Carolina Gold (9 page)
On the way home from the steamboat landing in Georgetown, driving the unwieldy wagon hitched to an unfamiliar little mare I have named Cinnamon, I raced against a storm that was both frightening and thrilling. Passing a friend’s house, I saw several cattle standing in the road, their heads bowed against the rain, and the loose limbs of trees flying past. At the ferry that would take me across the Waccamaw, the horse shied as the flatboat dipped and slid against the current. For a moment I feared she would bolt, but one of the boatmen stood close by her as we were propelled from the riverbank, and she quieted.
By the time I reached home, the sky was black as pitch and the wind was rattling every door and window in this old house. About midnight, with the storm still raging, I lit a lamp and went up to bed, but the roar of wind through the trees, the sound of breaking branches sharp as rifle fire, and my worry about my rice field rendered sleep elusive.
Now it is afternoon. The sky is gloomy and dark, and trees are down across the avenue. This morning I ventured out to check on my new horse. Lacking a proper barn for her, I had left her in the leaky shed that stands behind the remains of the smokehouse. She seemed none the worse, but I rubbed her dry and led her down to the old pasture, where she seemed quite content to crop the new grass.
I took a walk about Fairhaven to assess the damage: some uprooted trees, a twisted section of fence. Loose shutters at the windows along the piazza. The tender shoots of my corn crop are torn and tangled. I hadn’t the heart to check on my rice field. I fear the worst.
Charlotte blotted the pages and set them aside for mailing to the
New York Enterprise
. When the teakettle shrieked, she went out to the kitchen, spooned tea leaves into the pot, and added the boiling water. While the tea brewed, she sliced a pear Alexander had brought and rummaged in the pantry for bread and honey, her thoughts swirling like the river current. She needed hay and oats and a proper barn for the horse. Nails for repairing the shutters and the fence. Sugar and salt. A couple of chickens and a cow—she couldn’t depend upon Lettice’s generosity forever. And all of it would cost money. Perhaps all the naysayers were right and she had taken on more than she could manage.
Something tapped against the windowpane. She looked up to find a bedraggled peacock pecking at his reflection in the glass. Inexplicably tears stung her eyes. She willed them away. When faced with the impossible, of what use were tears?
T
he wagon rattled along the rutted avenue leading to Willowood. The redbrick Georgian-style house sat nestled in a grove of pine trees that cast ever-changing patterns of light across the gray slate roof. Approaching the front entrance, Charlotte noticed cracked windows and peeling paint, burned-out storage buildings and neglected gardens. A rain-soaked rag doll lay in the muddy yard. Clearly Mr. Betancourt’s plantation had fared no better than hers.
A dog barked, and Marie-Claire appeared from the side yard, a basket of clothes balanced on one hip. The wary expression in her eyes made her seem far older than her years.
Charlotte reined in, climbed down from the wagon seat, and straightened her hat. “Good morning, Marie-Claire. Is your father home?”
“He’s in the library, but I wouldn’t disturb him if I were you. He’s cross as an old bear.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
The child shrugged. “Every time he gets a letter from New Orleans, he’s grumpy for days.”
“That’s too bad. May I go in?”
“Suit yourself. He told me and Anne-Louise not to make any noise because he’s too busy trying to think. So we’re doing the wash.” She shifted her basket to her other hip. “Tamar was supposed to do it, but she isn’t here yet.”
“Perhaps she couldn’t get here because of the storm. Quite a few trees blew down, and the road is still blocked in places. I had quite a time of it my—”
“Marie-Claire, where have you been?” Anne-Louise pounded across the yard, a scowl on her face. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
Charlotte bent down to the younger girl. “Hello. Do you remember me?”
The child nodded. “Papa said he wanted you to teach us but you wouldn’t.”
The door opened and Mr. Betancourt, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows, emerged onto the piazza. “Miss Fraser. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I told her you were busy,” Marie-Claire said to her father. “Don’t blame me.”
The sisters hurried away, the laundry basket bumping between them.
He smiled. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. She’s cross these days, but then so am I.”
“I’ve come at a bad time. Perhaps I should go.”
“Not at all. I’m in the middle of some correspondence, but it can wait. May I offer you something to drink? Tea perhaps?”
“Tea would be lovely if it’s no trouble.”
“I’d welcome a distraction.”
He ushered her into a wide foyer with polished pine floors and an elaborate crystal chandelier and then into a book-lined
parlor furnished with delicate chairs, needlepoint footstools, and mahogany side tables. On the floor beneath the window, a violin rested in an open case. A pair of silver candlesticks graced the fireplace mantel, above which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman wearing a crimson gown and an ermine wrap. Charlotte took it all in, feeling that somehow she had stepped back in time. How had such lovely things escaped the marauding Yankees’ notice?
As if reading her thoughts he said, “I shipped these here from New Orleans after Christmas. If there was anything good about being occupied so early in the war, it’s that people came out of it with most of their possessions intact.” He indicated the portrait above the mantel. “My wife, Gabrielle. This was painted in New Orleans the year we were married. It was her wedding gift to me.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes. She was quite a beauty.” His voice as he studied the portrait was laced with pain that reminded her of her own wrenching loss.
The moment passed. He indicated a chair by the window. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m without any help today. Mrs. Hadley recommended Tamar, who appeared eager for steady work, but it seems she’s often delayed of late.”
“I remember her,” Charlotte said. “When I was young and visiting Mrs. Hadley with my mother, Tamar occasionally accompanied her mistress to Alder Hill. Tamar was beautiful in those days. I thought she was brave too.”
His brows went up. “How so?”
“She made no secret of her wish to hire out as a seamstress in Georgetown in order to save enough to purchase her freedom and that of her infant son. I’m sure a lot of slaves dreamed that same dream, but I doubt many of them were bold enough to say so.”
“And was she successful?”
“I don’t know. After my mother died, I was mostly away at school or with my father. But at any rate, she’s free now.”
“Yes, and she’s a wonderful housekeeper—when she’s here.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Luckily I do know how to boil water. I won’t be long.”
She picked up a slender volume of poetry lying on the side table and thumbed the pages, reading random passages. A gentle breeze, fragrant with spring, drifted through the open window and ruffled the pages.
Soon Mr. Betancourt returned carrying a tray laden with pink china cups, a matching teapot, and a plate of crackers, each one topped with a strawberry and a dollop of cream. He set down the tray and dropped into the chair next to hers, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Tamar brought a few strawberries yesterday. I believe you’re fond of them.”
Charlotte found herself reveling in the moment. For years she had nursed her father, kept their house, and wrestled with their accounts. Before that she had labored on Aunt Lavinia’s farm. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had taken care of her. “How kind of you to remember.”
“I remember everything about you, Miss Fraser.”
Her cheeks warmed beneath his approving smile. “Did you enjoy living in New Orleans, Mr. Betancourt?”
He poured tea and handed her a cup. “For a time. It is a volatile place now.” He regarded her over the top of his cup. “Have you ever been there?”
“Once, just before we had to abandon the Waccamaw. A business trip with my father.”
She remembered the city as a place of strange beauty and mystery that left her feeling unnerved. From the wrought-iron balcony of their hotel on St. Charles Avenue, she’d watched the changing drama in the street below. Dark-haired Creole girls hawked
baskets of tomatoes. Nattily dressed cotton and rice brokers hurried toward the distant quay. A copper-skinned woman dressed in pink satin sold pralines and bonbons from a painted wooden cart.
On an afternoon carriage ride with her father, she drank in the beauty of magnolias and oleanders and rattling palms growing in secret gated gardens. She remembered a pair of nuns standing in the dim interior of a church and the faint scents of wine and incense wafting from the open doorway. The crowded wharves shifting and creaking beneath the weight of cargo, men, and horses. The odors of fish, tobacco, and burning sugar. At night the soft laughter of olive-skinned women promenading along the banquette rose into the humid air.
Even at seventeen she had sensed that beneath the city’s genteel surface ran a current of tension that left her feeling on edge. No doubt the city was even more unsettling these days, with the Federals in charge.
Mr. Betancourt set down his cup and relaxed into his chair. “What brings you to Willowood?”
She liked his directness. She’d rehearsed her answer, but as she looked into his eyes, memory deserted her. She set down her cup. “Simply put, I lost my corn crop in the storm, and the sea tide ruined half my rice field.”
“I see. Can you replant?”
“Perhaps. But to be perfectly frank, Mr. Betancourt, I have taxes to pay and a bank loan coming due this autumn, and replanting will mean more labor costs as well. I need more money than I can possibly earn writing for the newspaper.”
“You’ve come for a loan, then.” He poured more tea.
“A—oh no, I wouldn’t presume to ask such a favor. I came to ask whether the position as tutor for your daughters is still open.”
“But you were quite clear that it was not a job for which you feel qualified.”
“That’s true. I don’t. But I have written out a proposed curriculum that I am willing to try on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if it proves satisfactory . . .” She handed him a sheet of paper from her reticule.
He studied it briefly and set it aside. “I’m quite sure you will get on splendidly. And in any case, the situation is temporary. As soon as my affairs are sorted out, I’ll enroll the girls in a proper boarding school, just as you recommended.”
“Are you saying yes?”
“If I can afford your services. Would ten dollars a month be agreeable?”
“Ten dollars a—”
“It isn’t nearly what you’re worth, but as you said the other day, hard times have befallen us all.”
“I was about to say that ten dollars is perfectly agreeable. More than I dared hope for, really. I’m grateful for your kindness.”
“I am learning that poverty is a true test of civility,” he said. For a long moment their eyes met, understanding sparking between them. At last he smiled. “Perhaps it can also be a cornerstone of friendship.”
He picked up his violin and began polishing the wood with a bit of red flannel. “My wife couldn’t bear the hardships of the war. She missed her fashions and her entertainments. I am fortunate that my own favorite pastimes are without cost. My music, for instance.”
He lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, filling the parlor with lush, sweet notes that pierced her heart. She closed her eyes as the music, blended with the birdsong coming through the window, poured out.
He finished on a rich, low note that lingered in the air and left her wishing for another respite from her many troubles. “That was lovely.”
“I’m hardly more than an amateur, but the girls enjoy hearing me play.”
The mention of his daughters brought her back to reality. Suppose her efforts to teach them failed? Perhaps she had too readily agreed to his plan. Perhaps she should reconsider.
“I know they will be delighted to return to their lessons. When can you start?” He returned his violin to its case and fixed her with his calm, expectant gaze. Clearly it was too late to withdraw from their agreement.
“I’ll need a week or so to order some books from Charleston, but we can start without them. What about this coming Tuesday?”
“Excellent.”
They rose, and she offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Betancourt. I shall try my best to be a good teacher.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. And I’m grateful to you for taking us on. My daughters need the steadying presence of a woman in their lives.”
She glanced at the magnificent portrait above the mantel. “I lost my own mother at an early age. I know how your daughters must miss her, and how dearly she must have loved them.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “My wife had many lovely qualities my children were too young to fully appreciate.”