by Dorothy Love
“Does the minister think our little island will actually draw that many visitors?”
“He says they’re coming here for fishing expeditions. And this fall there will be hunting parties on the Waccamaw and the Pee Dee. By the time fever season is over, we should have collected a tidy sum.” Augusta rose. “We can depend upon your help, I trust.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I cannot neglect my teaching duties. I lost half of my first planting to a storm back in the spring. I need the income from teaching to pay the bills while I restore my house and fields.”
Augusta shook her head. “I was saying to Mrs. Weston just the other day that it’s admirable what you’ve taken on, but too daunting a task for anyone.”
“I promised my father.”
“He wouldn’t hold you to it, Charlotte. I knew him all his life, and all he ever wanted was your happiness.”
“But bringing Fairhaven back to life does make me happy. Without it, I have no idea what would become of me.”
“Well, I imagine you’d carry on somehow. People always do.” Augusta rose and patted Charlotte’s arm. “You must come to dinner soon and bring your young charges along. In the meantime, I trust we’ll see you in church on Sunday? Mr. Peabody hopes we islanders will come to services at the chapel for the summer. Reckon I’ll give it a try.”
“Then I will too. I must confess I’m curious about this Mr. Peabody.”
“Oh, he’s full of notions. In fact, he’s already talking about establishing a medical clinic. There’s no telling what he might suggest next. But I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime I must go. Good-bye, my dear.”
Charlotte watched as Augusta hiked her skirts, picked her way along the beach, and disappeared into the dunes. It was true that people could survive more than they imagined was possible. The war had proven that. But if Nicholas Betancourt’s claim to her land turned out to be legitimate, could she bear to forfeit the only thing in her life that really mattered?
Fourteen
Charlotte sat on the piazza of Pelican Cottage, a book open on her lap and a pitcher of water nearby. The balmy days of early June had given way to a scorching heat that even the ocean breeze could not completely mitigate. Not that Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise seemed to notice. Up at dawn nearly every day, they spent all day playing on the beach or crabbing in the creeks. Their shell collections now spilled from glass jars and seagrass baskets onto tabletops and along the piazza. Every day brought new discoveries—a whelk, a starfish, a flotilla of pelicans fishing for food just offshore. Seeing the island through the girls’ eyes was another pleasure Charlotte hadn’t anticipated when she brought them here.
School was still in session, although she had relaxed the hours since their arrival. Their abbreviated lessons took place late in the day, when the freshening breeze blew though the tall windows, rustling the papers spread on the pine table. Thanks to Augusta she’d obtained back issues of Robert Merry’s Museum. Both girls delighted in the stories and poems, and reading aloud after supper had become a favored part of the daily routine. Less popular were the comportment lessons. She had taught them to make and pour tea, to write a proper thank-you letter, and to remark upon the weather with humor and grace.
On Mondays they walked to the north end of the island, where they purchased milk and vegetables brought from Georgetown. On her first trip to town, she’d returned to the island with a box of books she’d ordered from Boston and a letter from Cousin Alexander. He was engaged to be married at the end of the summer and hoped Charlotte could come for the wedding. If only she could. Here on the island there was little to do apart from attending church, tutoring the girls, and working on the missions committee. But a trip to Atlanta was a luxury she could scarcely afford. So much depended upon the success of her rice crop.
Twice since arriving on the island, she had sent for a boat and left the girls with Augusta while she made a trip to the plantation. Each time Mr. Finch had seemed none too happy to see her, but he’d given her a tour of both fields before riding with her to the upland to check the progress of her gardens. Daniel, seeming taller and even more sun-browned, had come out to show her what he was growing, and on her second visit he’d surprised her with the beginnings of a barn for Cinnamon. “When you come back after the black frost, it’ll be ready,” he’d said, unable to contain his pride.
She made a mental note to order some books for him as a present—as soon as she could afford it. With Nicholas Betancourt still absent, her much-needed teaching income was absent as well.
“Ma’m’selle, look.” Anne-Louise pounded along the sand and onto the piazza. Opening her hand, she spilled half a dozen pieces of sea glass into Charlotte’s lap. “I’ve never found so much of it together before. I bet someone lost their collection.”
“Most likely.” She admired the deep green color that reminded her of Nicholas Betancourt’s eyes. Why hadn’t he written? She would never admit to his daughters her fear that he had abandoned the three of them. “Leave it on the table and we’ll find a jar for it.”
“Tide’s coming in,” Anne-Louise said. “May we go crabbing this afternoon?”
“Not today. The minister from Litchfield Plantation is coming to visit.”
Anne-Louise wrinkled her nose. “Do we have to wear shoes and serve tea?”
“No, but you’ll need to play quietly in your room while he’s here. Perhaps you can look through our books and choose what to read next.”
“I already did. I want to read Countess Kate. I think it would be lovely to be a countess, don’t you, Ma’m’selle?”
Charlotte grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I expect if one were a countess, one could never go barefoot and spend all day crabbing. A countess might have to wear a dozen stiff petticoats and very tight shoes and dine every night with stuffy old men who smell of camphor and hair tonic.”
Anne-Louise giggled. “I wouldn’t like that. But I still want to read the book.”
“And you shall. But now please find Marie-Claire. It’s time for lunch, and I’ve much to do before Mr. Peabody arrives.”
“All right.” Anne-Louise started down the steps, then turned suddenly and wrapped both arms around Charlotte’s knees. “I wish you were my mother.”
Before Charlotte could reply she raced down to the beach, calling for her sister.
An hour later the girls were fed and in their room. Charlotte took a sponge bath, pinned up her hair, and changed her dress. She had planned to spend this afternoon writing to Lettice Hadley and to Alexander, but after church on Sunday the minister had caught up with her in the yard and requested this visit. According to Augusta, his plans for the medical clinic were progressing; perhaps he had some new scheme for funding it. The ice cream sales were modest but steady, and there still was plenty of the summer left. Most of the plantation families would remain here until the first killing frosts in November. The Northern tourists arrived each week in a steady stream, taking up residence in the small inn at the northern tip of the island.
After a final check of the mirror, she went out to the kitchen to make tea and arrange shortbreads on a chipped porcelain tray. Through the window she saw the minister arrive on horseback, his black frock coat flapping in the stiff breeze rising off the Atlantic. He tethered the horse to the ancient hitching post in the side yard.
Charlotte met him at the door. “Please come in.”
He removed his hat and stepped inside. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m sure you must stay busy with two such lively girls about.”
His kind brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and Charlotte found herself smiling back. “It’s a challenge to keep them constructively occupied when the beach is calling to them, but I confess I enjoy teaching more than I expected.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not trained for it, and I’ve always felt inadequate for the task. But I can see real progress in both girls, and I do find that quite gratifying.”
“I imagine so. Not unl
ike the satisfaction of seeing a sinner restored to the Father as a result of a well-delivered homily.” He smiled again.
She motioned him to a seat on the embroidered settee, poured tea, and offered the shortbread, which he declined with a shake of his head.
She regarded him over the top of her cup. He sipped his tea and gazed out to the sea, seeming in no hurry to state his business. For one anxious moment she imagined he had come to deliver dire news about Nicholas. But then he set down his cup, his eyes on hers.
“I’m very glad indeed to hear that you enjoy teaching so, for I find that I am in need of a teacher.”
“Oh?”
“I learned just last week that my widowed sister has died, leaving behind four children—two boys and two girls—who must be taken in. Perhaps you knew her. Esther Demere? She lived in Charleston before the war.”
“I don’t believe I ever met her. I’m very sorry to learn of her passing.”
He cleared his throat. “My wife and I of course are willing to take them, but they will need some order to their days, and frankly Ruth is not up to the task.”
“Mrs. Milton told me Mrs. Peabody has a weak heart. I am sorry to hear it.”
He nodded. “She tires easily, and her work for the mission society takes what little strength she possesses. I’m busy with raising money for the Chinese orphanage and the medical clinic, and I fear the children will too often be left to their own devices at a time when what they need most is stability and a sense of purpose.”
Charlotte remembered the months following her mother’s death, when she stumbled through each day in a grief-induced fog, barely able to think or eat. The routine at Madame Giraud’s, the daily lessons and recitations and essays, and the diversions provided by her schoolmates had kept her from dwelling too much on the awful reality she was powerless to change. Still, she was not prepared to provide such a routine for these children.
“I realize you will be returning to your plantation in the autumn,” the minister continued, “but I hoped you might be willing for these next few months. I am prepared to offer you a small remuneration, of course, if you would—”
“What about the schoolmaster at Litchfield?”
“He won’t be back until October at the earliest.”
“Mr. Peabody, I sympathize with your situation. But even if I were qualified to take on such a task, I have only a few books.” She waved one hand. “I have no chalkboard, nor proper desks and chairs, nor—”
“I’ve thought of that. You could move into the plantation schoolroom. There’s a separate house for the schoolmaster, adequately furnished, and the schoolroom has everything you might require. I’m certain Dr. Tucker will be agreeable.”
Papa’s friend, Dr. Henry Tucker, had inherited Litchfield just before the war. It was said that rice planting was his life’s sole passion and that he cared little for books. If that was so, perhaps he wouldn’t object to her temporarily occupying the plantation schoolroom. Not that the idea held any appeal for her.
“My young charges have lost their mother too,” she said. “Their father left a month ago on a matter of some importance, and we’ve had no word of him. They seem happy here, and I am reluctant to uproot them when their future is so uncertain. Perhaps a female relative, an aunt or a cousin, might come for the summer and take charge of the children. Or someone from the congregation?”
He sighed. “If that were possible, I wouldn’t be here. There is no one else.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stared into his empty cup as if the answer to his dilemma might be hiding there. “What if I moved the school down here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What if I brought everything here? Your two girls could remain here and you’d have the desks and chairs and other things you need.” He glanced around the parlor to the room beyond. “Your dining room would easily serve the purpose.”
She walked to the window and looked out at the sea, fighting the fury building inside her. How dare he barge in and commandeer her home for his own purposes? It was too vivid a reminder of what the Northern carpetbaggers had been about for the past three years, raising taxes to astronomical levels and then taking property when the owners couldn’t pay. And promising the Negroes the moon in exchange for loyalty at the polls.
Of course she was sorry that Mr. Peabody’s nieces and nephews had lost their mother. Now, with the plantations in ruins, education for a different kind of life was more important than ever. But her own insecurities haunted her. And she hadn’t spent much time around boys; she wouldn’t know where to begin teaching Mr. Peabody’s nephews. She had so many worries of her own. And now it seemed she was permanently in charge of Nicholas Betancourt’s daughters too.
Tamping down her anger, she turned to the minister and forced a polite smile. “Again, I’m afraid I must decline.”
He rose, a frown creasing his high forehead. “I see. May I ask one favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“The children won’t arrive until next week. In the interim, will you seek divine guidance on this matter?”
She nodded. “As I do in all things.”
“That’s all I ask.” He retrieved his hat and made for the door. “Perhaps we can talk again on Sunday.”
She watched him mount his horse and ride away, the horse’s hooves kicking up sand.
Marie-Claire bounded barefoot into the room, her dark hair flying. “May we go to the beach now? I want to look for more angel wings.”
Charlotte smiled, her irritation at the minister forgotten. Both girls had adapted quickly to island life. Sturdy and browned from endless hours on the beach, they had learned to appreciate the rhythms of the sea and the beauty and the wonder of her random gifts. They knew the names of the birds stalking the muddy shores of the tidal creeks, the grasses and flowers growing wild in the inlet behind the house.
Charlotte brushed a hand over Marie-Claire’s unruly locks. “I suppose so. Get your hat and your sister and meet me on the piazza.”
Ten minutes later they headed north, the girls chasing the receding waves. Here and there mothers reclined on blankets in the shade of the dunes, chatting or reading while their children splashed in the shallow surf.
“Ma’m’selle.” Anne-Louise held up the remains of a horseshoe crab. “An arthropod.”
“Very good, you remembered.”
The child bobbed her head. “It’s easy to remember things the way you teach them to us. Marie-Claire thinks so too, only she’s too stubborn to say so.”
She fell into step alongside Charlotte. “Marie-Claire thinks Papa is dead. Is he?”
“Of course not.” Charlotte knelt on the wet sand until their eyes were level. “I’m sure he is perfectly fine. Any day now he’ll get my letter and he’ll know just where to find us when he gets back. You mustn’t worry about it.”
She looked up to see Augusta Milton and Emily Weston coming along the beach, each carrying a picnic basket. Augusta waved as they drew near.
“Lovely day,” Augusta sang out.
“It is.” Charlotte got to her feet and sent Anne-Louise to join Marie-Claire. “Hello, Mrs. Weston.”
Mrs. Weston nodded. “Lovely to see you at last. I’ve been looking for you ever since we arrived.” She smiled at Anne-Louise’s retreating form. “I heard you were looking after Mr. Betancourt’s children.” She glanced toward the two girls who were on their knees, digging in the sand. “I do hope he has not abandoned them. It has happened far too often since the war.”
“Nicholas—Mr. Betancourt would never willingly abandon his daughters. I confess that I am worried, though. I expected his return long before now.”
“And yet you don’t seem too eager to have him back,” Augusta said. “Is anything the matter?”
Charlotte shook her head. Part of her wanted to share the burden of her worries about Fairhaven. But for all their fine qualities, Augusta Milton and Emily Weston were not above gossip, and the last thing she n
eeded was for Mr. Finch and her creditors at the bank to get wind of a possible property dispute. “I’m uneasy about leaving Mr. Finch, the overseer, in charge of everything. I don’t know him very well, and he’s looking after the Hadleys’ fields and the Cliftons’ too. I—”
“Speaking of the Cliftons.” Emily shifted her basket to her other arm. “Just after you left to come here, I saw Josie Clifton and her mother coming out of the postal office in Georgetown. Up from Charleston for a couple of days, though for what purpose she didn’t say. They send their regards.”
Two young boys with a kite raced past, kicking up a shower of damp sand. Charlotte brushed at her skirt and placed a hand on Augusta’s arm. “I’m glad for this chance meeting. I was about to say that I hope you can look after the girls for me on Friday. I want to see how my fields are faring. I’ll leave early and be back before dark.”
“They’re welcome to stay,” Augusta said. “Such bright minds. I’m sure I wasn’t half as clever when I was their age.” She patted Charlotte’s hand. “All due to your unorthodox teaching methods, no doubt.”
Mrs. Weston’s dark brows rose. “Unorthodox?”
“Charlotte doesn’t believe in rote memorization,” Augusta said, “or in a set course of study. She lets the girls study whatever interests them.”
“How intriguing.” Mrs. Weston smiled at Charlotte. “But tell me, then, how is a child to learn arithmetic if she has no interest in it?”
“Marie-Claire already knew the fundamentals when I began teaching her, and Anne-Louise as well, though to a lesser extent, so I can’t be sure my method would work with pupils who have no basic knowledge.” Charlotte shaded her eyes and scanned the beach for her young charges, who had abandoned their sand castle and were now helping the boys with the kite. “My arrangement with their father was for the short term, and there’s a scarcity of books since the war, so I thought it just as well to adopt a more relaxed approach to the curriculum. Once they are sent to boarding school, there will be time enough for drills and exercises and endless memorization of useless information.”