Carolina Gold (30 page)

The rig jostled across the railroad track. Charlotte spotted a stone house with two rows of tall windows, a steep slate roof, and
a yellow flag tacked above the front door. “This must be the house the nun told me about.”

Pierre halted the rig. He took out a red bandana and wiped his face. “I’m happy to help you out, miss, but I surely hope this is the last stop for today. I’m awful thirsty.”

“I won’t be long. You’ve been very patient, and I am grateful.”

She hurried up the walk and knocked at the door. Soon it was opened by a girl of no more than fourteen with pale blue eyes and stringy blond hair lying lank across her thin shoulders. “We haf no more room for sick people,” she said in a thick German accent. “You’ll haf to go somewhere else.”

“I’m not sick. I’m only looking for someone. May I come in?”

The girl shrugged and stepped aside.

Charlotte went in and blanched at the horrific scene before her. Every inch of the floor was covered with mattresses and piles of blankets, upon which rested a dozen victims of the fever. Despite the open windows, the room reeked of human waste, vomit, and decaying flesh. In one corner lay a fly-covered pile of linens stained with blood and urine. In another, a small wooden stand held pitchers of water, a stack of towels, and a few white enameled basins. Beneath the front window sat a low carved wooden table and two chairs. An endless cacophony of moans, curses, and screams filled the air as patients clawed at their skin or shivered with convulsions.

Charlotte’s stomach rolled. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and averted her gaze, concentrating on the small landscape painting hanging crookedly on the wall and then on the brown curve of river visible through the window. Anything to keep from looking at the misery surrounding her.

Two nuns moved serenely among the afflicted, pausing to wipe drool and vomit from slack mouths, speaking a word here and there, touching fevered foreheads, and doling out medicine. As the
young German girl passed among them with her pitcher and compresses, the patients begged for water, for laudanum, for death.

Charlotte felt lightheaded. So this was how her own mother had died—writhing in agony, begging for death’s sweet release. All her life her father had refused to supply even the barest details of her mother’s last days. She had resented his sending her away from her mother’s sickbed, resented the stubborn silence that had seemed his way of keeping her mother all for himself. Now she realized not knowing had been a blessing. She silently thanked her father for his wisdom and prayed that the general was right and there was little risk to her own health.

She breathed through her mouth and prayed not to lose consciousness—or the remnants of her long-ago breakfast. She moved through the cramped room and forced herself to look into each tortured face, going weak-kneed with relief when she realized none of them was Nicholas.

“Miss?” Charlotte put out a hand to stay the German girl on her rounds. “Who is in charge here?”

“Nurse?” The woman on the mattress nearest Charlotte lifted her arm and caught Charlotte’s hand in a weak grip. “Help me.”

Before Charlotte could move or summon one of the nuns, the woman vomited a thick mass, black and grainy as coffee grounds. The overpowering stench of it wafted through the room.

“Frau Hiller.” The girl knelt beside the woman to bathe her face. “You lie still now—I clean you up.” She tossed Charlotte a towel. “Doctor says vee must clean up ze vaste at once.”

Charlotte blotted the spittle from her skirts and then mopped up the foul-smelling vomit from the floor. She tossed the soiled towel onto the growing pile in the corner and rinsed her hands in a basin of brown-tinged water. “Is the doctor here?”

Just then a young woman entered from the side yard, her arms laden with stacks of towels. A battered leather medical bag hung
from her shoulder. She set down the towels, opened the leather bag, and turned around, both hands full of brown medicine bottles.

Charlotte stilled. The chaos around her receded. She blinked. “Josie Clifton?”

Josie blanched as white as the starched apron pinned to the front of her dress. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, speechless. “My stars,” Josie blurted at last. “Charlotte Fraser. What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing. The last time we spoke, you were headed west with your family.”

Josie shook her head and handed the medicines to one of the nuns. “I said my father was going west. That was never my plan.”

Nicholas. Nicholas had always been her plan. And the letter Josie had stolen from the postal office in Georgetown had told her just where to find him. “Where is—”

The taller of the two nuns stepped between them, a deep frown creasing her face. “Ladies,” she said in a fierce whisper, “if you have nothing better to do than to stand here gossiping while people are dying at your feet, then you can both get out.”

“But—” Josie began.

“Out!” the nun shouted just as the door flew open.

A man stepped inside, his sweat-stained shirt hanging loose over blood-spattered trousers that seemed too big for his thin frame. Thick, dark hair fell nearly to his shoulders and he desperately needed a shave. He was frowning too, no doubt displeased at the disturbance. “Sister Beatrice? What’s the trouble?”

Twenty-Three

N
icholas.”

Until he turned to look at her, Charlotte could not be certain she had spoken his name aloud. Her throat tightened at the sight of him. She moved toward him as if in a dream.

“Charlotte?” Stepping carefully around his patients, he crossed the room in three long strides and without a moment’s hesitation embraced her. “Dear God in heaven.”

For a moment they clung together, an island of calm amid the death and chaos surrounding them. She leaned into the circle of his arms, trying desperately not to cry. At last he drew back to look at her. “How are you? And my children? Did you receive my letters? And the money I sent?”

“No.” She looked up at him in complete surprise. “I’ve heard nothing since you left in May. Your daughters are well, but we were worried even before we learned of the epidemic.”

“The fever has been fierce this year.”

“We had to know whether you were all right. It seemed the only way to find out was to come here. I arrived yesterday and have
spent this entire day seeking word of you.” Tears clogged her throat. “I feared you were dead. You should have written, Nicholas.”

“I just told you. I did write. More than once. I sent money to pay for your tutoring and for Tamar and the girls. I was in over my head here, and Miss Clifton offered to post the letters for me. I was wondering—”

Josie’s smile faded like a satin ribbon left in the rain. “Well, I’m tired. I must be going.”

“Just a minute.” Nicholas stopped her with a look and motioned her toward the door. “Outside.”

The three of them went into the yard. Charlotte glanced toward Washington Square, deserted now in the brutal heat. Pierre had parked the rig under a tree and had fallen asleep, one hand still grasping the reins, oblivious to the rattle and shriek of the train just pulling into the station.

Nicholas rounded on Josie, his eyes blazing. “You told me Miss Fraser begged you to come here and assist me with the fever patients while she took the girls to Pawley’s Island for the summer. Is that true?”

Josie paled. “Well, maybe not exactly. She did take them to Pawley’s. But there she was tied down to that dreadful little school of hers, just beside herself with worry and responsibility, and there I was with loads of time on my hands. So I just decided to come and look after you.”

“And how on earth did you know I was in New Orleans?”

“Yes, Josie.” Charlotte fought the anger burning through her veins. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Betancourt how you learned of his whereabouts?”

A group of young girls in straw hats and frilly dresses ran pell-mell through the silent square. Nicholas pulled Josie and Charlotte into the shade of the building. “What’s this all about, Miss Clifton?”

“Oh, so now that Charlotte is here, it’s ‘Miss Clifton,’ is it?”

“Please answer my question.”

Josie dropped her gaze. “I . . . I took the letter she’d written you from the postal office in Georgetown. And I . . . I didn’t post the letters you wrote to her.”

“I was working day and night to save lives, and I trusted you with a simple errand.” Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to the checks?”

Josie shrugged. “For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t all that much—but enough to buy food and rent a cheap room.” Her eyes filled. “It’s awful living there, but anything is better than being forced to go out west and marry some smelly old cowboy.”

“One dollar or a million, stealing is stealing.” Nicholas shook his head. “It takes quite a lot of nerve to purloin other people’s mail and forge a signature on a check. I don’t know whether to admire your audacity or have you arrested. Though the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined toward the latter.”

Josie’s lips trembled. “Don’t do that, Nicholas. I’ll pay you back.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Somehow.” She took a pair of ruby earbobs from her pocket and held them out to him in her open palm. “I take these with me everywhere I go. I don’t dare leave them in my room. They’d be stolen in an instant. They’re bound to be worth something.”

“I don’t want them,” Nicholas said. “All I want is for you to stay away from me and from my patients.”

“But, Nicholas, you care for me, deep down. I know you do. Last week when we went walking you said—”

Charlotte felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. Seeing Nicholas today had made her realize just how much she cared for him. Were he and Josie courting?

“I know what I said.” Nicholas took out a handkerchief and
wiped his face. “I am grateful for your help with the fever patients. And I care for you as any person ought to care for the well-being of another. But that’s all there is to it, Josie. I’m sorry if you thought otherwise.”

She burst into tears. “Oh, you are hateful—both of you. I never want to see either of you again. I . . . oh!” Josie went pale and swayed on her feet.

Nicholas steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“What do you care?” She shook him off. “I’m sick of all this filth and death. I’m going home. My head hurts.”

She hurried across the square and disappeared down a side street.

Nicholas watched her retreat, a frown creasing his brow. “I hope she’s all right.”

“You’re practicing medicine again.”

“Unintentionally. I came here to find my land grant and got caught up in this epidemic.”

At his mention of the disputed barony, Charlotte felt a jolt of fear. For weeks she’d been too busy with her school and too concerned about Nicholas to think much about her ownership of the plantation. Now apprehension lodged in her midsection, sharp as a thorn. When Nicholas returned to the Waccamaw and reclaimed his children, growing rice would be her only source of income. If she lost Fairhaven, what would become of her?

“Did you find your land grant?”

“Yes.”

Her heart thudded. Heat pressed onto her head until she too felt faint.

“And?”

A wagon carrying two bodies wrapped in sheets turned the corner and rattled across the railroad tracks.

“We’ll discuss it later. You look pale, Charlotte. Are you all right?”

Whatever the news, she wanted it now. But he was right. This was not the time or place to discuss such a weighty matter. She indicated her soiled skirts. “I’m fine. I need to get cleaned up.”

“Me too. Where are you staying?”

“The Orleans Palace.”

He whistled. “Pretty fancy.”

“I suppose. I haven’t seen much of it. I arrived only yesterday and left soon after breakfast this morning in search of you.” Briefly, she described her efforts to locate him and nodded toward the still-sleeping Pierre. “General Beauregard was kind enough to lend me his driver. It’s high time I returned him.”

“May we have dinner this evening? I want to hear about my daughters and about everything going on at home.”

“All right.”

“I’ll check on my patients, clean up, and come to your hotel. Will six o’clock be too early?”

“Six is fine.”

He walked her to the rig. She woke the driver and introduced Nicholas.

“So you found him.” Pierre grinned at her. “Then it was worth riding around all day in this heat.”

“I’m sorry it was so much trouble. Please let the general know Dr. Betancourt has been found and thank him for me.” Charlotte clasped Nicholas’s hand as he handed her into the rig.

“Thank him for me too.” Nicholas leaned into the buggy, his eyes warm with affection. “I’ll see you at six.”

Pierre clicked his tongue to the horse and turned the buggy. Charlotte released a pent-up sigh and watched Nicholas striding back into the makeshift infirmary. This trip had been a costly one in more than one sense, but finding Nicholas was worth it all.

The young driver seemed disinclined to talk on the way back to her hotel. Perhaps he was as spent as she. Lulled by the motion of the rig and the press of the afternoon heat, Charlotte struggled to keep her eyes open as the horse clopped toward Prytania Street.