by Dorothy Love
They settled themselves on the dock and baited their hooks. Anne-Louise swung her feet and hummed softly, her eyes fixed on the brown waters of the creek. Charlotte cast a sideways glance at the girl who, so far, had not told any more tall tales. But then, Susan had not been around since Thursday to arouse her insecurities.
Marie-Claire slapped at an insect and nearly dropped her fishing pole. “Can we go in now? I’m burning up already, and the stupid fish are not biting anyway.”
“They’re not stupid,” her sister said. “They’re smart. That’s why they won’t let us catch ’em.”
The older girl rolled her eyes. “Fish can’t think, you ninny.”
“You take that back. I am not a ninny.”
“Young ladies.” With one finger, Charlotte marked her place in her book. “If you can’t be kind to one another, we’ll go inside and spend the day doing sums.”
Marie-Claire swatted at a persistent dragonfly. “Anything is better than this. Even stupid sums.”
“Somebody’s coming.” Anne-Louise pointed to a rowboat rounding a curve in the creek.
“It’s Daniel Graves,” Marie-Claire said.
He raised an arm in greeting. In another few minutes, he drew his boat alongside the dock and tossed his line to Charlotte. He clambered out holding a string of fish, a wide grin on his face.
“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.” Charlotte bent to secure the rope.
“Didn’t expect it either. Mrs. Hadley has come up for the holiday with the mister, and he gave me the day off. But don’t worry. I went by Fairhaven this morning and took care of Cinnamon. She said to tell you she misses you.”
Charlotte grinned. “I miss her too. Is everything all right?”
“Far as I can tell. Me and Mr. Hadley took the boat down to your field yesterday. Your new crop is planted.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Yes’m, I reckon so. The garden’s getting kinda spindly, though. Wasn’t much to bring you this time. We could use some rain.”
“So long as it doesn’t wash away my rice again.”
“Daniel, look.” Anne-Louise held up her fishing pole, from which a small fish dangled. “We’re going to cook him on the beach tonight and watch the fireworks.”
The boy grinned. “Sounds good to me. We can cook mine too.”
Marie-Claire rolled her eyes. “This is boring as dirt. I’m going back inside.”
“Fine,” Charlotte said. “You can clean the fish Daniel brought.”
The girl wrinkled her pert nose. “No thank you.”
“I’ll do it.” Daniel headed toward the house.
Marie-Claire crossed her arms and watched him go. “Why did he have to show up and spoil everything?”
“I thought you liked Daniel. You were the one who begged me to let him stay when he showed up for school at my house.”
“I felt sorry for him. That doesn’t mean I like him. I hope he doesn’t stay the entire day.”
“Well, he’s a very smart boy, and kindhearted as can be. You will be perfectly cordial toward him or else miss the fireworks.”
“I don’t care about the fireworks. I don’t care about anything.” Marie-Claire’s breath hitched, and suddenly Charlotte understood.
She gathered the girl into her arms. “I know you’re worried about your father,” she whispered. “So am I. But you must be brave and not frighten your little sister. And try not to take your feelings out on poor Daniel.”
She motioned for Anne-Louise. “Let’s go inside and start a pudding for supper.”
They returned to the house and set about assembling food for their beach picnic. While Daniel cleaned the fish and scoured the beach for stones and driftwood, Charlotte kept the girls busy cracking eggs and measuring sugar and milk for the pudding. She scrubbed potatoes and corn for roasting.
By late afternoon, everything was ready. She sent the girls upstairs to rest, but the thumps and muffled giggles from overhead told her they were too excited to sleep. Meanwhile, Daniel made himself at home in her makeshift schoolroom, studying John’s drawings of shells and horseshoe crabs, thumbing through the world atlas and a stack of tattered magazines. He soon settled on a book and went out to the piazza to read.
Charlotte tried to return to her own book, but worry about Anne-Louise’s fanciful story and Marie-Claire’s barely controlled anger made it hard to concentrate. Their father’s absence was taking its toll on all of them.
Through the window she saw Augusta, her distant neighbor, Mrs. Carver, and Mary Banks walking down the beach, a heavy wicker basket between them. A small, gray-haired woman wearing a burgundy frock hurried along behind them. Mrs. Rutledge of Charleston, no doubt. Behind her came a couple of men carrying metal tubs and a group of children carrying kites and balls and sticks.
Anne-Louise pounded down the stairs. “Is it time yet?”
“Almost. Go tidy your hair and find your shawl. And tell your sister to do the same.”
“I don’t need a shawl. It’s hot outside.”
“It is now, but it might be quite cool by fireworks time.”
A few minutes later the girls came downstairs, ready to go. Charlotte packed their food into two baskets and set a folded blanket on top. Daniel carried it all down to the beach.
Charlotte chose a spot close to the water but still protected by the dunes and set down her baskets. The girls helped Daniel dig a pit for the fire. Soon dozens of fires burned along the beach as more families arrived for the celebration. While the adults gathered to share the latest news, children played and splashed in the surf or built castles in the sand.
Daniel sat atop a dune with his book, seemingly oblivious to the noise and motion going on around him. But when the fire had burned down to red-hot coals, he helped Charlotte place the fish, corn, and potatoes for roasting, then joined a group of boys casting a net into the surf.
Mary Banks and the woman in burgundy strolled over. Mary handed Charlotte a flyer still smelling of printer’s ink. “Charlotte, this is my cousin Mrs. Rutledge, visiting from Charleston. Adele, this is Charlotte Fraser. She owns Fairhaven on the Waccamaw and Pelican Cottage, just up the beach from us.”
Mrs. Rutledge acknowledged the introduction with an appraising glance. “How do you do? Mary tells me you’re attempting to run a plantation by yourself.”
“I have some help, but the decisions—and the worries—are all mine.”
“My word. What a brave thing to do.” She patted Charlotte’s hand. “I wish I could introduce you to my nephew. If only Griffin would stand still long enough, he would enjoy knowing someone so pretty and so accomplished.” She paused. “Augusta Milton tells me you aren’t much interested in our cause.”
Charlotte turned the paper toward the firelight to make out the words. “Citizenship for Negroes while white women beg for suffrage? We say no! Sign our petition now!”
“Surely you agree with us, Miss Fraser,” Mary said. “Just how far does male dominance go? I’m tired of being told that I suffer from an error of belief simply because I want equality.” She paused for breath, then plunged ahead as if giving a well-rehearsed speech. “Since the war we have had to shoulder burdens never meant for us. If women must pay taxes, manage their properties, and support their children single-handedly—as many have—then certainly they deserve a say in making the laws we’re all forced to obey.”
Charlotte tucked the paper into her pocket. She’d never imagined that Mrs. Banks, who by sheer good fortune had escaped the fate she’d just vividly described, felt so passionately about the issue. Perhaps Mrs. Rutledge had awakened the younger woman’s political conscience.
Charlotte had never considered herself much of a crusader either, but she couldn’t deny the woman’s logic. The war had required of women a large measure of endurance and sacrifice, self-sufficiency, and inventiveness. Surely now the men could see that their old beliefs about female dependency were no longer true, that the war had not only set the Negroes free
but freed women as well from the constraints of old roles and old expectations.
“We’re not against citizenship for the Negroes,” Mrs. Rutledge added. “We recognize that the old system is at an end, and perhaps it should be. We must move forward for the good of everyone, black and white, but at the appropriate time. We say first things first, and that means women need the vote. If we were granted suffrage, we might then have an opportunity to influence the formation of laws beneficial to all. The sooner we—”
“Mary, there you are,” Augusta said, coming to a stop before them. “I should have known you’d be trying to convince Charlotte to join your merry band. Your husband is looking for you.”
“All right. I’m coming.” Mary Banks clasped Charlotte’s hand. “At least take the flyer home and study it. I’ll come by one day next week, and we can talk more then.”
Mary and Mrs. Rutledge left. Charlotte sat down and patted the blanket. “Join me, Augusta?”
Augusta sat down, her dark green skirts spread at her feet. “I can’t stay long. I promised the Chamberlains I’d sit with them and help Elizabeth with the baby. He’s been sick off and on all summer, and the poor girl is run ragged. She’s been looking forward to this outing for weeks.”
Charlotte smiled up at her old friend. “Augusta Milton, whatever would the people on this island do without you?”
“The better question is what would I do without them.” Augusta paused and stared into the flickering fire. “You know, Charlotte, when I was your age, all I wanted was to live in Paris and paint. I needed no one and nothing except my art. Romance seemed frivolous, a home and family as appealing as a ball and chain. And for a while, I lived out my own glittering dream.”
“I never knew that.”
“Oh, yes. People said I had a good bit of talent. But deep down, I realized I’d never be more than a good copyist.” She picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. “The Hadleys own one of my best efforts. A copy of an early Signorelli.”
“Nicholas Betancourt admired it at Lettice’s party last spring. We debated whether it was authentic.”
“I brought it back with me when my star faded and my patrons moved on to others with more talent. The Hadleys paid me generously for it. Which was a blessing, since the young men in my circle had long since chosen wives.” She brushed the sand off her fingers. “And here I am, rattling around by myself in that drafty old cottage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not looking for sympathy. I took the risk, made my choices. All in all, I am not unhappy here in the twilight of my years.”
In the firelight the older woman’s features softened, and Charlotte understood why she had been considered such a beauty in her day. Augusta patted Charlotte’s hand. “I have many friends. Things to do that make me feel useful. Quiet pleasures that make me feel quite content.”
A high-pitched whine, followed by a loud boom, signaled the start of the fireworks. Augusta rose. “Listen to me nattering on. Don’t pay me any mind, my dear. Firelight always brings out the melancholy in me.” She lifted her hand in a little wave. “I must get back to Elizabeth.”
“And I must find Daniel and the girls. Our supper should be done by now.”
Augusta left, picking her way carefully in the dark. Charlotte got to her feet and called for her charges. The three of them, their clothes damp and smelling of seawater, hauled themselves onto the sand.
“We’re exhausted,” Anne-Louise declared. “Mary Chamberlain has a kite that can fly all the way to the moon. We chased it almost as far as the causeway. It would have gotten lost, except I jumped about a hundred feet and grabbed the tail just in the nick of time.”
Charlotte sent the girl a sharp look, a brow raised in question. “Truly?”
“Nah, she’s just jokin’,” Daniel said. “Right, Anne-Louise?”
Anne-Louise dropped her gaze and fussed with her sleeves. “Just jokin’.”
“Remember when we talked about the boy who cried wolf?” Charlotte opened her basket and took out their plates and utensils.
The girl nodded. “Nobody believed him when he got into real trouble because he told too many stories that weren’t true.”
“Is the food done?” Marie-Claire asked. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.” She grinned at Charlotte. “Not Cinnamon, of course.”
Charlotte feigned relief. “Thank goodness for that.”
Daniel helped remove the fish, potatoes, and corn from the glowing coals. Charlotte served their plates and spooned the pudding into their bowls. They ate and watched the fireworks exploding over the dark water. Far down the beach, someone began a chorus of “The Camptown Races.” Daniel and the girls joined in.
Their sweet harmony sent a wave of sadness moving through her. Would she wind up like Augusta, belonging to no one? Even if she could bring Fairhaven back to its former glory, would the plantation by itself be enough to sustain her for the rest of her life?
The fireworks ended, and the night grew chilly as a cool breeze arrived on the evening tide. People packed up and headed for home.
“Daniel?” Charlotte stacked their dishes into her basket and folded the blanket. “You’re spending the night with us. It’s too late to take the boat home.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m meeting Mr. Hadley’s friend Mr. Ambrose down by the causeway. He’s taking me to his house for the night so’s I can help him fix his barn in the morning. He come up from Charleston the day before yesterday and brought the latest edition of the Mercury with him.” Daniel fished in his pocket for the newspaper. “I brought it for you, but then I forgot all about it this morning. It’s only a little bit damp.”
“Thank you, Daniel. I’m always keen for news.”
“Yes’m. I imagine so.” He jerked a thumb. “Front page is all about General Longstreet. Mr. Ambrose says he was one of the best officers in the Confederate army and General Lee’s right-hand man, even if they didn’t always agree. Mr. Ambrose says it’s a real shame the general is so sick.”
“General Lee is ill?”
“No, ma’am. General Longstreet. Paper says he’s in a bad way.”
Charlotte went still.
“You all right, Miss Fraser?”
She took a steadying breath. “I’m fine, Daniel, just shocked to learn of General Longstreet’s illness. You’d best get going before it gets any later. I can handle our things.”
He hurried away.
Numbed to her core, Charlotte managed to collect their belongings and get the girls home and into bed. Then she took the lamp into the parlor and read the newspaper account of the general’s illness, her eyes racing down the page. Old war wound . . . complications . . . exhaustion. No mention of yellow fever. Perhaps he’d had a chance to speak to Nicholas before falling ill.
Unable to sleep, she took off her shoes and went out to the back porch. She climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, pushed open the trapdoor, and stepped onto the roof.
She inhaled the misty salt air and drank in the beauty of the rolling sea by moonlight, the dying remnants of cook fires glittering like a diamond necklace ringing the beach. She sat down, unmindful of the damp seeping into her skirts. Questions about Nicholas, about whether he had proof of his claim to the barony that included her land, whether he was even alive, demanded answers.
For whatever reason—illness, unwillingness, disappointment—he had gone silent. If he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—come to her, for the sake of the children if nothing else, she must go to him.
Such a journey was not without risk. The trip would be difficult and expensive. The thought of the yellow-fever epidemic was terrifying. But the current situation was not fair to her or to the children. Still, if life were fair, perhaps there would be no need for courage.
She watched the sparks from a dying fire spiraling into the darkness and hoped that when the time for this journey arrived, she would be brave enough to take it.
Twenty
NE
W ORLEANS
24 July 1868
The train shuddered to a stop. Charlotte massaged the tight muscles in her back and peered out the soot-streaked window. The New Orleans station buzzed with noise and movement. Passengers crowded onto the platform to await their baggage, jostling a Negro man sitting cross-legged on a bench. Bearded businessmen in dapper gray suits and bowler hats dodged a gaggle of ragtag children and a one-legged man wearing a tattered Confederate uniform. Smoke from a huge factory across Basin Street billowed against the white-hot summer sky.
The other women in the passenger car gathered their fans, gloves, umbrellas, and reticules, preparing to leave the train. Caroline Mayhew, a fashionably dressed, olive-skinned woman with piercing brown eyes who had boarded the train south of Atlanta and promptly introduced herself to Charlotte, smiled wanly and brushed a speck of soot from her sleeve. “Are you as exhausted as I am?”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept.” The trip had involved a twelve-hour voyage aboard the Resolute from Georgetown to Charleston and a rail journey to Atlanta. Three days later she had boarded a car on the Southern Louisiana Passenger Railway bound for New Orleans. She was numb from the jostling ride on hard wooden seats and covered head to toe with soot and dust.
“I do hope you find your employer is well.” Caroline fluffed the feathers on her hat, an oversized concoction of pink silk flowers, netting, and ribbons. “This is a dangerous time to be in the city.”
Charlotte blotted her face with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Do you not fear for your own well-being?”
“Of course I try to be careful. But the fever seems not to spread directly from one person to another.”
Charlotte nodded. Most people on the Waccamaw feared mosquitoes and bad air more than contact with fever victims.
“Besides, the fever mostly attacks newcomers,” Caroline said. “Here, it’s the immigrants who seem to have the worst time of it. The Irish especially. Local whites seem to be resistant—and the Negroes, of course.”