The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  “Oh. Well. I don’t know much about him. Mr. Walsh, I believe.” She looked up as if to peer into her memory banks. “Yes. Mr. Walsh, that’s it.”

  If it was the same Mr. Walsh I’d had occasion to meet when we had visited the Pinckneys’ Belmont estate during the Yuletide festivities, then I had about as much knowledge of him as Mama. I hadn’t given him a moment’s thought. Nice enough man, I supposed. But entirely forgettable. What on earth was Papa about? He knew how I felt about this. I could only imagine it was Mama’s doing.

  Mrs. Pinckney smiled blandly, not endorsing nor vetoing this vague Mr. Walsh fellow. That, to me, spoke volumes.

  “May I see Papa’s letter when we return home?” I asked my mother.

  She gave a small smile. “Of course, dear. I would have thought he’d have mentioned Mr. Walsh to you also.” Of course, she didn’t. And she’d waited until we were in polite company to reveal her announcement.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t thrown your hat in for William Middleton,” Mrs. Cleland directed at me. “He was extremely dashing at the Yuletide ball, didn’t you think?”

  I thought back to the splendid affair. The candles all alight, gleaming silver, the polished brass buttons of the gentlemen and sparkling jewels on some of the dames. William Middleton had indeed cut a fine figure. We had been able to procure new dresses for the event too, from a seamstress recommended by Mrs. Pinckney.

  “And I’ve heard the Middletons’ Crowfield plantation is absolutely magnificent,” Mrs. Pinckney added. “As an amateur botanist, Eliza, surely you must be eager to see the gardens we’ve heard so much about. One would almost think he was the perfect match for you. Imagine, you could garden all day long and wander about the grounds and never see the same flower twice.”

  I chuckled at the image my friend had conjured. “I think I rather bored him with my take on plantation affairs. It’s one thing being interested in flowers, quite another to be interested in crops, or what makes money.”

  “Oh, Eliza,” Mama said with despair.

  “In fact”—I paused in my stitching as I remembered—“I do believe he said, ‘Why would you worry your pretty little head with a gentleman’s affairs?’ Then he told me to hire an overseer so I may rather enjoy the many parties and diversions town has to offer.”

  I must admit, I’d been quite stung to be so summarily dismissed. Anyway, he seemed to have an eye for Miss Williams, an heiress in town.

  “Quite right. You see it’s not just me who notices, Eliza. I fear you are getting a bit of a reputation. What gentleman is going to want you if you carry on like this?”

  Why would I want a gentleman who doesn’t respect my interests? I wanted to ask but gritted my teeth instead. But of course, tears pricked my eyes. As only my mother’s words could so effectively cause. I was ashamed to be spoken to like this in front of our dear friends.

  Mrs. Pinckney was too polite to acknowledge my mother’s comment. “Shall I ring for more tea?” she asked instead.

  I cleared my throat. “That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Pinckney.”

  To my dearest Father,

  As to Mr. Walsh, you know, sir, I have so slight a knowledge of him I can form no judgment. A case of such consequence (marriage!) requires the nicest distinction of humors and sentiments.

  But give me leave to assure you, sir, that a single life is my only choice. And I hope you will put aside thoughts of my marrying yet these two or three years at least.

  Your most dutiful and affectionate daughter,

  —Eliza Lucas

  “Come look, Miz Lucas,” Togo shouted excitedly as soon as I set foot outside our Wappoo home in the cool March morning. He was walking stooped with the watering buckets hanging from the yoke across his shoulders, heading for the kitchen gardens when he saw me. He laid his burden down and gestured over to the fields.

  The indigo!

  I picked up my skirts and hopped down the steps from the veranda. In a few moments, I stood on the edge of the long tract and squinted. Togo headed along one of the rows of what looked to me still bare turned earth in the low early morning light. A few feet along he stopped and lowered to his haunches. I followed and then, picking up my skirts, did the same, following his dark finger as he pointed.

  “Ha!” I exclaimed as my eyes adjusted, and I made out the tiny green speck. Cautious hope bubbled in my chest. My eyes went along the row and sure enough there were more. I cast about and saw others, some a little more than a speck. And all of a sudden I could see them everywhere.

  Yes! A burst of joy squeezed my chest, and I laid a hand upon it as if I could temper my excitement.

  I looked up and saw that Togo was smiling ear to ear, mirroring my own expression. At the end of the field Sawney and Quash stood smiling too.

  We’d done it!

  I couldn’t wait to let Mr. Deveaux know. And Charles Pinckney would be so impressed. And my father too. Surely now he’d consider it a worthwhile investment to send a consultant. It needn’t be Ben, but someone, anyone, who had experience with the crop and who might protect us against the pitfalls would be prudent.

  I sighed with happiness and stood. “Thank you, Togo.”

  He rose also, unfolding to his towering six-foot frame. “Yes, Miz Lucas.” He smiled, showing his two front teeth missing.

  I wanted to sing and dance and yell with happiness. I thought about whom I could share my news with and came up empty. Neither Mama nor Polly, despite her earlier fleeting interest, had any inclination toward my planting efforts.

  I made myself a promise. When the shoots made it through the end of March and were clear of frost, I would beg my father to send a consultant.

  I feared if he didn’t send someone, we wouldn’t even know when the perfect time to harvest would be. I knew it was before the flowers bloomed, but when exactly? What a waste of all this energy to grow it perfectly if we ruined it by not harvesting correctly. And what about time to build all the infrastructure a dye-making operation might need?

  In the days that followed, the promise of success with indigo went to my head. I was ashamed to admit to sins such as vanity, pridefulness, and no small amount of greed when I let the idea of its worth cross my mind. But yet, I was too excited. I prayed for humility in my evening prayers, still I was proud of our efforts.

  I made plans to head into town and visit our banker, Mr. Gabriel Manigault. He held the deeds to the mortgage on the Wappoo plantation. I would get an understanding of where we stood with respect to paying some outstanding amounts back. I had been diligent with the accounts and ambitious in the sales of our rice with more still to come.

  My father, even though he’d been made colonel, had made mention of perhaps being able to switch commissions with Major Heron, who was in Oglethorpe’s regiment near Savannah. It would be a demotion, and no doubt Major Heron would extract a steep price, but after it was paid, it would allow my father to remain close to us and more importantly, no longer require as much capital from our estates on an ongoing basis. Or so I hoped.

  It all felt as if things were coming together just so. In a right kind of order. And so I finally gave in to my instinct concerning the indigo and wrote to Father about finding a consultant, anyone who had the skill and knowledge to produce the dye. It is time, I wrote, and laid out our success and my worries about squandering such a fortunate chance. Without asking directly I described all the attributes I knew Ben had.

  As I lifted my quill, I let my mind linger on my childhood friend. I thought of him as I’d last seen him, silent and brooding, on the cusp of manhood with no more time for the silly shenanigans of a plantation owner’s young daughter. My skin flashed hot. Silliness. That was all. Two children separated by culture and circumstance. Of course we would grow apart. But I could barely ignore the way my belly turned and twisted at the thought I might have a chance to see him again. To have someone about the
plantation with whom I could share these triumphs. Someone who understood my love of the land. Someone I was so fond of. I said a silent prayer as I sealed the letter.

  In the meantime, I also wrote to Starrat and requested he send Sarah down from Waccamaw, if he could spare her, as I had need of another female. A sloppily written response came back announcing that he could not spare her. And I grudgingly made plans to perhaps visit there again if I could find someone to accompany me.

  But one morning in April, I opened my eyes and as I felt the frigid air my heart sank. By the time I made it outside, Togo was already in the field inspecting the rows. He looked up when he heard me and slowly shook his large head side to side.

  I gasped in despair when I saw the blackened and brittle little shoots.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Lucas.”

  Bitter tears of disappointment sprung to my eyes against my will. I blinked rapidly, taking deep breaths through the surge of disappointment threatening to choke me.

  “It’s all right, Togo.” I fought to control my voice. “It’s not your fault. I forced a smile for his sake. “We shall make another go of it. We simply don’t know the right time to plant. And certainly we had no idea there would be a frost this late in the year.” I lifted my hands then dropped them in despair. “We shall keep trying. Please go ahead and till up the soil again. I still have some seed. We’ll plant next week, when I am sure the frost won’t return.” I injected as much confidence as I could into my request.

  We were to leave that very day to Charles Town for my meeting with Mr. Manigault. I resolved to keep the appointment nonetheless, even though I now had no news of a new income-producing crop. I would make the best of it.

  “Oh, it is so lovely to see you again.” Mrs. Pinckney beamed as she drew me into an embrace in her front parlor.

  Today she wore a dress in a natural hue woven of the finest Dutch flax I had seen, a pale green that matched her eyes and edged with a pale pink lutestring the color of an ornamental rose I had encountered once on an outing to the botanical gardens in London with Mrs. Bodicott.

  I smiled. “Thanks to you and Mr. Pinckney for having us to stay with you yet again.”

  “Absolutely,” Mama agreed as I joined her on the settee. “I was just telling Eliza the other day what a wonderful prescription your company is.”

  “And it is most fortuitous,” Mrs. Pinckney directed at me as she poured some tea. “Mr. Pinckney and I want to introduce you to our niece, Miss Bartlett. She is staying with us for a few months. We visited the markets this morning, and I fear I quite tired her out. She has gone to lie down. She’s just a few years younger than your age, Eliza. I do hope you’ll be friends.”

  “Will you be having a soiree to introduce her, then?” Mama asked, accepting a cup and saucer.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of it, but what a splendid idea. We shall have it while you are here.” Mrs. Pinckney sat down on a beautiful brocade chair across from us, her skirt draping elegantly to the floor. I did so admire her. She was always warm and elegant, with a clever wit and intelligence dancing in her eyes. I fancied she and Mr. Pinckney were a love match. They showed such respect and affection for each other at all times, I wondered for a moment how much more so it must be behind closed doors.

  My stomach gave a little lurch, an odd sensation slipping through me. Was that what I wanted? A love match? I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the stray thought. Perhaps it was simply my age. I’d noticed a sort of fever that overcame friends as they attended balls and soirees and swooned over potential suitors. I’d thought myself immune to such flights of fancy. I was certainly far too busy.

  Both Mama and Mrs. Pinckney looked at me expectantly.

  My cheeks bloomed with heat as though they’d heard my train of thought. “Did you ask me something?” I said quickly. “I do apologize, my mind quite disappeared.”

  Mama pursed her lips. “Mrs. Pinckney was just asking if there was anyone we would like to invite to meet Miss Bartlett. I suggested Mary Chardon and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Woodward.”

  “Oh, quite yes,” I agreed with enthusiasm. “That would be a lovely addition. Mary is so very agreeable; she would be a good friend for Miss Bartlett.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” said my mother, satisfied. “And I know she is too young yet, but what eligible young men might we invite?” she asked Mrs. Pinckney.

  As they named some of the prospects, most of whom I’d never heard of, I wondered what kind of gentleman might make me seriously consider marriage. If I loved someone would that be enough when I no longer had the satisfying business of a plantation to run? My drive to succeed and improve our lot, as unattractive a quality as Mama said it was, couldn’t be helped. Would this ambition, for I’d come to accept that was truly what it was, be replaced by something sweeter and more tempered? A simple need to love and be loved?

  I snorted. And quickly covered it with a cough as I realized I’d expressed myself aloud.

  “Is everything all right, Eliza?”

  “Oh, I caught a funny breath is all. I’m fine, Mama. I think I just need to stretch my legs then maybe lie down. You know how I get rather bilious in the boat, and then the carriage here, I—”

  “Yes, yes. Fine. Go and rest before dinner.” She shooed me off, no doubt eager to discuss my marriage prospects in more detail.

  I gathered my skirts and excused myself.

  Perhaps one day I could ask Mrs. Pinckney the secret to her happiness with her husband. Just in case I should ever have need.

  I stepped out into the hall and moved toward the stairs. The Pinckney home gleamed with deep-hued wood and beautiful furnishings. It was a happy home. Warm. I’d never asked, of course, but I felt sure they longed for children. What an added dimension to their joy that would bring. I said a silent prayer that such wonderful people would be kindly blessed.

  The sound of a throat clearing caught my attention just as I’d rested my hand upon the newel post and gathered my skirts in the other hand preparing to ascend to my room. I paused and looked along the entryway hall. The door to the library was ajar.

  To my dear friend, Mrs. Bodicott,

  I have the business of three plantations to transact, which requires much writing and more business and fatigue of other sorts than you can imagine. But lest you should imagine it too burdensome to a girl in my early time of life, give me leave to answer you: I assure you I think myself happy that I can be so useful to so good a father. And by rising very early I find I can go through much business.

  Lest you think I shall be quite moped with this way of life, I am to inform you there are two worthy ladies in Charles Town, Mrs. Pinckney and Mrs. Cleland, who are partial enough to me to be always pleased to have me with them and insist upon my making their houses my home when in town and press me to relax a little more often than ’tis my honor to accept of their obliging treaties.

  —Eliza Lucas

  “Eliza!” Mr. Pinckney greeted me with a surprised grin after I knocked gently on the doorframe. “Come in, come in.”

  I returned his smile, my heart warming, and slipped inside the open door of the library.

  Charles Pinckney stood against the backdrop of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. His dark hair was pulled back and powder free. He really was a handsome man. Mrs. Pinckney was a lucky lady.

  A text was open in his hand as he angled it toward the window, his formal overcoat removed, revealing his shirtsleeves and dark waistcoat. He leaned casually but straightened as I entered, making to close the book.

  “Don’t stop reading on my account,” I said. “I simply wanted to say hello.”

  After my unexpected thoughts of his and Mrs. Pinckney’s love marriage, I was surprised to find myself more observant of his person. Such kind eyes. Those I’d always recognized, of course. The color of a stormy sea. But strong shoulders too. He was tall, but not overly, and
had the most irreverent dimple in his chin. As though his person sought to remind the world of his humor, even while his hair was wigged or powdered for his very important job of lawyering for the province.

  He’d always treated me with respect, rather than as a mere girl standing in for her father, so I felt almost as comfortable around Charles Pinckney as I would a family member.

  “How are you, Eliza? How are your experiments going?”

  “Rather disappointing, I’m afraid.” I scrunched up my nose. “The plan for our trip to town was made in a rash state of mind. I was excited we had growth in the indigo fields. Alas, the frost of last week put paid to my excitement. Next year we shall plant later.”

  “So, you’re not fine. Bitterly disappointed, I imagine,” he said kindly. “Come. Come and have a seat and tell me about it. I’m glad you decided to call upon us even though your purpose changed.”

  I perched on a club chair next to the open door. “I’m all right. I didn’t sow it all; we shall merely try again.”

  “We?”

  “Ah well, I have rather ignited a cause amongst the Negroes. I’m not sure how it came about, but I believe they are as excited to see this project to fruition as am I!” I laughed.

  “So industrious and clever,” he said approvingly. “And what is the plan once you succeed? As I’m sure you will.”

  “Well, I have written to my father to send a consultant from the West Indias. If I finally succeed, it will be more important than ever to make sure we don’t squander the chance to produce good quality dye.”

  He strolled back to the window. “Have you heard from your father?”

  “I have. It seems tensions are rather high. Do you think it will escalate?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I imagine so, if it hasn’t already.”