Carolina Gold (16 page)

He nodded. “Well, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I am sorry. I’ll do my best to see you through, but it’s a powerful long time till winter.”

Dear Miss Fraser,

I regret to inform you that due to a decline in subscriptions, the Enterprise has temporarily suspended publication. Enclosed please find a check in the amount of twenty dollars for the two reports of yours that we were pleased to publish. The others are being returned to you with regret and with our sincere hope that we might resume publishing them when our situation improves.

Sincerely,

Edwin Sawyer, editor

Fighting disappointment, Charlotte tucked the letter into her reticule and left the postal office. It had taken longer than she expected to post her letter to Mr. Betancourt in care of General Longstreet, and now she was in a hurry to finish her shopping before Mr. Kaminski closed the store. She would have to figure out what to do about this latest news from Mr. Sawyer, but the noisy, smelly bustle of Georgetown was not conducive to rational thought.

Fishing boats creaked and bobbed at anchor on the Sampit River, filling the air with the smells of salt, seaweed, and the day’s catch. Groups of Negro men, several of them barefoot, unloaded lumber, barrel staves, and bolts of fabric on the wharf while their children jostled each other and played tag among the row of wagons waiting in the street. The blacksmith’s hammer rang. Bells tinkled as shoppers came and went from the bakery and the shoe repair shop.

According to the notice posted near the ferry landing, the
Resolute
was due to arrive in an hour. Already a line of buggies waited to meet the arriving passengers. Charlotte glanced at the clock tower and hurried along the boardwalk to Kaminski’s Mercantile.

“Miss Fraser.” Josie Clifton waved and crossed the street, hiking her skirts to avoid the dirt and horse droppings.

Charlotte was in no mood for socializing, but she forced a smile. “Good morning.”

“I saw you coming out of the postal office. I’m so glad I caught you,” Josie said. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you, and I didn’t see you at church last week.” Josie snapped open her fan, stirring the thick, humid air. “Do you think we might find shade somewhere and something cool to drink? I can’t believe how warm it’s been, and June is not yet upon us.”

“I’m afraid I’m in a hurry,” Charlotte said. “I must collect some more supplies for my pupils, and Mr. Kaminski closes in—”

“Mr. Betancourt’s daughters,” Josie said. “Exactly why I wanted to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“It seems that you and Mr. Betancourt are quite close,” Josie said. “Judging from the way he looked at you the night he escorted you to Mrs. Hadley’s birthday party. Why, he scarcely took his eyes off you all evening. And don’t bother telling me you didn’t notice. A woman always notices the attentions of an attractive man. And Mr. Betancourt is quite attractive.”

“Yes, he is. But—”

“I want him,” Josie said.

“What?”

“I want to marry him. I know you saw him first. And you have the advantage, being his daughters’ teacher and all, but you can’t imagine the pressure my father is putting on me to find a suitable match. It’s even worse now than it was before the war, and there’s hardly anyone left to marry.”

“That’s true enough.” Josie’s plight was very real. Spinsterhood meant social death to those who cared about such things. But it amused Charlotte that Josie gave her credit for far more influence than she actually wielded.

She took out her handkerchief and blotted her face. “Well, Josie, I imagine that Mr. Betancourt will decide whom he will marry. I won’t have a single thing to say about it.”

She swallowed a sudden pang. Heavens above, was she jealous? Of the man who was trying to wrest ownership of her land? Absurd.

“Then you don’t mind if I flirt with him in church on Sundays?”

“I have no claim upon his affections. But you might encounter resistance from Marie-Claire. She’s quite possessive of her father. Anne-Louise, on the other hand, is desperate for a mother.”

Josie’s eyes widened. “But you mentioned that he plans to
send them to school in Charleston soon. I don’t imagine they’ll be in the way for long.”

Charlotte frowned. “In the way?”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Josie said in a rush. “They’re all right as children go, but you must admit that even the most charming children are an impediment to courtship. And when we’re married, we’ll want some time alone. Perhaps Nicholas and I will take a trip to Europe. Spend a whole summer.” She sighed and fanned her face. “His family is French, after all, and I’ve always dreamed of seeing Paris. Father promised me a trip, but then the war ruined everything.”

The clock in the bell tower pealed the half hour. Charlotte shaded her eyes and looked toward the landing where a crew of men uncoiled a large rope to receive the
Resolute
, now a white speck on the horizon. The hot sun beat down, shimmering on the river. The bad news from the newspaper editor weighed heavily on her mind. She needed to collect her supplies and return home. And she was in no mood to discuss Nicholas Betancourt with anyone. “I really must go.”

“Wait a minute.” Josie’s eyes, clear and hard as Venetian glass, sought hers. “You aren’t cross with me, are you?”

“Of course not. I simply have too much to do today and too little time.”

“I was hoping you might recommend me to Mr. Betancourt.”

“Recommend you?”

“You know. Just casually remind him that I’m from a good family. And that I am not averse to his attentions.”

The
Resolute
’s whistle sounded. Charlotte tucked away her handkerchief. “I’m running late. You must excuse me.”

Josie huffed and flounced away. Charlotte completed her shopping just before Mr. Kaminski locked the door. Then she climbed in her wagon and guided Cinnamon along the river road,
her thoughts jumbled. The conversation with Josie had rekindled her fears about Nicholas Betancourt’s search for his land grant and what it might mean for her own future. Why could she find no record of her own claim? Papa had kept meticulous records of everything he owned at Fairhaven—from slaves to oxen to buttons. How could he have been so careless in preserving the documents that proved the plantation was theirs?

“Come aboard, miss!” The ferryman who had fallen into the water the night of Lettice’s party, now working the Waccamaw crossing, seemed fully recovered. Grasping Cinnamon’s bridle, he guided the wagon onto the ferry. Two women in a black buggy followed. The ferrymen pulled on the heavy ropes and the ferry entered the river.

Charlotte watched the fish jumping in the water, her mind once again filled with worry. She owed it to Papa to write to his lawyer once again and inquire whether news had surfaced. Fairhaven was her father’s legacy. She had made a solemn promise not to let anyone deprive her of her last link to the world she once knew. Not even someone as appealing as Nicholas Betancourt.

The ferry nudged the dock, and Charlotte drove onto the road. Deep inside her mind, something important lurked, waiting to surface, if only she could remember it in time.

Twelve

C
harlotte led Cinnamon into the yard and freed her from the wagon. The mare snuffled and flicked her tail, eager for her bucket of oats and molasses and a well-deserved rest. Charlotte gave her a perfunctory brushing and checked the water tub. After a day away from home—church in the morning, then a visit with the Hadleys—she looked forward to a good long rest and wished mightily for a long soak in a big tub. But she had yet to replace the zinc tub the Yankees had stolen. Yet another quick sponge bath would have to do.

In the gathering darkness she crossed the yard and went up the steps and along the piazza to the door. Inside, she lit her lamp and looked around the room. Finding everything in order, she pumped fresh water into a wooden bucket and climbed the stairs to her room. She bathed quickly, changed into her nightdress, and unpinned her hair.

The window was open to the sultry spring breeze. She stood for a moment drinking in the particular smells of the Lowcountry—the damp, loamy scent of the rice fields, wild jessamine, the smells
of fish and mud rising from the serpentine creeks winding toward the sea. Watching the moon rise over the broad sweep of the river, she felt a surge of love for the land that brought the sting of tears to her eyes.

Down in the slave street, a pinprick of light glimmered. Charlotte leaned out the window, her eyes straining against the darkness, her ears attuned to the smallest sound. Certainly no one lived there now. Yet the light continued to burn, shining through the dark trees. Her heart sped up. Perhaps Yankees were on the prowl. Perhaps thieves were about, though there was precious little left to steal.

She turned from the window, slipped into her dressing gown, and shoved her feet into her shoes. Downstairs, she retrieved Papa’s old pistol from its hiding place in the woodbox and silently thanked Alexander for his prescience. The gun probably wouldn’t fire, even if she could find some ammunition, but perhaps the sight of it would be deterrent enough. She lit a lantern and crossed the darkened piazza, the gun at her side. Keeping close to the line of trees along the avenue, she hurried toward the slave street, her gown whispering in the new grass, the lantern light swaying across the darkened path.

The first three cabins on the left side of the street were dark. In the fourth, a light wavered and caught. The smell of sulfur filled her nostrils. She doused her lantern and crouched between the cabins, her hands shaking, the pistol propped on her knees.

A slight figure appeared in the open doorway. Charlotte held her breath.

“The coast is clear.” A boy’s voice, urgent and low.

“I’m scared,” a girl whispered back.

“Well, you were the one that was dumb enough to follow me. Now come on, if you’re comin’.”

“Promise you won’t look.”

The girl emerged from the doorway, ran down the dusty path, and disappeared into the woods. The boy followed, a guttering lantern held high. Charlotte frowned. Something about him seemed oddly familiar.

Soon the pair returned, heads bent low, the lantern flame trembling in the sudden breeze wafting in from the sea.

Recognition dawned. She got to her feet and stepped into the street. “Daniel Graves.”

He stopped, the lantern slipping from his grasp. “Don’t shoot.”

She retrieved his lantern and held it high, illuminating two young faces tight with fear. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Nothing.” Daniel shuffled his feet and looked away.

She turned to the girl. “Who are you?”

“Lucy Wainwright. But I don’t aim to cause Daniel no trouble, ma’am. I’m the one came looking for him. It ain’t his fault.”

“It’s his fault for trespassing on my land.”

Daniel made a sound in his throat. “You gonna turn me in?”

“I don’t know. It depends upon your explanation, which I have no intention of listening to out here in the dark. You’d best come up to the house.”

He inched toward the cabin. “Got to get my possessions.”

“What possessions?”

“He lives here now,” Lucy said. “All by himself. I thought he was telling me a whopper, so I came to see for myself. Only it was a lot farther here than I thought. It was almost dark when I got here, and then it was too late to go home, and then I had to use the privy, and I guess that’s when you saw the light, and now we are in trouble and it’s my fault.”

Charlotte stared at the pair, stunned into momentary silence. At last she said, “Daniel, is this true? Have you been living here in my slave street?”

“Yes’m.”

“May I ask why?”

He shrugged. “Pa left.”

“Where has he gone? When will he be back?”

“I don’t know where he is, but he ain’t coming back. He took everything with him ’cept for my straw mattress and some dishes and such. Reckon he got tired of waitin’ on me to make good.”

Charlotte went inside the cabin and surveyed it by lantern light. A crumpled blanket lay atop the mattress in the corner. An upside-down metal bucket held a cup and a tin plate. On the dirt floor was a stack of books.