Carolina Gold (12 page)

The trip from the Pee Dee ferry to Alder Hill, sitting next to Nicholas Betancourt as his elegant gray trotted smartly along the road, had been pleasant too. He had regaled her with stories of his boyhood adventures on the Mississippi River, his years at school, his efforts to teach his daughters to waltz. The one thing he seemed to want to avoid was any talk of Willowood.

“Dinner is ready, Miz Hadley.” Dressed in a parrot-green silk gown and a matching turban, Florinda moved from kitchen to table, delivering platters of poached fish and stewed root vegetables.

Mr. Hadley lifted his glass. “To my wife, Lettice. Many happy returns.”

Lettice, wearing a simple peach-colored gown several seasons out of fashion, patted the mountain of curls atop her head and smiled at her husband across the table.

“Hear, hear,” Nicholas Betancourt said. “We toast your birthday, Mrs. Hadley, and thank you for your hospitality.”

Charlotte caught his eye and lifted her glass, happy to be in his company. Handsome, smart, and with an infectious smile, Nicholas Betancourt charmed everyone at the table.

Lettice blushed as the guests clapped and lifted their glasses. “I am so glad you all came. Things have been entirely too quiet around here this spring. And I hope you enjoy our supper, though of course it isn’t the same as in the old days.”

Charlotte heard the sadness in her friend’s voice. She smiled at Lettice across the candlelit table, in awe of the older woman’s courage. Few could accept poverty with such quiet dignity.

“Nothing is like it was in the old days.” Mr. Frost speared a carrot with his fork. He chewed and swallowed and eyed Charlotte across the table. “I understand you’ve hired Jeremiah Finch to help with your rice crop.”

“Yes.” Charlotte took a bite of the poached fish. “He seems to be competent enough, but I wish he wouldn’t be so harsh with the workers. I realize one must be firm but—”

“Sometimes a firm hand is necessary,” Mr. Banks said from the far end of the table.

“My father never raised a hand to his men. One can be firm without resorting to—”

“William,” Mrs. Banks said with a slight shake of her head. “Perhaps we should change the subject?”

“Of course.” He set down his glass. “Forgive me, Miss Fraser. Tell me, how are you getting on at Fairhaven?”

“My cousin gave me a horse and wagon, and I hired Trim and Thomas to make a few repairs around the place. Like you, though, I’m mostly occupied with my rice crop. I lost some in the storm, but I have hopes for a field downriver—if I can get it planted in time.”

“And she’s busy with teaching my daughters,” Mr. Betancourt said, smiling at her across the table.

“Truly?” Josie Clifton set down her fork and turned her wide eyes on Mr. Betancourt. “I had no idea you were in need of a tutor, sir, or I would have offered my services. I am quite proficient in singing and embroidery. I know a little French. And I think your children are simply darling.”

Mr. Betancourt nodded. “So you’ve said. And I’m grateful for your willingness to help. But my daughters are in need of a solid grounding in mathematics, orthography, and literature. And in comportment, I must admit. Miss Fraser fills the bill quite admirably.”

“Oh.” Josie pursed her lips in a mock pout. “I’m afraid mathematics is not my strong suit. I try, but somehow numbers just fly right out of my head.”

“Never mind, my dear,” her aunt, Mrs. Thornhill, said. “A girl as pretty as you need never fret about such things. Don’t you agree, Mr. Betancourt?”

Just then Florinda bustled in with a large tray and began clearing the dishes. “Is your comp’ny ready for cake and coffee, missus?”

“We are,” Lettice said. “I’ve been looking forward to cake all day.”

As the guests lingered over slices of warm spice cake and cups of strong coffee, the talk turned once again to the difficulties of
planting rice, the recent drop in prices, and the necessity of moving away from the river during the sickly season.

“I suppose we will spend the summer with my mother’s people in North Carolina,” Mrs. Clifton said.

“Oh, Mother, must we?” Josie fussed with the ruffle on her dress. “Why can’t I stay with the Russells in Charleston? At least in town I might have a prayer of meeting some people my own age.”

“Perhaps you’ll visit us on Pawley’s,” Mrs. Banks said.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Josie said. “Much more pleasant than sitting around listening to Aunt Fern complain about the heat.” Her eyes flashed. “I heard that Benjamin Cousins and his family are already back on the island for the season. I’d adore seeing him again. It’s been ages and ages.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Mrs. Clifton said. “This cake is delicious, Lettice. I wonder if you might share your recipe?”

Lettice smiled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Florinda about that.”

Mrs. Banks set down her cup and smiled at Charlotte. “I understand you’ll be coming to Pawley’s this summer.”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve always loved the island, but my father was too ill to travel last year.”

“I’m delighted to know we can look forward to your company. And I’m sure the Reverend Mr. Peabody will be glad too. Despite his short tenure at Litchfield, he’s already pressing the Ladies’ Mission Society to raise money to purchase blankets for an orphans’ home in China.”

“But won’t that be awfully expensive?” Mrs. Thornhill asked. “I don’t see how he can hope to achieve such a lofty goal.”

“He plans to make and sell ice cream. Or rather, he hopes the ladies will take it on,” Mrs. Banks said. “I think he’s counting on our little island’s attracting more visitors now that the war is over.”

Mrs. Thornhill shook her head. “I do hope the Tuckers won’t come to regret allowing him the use of their chapel. He seems a bit too ambitious if you ask me.”

Mr. Hadley finished his cake and stood. “I hate to say so, but I find that I am not feeling well.”

“What is the matter, my dear?” Lettice got to her feet. The men at the table rose with her.

Mr. Hadley shook his head. “It’s this blasted headache. I’m afraid I must lie down.”

“Of course, old boy,” Mr. Frost said. “Think nothing of it.” He bowed to Lettice. “A fine supper, my dear. One to sharpen the mind and soften the heart, as they say.”

“Thank you, Theo.” Lettice waved a hand to her guests. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. Everyone enjoy your cake while I see to my husband. I won’t be long.” She wrapped an arm around Mr. Hadley’s waist and they went up the stairs.

“What happened to him?” Josie asked. “During the war, I mean.”

Mrs. Thornhill frowned. “Josephine Clifton, you know better than to pry.”

“Well, nobody ever tells me anything. I’m not exactly a child, you know.”

“It’s common knowledge he had a bad time of it,” Mr. Frost said, settling once again into his chair. “Best leave it at that, Miss Clifton. Poor Charles is a different man than he was before the war.”

“We were all different men before the war,” Nicholas Betancourt said quietly.

Florinda returned to pour more coffee. “Any of you ladies and gent’men want more cake?”

“I do.” Josie handed Florinda her empty plate.

“No more for her, Florinda,” Mrs. Clifton said, frowning at her daughter. “Keep eating like that, Josie, and you’ll soon be too stout to fit into that fancy new dress of yours.”

Josie pulled a face. “Oh, all right.” She leaned closer to Charlotte. “What a tiresome evening this has turned out to be.”

“Wait until the Frosts leave,” her aunt murmured, brows raised. “There will be much to discuss then.”

Josie brightened at the prospect of new gossip, though it seemed to Charlotte the dignified older couple could hardly be the subject of anything scandalous. Perhaps the Frosts’ financial situation had grown even more precarious, but financial hardship was hardly news these days. Perhaps Josie’s aunt meant only to pacify a young girl who had grown weary of the proceedings.

“Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?” Mrs. Banks said. “I’m sure Lettice will be returning soon.”

“I could use some fresh air,” Mr. Frost said. “Would you gentlemen care to join me for a cheroot on the piazza?”

Mr. Clifton and Mr. Banks followed Mr. Frost to the door. He turned, one hand resting on the rusty doorknob. “Coming, Mr. Betancourt?”

“In a moment. When I arrived this evening, I saw a painting in the hall that seems familiar. I was hoping for another look at it.”

The men left, and Mr. Betancourt offered Charlotte his arm. “Shall we?”

He took up a flickering taper, and they crossed the wide entry hall to an alcove opposite the parlor. The space was empty except for a large, gilt-framed painting. Mr. Betancourt lifted the candle. “Of course it’s hard to tell in this poor light, but I think it might be a Signorelli. It’s similar to one that hung in my grandfather’s dining room in Languedoc. He was convinced that his painting was one of a pair, though there was never any proof that the artist repeated himself.”

“I don’t think it’s a Signorelli,” Charlotte said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“For one thing, the brush strokes are slightly different. Signorelli
tended to paint in very short strokes.” She indicated a patch of deep green in the bottom left corner. “The colors on this one are more muted. And Signorelli was known for placing a small still life in the larger picture, but I don’t see one here.”

“Granted. But the darker coloring may mean only that the painting needs a good cleaning. If it is a Signorelli, it’s more than three hundred years old.” He moved the guttering taper. “I don’t see a signature.”

Above them a door opened and closed, and Lettice descended the staircase. Charlotte was about to ask her about the painting, but the pained look on her old friend’s face stopped her words.

Mr. Betancourt, too, sensed that this was the wrong time to satisfy his curiosity. He returned the candle to the table, bowed to the ladies, and went out the front door, letting in the scents of tobacco smoke and jessamine.

“Is Mr. Hadley all right, my dear?” Mrs. Banks asked, her brown eyes full of compassion.

Tears brightened Lettice’s eyes but she nodded. “As well as he will ever be, I suppose. He is plagued with nightmares that only strong drink seems to cure. His doctors in Charleston told us the drink is responsible for the headaches, but Charles is not willing to give it up.”

“We will pray for him,” Mrs. Clifton said. “And for you too, my dear.”

Lettice’s expression hardened. “If prayer could heal my husband, he would have been rid of his demons long ago.”

Mrs. Banks glanced at the parlor clock. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. We must go.”

Lettice didn’t protest as the ladies rose with a rustling of skirts.

“We must say good night as well.” Mrs. Clifton clasped Lettice’s hands. “I do hope you enjoyed your birthday, despite your dear husband’s difficulties.”

“I was happy to see you,” Lettice said. “We must not wait for a birthday to plan another social evening.”

“And we shan’t.” Mrs. Frost headed for the door. “I will see you soon, I hope.”

Lettice stood on the porch while her guests took their leave. Mr. Betancourt handed Charlotte into his rig, and they followed the other conveyances down the darkened road toward the ferry landing.

“May I ask you something?” he asked as they neared the Pee Dee landing.

“Of course.” Charlotte watched the ferrymen’s lantern light winking through the dark trees.

“How do you know so much about Signorelli? Grandfather said he became fairly obscure in his later years and lacked a pupil of any note to keep his reputation alive. Certainly he is not very well known these days. But you seem to know his work well.”

A girlhood memory rose in her mind, bringing with it a pang of sweet sadness. “It’s a long story.”

“I would like to hear it,” he said, his voice soft in her ear.

A shrill whistle sounded. The Cliftons’ rig, traveling just in front of theirs, rumbled across the short bridge and drew up at the ferry landing. A couple of ferrymen hauled on the heavy ropes and drew the flatboat near the riverbank.

The Frosts’ carriage eased onto the ferry, followed by the Bankses’ rig, but Mr. Clifton’s horse balked. He snapped his whip. The horse shied and whinnied. One of the ferrymen rushed over and grabbed at the harness, but the rig rolled backward, its wheels catching on the edge of the flatboat.

One of the ferrymen ran to the rig and attempted to rescue the tilting buggy, but lost his footing and tumbled into the dark river.

“Help!” the other ferryman yelled. “He in the water and he can’t swim a lick.”

“Wait here.” Mr. Betancourt jumped from his rig and ran to the riverbank just as Mr. Banks dove into the water. Charlotte gathered her skirts and hurried to the landing. Everyone on the ferry had left their rigs and huddled together, eyes anxiously scanning the water.

Mr. Banks surfaced, the ferryman in tow. “He’s bleeding. Must have hit his head.”

Mr. Betancourt waded into the water and helped bring the injured man to the riverbank. “Hand me that lantern,” he called to the other ferryman.

He set the lantern near the injured man’s head, wrapped his hands in his handkerchief, and probed the wound. The ferryman roused and moaned.

“Be still a moment.” Mr. Betancourt called up to the waiting crowd, “Anybody have a cloth? A clean handkerchief will do.”

Josie Clifton ran toward him holding the skirt of her bright-yellow frock, as showy and self-conscious as an early-blooming daffodil. “You are most welcome to my petticoat, sir.”

He didn’t look up. “Thank you. Be quick about it.”

A ripping sound was followed by another moan from the injured man. A few moments later Mr. Betancourt rose. “That’s all I can do for now.”

“How bad’s it, sir?” the other ferryman asked.

“The wound needs cleaning, and he will need a fresh bandage. Something for pain if you have it. But in a few days’ time he should be recovered.” Mr. Betancourt tucked his soiled handkerchief into the pocket of his dove-gray waistcoat.

“I been knowing his fambly all my life,” the ferryman said. “I’ll carry him on home soon’s I get you folks acrost this river.”