Carolina Gold (13 page)
Mr. Betancourt and the other men righted the Cliftons’ buggy, and soon they were underway. The other passengers remained in their rigs for the brief crossing, but Charlotte joined Mr. Betancourt
at the rear of the flatboat. All was quiet save the rushing of the water past the boat and the murmured conversations of the ferrymen. A soft breeze ruffled her hair. Starlight glittered on the dark river.
“That man was very lucky you were here to tend him,” she said at last.
“It was nothing. Mr. Banks deserves all the credit for rescuing him.” Hands in his pockets, he nodded toward the starry sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” In the lambent light, Charlotte studied his face. “You seemed very much at ease tending his wound. Are you a physician, Mr. Betancourt? I don’t believe I have ever heard you say precisely what your occupation is.”
“I’m a rice planter, same as you. Or I will be when everything is settled.”
“I see. But—”
“I was a physician once. But not now.”
She was full of questions, but asking them would presume on their short and mostly professional acquaintance. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He shrugged. “It was a reasonable question.”
The ferryman blew his whistle, swung his lantern wide, and tossed the ropes to two men waiting on the landing. One by one the rigs rolled onto the road and on toward the Waccamaw.
Mr. Betancourt seemed disinclined to talk, so Charlotte closed her eyes and let the scented night air and the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves soothe her.
“Almost home,” Mr. Betancourt said when they reached the Waccamaw ferry landing. This crossing proved uneventful, and soon they arrived at the entrance to Fairhaven. Mr. Betancourt got out, wet shoes squishing, and opened the gate. They drove up the long avenue to the darkened house.
He walked her up the steps to the door. “Quite an evening.”
She took her key from her reticule and fitted it into the lock. “Indeed. I feel sorry for Lettice. She tries hard to carry on as if nothing has changed.”
“Sometimes that’s the only way one can survive.” He paused. “Will you be all right? Shall I wait while you light your lamp?”
“No need. But thank you. And thank you for escorting me this evening. I quite enjoyed myself, despite the accident at the ferry landing.” She glanced at his wet trousers and shoes. “Too bad about your shoes.”
He gave a rueful laugh. “And these are my best pair. My only pair, in fact, not counting my riding boots.”
“I’m glad you can laugh about it.”
“What good would it do to complain?” He spoke with the cheerful air of someone who expected that circumstances, no matter how dire, must one day come right again. “Besides, there’s nothing like a near disaster to add a little spice to the proceedings. I’m glad the man is all right.” He tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Fraser. Pleasant dreams.”
“Good night.”
She went inside, lit the lamp, and watched him turn his rig for home.
Even though the ferryman’s accident was a minor one, Mr. Betancourt’s calm and competent manner and his concern for the injured man made it clear that he was a gifted physician.
Why then had he renounced his calling?
My neighbor at Alder Hill owns a painting that takes me back to my school days in Charleston. After our lessons and before evening prayers we were permitted to read or stroll in the secret garden behind Madame Giraud’s house on Meeting Street. As I was the youngest girl in the school, I often tagged after my cousin Della and her friends, who usually treated me with a certain benign affection that was both an annoyance and a comfort. But one afternoon Della was in a cross mood and spoke to me so harshly that I burst into tears. I ran through the garden to the back gate, scaled it, and dropped onto the busy street.
A black-and-tan hound, nose to the ground, hurried along the street, and I decided to follow him. He led me down Meeting, past Queen Street, past St. Michael’s Church, and then along Tradd Street, toward the river. At last he paused before a gate standing half open and barked.
An old man emerged from a narrow house situated on an alley and spoke to the dog. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw me. He was small, not much taller than I, with a wrinkled face the color of an acorn and thick white hair that fell about his shoulders like a shawl. Lively brown eyes regarded the hem of my blue frock, which was black with dirt from the street.
“Signorina, you are lost?”
“I know my way home.”
“But you do not wish to go there.”
“My cousin Della is mean as a snake. I hate her.”
“I see. Perhaps some tea and a piece of cake would sweeten your mood.”
The hound jumped up to lick my face.
“Come,” the man said.
Madame Giraud forbade us to visit anyone without a proper chaperone, but I was angry with the world, feeling defiant, and I followed him inside. The room was dim and narrow and furnished with nothing but a bed and a table covered with rags and tubes of paint. On an easel opposite the window, a small painting—
A rig turned in at the gate and rolled up the avenue, interrupting the flow of words. Paper in hand, Charlotte rose and went to the door.
“Miss Fraser.”
She smiled at the sight of her visitor, who stood before her wearing patched trousers, a loose-fitting shirt, and a tattered straw hat. His leather shoes seemed none the worse for their time in the river. “Mr. Betancourt. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry if I’ve arrived at an inopportune time.”
“I’m working on an article for the paper, but it can wait.”
“I’m glad to hear that, as I’ve come to propose an outing.”
“Oh?”
“With me and the girls. They’re playing on your little beach. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, but—”
“Splendid. Get your hat and let’s go.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’m expecting Mr. Finch at four.”
“We’ll be back by then.”
She thought of several good reasons to decline the invitation. For one thing, Mr. Betancourt was her employer. It was best to keep things on a professional basis. For another, she had summoned her overseer for a talk about the bill he had left on her porch yesterday. Several items seemed overpriced, and she was determined to get an accounting. But Mr. Betancourt looked so boyish and hopeful that she found herself agreeing.
She donned her hat, locked the doors, and settled herself into his rig. He clicked his tongue to the horse, and they set off for the narrow strip of sand at the river’s edge. Shaded by tall trees, the little beach sloped gently to the swiftly running current. As they rolled to a stop, Charlotte was glad she’d come. This secluded spot had been her favorite escape since childhood, and yet she had spent little time here since her return to the Waccamaw. Mr. Betancourt took a basket and his violin from the rig.
“Ma’m’selle, I caught a fish.” Anne-Louise, her skirt tucked up around her knees, hurried over to show Charlotte a small perch glistening silver in the dappled sunlight. “He’s too little to eat, though.”
Her father agreed. “Might as well let him go,
ma petite
. Maybe you’ll catch him again when he’s got more meat on his bones.”
“All right.” She regarded the fish dangling at the end of her line, seeming reluctant to relinquish her prize. “Marie-Claire hasn’t caught anything.”
“Who cares?” The older girl perched on a fallen log, her bright yellow skirt pooling at her feet. Her father called to her, and she looked up and gave Charlotte a halfhearted wave.
“What’s the matter with her?” Charlotte asked. “She seemed in a much better mood yesterday.”
“That stray cat she took in has apparently run away,” Mr. Betancourt said. “She’s feeling a bit rejected, I suppose.” He motioned her to a seat on the sand. “I forgot to bring a blanket.”
“Papa,” Anne-Louise called. “It is time to eat yet? I am about to perish.” She tossed her catch into the stream.
He laughed. “Come on then. You too, Marie-Claire.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Moping won’t bring that cat back.”
“Her name is Mathilde.”
“In any case, you must eat something,” her father said. “Tamar packed all your favorites.”
Marie-Claire heaved a sigh and plodded over to join the others.
“I’m so sorry about Mathilde,” Charlotte said. “Cats are an independent sort, I’m afraid. Perhaps she’ll come back. You never know.”
Marie-Claire plopped onto the sand, took the sandwich her father offered, and bit into it. “She can starve for all I care.”
“She can look after herself. There are plenty of field mice around.” Charlotte bit into one of Tamar’s deviled eggs and closed her eyes. Perfection.
Anne Marie went straight for the cake. “Papa, play us a tune,” she said between bites. “Maybe a song will cheer Marie-Claire.”
“Your wish is my command,
ma petite
.” He wiped his hands and took his violin from its case. “What would you like to hear, Marie-Claire?’
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Play ‘Buffalo Gals.’” Anne-Louise licked frosting from her fingers. “Or ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’”
“How about this one?” He settled his violin beneath his chin and began to play “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.”
“I know who wrote that one,” Anne-Louise said. “Stephen Foster.”
“It’s too hot out here,” Marie-Claire said when the final notes died into the silence. “I want to go home.”
“Can we go in the water, Papa?” Anne-Louise asked. “Just for a little while?”
“I suppose so.” He put away his violin and offered Charlotte his hand. “Why don’t we all go? We’ll go downstream a ways where the current is not as strong.”
Even Marie-Claire brightened at the prospect of her teacher’s joining in. She ran along the bank to a place where the current slowed. The two girls tucked up their skirts and raced to the water, squealing as the cold water hit their skin.
“Shall we?” Mr. Betancourt squeezed Charlotte’s hand, and she felt heat creeping into her cheeks. Once upon a time she had owned a proper swimming costume, a royal-blue wool complete with pantalettes that gathered at the ankles and a matching overdress. What had happened to it? Perhaps it was still tucked away somewhere in the Pawley’s Island cottage. She glanced at her brown skirt. “I’m hardly dressed for bathing.”
“Nor am I, but I’m not going to let that stop me.” Sunlight filtered through the trees and shone on his face, revealing fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He took off his shoes and rolled up the legs of his patched trousers. “Let’s go.”
Anne-Louise splashed in the shallows. “Hurry up, Ma’m’selle. The water feels so delicious.”
Charlotte took off her shoes and tucked her skirt into the sash at her waist. Soon the four of them were splashing and laughing
like old friends. Charlotte grinned. Anne-Louise was right. The cold water did indeed feel wonderful. How had she forgotten such simple pleasures?
Later, while her damp hair dried and the girls played along the riverbank, she sat on a log with Mr. Betancourt, enjoying the river-cooled air and the sounds of birdsong.
He shaded his eyes and watched Marie-Claire weave a crown of trumpet vines for her younger sister for their improvised game of kings and queens. Anne-Louise waved a stick as if it were a scepter. Marie-Claire curtsied, and both sisters collapsed in laughter.
“I’m grateful to you,” Mr. Betancourt said, “for taking on their schooling.”
She leaned back and turned her face to the sun. “Anne-Louise has nearly finished the books I gave her, and the ones I have ordered have not yet arrived. She’s clamoring to borrow my book of Peter Parley’s tales instead.” She smiled. “I can’t fault her for that; it is still a favorite of mine too. I’ll see if I can find more of my childhood books for her.”
“Mr. Frost mentioned that you spent much of your childhood in the city.”
“The two of you discussed my upbringing?”
“Only in the most complimentary of terms. At the Hadleys’ dinner party, I mentioned that my Uncle Clayton had contributed to the Winyah Society. Mr. Frost said that your father was one of its most ardent supporters. That he believed in a well-rounded education and made sure you were sent to a fine school.”
“He did. Though in truth I have little need of much of that fine education—apart from teaching your girls, of course. On the other hand, his lessons in growing rice are proving most useful.” She smiled. “If Madame Giraud could see me now, she would be quite distressed, but not greatly surprised. I was not the most conscientious of students.”
Marie-Claire had ventured too far down the riverbank. Her father whistled to gain her attention and motioned her to return. “You seem to have absorbed a lot of knowledge about art, though. Most people I meet have never heard of Signorelli. But you seem sure the Hadleys’ painting is not one of his.”