Free Carolina Gold by Dorothy Love

raging, I lit a lamp and went up to bed, but the roar of wind through the trees, the sound of breaking branches sharp as rifle fire, and my worry about my rice field rendered sleep elusive.
Now it is afternoon. The sky is gloomy and dark, and trees are down across the avenue. This morning I ventured out to check on my new horse. Lacking a proper barn for her, I had left her in the leaky shed that stands behind the remains of the smokehouse. She seemed none the worse, but I rubbed her dry and led her down to the old pasture, where she seemed quite content to crop the new grass.
I took a walk about Fairhaven to assess the damage: some uprooted trees, a twisted section of fence. Loose shutters at the windows along the piazza. The tender shoots of my corn crop are torn and tangled. I hadn’t the heart to check on my rice field. I fear the worst.
    Charlotte blotted the pages and set them aside for mailing to the New York Enterprise . When the teakettle shrieked, she went out to the kitchen, spooned tea leaves into the pot, and added the boiling water. While the tea brewed, she sliced a pear Alexander had brought and rummaged in the pantry for bread and honey, her thoughts swirling like the river current. She needed hay and oats and a proper barn for the horse. Nails for repairing the shutters and the fence. Sugar and salt. A couple of chickens and a cow—she couldn’t depend upon Lettice’s generosity forever. And all of it would cost money. Perhaps all the naysayers were right and she had taken on more than she could manage.
    Something tapped against the windowpane. She looked up to find a bedraggled peacock pecking at his reflection in the glass. Inexplicably tears stung her eyes. She willed them away. When faced with the impossible, of what use were tears?

 
     
     
    Six

    T he wagon rattled along the rutted avenue leading to Willowood. The redbrick Georgian-style house sat nestled in a grove of pine trees that cast ever-changing patterns of light across the gray slate roof. Approaching the front entrance, Charlotte noticed cracked windows and peeling paint, burned-out storage buildings and neglected gardens. A rain-soaked rag doll lay in the muddy yard. Clearly Mr. Betancourt’s plantation had fared no better than hers.
    A dog barked, and Marie-Claire appeared from the side yard, a basket of clothes balanced on one hip. The wary expression in her eyes made her seem far older than her years.
    Charlotte reined in, climbed down from the wagon seat, and straightened her hat. “Good morning, Marie-Claire. Is your father home?”
    “He’s in the library, but I wouldn’t disturb him if I were you. He’s cross as an old bear.”
    “Oh? And why is that?”
    The child shrugged. “Every time he gets a letter from New Orleans, he’s grumpy for days.”
    “That’s too bad. May I go in?”
    “Suit yourself. He told me and Anne-Louise not to make any noise because he’s too busy trying to think. So we’re doing the wash.” She shifted her basket to her other hip. “Tamar was supposed to do it, but she isn’t here yet.”
    “Perhaps she couldn’t get here because of the storm. Quite a few trees blew down, and the road is still blocked in places. I had quite a time of it my—”
    “Marie-Claire, where have you been?” Anne-Louise pounded across the yard, a scowl on her face. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
    Charlotte bent down to the younger girl. “Hello. Do you remember me?”
    The child nodded. “Papa said he wanted you to teach us but you wouldn’t.”
    The door opened and Mr. Betancourt, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows, emerged onto the piazza. “Miss Fraser. What a pleasant surprise.”
    “I told her you were busy,” Marie-Claire said to her father. “Don’t blame me.”
    The sisters hurried away, the laundry basket bumping between them.
    He smiled. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. She’s cross these days, but then so am I.”
    “I’ve come at a bad time. Perhaps