Carolina Gold (21 page)
A
t the far end of the inlet a boat appeared. Charlotte waved and hurried to the end of the dock. As the boat neared, she saw that it was not Mr. Finch manning the oars but Trim.
He maneuvered the boat alongside the dock and held it fast. “Mornin’, Miss Cha’lotte, and ain’t it a fine day?”
“Good morning, Trim.” She handed him her food basket, her parasol, her walking boots and gloves, then stepped into the boat. Evidently Trim had done some fishing on the way upriver; a basket of perch sat in the stern. “Where’s Mr. Finch?”
With one oar he pushed the boat away from the dock, then set the oar in the lock and began to row. “He ain’t here no mo’, miss.”
Her stomach dropped. “What do you mean he isn’t here? Where has he gone?”
“Back home, far as we can tell.”
“To North Carolina?”
“I reckon so. For a while now, he been feelin’ lonesome for his kin. Said he couldn’t get used to this swamp country. Needed to see him some hills, I ’spect.”
“So he simply left without telling anyone?”
Trim shrugged. “He tol’ Mr. Clifton, I reckon, because Mr. Clifton come on down the day before yesterday and took charge of things. Sent Lambert and me upland to hoe the crops. Then this mornin’ he tol’ me to fetch you from this island. He said Mr. Finch tol’ him your boat done sprung a leak.”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.” She much preferred rowing herself, but several boards had rotted out on her rowboat, and fixing it was one more expense she couldn’t bear just now. “What about my rice fields?”
“Can’t say, miss. Ain’t been down there in a coupla weeks.” Trim guided the boat through a narrow cut where a family of turtles had lumbered onto a log to enjoy the warmth of the sun. “I wouldn’t worry none, though. We’ve had tolerable good weather, no more bad freshets to wash away the rice. Leastways not yet. But Mr. Hadley come back from Georgetown yesterday and tol’ Mr. Clifton the steamboat cap’n says they’s a storm comin’ in.”
Sunlight glimmered in the trees, dappling the tea-colored water. Charlotte unfurled her parasol and considered Trim’s warning. Should she turn back now? If a bad storm came ashore, she might well be trapped at Fairhaven for days with no way to reach Augusta and the girls. But sometimes storms blew themselves out at sea and caused no real damage. And now that Mr. Finch had quit the Lowcountry without a moment’s warning, she was more anxious than ever to check on things and to see whether any word from Nicholas awaited her.
They entered the river. Trim rowed smoothly, his concentration focused on his task. They passed neighboring plantations, some showing signs of occupation, others clearly abandoned. Seeing the overgrown properties filled her with worry. Perhaps she would be the next planter to lose everything.
She watched the curve of the river, eager for a glimpse of
home. As they neared the dock, she saw splashes of color through the trees and her heart lifted. In her absence, her mother’s old azaleas and the banksia roses had burst into riotous bloom.
The gate flew open and Daniel Graves raced down to the dock. He was as thin and shaggy-haired as ever, but he had grown taller and more muscular. His pants were too short by several inches, and his biceps strained the fabric of his threadbare shirt. “Miss Charlotte. Come and see what I did.”
From her seat in the boat she smiled up at him. “Hello, Daniel.” She handed him her walking boots and her parasol.
Trim held the boat steady while she disembarked. “Will you be needin’ me this afternoon, miss?”
“Not until I’m ready to return to the beach. I can row myself down to the new field after I’ve seen to things here.”
He tied the boat to the dock. “I’ll be back when the tide turns. Get you home befo’ good dark.”
“Thank you, Trim.”
Daniel grabbed her hand. “Come on, Miss Charlotte. Wait’ll you see.”
She followed along the avenue toward the house. Daniel pointed. “Finished your barn while you was gone.”
She stared at the small, neat building nestled among a grove of trees. “You built this all by yourself?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Finch helped me some ’fore he lit out for home. But I finished it. Come and see.”
She followed him across the yard and into the barn to find Cinnamon waiting. “Hello, my sweet.” She nuzzled the little mare’s face. “I missed you.”
Daniel grinned. “I told her you were coming. I think she misses you too. There’s a storm on the way, so I brought her up from the pasture this morning. Didn’t want to take a chance of her gettin’ caught in it.”
“I’m so grateful you’re looking after her. And the barn is wonderful.”
“You like it?”
“Daniel, I’m amazed. I had no idea you knew how to build things.”
“Well, Mr. Finch and Thomas showed me how to frame it up, but I learned a lot outta them books in your library. I’ve read nearly ever’ book you’ve got.” He pointed. “I fixed your cart so’s you don’t have to take the wagon all the time. Me and Trim fixed the squeaky wheel too.”
“Well, I can’t thank you enough. I’ll pay you for your labors.”
“No, ma’am. You gave me a place to stay and books to read, and I reckon that’s plenty.”
“I hope you’re finding the house more comfortable than the slave street.”
“Yes’m. But there ain’t much left of the slave street. Me and Mr. Finch used most all the lumber outta the cabins to build the barn. But I reckon I’ll be moving on pretty soon anyway. The county is planning to hire a new teacher for the school up by Sandy Island come next term, and I aim to take advantage of it.”
“Where will you live?”
“Haven’t figgered out that part yet. But I’ve been saving the wages Mr. Finch paid me. I reckon I can rent me a room if I have to.”
Charlotte smiled. Daniel might be rough around the edges, but his mind and his ambition were first rate. “If you need help, you mustn’t hesitate to ask me. I’ll do whatever I can to see that you get the education you want.”
The boy blushed and ducked his head. “Clouds are buildin’ up. If you’re going down to your rice fields, I reckon you best get going.”
F
our pairs of brown eyes followed Charlotte as she moved to the head of the dining table. She jammed her hands into her pockets and forced a smile. Her plans had not included teaching Mr. Peabody’s nieces and nephews. But the events of the past week had reminded her of just how little control she actually exerted over anything.
The evening of her last trip to Fairhaven, the storm Trim predicted had arrived with a vengeance, flooding the sugarcane field and upland gardens and claiming most of her rice crop. The morning after the storm she’d tied up her skirts and waded into the ruined field where broken tree limbs, bits of trash, and clumps of marsh grasses floated atop the tender shoots. A single oar swirled past before getting caught in the trunk.
Even now, she could feel the despair of that moment lodged deep in her heart. She had surveyed it all, sick at heart but dry-eyed, until the bloated carcass of a drowned fawn washed up onto the flooded road. Then exhaustion, coupled with the oppressive
humid air and the bright sunlight falling across her ruined world, broke her, and the tears came.
Since her father’s death she’d lived on little more than hope and courage. Standing knee-deep in the warm muck, heartbroken and helpless, she’d felt both slipping away. For the first time since returning to the Waccamaw, she’d questioned whether it was possible to go on.
But what other choice did she have?
Upon her return to the island, she’d sent word to Mr. Peabody that she was willing to teach his young charges twice a week for the rest of the summer. She dreaded the prospect of teaching more children, but the added responsibility would leave her less time to mourn her loss, less time to worry about her future. Besides, with her rice crop gone, she needed every penny.
She handed out books and papers the minister had provided and, for the sake of the children, attempted to maintain a cheerful countenance. She wrote the day and date on the chalkboard and a list of words gleaned from the books the minister had sent. Behind her, papers rustled as the four little Demeres took up pencils to practice their penmanship. She moved from one child to another, offering encouragement and quiet correction, but her thoughts were of the ruinous situation on the Waccamaw. Her fields weren’t the only casualties, of course. Mr. Hadley and Mr. Clifton had suffered similar losses.
She reached into her pocket for the brass key she’d carried since the day she’d found it amid the detritus in her father’s library. Perhaps it was foolish to hold on to something so useless, but somehow the feel of the cool metal in her hand brought her some small comfort, as if somehow the missing strongbox would turn up and inside would be the answer to her dilemma.
“Teacher, when are we going to start our reading lessons?” Five-year-old Susan Demere, the youngest of the quartet, looked
up from the bench the minister had delivered after services on Sunday—along with two pine tables, the chalkboard, two wooden bookcases, an atlas, and some tattered books. He and a couple of men from Litchfield had carried it all inside, arranging the tables and benches beneath the tall windows that looked out onto the shady piazza and to the glittering sea beyond.
Charlotte smiled at the little girl and strove to inject a note of cheerfulness into her voice. “As soon as the Betancourt girls return from Miss Augusta’s.”
Augusta had been feeling poorly the past several days. This morning Charlotte had sent Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise across the dunes with jars of crab soup and tea. It was the least she could do to repay her friend for looking after the girls in her absence.
She took her seat at the front of the room and reread the report from the children’s previous teacher. Apparently Bess, age thirteen, excelled in arithmetic and geography but needed help with orthography and penmanship. The two boys, eleven-year-old John and eight-year-old Lucas, were average in reading and arithmetic and less proficient in everything else. Susan knew her alphabet and how to count to a hundred.
Charlotte’s head pounded. What on earth had she done? It was one thing to tutor Nicholas Betancourt’s daughters a couple of days a week, letting them take the lead in this brief time before they began boarding school. Teaching an entire family was quite another matter. She looked at their freckled, upturned faces, scrubbed clean and somber with grief, and felt all of her old insecurities rising up. They needed so much more than she could possibly provide.
The steady sea breeze billowed the curtains and ruffled the pages of the Bible lying open atop her writing desk.
Will you seek divine guidance?
Well, she had sought guidance during her evening prayers,
listening for some still, small voice, and this is where it had led. To a dining room filled with motherless children in need of every gift she could give them—mental, emotional, spiritual—at a time when she felt she had nothing left to give.
She recalled the summer her mother had died, here in this very house while she was banished to the care of friends in Charleston. How she had wept and prayed that her mother’s life might be spared, only to have it slip away. In the face of her most recent losses, it was hard to believe either in divine providence or in the efficacy of one’s own efforts.
Anne-Louise and Marie-Claire raced across the piazza and into the dining room. They took their seats without speaking and folded their hands atop the table, their eyes seeking hers. She felt a wave of sympathy for them. The first meeting with the Demere children had been strained. Anne-Louise in particular had been possessive of Charlotte and reluctant to share anything with the newcomers. Marie-Claire, clearly unhappy at no longer being the oldest, had retreated behind her books, refusing to speak unless spoken to.
Charlotte nodded to them and was rewarded with a wink from Anne-Louise. She led the children in a few songs and, after a reading lesson, set them to work on a set of arithmetic problems.
Lucas, the younger boy, began to cry, silent tears sliding down his freckled cheek. She knelt beside him, one hand on his thin shoulder. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
He sniffed and pressed his pencil to a clean sheet of foolscap.
“We can work on arithmetic later. Would you like to choose a book to read instead?”
He shook his head.
“He’ll be fine, miss,” Bess said, finishing her own copying. “It isn’t your fault. Luc cries all the time. Uncle James says we must let him cry it out.”
Remembering her own grief at the loss of her mother, Charlotte nodded to Bess and patted the boy’s shoulder. She glanced at Bess’s paper, then checked on John. He had crammed the word list into one corner and filled the rest of the page with a fanciful drawing of gulls and dolphins. He hunched over the page as if to hide it from her eyes.
She smiled down at him. “It’s all right. Your drawings are beautiful.”
The boy’s hand stilled and he looked up. “Pa always said drawing is a waste of time. He said I ought to be learning something useful.”
“Perhaps your father never heard of John James Audubon. His book of bird drawings is considered the best in the world. I think it’s one of the most beautiful books ever.”