probably made an enemy of Mr. Laurens, and I want to make sure I’m able to do what I must to make my endeavor succeed, but within the confines of the law. My father expressed concern when last he wrote, and I assured him I would seek your legal judgment.”

  Charles continued his scrutiny, and I wished I knew all the conjectures he was sorting out in his head. “I did look at the provisions, and I believe it was proposed in the assembly and rejected. For now. And hearing your explanation of how he came to be here, without your intent, I believe you are perfectly within your right even if it had been accepted.”

  My chest relaxed and I let a relieved breath escape. “There’s one more thing. There’s a provision in the act I read that prohibits educating a Negro so that he may not convey messages. Presumably to avoid another orchestrated rebellion like the incident at Stono.”

  Charles nodded. Though I sensed a wariness in his person.

  My eyes flicked down to my clasped hands. He always made me feel as though I could confide in him, but I feared this time I needn’t tell him all my plans or motives.

  He let out a breath and stood.

  The disturbance of air sent the faint smell of his pipe smoke and sandalwood over me. A smell I had come to find comforting.

  He walked over to a campaign desk and pulled a sheaf of papers, going through them slowly as he held them to the window light. The afternoon had turned gloomy and didn’t offer much additional illumination. But clearly it was enough.

  “These were in my study, but I found myself going through them again last evening in anticipation of your arrival. Somehow I knew you would have more questions. It says here that you may not teach slaves to write.”

  I played his words over again in my head. “And it says nothing about reading? Just writing?”

  He looked down again. “Yes, it would seem so.”

  “Well, that certainly seems odd. I’m not sure one can learn one without accidentally learning the other.”

  “I’d have to agree.”

  An idea came to mind that would perhaps get around anyone who became concerned with my project. “But I suppose one would need to be able to read in order to learn the moral principles of the Bible.”

  “And pray what scheme have you concocted?”

  “Just a little project. Teach some of the Negro children to read so they may seek counsel from the Bible.” I knew the lie was written all over my face.

  “All right.” Charles’ eyebrows were sky high, causing a ladder of lines upon his brow, his mouth twisted to a smirk. “Well, you’ll let me know how you get on?”

  “Of course.”

  “In fact, I should very much like to hear about all your endeavors. I have a feeling I’ll be much entertained.” He frowned. “But I fear if we correspond too frequently, it might seem … odd.”

  “Me being an unmarried woman?”

  “Well, yes. Mrs. Pinckney is so fond of you.” He cleared his throat. “As am I. But others may not approve.”

  Such as my mother. “I must thank you and Mrs. Pinckney for being so accepting in light of my hoydenish reputation. And I have gotten along famously with Miss Bartlett,” I said, immediately realizing a solution. “We have talked about keeping in touch. As a dutiful uncle, I’m sure you must read her correspondence?”

  He looked up sharply. “Indeed, I do.”

  “Well, then. I shall write her detailed missives on my exploits. That way you can be sure to hear about my endeavors.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t correspond directly with me.”

  “I know. And I’m just saying there are many ways to let you know of all my business endeavors without needlessly raising the eyebrows of people with too much time on their hands. Especially since I gave my last suitor the boot, quite literally, and I shall remain an amateur spinster botanist for as long as I have land upon which to practice.”

  Charles’ eyes flicked away. “About Mr. Laurens …” A smile played around his lips. “I must say, he told quite a grand tale. But then he’s always been known to embellish.”

  A fact for which I supposed I must be grateful. I raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t believe him?”

  “Oh, I believed him.” Charles let out a chuckle and shook his head side to side. “But then, I think I see a part of your personality no one else does.”

  “I—what would that be?”

  “Well, I don’
t believe you have ever met an obstacle you felt you couldn’t overcome.” His eyes were fond but still thoughtful.

  I tried to smile, though my lips were tight. I had. I had met an obstacle I couldn’t overcome. “I can’t be a son. And there isn’t much I can do about that. I’d say that was a rather large obstacle.”

  Charles let out a puff of laughter, and then his warm eyes grew somber, though no less fond. “I know,” he said quietly. “I often wonder what a visionary such as you could achieve if God had seen fit to make you a man.” His eyes flicked away again, his strong shoulders tense. “But I … I …” His voice was low. “I …” he tried again.

  “What is it, Mr. Pinckney?” I asked softly, confused at his strange expression. His usual self-assurance seemed rattled.

  He looked up, his expression pained, then let out a long sigh. “I, for one, am glad you are a woman, Eliza.” He shook his head. “For you are a remarkable one,” he said simply.

  Warmth spread through me. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

  Voices sounded in the hall. Charles cleared his throat. “I came across a book you may like. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. Unfortunately, it is in town.”

  “Thank you. I believe I’m sending Togo into town in the next few weeks for some supplies, can I ask him to stop by your home? I believe I may have some correspondence prepared for Miss Bartlett by then too.”

  Charles smiled. “I’ll look forward to seeing him.”

  Dear Miss Bartlett,

  ’Tis with pleasure I commence a correspondence with you …

  Best respects wait on Mr. Pinckney and lady,

  Your most obedient servant,

  E. Lucas

  Upon my return from Belmont after my informative chat with Charles Pinckney, my days about the plantation were imbued with renewed energy and purpose.

  I arose at my usual predawn hour, but now, on days I felt too much temptation to veer near the woods, rather than take a turn about the property, I would wake Lil’ Gulla and have him saddle a mare. He was always so happy to see me and do the job of Indian Peter that I didn’t feel bad rousting him. I had no desire for a repeat of my horrible encounter with Ben. And no desire to put proof in my suspicions that Sarah and Ben were growing closer. I rode up and down the lanes and enjoyed the coming fall coolness that was clothed in the wind that whipped my face.

  At my direction, Quash, Sawney, and Pompey were building a covered but open-sided gathering place on the other side of the dwellings, out of direct view from the house and visitors approaching. It would become a schoolroom of sorts. I’d thought briefly of asking Mary Ann’s girls and Lil’ Gulla to join me in the study each morning, but they were so unused to being in the house, I thought they’d be too distracted. Certainly, Polly was hard enough to direct; she would lead them into a fit of distraction all by herself.

  Transacting the business affairs of the plantations and recording everything into the account books took a fair chunk of each day. The boat from our plantation up at Garden Hill was now expected daily on its way to Charles Town. Murry, our overseer at the plantation on the Combahee River, had risen to my challenge and production was as good as could be expected. In fact we were sending a substantial amount of bacon and salted beef over to the West Indias with the next timber shipment. And we continued to run a full schedule of imports and exports. But whichever way I looked at our accounts, I couldn’t escape how flimsily our life was built. One failed shipment or a drop in production or demand and a mortgage payment might not be met. Curse Father. But, oh how I missed him so.

  The investment in indigo was no mere trifle. Between the cost of employing Cromwell and building the infrastructure we would need, we were in a critical balancing act.

  Extra luxury expenses such as attending the King’s Birthday Ball, to which all of Charles Town was invited at the end of October, and the dresses we would have need of ordering since Mama insisted we attend, added to my already burdened mind.

  I felt more dread than joy in the imagining of attending such a grand affair.

  A note from Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney arrived insisting we stay with them while in town for the ball. And Mrs. Pinckney, like an angel from heaven who could hear my panicked thoughts from so far away, had suggested that if we had the fabric, she would ask her seamstress Bettina to make our dresses. I had responded gratefully that, of course, we would be very much obliged.

  The rest of my day that was not involved in business was employed in educating the little parcel of Negroes and then rewarding myself with two indulgences: music and following Ben along the rows of indigo.

  Dear Mrs. Bartlett,

  Why, my dear Miss B, will you so often repeat your desire to know how I trifle away my time?

  In general then, I rise at five o’clock in the morning, read a little, then take a walk in the garden or fields and see that the servants are at their respective business, then to breakfast.

  After that, I spend time at my music, French, and shorthand. I devote time to our little Polly and two little black girls who I teach to read, and if I have my father’s approbation (my mama’s I have got) I intend them to become school mistresses for the rest of the Negro children.

  The remainder of my time until the evening meal is employed on the business of the plantation.

  I practice my needlework until candlelight and from that time to bedtime, read or write.

  I hate to undertake a thing and not go through with it; but by way of relaxation from the other, I have begun a piece of work of a quicker sort which requires neither eyes nor genius, at least not very good ones. Would you ever guess it to be a shrimp net?

  Oh, I had like to forgot one last thing: I have planted a fig orchard with design to dry and export them. I have reckoned my expense and profits to arise from these figs, but if I was to tell you how great an estate I am to make this way, you’d think me too far gone! Your good uncle, I know, has long thought I have a fertile brain at scheming.

  Pray, tell him if he laughs at my project, I never intend to have my hand in a silver mine and he will understand as well as you what I mean.

  If my eyes don’t deceive me; you, in your last letter, talk of coming very soon by water to see how my oaks grow. Is it really so? While ’tis in your head, put it speedily into execution. It will give me great pleasure!

  Your most obedient servant,

  Eliza Lucas

  Ben tolerated my presence in the indigo fields, and often it was just the two of us walking through the rows, inspecting each plant. As weeks went on, he began to speak more and more. I learned the quieter I stayed, the more he spoke.

  “Here,” he said, touching a particular branch that caught his eye, the leaflets marching proudly up each side. “See how the branches go every direction? They chase the sun. Not one of them is hiding in the shade of another.”

  “That explains why they always look so wild and undisciplined,” I answered.

  “Not everything got to seem perfect. But you look closer, see how perfect they are.” He lowered himself down to his haunches and pointed out three branches, which due to the way they hung, could easily be compared. “The same count of leaves on each side. All the same shade. But see how … different is each leaf?”

  I held my skirts and crouched beside him as he pointed to one of the leaves, gesturing as he spoke.

  “Look how full the leaf is becoming. How the edges start to curl down, its body pressing up to the sun. The time is coming soon. Maybe just weeks.”

  I looked, and frankly, didn’t see what he meant. His eyes were dark and expressive, his face sharp and proud. But I nodded anyway, perhaps more at the melodious rumble of Ben’s voice than what he was saying.

  He impressed me.

  At times like this, when Ben spoke and it was just he and I, I wished Andrew Deveaux or Charles Pinckney could know what a remarkable intelligenc
e Ben had. Mr. Deveaux, in particular, would very much enjoy chatting with Ben. It had been too long since I’d paid Deveaux a visit. Perhaps next time I went, Ben could accompany Quashy. Oh, the discussions they could have about plants!

  “You do not see it.” Ben sighed.

  “I do,” I protested. “I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

  A fleeting look of disappointment flittered across his face, and his hand let go of the small branch as he made to stand.

  “Wait,” I said. “My mind was on you, just—” I reached out to stop him, coming forward onto my knees, my hand grabbing his.

  And then I couldn’t let go.

  I watched in fascination as my fingers slipped between Ben’s like the keys of a pianoforte.

  My palms burned.

  The heat of his hand, the rough texture of his skin, the shocking and contrasting visual. My head grew light as I realized I hadn’t drawn breath. The air was so still, I thought perhaps Ben hadn’t either. I tore my eyes away from our linked hands and looked up. Ben was equally mesmerized. For a moment his grip grew tighter on mine, then as I watched, he blinked and reached out with his free hand, taking my wrist and pulling my fingers free as if only part of himself had the volition to do so.

  He stood.

  Avoiding looking at him, I scrambled up too, awkwardly when no assistance was forthcoming. That would necessitate touching again.

  My face throbbed with mortified heat. With a gasp of delayed reaction, I turned and ran back toward the house.

  “It is intolerable.” Mama’s voice reverberated around the small study. We’d enjoyed a lovely autumn meal of venison and pumpkin and now retired to the study to enjoy the fire after Polly went to bed. “You spend far too much time with that … that …”