Free Carolina Gold by Dorothy Love Page A

I should go.”
    “Not at all. I’m in the middle of some correspondence, but it can wait. May I offer you something to drink? Tea perhaps?”
    “Tea would be lovely if it’s no trouble.”
    “I’d welcome a distraction.”
    He ushered her into a wide foyer with polished pine floors and an elaborate crystal chandelier and then into a book-linedparlor furnished with delicate chairs, needlepoint footstools, and mahogany side tables. On the floor beneath the window, a violin rested in an open case. A pair of silver candlesticks graced the fireplace mantel, above which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman wearing a crimson gown and an ermine wrap. Charlotte took it all in, feeling that somehow she had stepped back in time. How had such lovely things escaped the marauding Yankees’ notice?
    As if reading her thoughts he said, “I shipped these here from New Orleans after Christmas. If there was anything good about being occupied so early in the war, it’s that people came out of it with most of their possessions intact.” He indicated the portrait above the mantel. “My wife, Gabrielle. This was painted in New Orleans the year we were married. It was her wedding gift to me.”
    “She’s lovely.”
    “Yes. She was quite a beauty.” His voice as he studied the portrait was laced with pain that reminded her of her own wrenching loss.
    The moment passed. He indicated a chair by the window. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m without any help today. Mrs. Hadley recommended Tamar, who appeared eager for steady work, but it seems she’s often delayed of late.”
    “I remember her,” Charlotte said. “When I was young and visiting Mrs. Hadley with my mother, Tamar occasionally accompanied her mistress to Alder Hill. Tamar was beautiful in those days. I thought she was brave too.”
    His brows went up. “How so?”
    “She made no secret of her wish to hire out as a seamstress in Georgetown in order to save enough to purchase her freedom and that of her infant son. I’m sure a lot of slaves dreamed that same dream, but I doubt many of them were bold enough to say so.”
    “And was she successful?”
    “I don’t know. After my mother died, I was mostly away at school or with my father. But at any rate, she’s free now.”
    “Yes, and she’s a wonderful housekeeper—when she’s here.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Luckily I do know how to boil water. I won’t be long.”
    She picked up a slender volume of poetry lying on the side table and thumbed the pages, reading random passages. A gentle breeze, fragrant with spring, drifted through the open window and ruffled the pages.
    Soon Mr. Betancourt returned carrying a tray laden with pink china cups, a matching teapot, and a plate of crackers, each one topped with a strawberry and a dollop of cream. He set down the tray and dropped into the chair next to hers, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Tamar brought a few strawberries yesterday. I believe you’re fond of them.”
    Charlotte found herself reveling in the moment. For years she had nursed her father, kept their house, and wrestled with their accounts. Before that she had labored on Aunt Lavinia’s farm. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had taken care of her. “How kind of you to remember.”
    “I remember everything about you, Miss Fraser.”
    Her cheeks warmed beneath his approving smile. “Did you enjoy living in New Orleans, Mr. Betancourt?”
    He poured tea and handed her a cup. “For a time. It is a volatile place now.” He regarded her over the top of his cup. “Have you ever been there?”
    “Once, just before we had to abandon the Waccamaw. A business trip with my father.”
    She remembered the city as a place of strange beauty and mystery that left her feeling unnerved. From the wrought-iron balcony of their hotel on St. Charles Avenue, she’d watched the changing drama in the street below. Dark-haired Creole girls hawkedbaskets of tomatoes. Nattily