Free Carolina Gold by Dorothy Love Page B

dressed cotton and rice brokers hurried toward the distant quay. A copper-skinned woman dressed in pink satin sold pralines and bonbons from a painted wooden cart.
    On an afternoon carriage ride with her father, she drank in the beauty of magnolias and oleanders and rattling palms growing in secret gated gardens. She remembered a pair of nuns standing in the dim interior of a church and the faint scents of wine and incense wafting from the open doorway. The crowded wharves shifting and creaking beneath the weight of cargo, men, and horses. The odors of fish, tobacco, and burning sugar. At night the soft laughter of olive-skinned women promenading along the banquette rose into the humid air.
    Even at seventeen she had sensed that beneath the city’s genteel surface ran a current of tension that left her feeling on edge. No doubt the city was even more unsettling these days, with the Federals in charge.
    Mr. Betancourt set down his cup and relaxed into his chair. “What brings you to Willowood?”
    She liked his directness. She’d rehearsed her answer, but as she looked into his eyes, memory deserted her. She set down her cup. “Simply put, I lost my corn crop in the storm, and the sea tide ruined half my rice field.”
    “I see. Can you replant?”
    “Perhaps. But to be perfectly frank, Mr. Betancourt, I have taxes to pay and a bank loan coming due this autumn, and replanting will mean more labor costs as well. I need more money than I can possibly earn writing for the newspaper.”
    “You’ve come for a loan, then.” He poured more tea.
    “A—oh no, I wouldn’t presume to ask such a favor. I came to ask whether the position as tutor for your daughters is still open.”
    “But you were quite clear that it was not a job for which you feel qualified.”
    “That’s true. I don’t. But I have written out a proposed curriculum that I am willing to try on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if it proves satisfactory . . .” She handed him a sheet of paper from her reticule.
    He studied it briefly and set it aside. “I’m quite sure you will get on splendidly. And in any case, the situation is temporary. As soon as my affairs are sorted out, I’ll enroll the girls in a proper boarding school, just as you recommended.”
    “Are you saying yes?”
    “If I can afford your services. Would ten dollars a month be agreeable?”
    “Ten dollars a—”
    “It isn’t nearly what you’re worth, but as you said the other day, hard times have befallen us all.”
    “I was about to say that ten dollars is perfectly agreeable. More than I dared hope for, really. I’m grateful for your kindness.”
    “I am learning that poverty is a true test of civility,” he said. For a long moment their eyes met, understanding sparking between them. At last he smiled. “Perhaps it can also be a cornerstone of friendship.”
    He picked up his violin and began polishing the wood with a bit of red flannel. “My wife couldn’t bear the hardships of the war. She missed her fashions and her entertainments. I am fortunate that my own favorite pastimes are without cost. My music, for instance.”
    He lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, filling the parlor with lush, sweet notes that pierced her heart. She closed her eyes as the music, blended with the birdsong coming through the window, poured out.
    He finished on a rich, low note that lingered in the air and left her wishing for another respite from her many troubles. “That was lovely.”
    “I’m hardly more than an amateur, but the girls enjoy hearing me play.”
    The mention of his daughters brought her back to reality. Suppose her efforts to teach them failed? Perhaps she had too readily agreed to his plan. Perhaps she should reconsider.
    “I know they will be delighted to return to their lessons. When can you start?” He returned his violin to its case and fixed her with his calm, expectant gaze. Clearly it was too late to withdraw from their agreement.
    “I’ll need a week or