by Cindy Kelley
“Good evening,” she said to no one in particular.
People going about their evening rituals stopped and stared at her, but no one said a word.
“I’m … Charlotte Chapman,” she said. It was the first time she’d spoken it aloud like that. The first time she’d introduced herself instead of someone in her family making the introduction. She approached a young Negro woman with a baby riding her hip. “I’m looking for a boy called Isaac,” she said. “Do you know him?”
The young mother quickly shook her head. “No, miss.”
She moved slowly through the row of houses, asking one person after another about Isaac but kept hearing the same answer. “No, miss.”
A white man on horseback rode up and dismounted, and the Negroes seemed to physically shrink from his appearance. She remembered meeting the stocky, barrel-chested man at her party. The plantation overseer doffed his hat as he approached.
“Miss Charlotte,” he said.
“Mr. Jonas.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m here on a personal errand.”
“I don’t know if anyone’s told you, ma’am, but we don’t got no call to be traipsing through the colored camp no more. These folks are sharecroppers, paying rent on their homes and working for their coins, just like regular people.”
“I’m not going to bother anyone, Mr. Jonas,” she said. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Excuse me for sayin’ so, Miss Chapman, but you shouldn’t be here come dark,” he said. “Wouldn’t be safe.”
The people around them were listening, but doing all they could to avoid looking like they were listening.
“I appreciate the warning,” she said.
“Ma’am …”
“Please, Mr. Jonas, I have some business I’d like to attend to and then I’ll be on my way.”
Jonas touched the brim of his hat. “Evening, Miss Charlotte.”
Charlotte spotted a familiar face sitting on the dilapidated porch on the house next door. His chin rested on the knees he had drawn to his chest. She walked toward him.
“Moby, isn’t it?”
Moby eyed her but didn’t say a word. She tried again. “Please, Moby. I’m looking for my friend Isaac. Do you know him?”
Moby nodded. “Yassum.”
“Good. Can you tell me where to find him?”
Moby glanced over his shoulder at the shack, but then shook his head. “He don’t come out now.”
Charlotte started to go up the steps, and Moby suddenly stood. “It ain’t fit in dere for you, missus.” He ran up the steps, disappeared inside, and moments later, a very scared-looking Isaac stood in the doorway.
“Isaac,” she said. “Please. Come and talk to me.”
“Not sure I wanna hear what you gots to say to me, Miss Mer—Charlotte.”
She held out her hand. “It’s all right, Isaac. Please …”
He slowly descended the rickety steps. Before she could even say a word, he shook his head. “I be the mos’ sorrowful person in dis place. I didn’t mean to do it … would take it back even if I had to die to do it.”
“I know, Isaac. I know it was an accident. Elijah is going to be all right. He told me what happened, and I told Mr. Beau,” she said.
Isaac’s chin fell against his chest. He stood there until his shaking shoulders told Charlotte he was sobbing. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, then stepped up, back onto a step.
“I don’t want no comfort,” he said. “Mr. Elijah be the best man I know in the world and if he’d a’ died on account a’ my foolishness, I’d be throwing myself in da bottomless ocean.”
“He didn’t die, and there will be no more talk about throwing yourself in the ocean.”
“I be so, so sorry,” he said.
“I know, Isaac. And in a few days, you can come to the house and see Mr. Elijah for yourself,” she said.
“And ask him to forgive me.”
“If that’s what you want, then yes,” she said.
He nodded, wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Thanks to you for tellin’ me ’bout him.”
“Of course,” she said. “And, Isaac … I know about the—the punishment you received. Are you all right?”
He backed up another step but nodded. “Yassum, I be fine.”
She hesitated. “Who was it that whipped you?”
He shook his head. “Don’t wanna say.”
“Was it Bram? The man I saw chasing Moby?”
Isaac looked around. “He didn’t start it, but he done what he could for me by sayin’ he finish it. Don’t blame him, Miss Charlotte. He look scary for da white men but he ain’t scary to me.”
“I’ve just been so worried about you,” she said.
He shook his head. “Don’t fret on me,” he said. “I ain’t makin’ no more mistakes, and I make you a promise right now, front of God, that I ain’t never, ever in my life, gonna touch another gun.”
She nodded her understanding.
“You’ll tell me if anyone isn’t treating you right?”
“You best get back to the big house now. Sun’s sinking and it get mighty dark out here.”
“I’ll send for you when Elijah is up to visitors,” she said.
He nodded, then went back up the steps, past Moby and into the shack. She turned and pretended not to see everyone’s eyes on her as she made her way past the shacks and the families having a meager supper.
Lights from the house began to flicker through the windows. It looked comforting, safe, inviting, and a world apart from the one she’d just walked away from.
Chapter Thirty-One
Elijah couldn’t seem to get comfortable. There was little he could do for himself, and it made him moody and irritable. He fidgeted against the pillows behind his back and thought about how predictable life used to be, before he met Charlotte. He knew his own heart and mind then—he could count on certain things happening when he woke in the morning and went to sleep with the expectation that the next morning would probably be the same. A small voice in his head told him he was behaving badly because of his pride. When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom. Sometimes, that small voice could be very irritating. He shouldn’t be sitting in bed on a Georgia plantation. He should be out West, riding the range, doing the job he’d signed on to do.
Charlotte entered with a bright smile and a tray in hand. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’ve come with something new to tempt you.”
“I’m sorry for the trouble you’ve gone to … up and down those stairs. But I’m still not hungry.”
“It’s no trouble. There’s a wonderful contraption in the pantry called a dumbwaiter,” she said. “You put the tray inside the wall and pull a rope and it comes right upstairs.” She put the tray on the bureau, then pulled a chair closer to the bed.
“What are you doing?”
After retrieving the tray, she sat next to him. “You’re going to eat—even if I have to feed you myself.”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not a child.” He pressed his lips together.
She raised her brows. “Then quit acting like one.” She slid the tray onto his lap, being careful of the site of his wound. “It’s biscuits and gravy. I’m told it was one of my favorites growing up, and after tasting it, I believe it.”
“It looks like a gray mess,” he said skeptically.
“Trust me.”
“Why aren’t you eating too?” he asked.
“I had a late breakfast with Victoria before she left to spend the day in Darien.” Charlotte pointed at the food. “Try it.”
He forked a tentative bite into his mouth and his eyes widened in appreciation.
She nodded. “See? Delicious, right?�
�
“It is. My brother and I would have fought over the last bite of a dish like this.”
“You and your brother fought over food?”
The food was quickly disappearing. He had been starving and didn’t realize it. “We fought over everything, but my mother’s cottage pie was always good for a brawl or two.” He grinned with the memory. “Beef, gravy, and a crust of creamed potatoes. We almost always came to blows over the last serving. Mother would defuse the situation, of course. Sometimes with dessert—but most often with a look that would make us both freeze in our tracks.”
“That makes sense, then,” she said.
“What does?”
“You talked about Jed in your sleep,” she said. “Something about pie and telling your pa.”
Elijah chuckled. “Brothers are always scrapping about something.”
“I wonder if I did that with my brother and sister,” she said.
He finished the last bite of food on his plate, and she took the tray from him with a smile. “Thank you for being so accommodating and eating all that without an appetite.”
“You’re welcome.” He studied her. “How are you faring with your family?”
She put the tray back down on the bureau and returned to the chair, and he found himself relieved she was staying.
“My family.” She grew thoughtful for a moment. “Sometimes, when they’re telling me a story about the past—as in what happened to my father—I can accept it without question. But when they’re talking about me—something personal I’ve said or done—they’re telling me about a stranger I’ve never met, and it’s harder for me to accept. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“And what do you think of this stranger Charlotte they talk of? If you were introduced somewhere, do you think you might be friends?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “But I’d like to think so.” She smiled. “I’m so tired of always talking about me. Tell me about you—your family.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he said. “My father died when I was sixteen. My brother, Jed, died the day you and I met.”
“I’m sorry the day we met was one of the saddest of your life,” she said quietly.
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. “I know it’s strange, but when I think of that day, the part I remember about you was your compassion—not that we were on different sides of the conflict.”
She gave a little nod, then asked, “What about your mother?”
“A wonderful woman.” He shifted his weight. “I need to be up more. How am I supposed to get my strength back when I’m lying in this bed all day long?”
“I’ll bet your mother would tell you to be patient,” she said.
He smiled. “That’s what she said when I was twelve and broke my leg trying to get Jed out of a tree. It turned out he was a much better climber than I was. He climbed down and I took the shortcut and fell from one of the highest branches.”
She winced. “Ouch.”
“I snapped my leg in two.”
“I’ll bet that took a while to recover from,” she said.
Elijah nodded. “I thought I’d go crazy that summer, sitting on the grass while Jed could run and play. I was so mad at him.” He smiled. “My mother has no tolerance for self-pity or grudge holding. She told me I should forgive him. It was an accident, but I refused. I think I liked the idea of being able to blame my sour mood on someone.”
He shook his head. “You’d think I would have outgrown that.”
She smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The thing is, what I remember most about that day is how disappointed she looked when I said I wouldn’t forgive him. Of course I knew she still loved me, but that look of hers nearly undid me. I was sitting under the eave of our house in the shade, watching Jed and some boys play stickball. Mother leaned down and kissed my cheek and said, ‘Remember, son, those who are furthest from giving mercy are furthest from receiving it.’ She went back into the house, and I forgave my brother for an accident that was probably my own fault. Even though I’m a grown man, I still seek her counsel.”
Charlotte looked guilty. “I have a confession to make.”
“All right.”
“When you were in bad shape, the doctor wanted to go through your things to see who your next of kin was to notify in the event things didn’t … go well. I volunteered. I had no idea if you had papers identifying you as a member of the military.”
“Good thinking on your part,” he said.
“I found a letter from your mother in your Bible. It touched me very much. Her words made me wish my own mother had been like her.”
“Maybe she was.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’m all my mother has left,” he said. “She worries, but has the strongest faith of anyone I know.”
“If you want to write about what’s happened, I’ll post it in town,” she said.
“I need to write to Fort Wallace too. I don’t want to be reported as a deserter.”
So as not to arouse the suspicion of anyone in Darien, it was decided that the letter to Fort Wallace would be sent with the letter to Elijah’s mother and she could send it on from Pennsylvania to the fort.
Through the window that faced the front of the house, they heard the sound of a buggy arriving. A minute or two later and heavy footsteps had Elijah looking in that general direction.
“Sounds like company,” he said.
“Yes, Mother and Beau are meeting with some men over lunch today,” she said.
“I shouldn’t be monopolizing all your time,” he apologized. “If you’d like to go down …”
She frowned. “No, I’m fine right here. Besides, from what I understand they’re coming to talk plantation business. It’s not as if I’m well versed in the art of rice production.”
There was a short rap on the door and Biddy stuck her head inside the room. “Miss Charlotte, I sorry to disturb you but Miss Suzanne say it’s ’portant you join dem on dah veranda for lunch.”
Elijah thought momentarily that Charlotte looked disappointed at the interruption of their conversation.
She stood and smoothed out her skirt. “Seems I’ve been summoned, but you haven’t seen the last of me. I plan to bully you into eating every meal.”
He leaned back against the pillow after the door closed, and smiled. The food had been good but the company even better.
Charlotte came through the doors onto the veranda, puzzled as to what her presence could possibly lend to this meeting.
“Here she is,” Mother said. “Thank you for joining us, darling.”
As Charlotte approached the table, the men stood.
“Charlotte, you remember Mr. Reynolds from your welcome-home party?”
“Yes, of course,” Charlotte said. “How are you, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Happy to see you aren’t still limping from our dance,” he said. “I’m afraid I stepped all over your toes.”
She smiled. “No permanent damage.”
“This is my attorney, Mr. Newton, and this is Mr. Harland. He’ll be my overseer if I buy the property,” Mr. Reynolds said. “Gentlemen—Miss Chapman.”
Once they were all seated again, Charlotte’s mother smiled at Mr. Reynolds. “Would you like to discuss business first, Mr. Reynolds, or shall I have Rose serve lunch?”
“We’re at your mercy, ma’am.”
Charlotte’s mother caught Rose’s eye. “You and Biddy may serve now, Rose.”
“Yassum,” Rose said.
“I had Juba make chicken and dumplings,” Mother said. “Some have called her the finest cook in the county.”
“You’ve gone to entirely too much trouble, ma’am,” Mr. Reynolds said.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Reynolds.
We may very well end up neighbors—and friends, too, I hope. Now, what can we do for you?”
Mr. Reynolds leaned his elbows on the table, and Charlotte tried not to smile at the look of disdain her mother was trying to tamp down at his social faux pas. “Well, Mrs. Chapman, we hear you run the most successful rice plantation in the state.”
Suzanne corrected him. “In three states.”
“I need to know that, if I buy the Crowley place, I’ll have a fair place to trade when I harvest my crop.”
“You’re referring to our threshing mill?”
Reynolds nodded. “Yes. Your threshing mill.”
“Just to clarify, we take our fee in cash, Mr. Reynolds. There is no trade.”
“No wiggle room there, eh?”
She smiled. “None.”
“It’s a little late in the season to be planting rice,” Beau said. “We’re just about set for our lay-by flow.”
Mr. Harland slapped at his neck. “Darn mosquitoes. Think they’ve had about a gallon of my blood since I got here.”
Suzanne forced a smile. “We are in the lowlands here.”
“Nuisance,” Mr. Harland said. “Anyway, we aren’t dead set on rice. Maybe we’ll do corn.”
Beau’s brows shot up. “Corn?”
Newton exchanged a quick look with Reynolds. “He meant cotton.”
“How many acres do you plan to harrow?” Beau asked.
Charlotte thought Mr. Reynolds looked confused at the question. Then he deferred to his overseer.
“What do you think, Harland? This is your area of expertise.”
Mr. Harland stroked his chin. “I haven’t really had time to plan it all out yet, but I’m thinking on about five.”
“And you intend to make your living that way?” Charlotte’s mother seemed puzzled. “On just five acres? I believe Mr. Crowley utilized all fifty acres when he was producing.”
“I’m not sure how much help I can afford,” Mr. Reynolds said. “And once I hire ’em, how do you keep ’em? The work looks miserable.”
Mother and Beau traded a look. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Reynolds. We can help you keep your workers. There are ways to … guarantee their return year after year.”