The Indigo Girl

by Natasha Boyd

  My heart lurched with fear for my father’s safety.

  “We have been on and off at war with the Spanish for decades,” Charles Pinckney went on. “If there are further embargoes, trade will become difficult. I would advise anyone who asked to diversify their crops. You are attempting that already.” He smiled. “I think I shall nickname you ‘the little visionary.’”

  I raised my eyebrows, both amused and warmed by his praise.

  Mr. Pinckney waved his hand dismissively. I decided since I had his ear to talk of something that had been very much on my mind since the rebellion. I’d come across a copy of the hurriedly enacted Negro Act and sought to understand it.

  “I was gratified to see that part of the Negro Act strongly advises against the use of brutality or physical punishment for slaves,” I commented. “I’ve been after my overseer Starrat to remove the whipping post up at Waccamaw for some time, though according to Quash, Starrat blatantly ignores my requests.”

  “I’m of like mind. There’s not much to be gained from a servant by treating him thus and expecting loyalty in return, it is true. I’m afraid most don’t agree and will continue to run their plantations as they see fit. We can only choose to do the best thing for ours.”

  “I wonder if I might beg a boon. I find myself in the curious predicament of disliking someone. I speak of Starrat, of course. And I can assume he doesn’t think much of me running Father’s affairs either. I need to visit, and I find the thought of it rather …” I hated to admit I was afraid of Starrat. I stopped and thought how else I might phrase my request.

  As if he could sense my predicament, Mr. Pinckney came to my rescue. “I happen to need to visit Georgetown in the coming months. I do believe if you are in need of some company, and your mother approves of it, we may well travel that way together?” He raised an eyebrow at my presumably surprised expression. “Unless of course, you were not just about to ask me to accompany you on your mission to dole out instructions to your overseer?”

  I snapped my mouth shut, my cheeks warming.

  He grinned. “I’m sorry. I should have waited for you to ask. Has anyone ever told you that you wear your thoughts as clear as day? Please don’t ever take up gaming. You would lose a fortune.”

  I swallowed hard. Knowing he was merely teasing me, I could hardly be mad. Though I did feel quite foolish. I let out a small laugh, then a larger one. “Goodness, you are direct.”

  “As you normally are too. Promise me that if you ever require my help, you will simply ask.”

  “Then I shall. Here is my formal request: Would it be too much of an imposition for me to accompany you and Mrs. Pinckney the next time you have need to visit Georgetown? I should like to visit Starrat and our land on Waccamaw personally, and I’m afraid I do not wish to see that man on my own.”

  Mr. Pinckney frowned. “He has not behaved in any untoward manner, has he?”

  I shook my head. “I simply do not like the man. And I have to trust my intuition where he is concerned.”

  “Well, certainly.” He nodded. “As I said, I have to visit there soon. I shall send word or come to collect you from Wappoo.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Pinckney. Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I do wish you’d call me Charles.”

  “Charles,” I murmured, and it felt oddly intimate. I knew at once I would not stick to it.

  Giving a half laugh, I rose. “I’d best get rested. I’m looking forward to meeting your niece. And I’m afraid my mother and your wife are at this very minute planning some evening frivolity to introduce her about. And of course, to identify potential marriage material for us.”

  “Indeed?” he asked, his head turning sharply toward me. “And who do they have in mind for you?”

  I lifted my shoulders. “No one, if I can help it.”

  He laughed, his eyes creasing at the corners. “What a waste.”

  And I left with an odd feeling in my belly.

  Miss Bartlett, the Pinckneys’ niece, was a small, buxom girl with a dear and pretty face. She had a dimple in her chin that reminded me of her uncle. I was allowed to think of her as buxom because next to me she looked womanly despite being almost two years my junior. She had dark hair like her uncle too and the same stormy blue eyes that seemed to hide the gray of a winter ocean in their depths.

  We took tea with Mrs. Pinckney and Mrs. Cleland in the Pinckneys’ parlor the next afternoon as we got to know each other and discussed further plans for the soiree.

  We spoke of recipes, music, and the latest town news; which ladies were coming up for marriageable age and which planter families might align. Of course, I did not have much to add on that particular subject. William Middleton was in the marriage mind and the guessing game was on as to who would bear his name. While I’d made the acquaintance of the young man, and clearly put him off with my talk of crops and outputs, I had no knowledge of the many other people of whom Mrs. Pinckney spoke. I had spent, and would continue to spend, most of my time in the countryside seeing to our business.

  Our friends, Mrs. Woodward and Mary Chardon, arrived the next day, and soon it felt wonderfully festive. I did not realize until I was surrounded by these charming ladies how very lonely the countryside was at times. But regardless of the momentary joy, I knew my heart would always yearn for the solitude of our Wappoo Creek plantation and the beauty of the land.

  “It is so lovely to see you, Mary.” I hugged Mrs. Chardon’s slender frame, and then we made our way to the drawing room where I introduced her to the Pinckneys’ niece, Miss Bartlett.

  “I’m so glad you finally agreed to start calling me Mary,” she said, settling herself on one of the comfortable chairs. “All due respect to my late husband, but carrying around Isaac’s name has been a wretched weight. Aged me before my time, I daresay. Half the day I feel forty-six, not twenty-six.”

  “Ha,” I said. “If only we could return to our maiden names upon the death of a spouse. But then, I suppose no one would know who we belonged to!” I laughed and drew out the small ring of embroidery I was attempting to keep my hands busy with while I had no business to attend to and no figures to add.

  “You don’t make marriage sound very appealing,” Miss Bartlett tittered. “So will you be acquiring a spouse of your own soon, Eliza?”

  “Oh goodness, no. Who has time for that? I have been too busy with our plantation affairs to consider the concept.” Not true, of course. There was not enough work in the world that could dislodge the dread of marrying from the back of my mind. And certainly my mother was reminding everyone she could that we all had a mission to find me a suitable match. “Did I tell you we have planted indigo?” I went on to avoid further discussion of husbands.

  Mary chuckled, drawing out her own embroidery. “Only a dozen or so times. I am glad that you are not too busy to keep up with our weekly Tuesday visits. Mama is worried about your many responsibilities. She says you asked if you could watch our rice harvest. Is that true?”

  “It is indeed.” I rummaged around in the small basket I’d brought. “I can hardly do an effective job at supervising the harvest if I do not understand the process or where it might be improved. I do need to be more involved.”

  “Oh, you are so clever, Eliza.” Mary shook her head as if she could not quite understand my predilection for business. “Pray, tell me what other little experiments are you conducting over there?”

  I sighed and shrugged. “You do flatter me so. Although, I know you think me quite peculiar. And really, I’m simply following my papa’s instructions to grow his enterprise. He sent some lucerne grass, which is said to be good for cattle. I’ll let your parents know if it proves to be so.”

  “Do. Oh, did you hear about poor Mrs. Daniels?” Mary asked, referring to a woman who lived in our part of the parish. “Her husband got the fever and died suddenly. Left her with two young’un
s and no will.” Mary’s deft fingers nimbly worked her embroidering needle. She had churned out several beautiful cushion covers in the months we’d been visiting. I didn’t know Mrs. Daniels, but her tale made me sad. How irresponsible of her husband.

  Upstairs, I imagined our mothers with Mrs. Pinckney in her salon, discussing their daughters’ marriage prospects out of earshot before joining us downstairs.

  “Most of these poor country folk don’t have the means to call for a lawyer to draft estates and such.” Mary frowned. “She’ll be quite turned out on her ear, I imagine, unless she can find another husband. But I fear she’s beyond childbearing age. So who would want her?”

  The simple tragedy sent a cold chill over my skin, and I let out an involuntary tremor.

  “Are you cold, Eliza?” asked Miss Bartlett, taking on the role of hostess in her aunt’s absence. “Should I call for the fire to be laid?”

  “Oh no. Thank you. Not at all.” I jabbed my needle into the small embroidery sample. I thought of the law books down the hall in Charles Pinckney’s library and resolved to learn how to at least draft a simple last will and testament should anyone in our local area have need. It couldn’t be that hard. I might need some more specific texts though and perhaps some guidance from Charles himself.

  Mary sighed with amusement. “Pray tell, what are you thinking about as you murder that poor piece of cloth?”

  “Dead husbands,” I said with a theatrically dark look, and my two friends laughed.

  I feared next to Miss Bartlett, Mary Chardon and I looked rather plain. I took this as rather a boon when we sat down to dinner with the Pinckneys’ dinner guests, Mr. Laurens and his son. They had called that afternoon and, after much prodding from my mother, apparently been asked to stay for dinner.

  Mama, borrowing a silk scarf from Mrs. Pinckney to lend her attire a heightened level of elegance, was ecstatic to make the acquaintance of men so clearly in need of wives now or in the future. I steeled myself for a long evening.

  Henry, the younger Laurens, was a skinny fellow of perhaps a year or two my junior. His hair slicked back and a slight curl to his lip lent him the air of an imp who would think it hilarious to set a cat’s tail on fire. He was like a boy playing a man. And while he was courteous as he made my acquaintance, I couldn’t help feeling a level of superiority emanate from behind his careful gaze.

  I traded glances with Miss Bartlett, and she surreptitiously stuck out her tongue in the universal gesture of distaste. It was a struggle to keep my expression neutral.

  Henry and his father were dressed impeccably with cloth of the finest I had seen, even in London.

  “So, Mr. Laurens—” my mother started as we were presented with delicate quail at the supper table.

  “John, madam, please.” The older Mr. Laurens was quite rotund with a shiny nose and watery blue eyes. I fancied he was put together of features of differing age. His hair was perhaps older than my father, as were his eyes and teeth, but his complexion seemed young. Perhaps the wrinkles were stretched smooth over the fatty deposits beneath. And he did not seem to sport as much bristle as perhaps a man should. I looked for the smile lines at his eyes that might show his humorous temperament and saw none obvious—I’d recently noticed them on Mr. Pinckney who exercised them often and decided it was quite a lovely way to assess the nature of the person to whom one was being introduced.

  My mother tittered. “John, it is.”

  I glanced away and accidentally caught the gleaming amusement in Mr. Pinckney’s eyes as he noticed my discomfiture at my mother’s antics.

  “John,” my mother reiterated, “how do you find yourself at the home of my dearest hosts? Do you live roundabouts?”

  I thought it would have been more efficient to ask him his trade and his assets in a more direct manner. Not that it would be acceptable etiquette to do so, but it was simply so obvious.

  “Oh, Mr. Laurens here is the best saddler in the Carolinas, perhaps the whole land,” Mr. Pinckney interjected. “He has become quite an important merchant among the businessmen of Charles Town.”

  “You do flatter, Pinckney,” Mr. Laurens chided but puffed up nonetheless.

  I could feel my mother calculating how much money a saddler made and whether she might support John’s son, Henry Laurens, as a candidate for my hand in marriage should the moment arise. I barely contained a shudder.

  That my mother was busily attempting to forge an inroad and assess the potential wealth and worth of someone who in years past she would have considered beneath our status regardless of his apparent wealth, was an indicator of her absolute and vehement opposition to our current state of affairs orchestrated by my father.

  “And, Mrs. Lucas,” Mr. Laurens returned, “your husband, I hear, has returned to Antigua. Rumor has it he’ll be making a bid for governor. Is that true?”

  Mama smiled, her shoulders straightening a fraction. “Well.” She dipped her head. “I suppose that would make my Eliza the daughter of the governor of Antigua. How … politically interesting …” she mused. And so, supper that evening reminded me clearly of the campaign she’d undertaken to see me safely married regardless of my father’s wishes.

  As well as seeing to the business of three plantations, I would also be fending off my mother’s various machinations. I smiled faintly as I ground my teeth hard enough to brew a headache.

  “I feel very fortunate to have been seated next to you, Miss Lucas.” The voice came from my right. I turned to look into the boyish face of John Laurens’ son. His auburn hair was pomaded back, leaving a rather shiny expanse of forehead.

  “Master Laurens,” I acknowledged him.

  “Henry, please.”

  “Are you old enough to attend, Henry?” I teased and winked. Instead of the amused response, I felt sure I had immediately stood upon a sore issue. His lips tightened, but in a moment the look was gone, replaced by a rueful grin. “I know you mean no harm,” he said thinly. “But it is upsetting to be reminded of my youth repeatedly. My father does it often enough for everyone.”

  I bit my lip, instantly embarrassed at my faux pas. “You are correct, I was jesting. But I apologize nonetheless.”

  “I’m sure you have no such concerns since you have been left in charge of your father’s business affairs. He must think you quite mature enough.” I detected no malice in Henry’s tone, but his words didn’t sit well.

  “Oh. Well, to be honest, there was not much other option. My brothers, George and Tommy, are being schooled in England, and my mother not being too well, it had to fall to me,” I said self-effacingly. And then in an attempt to find common ground, I added, “But I too struggle with the notion of being taken seriously due to my age and, I’m afraid, my gender. At least you are your father’s oldest and only son.”

  “That’s true enough.” Henry Laurens smirked, a glint in his eye. Then he cleared his throat, a flush crawling up it. “I, I do so admire you. As I am sure is obvious. I was wondering if, uh, if my father and I may come and call upon you at Wappoo in the near future?”

  “Oh.” I was rather taken aback. Have Henry and his father visit us at Wappoo? I could hardly say no. “Certainly,” I offered. But I didn’t want to have to offer them lodging. Not that I’d thought twice about it when Charles Pinckney had arrived to check on us after the slave uprising. Somehow the thought of Henry and his father staying with us at Wappoo set me at odds.

  Henry grinned.

  “The quickest way is by boat,” I went on quickly. “It’s easily there and back in a day. It will be a straightforward evening return. Actually quite beautiful as the sun sets. So long as it is pleasant weather.”

  “Indeed?” Henry asked. “I shall let my father know.”

  Mr. Pinckney called for the men to repair to his study and Henry pushed back from the table.

  He glanced from me to Mary Chardon, who was seated on my ot
her side.

  “Ladies.” He bid us adieu and drifted off.

  “What an odd creature, that boy is,” whispered Mary. “He acts like he is of age, and his father brings him about these soirees, though we all know he is but sixteen years old. In fact, fifteen, if rumors are true. It’s rather creepy, the child playing a man like that.”

  “It’s worse,” I muttered under my breath to her, to avoid wagging ears. “I believe he just informed me of his intent for my hand.”

  Mary gasped, her eyes round. “No,” she said disbelievingly.

  “Yes.” I nodded. My nose wrinkled. “He asked if he and his father could call upon me at Wappoo.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First, I suppose I’ll hope I’m mistaken. Although, I’m afraid my mother did rather lay the groundwork didn’t she? It is most peculiar. I thought Henry’s father planned to apprentice him in London. What on earth would he need with a wife then?”

  “Unless …” Mary stopped and shook her head.

  “Unless, what?” I asked and glanced around the remaining womenfolk at the table, all ensconced in lively conversation secure with their own stations in life.

  “Unless it isn’t for the boy,” Mary whispered, “but for his father?”

  “Mr. Pinckney! To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” I was delighted to see he had just pulled up on his horse as we returned one Tuesday afternoon from the Woodwards’ house. It was again late spring, and while warm, there was a refreshing breeze off the waters of Wappoo Creek. Polly, Mama, and I had walked the short distance of a mile and seen no traffic until thundering hooves came upon us as we turned into our drive.

  “Greetings, ladies.” Charles Pinckney’s dismount was lithe as he dropped to the ground from the handsome animal. His hair was windswept, his cheeks pink from the sun.

  “Oh my, what a horse,” exclaimed Polly. “He looks very fierce and very handsome all at once.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Polly.” Charles chuckled. “I’m sure if Chickasaw could blush, he would. Before I left town, a letter came for Eliza from London via our shared merchant, Beale.”