Carolina Gold (8 page)

L
eaning heavily on her hoe handle, Charlotte pushed her bonnet to the back of her head and wiped her brow on a sleeve. All morning the sun had beaten down steady and hot. Now clouds were gathering over the sea, and the pleasant April breeze had turned to humid gusts. She shaded her eyes and looked toward the house, shining white in the distance, and to the empty road beyond. Trim had promised to come this morning with half a dozen men to help with the hoeing of the upland garden, but so far no one had appeared.

She finished hoeing around the corn and went down to her rice field, her heart lifting at the sight of twenty-five acres of moist, dark brown soil dotted with shoots of tender green. Balancing her hoe on her shoulder, she jumped the quarter drains and crossed the narrow plank bridge over the deep ditch that encircled the perimeter of the field. If only reliable workers could be found, she could plant a second field, mill half the crop, and cure the rest for seed.

She retraced her steps and followed the path to the house, her
head pounding from the heat and humidity. Her empty stomach groaned.

“Miss Cha’lotte.” Two young Negro boys, bare-chested and barefoot, pounded along the path, each of them carrying a string of perch. “You want to buy some fish? Make you a fine dinner.”

“Yes, they would, but I’m afraid I can’t afford them. I suppose I must catch my own.”

The taller of the two nodded. “Perch is bitin’ real good on the other side o’ the bridge—in that shady spot where that big tree went down last winter. All you got to do is throw your line in the water.”

The creak of wagon wheels and the muted drumming of horses’ hooves on the sandy road drew her attention. “Perhaps I will. But for now I must see who is coming along the road.”

The boys sprinted away, and she hurried along the path to the house.

“Whoa.” A thin man in a threadbare wool suit, a felt hat pulled low across his face, halted a loaded wagon at the front gate.

Charlotte ran down the avenue toward the road. Drawing closer to the wagon, she blinked and clapped a hand to her throat. “Alexander? Is that you?”

“In the flesh.” He jumped lightly to the ground and took off his hat. “How are you, Cousin?”

“Absolutely stunned at the moment. And terribly happy to see you. We’ve had not a single word from you since we heard you were missing at Gettysburg. We thought the worst.” Her voice wobbled. “After all this time, we’d given up on ever seeing your face again.”

“There were times I felt like giving up too.” Her cousin leaned against the wagon. “After Gettysburg, I was held in the Yankee prison camp at Ft. Delaware.”

“Ft. Delaware? I’m sure Uncle Harding must have inquired after you there.”

“Maybe. It was a madhouse, especially when a sickness of one kind or another paid us a visit. Of course we all wrote letters home, but who knows whether any attempt was made to deliver—Easy there, girl.”

Alexander reached out to calm his restless horse, a pretty cinnamon-colored mare with a white patch on her muzzle. “By the time I got out, the war had ended—and then I read in the newspapers about the ferry accident.” He shook his head. “During those last months at Ft. Delaware, it was the dream of seeing Ma and Pa again that kept me going. And they were already dead.”

“We tried to find you, to let you know what had happened, but we never heard a word. And our letter to Fanny went unanswered as well.”

“I should have come home then, but I—”

“Yes, you should have.” Unexpected tears clogged her throat. “It wasn’t fair to let us think the worst. Where on earth have you been?”

“After I located my sister in Philadelphia, I moved in with her and tried working at a factory there. But I couldn’t get used to the winters . . . or the attitude toward Southerners. Fanny is married to a Yankee from Ohio now and—”

“My word! Why didn’t she let us know you were alive?”

He shrugged. “She has put the past and everyone in it out of her mind. It’s no excuse, I know, but that’s the truth. I should have written to you myself. I don’t know why I didn’t. I . . . maybe I was trying to run from the past as well.”

“But if you do that,” she said softly, “you leave yourself behind.”

“That’s what brought me home at last. I got to Charleston a few weeks ago and went to see the family lawyer. He told me Uncle Francis had died and you’d returned to the Waccamaw.”

“Yes. Dear Mr. Crowley.” She leaned her hoe against the fence.

“I was hoping something was left of Father’s holdings, but he
died with hardly a dime to his name.” Alexander shook his head. “Mother tried to warn him against buying Aunt Emma’s place and her slaves, but he felt duty-bound to help her. Then the war came and he lost it all. But why am I telling you this? You know it well enough.”

“Yes. Papa told me.” She stroked the horse and was rewarded with a soft snuffle. “At least I have the beach cottage. And Fairhaven . . . for the time being.”

He frowned. “Did Uncle Francis leave you debt-ridden too?”

“No, but Mr. Crowley can’t find any proof that we own Fairhaven.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course this land is yours. It’s been Fraser land forever.”

“But I need papers that prove it. Do you suppose Uncle Harding left any records behind? Mr. Crowley said even a letter might do.”

“I don’t think so, Charlotte. By the time I got home, the bank had taken everything to settle Father’s debts. All that was left was my mother’s wedding ring and a silver tea service.”

“I see.” She let out a gusty sigh. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Without enough workers, this place may soon prove to be more than I can handle anyway. And Mr. Frost and Mr. Crowley are just waiting to say I told you so.”

“At least you’ll be more comfortable in the meantime.” He swept a hand toward the loaded wagon. “I brought your things from Charleston. Mrs. Milton sends her regards.”

“Oh, I am delighted. I’ve been making do with odds and ends, camping here with the barest of necessities and relying upon Mrs. Hadley for milk and cream.” She peered into the wagon. “I don’t suppose you’ve a cow in there?”

“Afraid not. But there are rugs and bedding and winter curtains, plus your mother’s walnut dresser and a few chairs.”

“And Mama’s china? I don’t expect I’ll be giving any fancy parties anytime soon, but I want it just the same.”

“It’s all here, assuming it didn’t get broken on the trip. We hit some rough water just before we reached Winyah.” He cast an eye to the lowering clouds and climbed onto the wagon. “We’d better get all this inside.”

She opened the gate and Alexander drove up the long avenue to the house. While Charlotte rummaged in her pantry for something to eat, he unloaded trunks and crates and dish barrels.

She served tea and bread with honey and a few slices of bacon Mrs. Hadley had brought. Alexander buttered a slice of bread and drizzled it with honey. “Mr. Crowley said you are writing articles for some Yankee newspaper.”

“Yes. The
New York Enterprise
. It doesn’t pay much, but I hope it will help retire my debt to the bank this winter. Next year I’ll have enough seed of my own and won’t have the expense of buying it.”

“But you’ll still have the expense of hiring workers.”

“True.”

He ate a piece of bacon and sipped his tea. “Is there anyone you can rely upon?”

“Sadly, no—unless you’d like to stay. Perhaps the workers will more readily respond to a man overseeing them than they do to me.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Why not? I think it’s a wonderful idea. You need a home, and I need help. And there’s still time to plant more rice.”

“Are the floodgates in repair?” He helped himself to another cup of tea.

“Only the trunks in the field I’ve already planted. But Thomas—”

“Even if we could get them fixed in time, there’s still the plowing and raking out to be done. We couldn’t possibly plant until the end of May, and then what would be the point? The maybirds would eat it all before it had a chance to mature.”

She brushed away the hot tears stinging her eyes. “I see. You don’t want to help me.”

“Charlotte.” He set down his cup. “I will admit I made a mess of the situation by keeping silent for so long and letting you think I was dead. But I brought your things, didn’t I? And at my own expense too.”

“Thank you. I don’t intend to seem ungrateful.” She stirred her tea and watched it swirl in the cup. “I didn’t think it would be this difficult. I thought the Negroes would be happy to work here, especially those who belonged to Papa. Before the war they seemed to take such pride in their work. But now it seems there is little I can count on.”

Alexander nodded and munched another slice of bacon.

“Remember how Papa gave prizes every year for the best hoe hand and the best plough man, the best thresher?”

“I do.”

“Trim was nearly always declared the best hoe hand. But now he comes and goes like the wind. He readily acknowledges that he signed a contract, but he always finds reasons not to honor it.”

“There is no shame in admitting that you made a mistake in coming back here.” Alexander pushed away his empty plate and swatted at a fly buzzing about his head. “Mr. Crowley says anyone who tries to grow rice these days is a fool.”

“Yes. He said as much to me as well. But I promised Papa. I can’t quit now. It would feel like the worst kind of betrayal.”

“I know, but Uncle Francis couldn’t have known what it would be like. Maybe the lawyer is right and you should close up this house and move back to Charleston.”

“And do what? Take in sewing? Work in a shop?”

“There are worse fates.”

“Name one.”

“Wasting your beauty and youth on some vanished dream. Your father wouldn’t want that, no matter how much he loved this place.”

“I made a promise.”

He sighed and got to his feet. “You’re just like Uncle Francis.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that.” She rose and cleared the table. “Mr. Frost said the same thing at church a couple of weeks ago. He seemed almost angry with me for even trying to restore this place.”

Alexander leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m leaving you the wagon and the horse, if you’ll drive me back to Georgetown.”

“Of course I will, but won’t you need them yourself?”

“I’m leaving next week for Atlanta, for a job in a bank there. I’m taking a room in town. A horse and wagon would be an extra expense I can ill afford.”

“I see. I wish I could afford to pay you for them, but—”

“It’s all right. The fellow who sold them to me in Georgetown this morning gave me a good price. He’s giving up on farming himself and heading back to civilization.” He glanced out the window. “I should get going.”

“So soon?” Charlotte came to stand beside him at the window. The sun had disappeared behind a thick cloud that cast a dark shadow over the garden.

“I’m afraid so. Captain Arthur is expecting heavy seas and wants to get underway as soon as possible in the morning.”

“Wait while I change my dress.”

Half an hour later, with Alexander at the reins, they set off for Georgetown. As the horse trotted down the shady road, Alexander kept up a steady stream of conversation about his new position, the new buildings going up all over Atlanta, and a certain young woman he had been introduced to upon his first visit. All too soon they reached Georgetown and the landing where the
Resolute
waited.

Alexander pressed his calling card into her hand. “Do write to me, Cousin, and tell me how you are getting on.”

“I will.” She caught his face in her hands. “I still can’t believe you’re alive and well. If only your parents—”

His brown eyes went bright with tears. “Yes. I wish they knew I came through the war all right.”

He reached inside his pocket for his ticket. “I should go aboard. For what it’s worth, I do hope you succeed. Uncle Francis always said you could be the best planter on the Waccamaw—besides himself, of course.”

She clasped his hand. “Come to Pawley’s this summer. I’ll be there by early June. It’ll be like old times when we were children.”

“I can’t promise. We’ll see.” He started up the gangplank, then turned back. “Oh. I found your daddy’s old pistol in the bottom of one of the packing crates. I hid it in the woodbox behind the stove, in case you need it.”

Papa had taught her to handle a pistol, setting up targets on an old log across the river. But she couldn’t imagine ever actually having to use it.

The wind picked up, ruffling the water. Alexander clamped his hat to his head. “You’d better go on home before the storm hits. Write to me, Charlotte.”

With a final wave, he hurried onto the
Resolute
. Feeling more alone than ever, she glanced at the darkening sky and turned her new horse and wagon toward home.

Yesterday a dear cousin I assumed was lost in the war came to Fairhaven bearing the pitiful, long-hidden remains of my father’s household: a few pictures and rugs, my mother’s curtains stowed in muslin bags, some odds and ends of furniture, and china meant for dinner parties I will never give. Still it is a comfort to have those few possessions that by clever concealment survived the Union army’s destruction.