“I need your counsel, Mr. Pinckney,” I said quietly, sitting on the very edge of a pink damask-covered club chair in the Pinckneys’ library at Belmont.
Mama, Polly, and I had been graciously invited to their country estate for a summer house party that included several families from the surrounding area. I still got along famously with Miss Bartlett, the Pinckneys’ niece, on the occasions we saw each other. She’d turned out to be intrigued rather than horrified by my role on my father’s estates. It made a refreshing change from most of genteel society. My reputation had apparently preceded me, certainly made more newsworthy since the Laurens incident. It was valiant on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney to continue to include me among their social set.
It was just as well I’d never gotten my hopes up for William Middleton either, as we were also celebrating his engagement to Miss Williams, an heiress. Something I was most definitely not. No, after the Laurens incident, I’d come to peace with the idea of spinsterhood.
My friend Mary Chardon had recently caught the eye of Reverend Hutson, and I knew our days of Tuesday embroidering and companionship would perhaps become few and far between if they were to marry. In fact, we had not seen as much of each other since the day we’d returned from her home and I’d had my altercation with John Laurens.
Mrs. Pinckney; her friend Mrs. Cleland, who seemed completely unflappable; and Mrs. Pinckney’s niece were among my only female friends. Indeed, the friendship of Miss Bartlett, though she was younger than I, had come at an opportune time.
I’d come to the realization that no matter I lived with my mother and sister and Essie and all our helpers, I was lonely. My heart yearned for friendship. For solidarity. For the rare beating wings of belonging. Part of me felt that it was Ben’s presence, along with his unbearable distance, that had made the feeling all the more acute.
“I must insist you call me Charles. Please. My counsel?” he confirmed. “I’ll help any way I can. I’m glad to know you don’t just seek me out for access to books.” He chuckled.
“Oh well, that too,” I teased and felt a rush of fondness for him. Charles. Charles was my friend too, though I’d still refer to him aloud as Mr. Pinckney. A very, very dear friend.
We had spent two Christmases now without my father, and I was so very grateful he’d seen fit to make a friend of Charles Pinckney before he left. In fact, the only joy I felt when we left our home in Wappoo was for the time spent with the Pinckneys. “I did so love the Plutarch,” I answered. “Though I’m not quite done. I learn something important each time I pick it up—”
“That you feel you must reread it several times,” Charles agreed, stealing my thoughts.
“Quite.” I laughed. “No, it is your legal counsel I seek.”
He walked to the chair beside mine and lowered his lithe body, dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit. His dark hair had grown slightly longer and was pulled neatly away from his strong features. Not for the first time I wondered his exact age. Older or younger than Papa? Probably twice my age. But so very pleasing on the eye and the sentiment.
I hesitated a moment and chewed my lower lip. “Well the thing is, we have had a development in our indigo endeavor. The man from Montserrat arrived late last year, as you know. Nicholas Cromwell. And he brought a Negro man with him. I ... I know this man.”
“The Negro man, you mean?” Charles looked at me so intently, I dropped my gaze.
“We, ah, I’d like to think we were friends growing up.” I swallowed and looked back at him to gauge his reaction.
A faint vertical line appeared between his eyebrows.
“As children on the plantations in Antigua,” I clarified. “His name is Benoit. Ben. He has a very special knowledge of indigo. Unfortunately, my father had sold him to an indigo maker in Montserrat, but by some divine twist the gentleman Colonel Lucas hired, Nicholas Cromwell, brought him to South Carolina.”
“That is a coincidence.” Charles assessed me with a narrow-eyed gaze. “When last we spoke you made mention of the Negro Act and the provision regarding importing Negroes for one’s personal use. Is this why you asked me to look into the matter?”
“Well, yes. The thing is, I know I’ve probably made an enemy of Mr. Laurens, and I want to make sure I’m able to do what I must to make my endeavor succeed, but within the confines of the law. My father expressed concern when last he wrote, and I assured him I would seek your legal judgment.”
Charles continued his scrutiny, and I wished I knew all the conjectures he was sorting out in his head. “I did look at the provisions, and I believe it was proposed in the assembly and rejected. For now. And hearing your explanation of how he came to be here, without your intent, I believe you are perfectly within your right even if it had been accepted.”
My chest relaxed and I let a relieved breath escape. “There’s one more thing. There’s a provision in the act I read that prohibits educating a Negro so that he may not convey messages. Presumably to avoid another orchestrated rebellion like the incident at Stono.”
Charles nodded. Though I sensed a wariness in his person.
My eyes flicked down to my clasped hands. He always made me feel as though I could confide in him, but I feared this time I needn’t tell him all my plans or motives.
He let out a breath and stood.
The disturbance of air sent the faint smell of his pipe smoke and sandalwood over me. A smell I had come to find comforting.
He walked over to a campaign desk and pulled a sheaf of papers, going through them slowly as he held them to the window light. The afternoon had turned gloomy and didn’t offer much additional illumination. But clearly it was enough.
“These were in my study, but I found myself going through them again last evening in anticipation of your arrival. Somehow I knew you would have more questions. It says here that you may not teach slaves to write.”
I played his words over again in my head. “And it says nothing about reading? Just writing?”
He looked down again. “Yes, it would seem so.”
“Well, that certainly seems odd. I’m not sure one can learn one without accidentally learning the other.”
“I’d have to agree.”
An idea came to mind that would perhaps get around anyone who became concerned with my project. “But I suppose one would need to be able to read in order to learn the moral principles of the Bible.”
“And pray what scheme have you concocted?”
“Just a little project. Teach some of the Negro children to read so they may seek counsel from the Bible.” I knew the lie was written all over my face.
“All right.” Charles’ eyebrows were sky high, causing a ladder of lines upon his brow, his mouth twisted to a smirk. “Well, you’ll let me know how you get on?”
“Of course.”
“In fact, I should very much like to hear about all your endeavors. I have a feeling I’ll be much entertained.” He frowned. “But I fear if we correspond too frequently, it might seem … odd.”
“Me being an unmarried woman?”
“Well, yes. Mrs. Pinckney is so fond of you.” He cleared his throat. “As am I. But others may not approve.”
Such as my mother. “I must thank you and Mrs. Pinckney for being so accepting in light of my hoydenish reputation. And I have gotten along famously with Miss Bartlett,” I said, immediately realizing a solution. “We have talked about keeping in touch. As a dutiful uncle, I’m sure you must read her correspondence?”
He looked up sharply. “Indeed, I do.”
“Well, then. I shall write her detailed missives on my exploits. That way you can be sure to hear about my endeavors.”
“I’m not saying you can’t correspond directly with me.”
“I know. And I’m just saying there are many ways to let you know of all my business endeavors without needlessly raising the eyebrows of people with too much time on their hands. Especially since I gave my last suitor the boot, quite literally, and I shall remain an amateur spinster botanist for as long as I have land upon which to practice.”
Charles’ eyes flicked away. “About Mr. Laurens …” A smile played around his lips. “I must say, he told quite a grand tale. But then he’s always been known to embellish.”
A fact for which I supposed I must be grateful. I raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t believe him?”
“Oh, I believed him.” Charles let out a chuckle and shook his head side to side. “But then, I think I see a part of your personality no one else does.”
“I—what would that be?”
“Well, I don’t believe you have ever met an obstacle you felt you couldn’t overcome.” His eyes were fond but still thoughtful.
I tried to smile, though my lips were tight. I had. I had met an obstacle I couldn’t overcome. “I can’t be a son. And there isn’t much I can do about that. I’d say that was a rather large obstacle.”
Charles let out a puff of laughter, and then his warm eyes grew somber, though no less fond. “I know,” he said quietly. “I often wonder what a visionary such as you could achieve if God had seen fit to make you a man.” His eyes flicked away again, his strong shoulders tense. “But I … I …” His voice was low. “I …” he tried again.
“What is it, Mr. Pinckney?” I asked softly, confused at his strange expression. His usual self-assurance seemed rattled.
He looked up, his expression pained, then let out a long sigh. “I, for one, am glad you are a woman, Eliza.” He shook his head. “For you are a remarkable one,” he said simply.
Warmth spread through me. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
Voices sounded in the hall. Charles cleared his throat. “I came across a book you may like. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. Unfortunately, it is in town.”
“Thank you. I believe I’m sending Togo into town in the next few weeks for some supplies, can I ask him to stop by your home? I believe I may have some correspondence prepared for Miss Bartlett by then too.”
Charles smiled. “I’ll look forward to seeing him.”