Carolina Gold by Dorothy Love

so to order some books from Charleston, but we can start without them. What about this coming Tuesday?”
    “Excellent.”
    They rose, and she offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Betancourt. I shall try my best to be a good teacher.”
    “I’ve no doubt of that. And I’m grateful to you for taking us on. My daughters need the steadying presence of a woman in their lives.”
    She glanced at the magnificent portrait above the mantel. “I lost my own mother at an early age. I know how your daughters must miss her, and how dearly she must have loved them.”
    Something flickered in his eyes. “My wife had many lovely qualities my children were too young to fully appreciate.”
    He walked her out and boosted her onto the wagon seat. “We’ll see you soon.”
    Charlotte turned the wagon onto the sandy road. Now that her mission had proved successful, she was assailed with doubt. What on earth had possessed her to suggest such a scheme? What did she know about teaching? Her own schooling was a distant memory of endless days of ciphering, writing essays, and reciting poetry in halting French beneath Madame Giraud’s unforgiving eye. An indifferent student, she had cared more for planting rice, riding her father’s blooded horses, and reading her own cache of books.
    At a bend in the road she came upon a couple of Negro men working to clear the fallen trees still littering the landscape. She acknowledged their doffed hats with a slight nod, rounded a final bend, and drove up the long avenue to Fairhaven. She unhitched Cinnamon and tethered her to an old laurel tree in the yard. It was not yet noon. Perhaps there was time to write out her order for books and take it into Georgetown for delivery to Charleston.
    A rig rattled up the avenue from the road and came to a stop in the yard. Charles Hadley peered out. “Miss Fraser. Good morning.”
    “Mr. Hadley. What brings you out this way?”
    He climbed out of the rig and lifted a basket from the seat. “Lettice sent you some eggs. And more strawberries.”
    “How kind, but you didn’t have to make a special trip.” She studied the man from beneath her hat brim. He seemed perfectly fine this morning—his brown beard neatly trimmed, a fresh linen shirt tucked into a pair of woolen trousers. Perhaps the demons that plagued him had been vanquished after all. What a blessing that would be for him and for his long-suffering wife. “I plan to buy a couple of chickens soon and save you the trouble.”
    “No trouble, I assure you. I was coming this way anyhow—to talk to John Clifton and to that fellow up at Willowood.”
    “Mr. Betancourt?”
    “That’s him. The contracts the Federals are making with the Negroes aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, so I’ve hired a foreman to gather up a crew and help oversee an early June planting. It’s a risk, of course, planting later in the season, but if we have a long summer we might be all right. I thought Clifton and Betancourt might want to get in on it.”
    She shifted the egg basket to her other arm. Ideally, planting was finished by early May. But perhaps Mr. Hadley was right and a delayed crop was worth the risk. “I can’t speak for them, but I myself am interested. I’m down to half a corn crop and half a ricefield at present, but if I had dependable workers, I might be able to sow another field.”
    Hands on hips, he studied her face. “I don’t mean to pry, but begging your pardon, how do you plan on paying them? Lettice said you’re writing up little pieces for some Yankee newspaper to bring in extra cash.”
    “That’s true. But I’m tutoring the Betancourt girls as well, and I have money from my bank loan still available. I’ve lived as frugally as possible.” She indicated the egg basket. “And your generosity is most appreciated.”
    Mr. Hadley took off his hat and blotted his face with a large, starched handkerchief. “If you want my opinion, you ought to give up on this place and go on back