Carolina Gold (36 page)
“I suppose so.”
“Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, Ma’m’selle. I feel fine.”
“Then why the long face? I should think you’d be very happy now that your father is coming home.”
“I want to see Papa but—” The girl brushed away tears.
“Scoot over.” Charlotte sat down on the stair beside her. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“When Papa gets home, he’ll send us away to school. And I don’t want to go. I like it here.”
Anne-Louise clattered down the stairs and plopped down on the stair behind them. “Me too, Ma’m’selle. I don’t want to go away to school. I don’t see why you can’t keep on teaching us.”
Charlotte twisted around on the stair. “That’s a lovely thing to say, but there are many reasons why you must go to school. For one thing, I simply don’t know enough to teach you everything your papa wants you to learn.”
“Like what?”
“Well, to begin with, French. I was the very worst student in my entire class, and since leaving school I’ve had few occasions to practice what little I do know. But a command of French is a requirement for every well-brought-up young lady. Along with drawing and needlework and literature and comportment and the many other things we’ve worked on this summer.”
“Oh, is that all?” Marie-Claire’s blue eyes flashed. “I already know French. Anne-Louise was too little, but I learned French from Papa and
Maman
. Listen:
Non
.
Oui
.
Merci
.
Au revoir
.”
Charlotte hid a smile. “That’s a fine start, but I’m afraid there is a bit more to it than that.”
“I don’t care,” Marie-Claire said. “I’m going to be a rice planter like you and Papa. Who needs French?”
“I don’t care about French either,” Anne-Louise said. “I’d rather learn about turtles and birds and hermit crabs. And how to build kites and things. And read books like
Countess Kate
and
Little Women
.”
“I’m sure your teachers in Charleston will make room for those things too.” Charlotte rose and held out a hand to each girl. “Let’s not worry about it today. The new term in Charleston won’t begin until October. We’ve lots of time before then.”
After their meal, the girls went outside to play. Charlotte
looked through the mail Augusta had left. All of it was postmarked weeks before—a note from Lettice Hadley, a letter from Alexander, and a thin envelope in a hand she didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” A tall bewhiskered man in a white shirt and wool trousers stood at the door, one hand cupped to his eyes.
Frowning, the letter still in her hand, Charlotte went to the door. “Yes?”
“Miss Fraser?”
“Yes.”
He doffed his hat. “Justus K. Jillson. I wrote to you last week. May I come in?”
She stood aside and ushered him into the parlor. “I’ve just returned from a long trip and have not yet had time to read the mail.”
“Even better. I’ve often found it’s more advantageous to plead one’s case in person. May I sit down?”
“Please.” She motioned him to the settee and took the chair opposite. “What’s this about?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “As you may know, the state of South Carolina intends to establish free public schools in every county. And the sooner, the better—wouldn’t you agree?”
His salesman-like approach was irritating. Who wouldn’t agree on the importance of schooling?
“Perhaps you’d best come to the point, Mr. Jillson.”
“Quite right. I saw the Reverend Mr. Peabody during the Independence Day festivities last month, and he bent my ear for quite a while, singing your praises as a teacher. He said you’ve ignited such a thirst for knowledge in his young charges that he can scarcely keep up with their questions.”
“That was kind of him.”
“He says your methods are somewhat . . . unorthodox.”
“Perhaps. I’m not trained as a teacher. I’m guided by instinct and by the children’s own interests.” She folded her hands in her
lap. “They seem to learn more that way than through more formal recitations. I doubt the state of South Carolina would approve.”
“You’re correct in that assumption. There is much to be said for the tried and true.” He leaned forward, pale hands on his knees. “Still, good teachers are scarce. And we all appreciate your late father’s commitment to the welfare of the young people of our state. As commissioner of education, I’m prepared to offer you a position in the new school we’re opening near Sandy Island next spring. Assuming you are willing to adhere to the more conventional methods of instruction. I’m certain the headmaster at Litchfield will be glad to show you the ropes.”
He sat back in his chair and beamed at her as if he’d just offered her the keys to the kingdom. “What do you say?”
The prudent thing to do was to accept his offer. The salary, however modest, would be essential, especially if she failed to find proof of her ownership of Fairhaven. But memories of her own school days crowded in—the long hours spent copying out lessons, struggling with memorization, the daily tedium relieved only by her occasional secret forays to the artist’s studio off Tradd Street. Her teachers at Madame Giraud’s, well-meaning though they were, could scarcely conceal their own boredom and impatience. Even in her precarious situation, she couldn’t trade her sense of well-being for money.
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jillson. I’m honored that you think so highly of me. But I have my plantation to run. I hope to finish restoring my house and to resume cultivation of Carolina Gold.”
The commissioner shook his head. “I admire your tenacity, but you know as well as I do that those days are behind us now.” He stared at her intently. “You won’t even consider my offer?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re being rash, throwing away a solid offer of employment in favor of a plan that
cannot possibly succeed.” He stood and jammed his hat onto his head. “I can see myself out.”
She watched him disappear among the dunes. As much as she disliked admitting it, the man had a point. Maybe she was chasing a dying dream.
But there was only one way to find out.
T
he boat rocked on the tide-pulsed waters of the creek. Charlotte unfurled her parasol against the morning sun as Trim set the oars and pushed off through tall stands of yellowing marsh grasses that soon obscured the dunes and the cottage beyond.
This morning Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise had protested when she roused them from sleep for the short walk across the dunes to Augusta’s cottage. The promise of a bonfire on the beach upon her return mollified them. Now she sat drinking in the quiet beauty of the morning, the ocean’s muted roar, the fine silvery mist rising off the tidal creeks as the clear morning sky slowly gave way to gray clouds and a stiff breeze coming off the Atlantic.
“Gon’ have ourselves a blow befo’ this day is done.” Trim squinted at the sky and guided the boat past an abandoned alligator’s nest and into a narrow stretch of water carpeted with bright green lily pads.
She scanned the sky. “I hope it won’t be too severe, this close to harvest time.”
In another few weeks, her first crop, small though it was, would be cut, stacked, and dried, then threshed and put into barrels for shipping. As a girl she had often stood with her father at the landing while the schooners
Perseverance, Waccamaw
, and
Julius Pringle
plied the river, transporting barrels of Carolina Gold to her father’s rice factors in Charleston. Those days were gone, but at least she would have something to show for all her hard work.
“Yes’m. We could’ve started cutting rice las’ week, but the tide was too high. Banks was kinda leaky too.”
Charlotte swatted at a cloud of flies. “How have the other crops fared this summer?”
“Since you was las’ to home, the sugarcane done real fine. Mr. Hadley hired some women from town to help with the grindin’. We got a barrel of good molasses from it.” He wiped his brow with a bright green bandana. “Lambert and Old Thomas been hoeing the peas and cuttin’ wood for the thrashing machine. My wife, she come up from town now and then to look after the chickens.”
“How is Florinda? Mrs. Hadley wrote that she was ill.”
“She been ailing some, but I been doctoring her with mustard plasters. Reckon she’s a little better these days.”
They entered the whitecapped Waccamaw, blue-gray now beneath the gathering clouds. Charlotte’s heart constricted. She loved every inch of this river. To lose the right to live here would be like losing a limb.
Another half hour brought them within sight of the house. Daniel waited on the dock.
Trim let out a long sigh. “That Graves boy turn up here ever’ day, reg’lar as a clock.”
Charlotte had to smile. Trim might fancy himself a free businessman now, but he couldn’t conceal his love for Fairhaven. Before the war, he had shown a certain possessiveness toward it, hastening to point out to her father or to the overseer a loose
hinge, a broken trunk, a bit of falling plaster. It was clear he still felt proprietary about it, even as he strove to assert his independence.
Daniel waved and helped Trim secure the boat. As Charlotte closed her parasol, thunder rumbled in the distance, and a flash of lightning forked through the darkened sky, sending her hurrying for shelter. As eager as she was to check on her rice, it was foolish to risk a trip downriver with a storm rolling in. She crossed the yard to the house, the solitary peacock—returned from his wanderings—waddling along in front of her. Daniel and Trim brought up the rear.
“Reckon I’ll be getting’ on up to the Cliftons’ place now, befo’ the rain gets bad,” Trim said. “I’ll be back this afternoon to take you home.”
Charlotte nodded and fished her key from her bag. “Daniel, you’d best come inside until the rain passes.”
The boy followed her inside and headed for the library. “Trim said you were coming today, so I brought your mail up from Georgetown.”
She quickly sorted through the pile, another letter from Lettice, a bill from her book supplier in Boston, two copies of the Georgetown paper. Nothing from Nicholas. Perhaps he was already on his way home. She went out to the kitchen, rummaged for her kettle, and opened the food basket she’d brought, one eye on the gathering storm.
She made tea and shared her meal with Daniel, who wolfed down two thick sandwiches, a wedge of cheese, and one of Augusta’s berry tarts without looking up from his reading. By mid-afternoon, the sky had turned black. Thunder shook the bones of the old house and rattled the windowpanes. Wind soughed in the trees. Heavy rain lashed the windows.
Charlotte lit the lamps and sat in the library with Daniel, watching the rivulets coursing down the window panes. Daniel sat quietly, still absorbed in his book. Charlotte opened the newspaper
to stories about the new government and the Freedman’s Bureau, but new worry blurred the page.
The mature fields might well withstand a downpour, but too much rain could ruin everything. And no matter what happened with the barony, she was determined to bring in one last rice crop. With luck, she would at least realize enough money to pay back her bank loan.
Another hour passed before a wagon turned in at the gate and lumbered up the muddy avenue to the house. Trim jumped out, a blanket over his arm, and raced for the front door. Charlotte let him in.
“Mr. Hadley sent me to fetch Daniel,” Trim said. “One of they fences done blowed down, and they need him to help get the Cliftons’ cows out of the corn patch befo’ they trample it all to pieces.”
“In this weather?”
“Yes’m. And you might as well plan on stayin’ right here till morning. The river’s risin’ fast, an’ water is nearly up over the road.”
Trim tossed the blanket to Daniel. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”
Daniel wrapped himself in the blanket, though it would be soggy and useless within minutes. He followed Trim out to the wagon. Soon they were lost in the curtain of rain.
Now Charlotte was alone. For a few moments she prowled the silent rooms, torn between fear and hope. Would her crop survive? And would she find what she came to look for?
The fire . . . the fire
.
That night in New Orleans, thinking about the burned-out church where Nicholas’s papers had been found, she’d been struck with the sudden thought that perhaps her father, with his final breath, was not remembering Charleston’s great fire at all. What if he’d hidden something important in the fireplace in his study, just as he had hidden her birthday doll all those years ago?
As the storm raged on, she turned up the wick in the lamp and set it on the hearth. Crouching inside the wide fireplace opening, she ran her fingers along the far wall of the brick firebox and along the rough, raised ledge.
At first she felt nothing but soot and soft gray ash. Then her fingers closed over something solid and cold. She was aware of her every breath, of the crazed tripping of her heart as she crawled farther into the fireplace and lifted the lamp.
