Carolina Gold (39 page)

Charlotte nodded. Lettice had said as much in her last letter.

Shortly after nine Trim guided the boat to the dock at Fairhaven and held it fast while she disembarked.

He studied the sky. “Gon’ be a fine day on the river. No storms this day.” He grinned. “Yes’, sho is gon’ be a fine day.” He wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve. “Reckon I ought to finish diggin’ the p’tatoes.”

“Are they any good?”

He scratched his head. “Turned out tol’able well, what they is of ’em. Me and Florinda pulled a few beans yesterday. Mast’ Hadley said we could have ’em. That was befo’ we got word you wanted to come over today.”

“It’s all right, Trim.” She headed up the path to the gate, closing her umbrella as she went. “I’m not very fond of beans anyway.”

He laughed as he secured the boat and jumped nimbly onto
the dock. “You just like you daddy was. Mast’ Fraser liked his corn an’ collards, but beans wasn’t no excitement to him at all.”

She reached the gate and pushed it open. “I should be ready to go by three or so. I want to be back on Pawley’s before dark.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Cha’lotte. I’ll come to carry you back.” Trim circled the house and headed up to the potato patch.

Charlotte walked the long avenue to the house and let herself in. The air was close and warm. She threw open the windows and went from room to room, feeling restless and slightly out of sorts. Without fabric and her sewing supplies, she couldn’t make curtains today even if she wanted to. And she had no desire to spend the morning roasting the duck Trim had brought. Why had she even come?

She went out to the barn. Daniel had evidently come and gone, bringing Cinnamon in from pasture. The mare had plenty of feed, the water trough was full, and the stall smelled of fresh straw. Charlotte spoke to her gently and, on a whim, decided to ride. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden just for the pleasure of it.

She found a bridle and bit and led the horse down the sun-dappled avenue to the gate. She boosted herself onto the bottom rung, then onto Cinnamon’s back. Without a saddle, she couldn’t go fast or far, but the minute she urged Cinnamon through the gate and onto the road, the sense of joy riding always brought her returned. Charlotte let the mare set her own pace, content to breathe the air and feel the late September sun on her face.

As they neared the road leading to Willowood, she saw something in the ditch up ahead and her breath hitched. Drawing closer, she saw a man in a torn and bloody suit lying facedown in the mud. She halted the horse and slid to the ground.

She knelt and felt for a pulse. “Sir?”

He moaned and turned his head to the side, revealing a swollen and bruised cheek.

“Good heavens. Mr. Hadley?”

Had he taken a tumble while riding? She looked around but saw no horse, wagon, or cart. “Mr. Hadley, it’s Charlotte Fraser. Are you all right?”

He struggled to a sitting position and stared at her through bloodshot eyes. The smell of alcohol wafted from his soiled clothes. He waved one hand in her direction. “Leave me alone.”

Pity and disgust warred inside her. Clearly the poor man still struggled with private demons she couldn’t begin to understand. How in the world had Lettice lived with it for so long?

“You still here?” Mr. Hadley made a shooing motion. “I told you to get away from me.”

She bent over him and fought to contain her anger. “Listen to me. Do you think you are the only one who has ever risen to a bleak morning? We’ve all suffered. And you, sir, are all Lettice has left in the world. She’s trying to carry on, and you owe it to her to get on with life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Rebuild your plantation. Or move to town. But do something to make a life for her.”

He shrugged and blinked at her like a sun-addled lizard.

“What happened?” she asked. “How did you get here?”

“Got robbed, if you must know. By a couple of workers off that fellow Betancourt’s place. But don’t go blabbing it to my wife. She’ll be mad enough at me as it is.”

“And I don’t blame her. I realize you saw some terrible things during the war, and I am truly sorry. But there is no excuse for such shameful behavior.”

He shrugged. “You don’t know the first thing about watching people die.”

“Oh, but I do. I’ve just come from an infirmary in New Orleans where people died of the fever every day. Including Josie Clifton.”

He frowned and scratched his chest. “Josie Clifton is dead?”

“Yes. And a thousand others too.” She took her handkerchief from her pocket. “Wipe your face.”

He complied as if he were a child. “Josie Clifton. My word. What the devil was she doing in New Orleans?”

“That isn’t important now. Can you stand?”

“I’m not that drunk.” He leaned on her, struggled to his feet, and climbed from the ditch onto the road. “Izzat your mare?”

“Yes.” The strange look in his eye made her suddenly wary. She had known the Hadleys her whole life. For Lettice’s sake she felt compelled to help him, and yet she couldn’t help feeling uneasy.

He ran his hands over the mare’s sleek sides. Cinnamon tossed her head and snorted as if she didn’t trust him either. He cursed and yanked hard on the bit.

“Mr. Hadley, stop. You’re hurting her.”

“So now you know all about horses too.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Is there anything you don’t know, Charlotte Fraser?”

She stepped between him and her little mare. “Plenty. But my father taught me how to handle horses.”

“Oh, that’s right. Saint Fraser was a master of everything. King of the Waccamaw. The most celebrated purveyor of Carolina Gold. The richest and smartest man in the entire Lowcountry. Except for one small thing.” He leered at her, and she recoiled from the sickly sweet fumes wafting from his clothes. “Word has it the arrogant fool never recorded his title to Fairhaven barony, and now you stand to lose every acre of it to that quack who has laid claim to Willowood.”

Tears burned her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her. She wrenched the reins from his hand. “For Mrs. Hadley’s sake, I was prepared to lend you my horse, but you seem perfectly capable of getting home under your own power.”

He belched and raked his hair from his eyes. “Indeed I am.”
With exaggerated care he retrieved his hat from the ditch and set it onto his head. “Good day, Charlotte Fraser. Mistress of Fairhaven.”

He ambled into the thick woods beside the road. Lacking any way to boost herself onto the horse’s back, she led the mare down the sandy road at a brisk clip, anger churning inside her. What a disgraceful man. How had he learned of Nicholas’s claim to the barony? Not that it mattered now.

Too shaken to examine her cane field or the potato patch, she returned home, looked after the mare, and went inside. Judging from the angle of the sun coming through the library windows, she still had several hours before Trim’s return.

In the kitchen she set the teakettle on to boil and returned to the library just as Nicholas rode through the gate. Dismayed at her disheveled appearance, she fussed with her hairpins and shook the sand from her hem before going to the door.

Nicholas tethered the horse and ran lightly up the steps. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.” Despite her unsettling encounter with the drunken Mr. Hadley and her unresolved differences with Nicholas, she smiled. How good it was to see him. “How did you know I was here?”

“I was at Willowood today, checking on the roof repairs, and I ran into Hadley just down the road. He said you’d woken him from a nap.” Nicholas looked skeptical. “He was in a nasty mood. I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. Angry with him.” She stood aside and motioned him inside. “The Hadleys were my parents’ friends for years. Lettice was my mother’s closest friend. And Mr. Hadley’s help was invaluable this summer, especially after Mr. Finch left. But the way he spoke of my father just now, disparaging everything Papa accomplished—it was awful. And I was only trying to help him.”

He smiled into her eyes. “My grandmother had a saying:
‘Never catch a falling knife or a falling friend.’ Old Hadley is a ruined man and deserves our sympathy despite his bad behavior.”

“I suppose.”

The teakettle whistled.

“I hope that means tea is forthcoming,” he said. “I’m parched.”

“I won’t be a moment.”

He settled into a chair in the library. She went out to the kitchen for the tea and brought it in on an old wooden tray. He sipped and set down his cup. “Just what I needed.”

“How are the repairs coming?”

“Almost finished. My daughters will be happy to hear it. The Kirks have been fine hosts, but I’m afraid Miss Patsy is the nervous sort and not accustomed to the ways of children.”

“Your girls are very well behaved. I’m sure Miss Kirk can have few complaints.”

“Their good manners are a testament to your teaching. I’m ever in your debt.”

“They were willing pupils, once Marie-Claire adjusted to the routine.”

He smiled and picked up his cup again. “I’m afraid she gets her temper from my wife’s side of the family. Although Gabrielle could be quite charming when she wasn’t in high dudgeon.”

“All children pass through such stages. My mother often despaired of making a lady of me.”

“And yet she succeeded admirably.” He smiled in a way that made her heart stumble. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you, Charlotte.”

“I missed you too. And the girls, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He finished his tea. “Do you have time to talk?”

“About the barony.”

“Yes. Even before I found my papers, I was working on a plan.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since your copy turned up, and I realized that if you are willing, nothing has to change.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s clear to both of us that no matter how much we might want to continue growing rice, those days are gone. Even if we have good luck with the weather next year, it’s impossible to hire enough reliable labor to plant, hoe, and harvest all this acreage.”

As much as she wished otherwise, he was right. It had taken six hundred slaves to keep all of Fairhaven under cultivation. Hiring such a large number of workers was an impossibility now. Most every other planter on the Waccamaw had already realized the futility of it and made peace with it in one way or another. How much more was she willing to risk to keep a promise that no longer mattered?

Her entire life she’d revered her father, never doubting his judgment or his affection. His love and approval were all she’d ever wanted. Now she understood that his willingness to let her tag along after him in muddied boots and faded dresses, his sanguine approach to her poor grades in school, had more to do with the fact that he was too busy to attend to her upbringing. His love of the land, his brooding secrets, his obsession with producing the best of the Carolina Gold had rendered him too preoccupied to attend to matters of her future.

Now she was on her own. She couldn’t think any longer of promises.

She studied Nicholas over the rim of her teacup. “I suppose you’re going to suggest growing cotton next year.”

“No. The current price for cotton won’t pay the taxes, let alone workers’ wages and the cost of taking it downriver. I have a better plan.” He proffered his empty cup. “Is there any more tea?”

She filled it and waited, her hands folded in her lap, while he drank half of it in one gulp.

“Your claim predates mine, and there’s no purpose in fighting you in court. What I’m proposing is that we have new papers drawn up, giving us each our separate houses and some acreage for gardens and such. The rest we will own jointly for our lumber business.”

“Lumber?”

“I’ve been reading about the scarcity of pine in the east. New York is importing it from Michigan these days. We have a lot of it around here, and it’s worth much more than we can ever earn growing rice.”

Even though her thoughts were unspooling faster than she could voice them, the sight of Nicholas, so excited about his plan, warmed her heart. His absolute faith in the soundness of his venture was contagious. And she cared too deeply for him and for his daughters to oppose him in court. She would find a fair solution no matter what. “Supposing I agreed. How would we get the lumber to market?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. If you’re willing, we could convert the steam engine in your rice mill into a sawmill.”

“But wouldn’t that be terribly expensive?”

“About five hundred dollars for a fifteen-horsepower model. I can raise that amount without too much trouble. Anyway, I’m thinking we could lay down a timber track and use mules to haul the milled lumber to flatboats at a landing on the Waccamaw and from there to vessels headed north.”

“It sounds complicated.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy. But Henry Buck had a similar sawmill operation near here back in the twenties. I don’t see why we can’t have one too.”

She couldn’t help smiling at his boyish enthusiasm. “I suppose you’ve calculated our potential profit too.”

“Yes, ma’am. Pine is going for up to sixty dollars per thousand
feet in New York and Philadelphia. I figure every acre of our land is worth fifty dollars for the lumber alone. What do you say?”

She chewed her bottom lip, astonished at the thoroughness of his plan and weak-kneed with relief that he had kept his promise to recognize her claim to the barony. “It seems like the solution to all our difficulties, but it’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“I know it is. But I’m certain it will work if we act quickly, while the demand is still strong.” He grinned. “All of Georgetown will be amazed at just how much two misfits can accomplish.”

Were they misfits? Huguenot blood was considered an asset in these parts, but his abandoned medical practice and his unfamiliarity with rice cultivation had set him apart. Though welcomed by locals, he was still essentially a stranger in a tightly knit society that prized social and family ties above all else. And Charlotte herself had led an unconventional childhood, following her father about. She’d never really fit in with the other girls at school. And she had never enjoyed the usual feminine pastimes that occupied so many hours of a woman’s daily life. She had always been driven by the need to accomplish something lasting. Something important.