York shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I think I do.”
“Try tellin’ that to Camellia.”
“You need to go to her,” Josh urged. “Help her through this.”
“Somebody else can go to Camellia. I’m not good at talkin’ with her, never have been. I plan to go to Trenton,” said York.
“You know you can’t do that. You’ll be stepping out of your place.”
York took off his hat and stared into it, as if looking for the answer to the world’s deepest mystery. Although still angry, he knew Josh was right. He held no power here, no real choices. “This ruins it all. Every hope we ever had.”
“Go to Camellia,” said Josh gently. “She needs your care.”
“You go to her. She sets a high store by you, and you’re better with words than me.”
Josh toed the ground again with his boot. “I … can’t go to her. Wouldn’t be fair.”
York grunted. “What do you mean?”
Josh looked up then, displaying a sadness deeper than any York had ever seen in him, even when Anna died, even when … “I … I got feelings for her.”
York froze.
“I know it’s wrong,” Josh continued. “It’s not been long enough since Anna’s passing, and Camellia’s got no such inclinations toward me. Even if she did, I know you would never allow it. I’m not good enough for her either—no man is. But I’ve come to think highly of her, and if I went to her, I couldn’t do it with a clear conscience. I don’t want her and Master Trenton to marry, plain as that. Anything I said would be stained by my feelings.”
York almost chuckled but, seeing the lost look on Josh’s face, held it in. “She thinks you’re her uncle.”
“I’ve not told her anything different.”
“You think I should?”
“I told you that some time ago, before Anna died, before I …”
York set his hat back on. “I can’t do it. Can’t tell her about her mama. Don’t want to hurt her, especially now.”
Josh nodded. “I know. And I agree completely. With the pain that Trenton has now inflicted, I don’t want her to find out her mama wasn’t exactly the chaste woman she believes her to have been.”
York put a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say about your thoughts toward Camellia. You know you are my brother, my only true friend. But I got to tell you honestly: I want more for Camellia … no offense or anythin’.”
Josh smiled, but only briefly. “None taken.”
York started walking slowly toward the manse, and Josh followed him.
“I need to tell you something else,” Josh said, “while we’re talking plainly. I traveled to Beaufort back in the fall. Talked to Sheriff Walt.”
York tried to stay calm. “That’s no surprise. What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him about the money, or even that you were there. Just that I had come on a dying man and he’d spoken the name ‘Ruth.’”
“You didn’t mention me at all?”
“No.”
York stopped and faced him, confusion in his stare.
“I didn’t see the need,” explained Josh. “If the money belongs to Ruth, I want to get it to her. No reason to get the law mixed up with that. No reason to tell about you either. You didn’t shoot anybody.”
York pulled out a chew of tobacco and stuck it in his jaw. “You beat all.”
Josh grunted. “I should have told Walt a long time ago.”
“Maybe.” York tried to figure how this connected to Hillard. “You ask Walt to keep this to heart?”
“Yes, thought that wise.”
“He seem okay with that?”
“You know Walt. He’s a quiet man most of the time.”
York chewed his tobacco.
“One more thing,” said Josh. “Walt mentioned some man asking for somebody that matched your description. Said a man named Tarleton had come to see him.”
“Tarleton?” York could feel his face going white.
“Yes, said he was looking for somebody he’d had a fracas with.”
York cleared his throat. “You figure he’s the man who shot me at Mossy Bank?”
“That’s my guess. Best you keep your eyes open, in case he shows back up around here.”
“Reckon I should.” York started walking again. “Seems things get more mixed up every day. More reason than ever for me and you to stick together. You’re still the best friend I ever had.”
“I’m the only friend you ever had,” said Josh quickly, grinning. “Nobody else can put up with your meanness.”
York smiled slightly. “Maybe so. But I got to say again I agree with you that you’re not good enough for Camellia. She’s made for better than either of us.”
“I know,” replied Josh. “That’s why I’ll not tell her of my leanings for her.”
“You’re a wise man. No reason to confuse her or cause hurt to yourself.”
“You still want to talk to Master Trenton?”
York spat. “I don’t reckon so, least not yet. Next April is a long time away. A lot can happen in that time.”
“You’re not giving up your hopes for him and Camellia, are you?”
“A man ought never give up his hopes.”
“Guess not.”
York patted Josh on the back as they reached the manse. Right now he needed to hold his peace with Trenton Tessier. As he’d said himself, April was a long way off. Who knew what kinds of things could happen between now and then?
Part
Three
The camellia is a wondrous flower that seems always to bloom when winter is bleakest and the joys of spring lie yet so far away.
Chapter Twenty-One
In the first couple of months that passed after Trenton brought Eva Rouchard to The Oak, it seemed to Camellia that somebody had shoved a pitchfork right through her heart. She ached so much with grief that her whole body felt like one large stab wound. Although she knew the sun still rose in the morning, the spring still brought a greening to the earth, and the dogwoods and azaleas still bloomed as the spring passed and summer entered, she paid no mind to any of it. Trenton’s betrayal shut off her sight for anything beautiful, anything pleasurable. So far as she could see, God had pulled a heavy cloud over her head and closed out everything bright the instant Eva Rouchard stepped down from her carriage.
A faithful friend as always, Stella tried to talk her out of her sadness. But Camellia refused to hear anything.
“I’m ruined,” Camellia said when Stella told her she was better off without Trenton Tessier, since he obviously was the kind of man who married for money. “Shamed and humiliated. Everybody knew about his promise to marry me.”
“That be right,” Stella claimed, frowning. “He made the promise, then broke it. Everybody see that as shame on him, not you.”
“I’m not good enough for him,” argued Camellia. “Everybody sees that too. Just look at Eva Rouchard. She’s got all the qualities I’m lacking—all the polish and station.”
“I don’t rightly know her,” Stella said. “Maybe she be a good woman, maybe not. But she ain’t no better than you, and everybody who knows you knows that. You as fine a young lady as anybody in these parts has seen for a long spell. Now that Master Trenton is out of the way, menfolks from all over the county will soon come to your door, askin’ for you to sit with them. They been doin’ that already, but your pa kept them away.”
Camellia refused to listen. She had no interest in other men. And, no matter what Stella or Ruby or anybody else said, she knew the truth when she saw it. Trenton had chosen Eva Rouchard because of her refinement, her education, her beauty—all the things that Camellia York didn’t possess. Who could blame him for that? Any man in his right mind would make the same decision. Who knew what she would’ve done if the situation had come up the opposite way? What if the Lord had birthed her into a family like Trenton’s? What if Trenton spok
e poorly, dressed roughly, carried no good breeding in his blood? Would she have married him?
Of course, it did surprise her that Trenton never sought her out to explain his decision. At first that made her angry. Even though she didn’t deserve him and understood that, he might at least have told her that to her face or sent her a letter explaining his change of heart. A gentleman would’ve given her that courtesy, wouldn’t he? Trenton owed her that; didn’t he?
The days stretched out longer and longer as spring ended and summer arrived. Trenton, his mother, and Eva Rouchard left The Oak in late May, their carriages and his horse heading out for cooler climes like an army on parade.
Camellia watched them go, her anger stoked even higher at his callous manners. The anger didn’t last that long, though. Why should it? So what if Trenton hadn’t told her in advance? So what if he didn’t talk to her a single time in his weeks on The Oak? Why should a man of his station explain anything to one of the hired help? No one had ever made any public announcement of their marriage, so no formal breach of it had occurred. If she wanted to get mad, she ought to direct it at herself, at her stupidity for thinking that somebody of her origins could ever, should ever aim so high as to take a man like Trenton as a husband. To even imagine such a thing showed her ignorance, her complete silliness. Fairy tales didn’t come true, no matter what the books said. Her self-confidence ebbed as her anger slowed. The long days of summer bore down. The breezes from the ocean felt heated, as if somebody had run them through a big fireplace before spewing them out. Camellia labored side by side with Ruby and Stella but didn’t talk much. Stella kept trying to make her feel better, kept trying to get her to talk like normal again, but she always refused. Why should she waste energy on useless words?
Every now and again Camellia saw Josh Cain coming or going from the fields, and she considered walking over to his house and sitting on his porch and pouring out her troubles. He’d listen in a way nobody else would, she knew that. Yet she hesitated for a couple of reasons. First, he stayed gone more than usual these days, sometimes for several days at a time to locations he never mentioned. He always asked Stella to look after his children when he took off, and this made Camellia sad. It gave her a second reason for not going to him. He’d made it plain she shouldn’t come to his place anymore. Although she never knew exactly why, she suspected it came from his dislike for Trenton. If she went to Josh, he’d tell her she was better off without Trenton; that he obviously didn’t love her or he wouldn’t have dropped her.
That, more than anything, kept Camellia from going to Josh. She couldn’t stand to hear him say that Trenton didn’t love her. She couldn’t face that, at least not now. Trenton did love her, no matter what had happened. No, he wouldn’t marry her, but she understood that. He deserved better, and The Oak needed more. But that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. A man could love one and marry another; he’d told her that a long time ago. Yes, she’d lost him as a husband, but to give up the notion that he still loved her hurt too much, made her humiliation more than she could bear. So she stayed away from Josh Cain.
Camellia stayed alone as much as possible that summer; gave up her reading too. Before she knew it, her language had slipped back into the way she had talked before Ruby had taught her a single word. But she didn’t care. Why should she? Without Trenton, she had no cause to make herself fancier, more sophisticated. Truth was, the notion of doing so had obviously been silly from the beginning. A woman of her station shouldn’t try to fix up and put on airs that didn’t really belong to her. Easier to put a lacy bonnet on a pig than for somebody with no fineness in her blood to act as if she had quality.
With every other pleasure gone, Camellia found her only solace at the ocean. When she finished her labors in the afternoons, she often slipped away from The Oak and made her way to the beach. Her head uncovered, she usually took a spot on the ocean side of a favorite sand dune, her small body perched there like a nesting bird. From the dune she liked to watch the waves as the sun dropped, her eyes searching the horizon, as if hoping to see a ship arrive, a ship that she could board and sail away on forever.
Sea gulls darted overhead as she sat, and the wind played with her hair. Often she dug her bare toes into the soft sand and imagined what it would be like to wear shoes every day, to have more than one pair of shoes. She tried to pray as she sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, her heart yearning for some word, some sign, some reason to leave her grief and start over with her life. At times she wondered if she should leave The Oak; if she should take a wagon down to Beaufort and catch a ship to some distant city like Charleston or even farther, perhaps to the North—that strange exotic land where no plantations existed and people wore heavy coats from October until May. Is that what the Lord wanted for her? Should she leave this place and seek her happiness somewhere else? But what would she do there? How would she live? What about Chester and Johnny and her pa? Who’d care for them? They still needed her, depended on her.
She shook her head as she thought of her pa. She longed to talk to him, but he’d seemed angry with her since Trenton broke off their engagement, as if he blamed her for Trenton’s decision. In one way she agreed with him. Her lack of quality caused Trenton to leave her for Miss Rouchard. But couldn’t her pa at least have offered her a touch of sympathy? She needed that, hoped for it. But it never came. He stayed gone even more than usual these days, always in the fields until Saturday night, then in Beaufort until late Sunday. He took trips too, as often as he could get away, sometimes to Charleston, sometimes to Savannah or Columbia, wherever he could find a horse race, cockfight, or card game, some excitement to put blood in his face, some chance to wager the few dollars he earned.
Camellia’s eyes watered. In spite of his failings, she loved her pa and worried about him. Since Trenton’s announcement about Eva Rouchard, he’d become even more distant, like a man bent on nothing but the present, a man with no use for the future, no desire to see it come. He drank as much as he could when the workday ended and took wagers on anything he could find.
She knew he’d put all his hopes in her marriage to Trenton. But should it ruin his life when it failed to happen? He made eleven hundred dollars a year as overseer. Not enough to make a man wealthy, but enough to give him a comfortable life. Most men didn’t make that much. Why couldn’t he settle down and take care of his family the way he should? Why couldn’t he give Chester and Johnny the kind of example they needed to see in a father?
Camellia knew the answer as soon as she asked the questions. Her pa wanted more, had always wanted more, had always seen himself as capable of improving the station God had given him at his birth. He tried to make it seem that he wanted more for his children, but Camellia saw through that, understood that he wanted it even more desperately for himself. It was as if he believed that money and status could give him happiness. But could it? She didn’t know. What would happen to her pa now that she’d crushed his hopes?
The days slipped away. August rolled in. Finding herself more and more drawn to the waves, Camellia went to the ocean almost every day. One day, about midmonth, she found herself once more sitting on her favorite dune, with the sea gulls darting in and out. She picked up sand and let it drift through her fingers. The tide ebbed and flowed. Tears ran down her face.
Lifting her eyes, Camellia stared into the ocean. Whitecaps topped the green water. The waves pushed in and sucked out, pushed in and sucked out. The roar of the waves seemed to speak to her, to whisper to her soul. The whisper told her to come to the water, to let it soothe her aching heart, her battered spirit. Where would the waves take her if she walked into them? If she stepped into the foam and headed out to sea and never turned back? Where would her body go? Where would they find her?
More tears dropped onto the sand. She knew such notions didn’t please the Lord, but she couldn’t help it. How could she go on living, now that Trenton had chosen to marry another?
She picked up another handful of sand and let it
slide through her fingers. Life slid away just as easily, she decided. Like sand running out one day at a time until nothing was left … nothing, nothing. She wondered about life after dying: Did a person go to live forever with Jesus or not? What if that person didn’t deserve Jesus? What if the person had tried to live right but failed at the end? What if the person walked into the ocean and never turned back? If the ocean pulled them away and down, down to the dark under the waves?
The ocean rolled in and rolled out. Again she heard it calling her name. “Camellia, Camellia …” The sound seemed so real, closer and closer.
“Camellia! Camellia!”
She glanced up at the sound.
“Camellia!” The ocean beckoned to her, tugged at her.
“Camellia!”
She stood and turned toward the sound and saw Johnny running toward her, his wavy hair mussed by the wind. She held her hand over her brow to block the sun’s glare and hurried toward him. He looked small and frightened. He reached her, out of breath, and pointed toward home.
“Chester is bad sick,” he panted. “Pa sent me for you.”
“I knew he was ill earlier today. Is he worse?”
Johnny nodded. “He’s real sick. Pa says it might be the malaria.”
York was right: Malaria did take hold on The Oak. Camellia threw herself into nursing Chester, her mind numb to any personal danger. So what if she took sick? So what if the disease hooked into her flesh and killed her? She had no reason to go on living; she might as well die of malaria as take her own life in the ocean.
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