Carolina Gold (40 page)
She poured more tea into her cup and added sugar. “I never imagined either of us as lumber barons.”
“I have no desire to become a baron. All I need is my home, my children, and enough money to pursue my research.”
She studied the calm light in his eyes, the determination in his handsome features. “You’re going back into medicine, then.”
“Not as a physician.”
“It isn’t any of my business, but I’ve always wondered why you gave it up when clearly you’re so gifted.”
He studied his hands. “I intended to resume a private practice after the war. For a long time I thought the memories might fade enough to allow me to do that one day. But some memories never fade.”
Sensing that he wanted to say more, she folded her hands and waited.
Nicholas stared out the window, his fists resting on his knees, every muscle tensed. “That day at Gettysburg, General Longstreet argued with General Lee about strategy but wound up supervising Pickett’s charge anyway. Against his better instincts. And it was a disaster.”
“My father said that if Gettysburg had gone in our favor, we’d have won the war.”
“Perhaps.” He paused, remembering. “In the aftermath, my job was to sort the wounded. To decide which of the sick and injured should be placed on trains for transport to hospitals and which were too seriously wounded to survive. I stood there in the heat, knee-deep in blood and bloated corpses, watching hope leech out of the faces of the living when they realized they were being left to die. And there was no way to save them.”
She shuddered. “It was war, Nicholas. You did what you had to do.”
“True. But somehow that knowledge doesn’t comfort me much.” He turned back to her. “And then this summer in New Orleans I found myself having to make those same choices again. Who should get most of the nuns’ attentions, the most laudanum. Who might survive the fever, and who was clearly beyond saving. Once again I found myself powerless to help them.”
His pain was palpable. She reached over and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to follow up on Dr. Lister’s work,” Nicholas said. “To investigate whether better methods of fighting infections can be found. I want to find out why our Southern cities are plagued each year with malaria and yellow fever and half a dozen other deadly maladies. And I want to build you a school.”
“A—”
“A school equipped with the best of everything. One where you can continue using the methods that have worked so well with my daughters.”
She stilled. What on earth had given him such a notion? “I’m honored. But I’m not obsessed with teaching the way you are with medicine. It has its rewards, but the daily routine is too confining.” She shrugged. “I suppose I spent too many years following my father around in the fields. I’m too restless. I cannot spend the rest of my life in a schoolroom.”
“But think of Daniel Graves. And the Demeres. And the young orphan girl you met in New Orleans.”
“Solange.”
“Yes. She can’t come to South Carolina, of course, but Lord knows there are plenty of children right here whose needs are just as great. And if you don’t want to teach them yourself, we can hire bright young teachers willing to adopt your methods. You could write a book about your approach and travel to other schools to train others and give lectures.”
She watched the sunlight moving across the floor. A lifetime of teaching was not for her. But he was right—the children did need someone to care. Someone to direct their futures and give them hope. She would never be a by-the-book sort of teacher, but perhaps by writing and lecturing she could make a difference. Besides, without her rice fields to look after, how would she fill her days? She had never been one for idleness.
She could feel his eyes on her as she considered this new vision of her future. At last he said, “Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise will be your first pupils.”
“But I thought you planned to send them to Mrs. Allston’s.”
“I made some inquiries when I passed through Charleston. Mrs. Allston is very well respected, but it seems she’s having a hard time keeping the doors open.”
“There are others. Mrs. Mason Smith has a school. And Mrs. John Laurens. She’s related to the Frosts, I think. You met them at Mrs. Hadley’s party last spring.”
“I remember.”
“I’m sure the girls would do well at either of those establishments.”
“No doubt. But since coming home I’ve realized how much I would miss them if they went away to school. I’ve already missed so much of their lives because of the war and its aftermath. They can be loud and messy and altogether exasperating. And yet when the house gets too quiet, I find myself going in search of them.”
His eyes were so full of love for them that her heart turned over. “I did the same at the cottage this summer. They make for very good company. Most of the time.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you agree.”
A light breeze wafted through the window. Bars of golden sunlight lit the distant river. Charlotte shifted in her chair and looked at her watch. “It’s nearly three. Trim will be coming for me soon.”
He rose. “I should go too. With any luck the roof will be finished, and the men will want to be paid.”
At the door, he hesitated for a moment. “You’ll think about the lumber mill?”
When he stood so close, he was impossible to deny. “Yes.”
“And the school?”
“Yes.”
“The girls are clamoring to visit Pelican Cottage. I must attend to some things here, but we could come over on Saturday if that’s agreeable.”
“That would be lovely.”
“We’ll be there on the morning tide.” He tipped her face up to his and her breath caught. “I wish it were Saturday already.”
C
harlotte heard their voices before they crossed the dunes—Marie-Claire’s droll belly laugh, Anne-Louise’s excited chatter, Nicholas’s teasing response. And then they were finally there, three pairs of feet pounding along the piazza to the door, the girls hanging on to Nicholas’s hands, a pair of windblown bookends.
“Ma’m’selle.” Anne-Louise let go of her father and launched herself into Charlotte’s arms. “I thought Saturday would never get here. I stayed awake all night last night.”
“She isn’t teasing.” Nicholas set down his violin case and a large picnic basket. “She was afraid we’d miss the turning of the tide.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” Marie-Claire said. “Because Papa already figured out the tides.”
Charlotte smiled, thinking of how she’d believed in her own father all those years. She hoped the child’s faith in Nicholas would never be misplaced. But perfection was too much to expect of mere mortals.
“We brought a thousand things to eat,” Anne-Louise said. “Are you hungry, Ma’m’selle? I am. It has been hours since breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry just yet.” Charlotte set the little girl on her feet and sniffed the basket. “But something smells heavenly.”
“Papa cooked everything himself.”
Charlotte folded her arms and cocked her head. “I didn’t know you could cook, Dr. Betancourt.”
“My dear Miss Fraser,” he said with a grin, “I possess many talents yet to be revealed.”
“Papa, may we play on the beach?” Marie-Claire asked.
“You may. If you can tell me the golden rule.”
“Never turn your back on the ocean,” the girls recited in unison.
“And don’t go any farther than Miss Augusta’s cottage. I don’t want to spend half an hour looking for you when it’s time to eat.”
Nicholas watched them run pell-mell though the hall and out onto the sand before turning to Charlotte. “Would you like a walk?”
“I’ll get my hat.”
They crossed the piazza and stepped onto the beach. As they walked, Charlotte turned to watch their footprints disappear beneath the swirl and froth of the incoming tide. Sandpipers and skimmers scurried along in front of them, searching for food among the whelks, moon shells, and sand dollars bleaching in the clear autumn sunlight. October had brought the first real release from the humid weight of summer. Now, in his company, Charlotte felt the weight of the past months lifting too.
They crested a dune that afforded a view of the bright expanse of ocean in one direction, the sweep of the river and the golden marsh in the other, a panorama that never failed to take her breath away. The breeze rippled the marsh grasses, bringing with it the smell of seaweed and salt.
“Look,” Nicholas whispered.
She watched a great blue heron rise from the marsh to circle the tidal creek and thought of everything she had lost, of the thousand small griefs that pricked at her. Of the way dreams could get chipped away a little every day until it was impossible to remember them at all. She shaded her eyes, following the heron’s unhurried flight. Perhaps the key to life was to accept as destiny the desire for what is forever denied. To make peace with the longing until it turns to joy and the two become indistinguishable one from the other.
The heron’s dark shadow moved across the dunes. She thought again of days on this beach with Papa, of the lessons he’d tried to teach her. That life gives us loss and pain, and deep disappointments that often return as blessings. Maybe that was what it really meant to be restored. To move somehow from desperation to delight, from fear to faith.
“Have you come to a decision about the lumber mill?” Nicholas reached for her hand as they continued along the beach, their feet sinking into the soft sand.
“I’ve thought of little else. It’s a sensible plan. And a generous one. You found your claim to the barony first. You could have made it difficult for me but you didn’t.”
“I had an ulterior motive.”
She looked up at him, brows raised in question.
He cleared his throat. “It should come as no surprise that I am quite taken with you, Miss Fraser. And I would like permission to court you. If you are agreeable.”
She searched his face. “We hardly know each other.”
“A situation I’m eager to rectify.” He clasped her hands and drew them to his chest. “All the time I was away, even among the sickness and sorrow, I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I want you to share my world, Charlotte. To get to know you. To let you get to know me.”
The look in his eyes, a mix of hope and uncertainty, cut through to her heart. She wanted to say yes. And yet . . . “I’ve had a lot of disappointments, Nicholas.”
“I promise I won’t be one of them.” He drew her into an embrace. “Can’t you at least give me a chance?”
I wonder whether I shall ever again feel so lucky
. It seemed a lifetime ago since she had penned that line aboard the
Resolute
. Now, standing in his arms, she knew the answer.
30 November 1869
Miss Charlotte Fraser
Fairhaven Plantation
Georgetown, South Carolina
Dear Miss Fraser,
I am pleased to inform you that the Enterprise has resumed operations and I am once again able to offer to publish the account of your attempts to revive your rice-growing enterprise. If you are amenable, please send at your earliest convenience the fine pieces I was compelled to return to you last year, along with any others you may have completed in the interim.
From time to time we are apprised of the many unsavory situations arising from Southern Reconstruction. I hasten to say that I hope you, dear lady, have been spared the worst of it.
Sincerely,
Edwin Sawyer, Editor
10 December 1869
Willowood Plantation
Georgetown District, South Carolina
Mr. Edwin Sawyer, Editor
The New York Enterprise
Dear Mr. Sawyer,
Yours of the 30 November received. I am most grateful for your kind good wishes and for your offer to publish my articles, which I am pleased to return herewith. Though they don’t tell the whole story, I am happy for you to have them at the agreed-upon rate.