“Mr. Pinckney! To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” I was delighted to see he had just pulled up on his horse as we returned one Tuesday afternoon from the Woodwards’ house. It was again late spring, and while warm, there was a refreshing breeze off the waters of Wappoo Creek. Polly, Mama, and I had walked the short distance of a mile and seen no traffic until thundering hooves came upon us as we turned into our drive.
“Greetings, ladies.” Charles Pinckney’s dismount was lithe as he dropped to the ground from the handsome animal. His hair was windswept, his cheeks pink from the sun.
“Oh my, what a horse,” exclaimed Polly. “He looks very fierce and very handsome all at once.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Polly.” Charles chuckled. “I’m sure if Chickasaw could blush, he would. Before I left town, a letter came for Eliza from London via our shared merchant, Beale.”
He presented it with a flourish.
“I do hope you didn’t ride full tilt the seventeen miles from town just for a letter to me.” I laughed, taking the thick letter from his hand.
“How lovely to see you,” my mother joined. “Will you stay for the night and dine with us? I see Mrs. Pinckney is not accompanying you.”
“I was leaving for our estate at Belmont when I came upon the letter. I had hoped you wouldn’t mind the letter a few days late if I could deliver it in person after I saw to Mrs. Pinckney. She is there enjoying some country air.”
“That is twice the fortune for us then.” I smiled and looked at the handwriting on the envelope. “Oh how wonderful! I daresay, the letter is from my former guardian, Mrs. Bodicott. She and her husband were very kind to me during my schooling in England.”
“Does she still look after your brothers?” he asked.
“George and Thomas.” I nodded. “We’ve been desperate for news of them. Especially Tommy. He has been very poorly.”
“We certainly have,” agreed my mother. “Let’s hope she has enclosed a letter for me also.”
I handed the letter bundle to her and she headed to the house, no doubt to let Essie and Nanny know of our guest. Charles Pinckney’s horse was gleaming with exertion, his dark flanks heaving like bellows in the heat.
“Come,” I offered. “Let us take Chickasaw to the stable so Peter can rub him down and give him some oats and water.”
My heart gave a thump of happiness at the arrival of our guest. “I am so glad you are here, sir,” I started as we led Chickasaw to the stable. “Pray, look to your right,” I couldn’t help adding with pride.
Mr. Pinckney turned.
I waited, my smile impossible to hold back as I watched the sight of the fields register on his face.
He turned to me, eyes wide. “Your indigo?” he guessed.
I sighed happily and nodded. “My indigo.”
He looked at me a beat longer, then returned his gaze to the field. The afternoon sun turned his gray-blue eyes translucent. “Well done. I wondered what was keeping you so busy that you hadn’t returned to town in recent weeks. Now I know.”
“Togo, Sawney, and I, and even Quash, patrol these fields endlessly.” I chuckled. “There have never been more cosseted plants in all of Christendom.”
“I imagine there haven’t.”
Peter took Chickasaw from Charles, and we turned back to the house.
“Last year, after the initial crop was lost to frost, we were somewhat successful in growing it. Not all the plants reached maturity, but some did and we collected seed. However, with no one to whom we could ask for knowledge of indigo-making, we did not even attempt it. But Quash tells me there is a woman on our plantation at Waccamaw who might know, although the overseer has repeatedly declined to send her when I make my request by letter.”
“I have to go to Georgetown,” said Charles. “Mrs. Pinckney cannot accompany me as she is not feeling herself. It sounds like you have reason to visit your overseer?”
We glided up the Waccamaw River. The marsh grasses were vibrant and acidic in their new growth. There was the sound of a puff of air, and Charles Pinckney and I both turned to see a mother porpoise and her baby undulating through the grasses at the water’s edge.
Nearing the banks where the Lucas land began, Quash called out to a small boy who was scaring off birds along the fields that bordered the river. He was dispatched to tell Starrat of our arrival. “Do you know his name?” I asked Quash as we watched the boy look at us wide-eyed and then run away like there was a bobcat on his tail.
“Lil’ Gulla.”
I exchanged a glance with my traveling companion. Charles. Even though he’d asked me to call him Charles many times, I knew I still could not say it aloud.
“That’s certainly an easy one to remember.” Mr. Pinckney chuckled.
The fields were all plowed and presumably sowed with rice, the last few being worked upon heavily. Glistening dark heads and strong bodies dipped and stood repeatedly, moving in lines down the rice stands.
We had spent an enjoyable evening the night before as guests of Mr. and Mrs. McClelland, whom Charles knew through his law practice. Although I had not met them previously, they’d fussed over me, and we’d lamented together on Mrs. Pinckney not being able to accompany us. After a hearty breakfast, the McClellands had sent us on our way, begging me to stop in on my next visit.
The ferry glided up to the weathered dock, and two large ferry hands hopped out to rope up and assist.
The boy was still visible in the distance as he ran up to the door of the overseer’s cottage, banging on it.
“Starrat, suh,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “The white lady, suh.” His voice carried on the breeze down to the water.
Charles requested the ferry master wait for us.
I was surprised Starrat was inside and not out doing rounds, but the rice harvest was heavy work for all involved, so perhaps he had been about earlier and was taking a short rest. They must have already started threshing the rice heads off the stalks. It seemed like such a bounty of rice, I could hardly imagine how much work it was. After seeing the Woodwards’ small rice plot, and how overwhelming the work seemed to be to get the rice table ready, it was hard to imagine the effort involved in an operation this size.
Beale had informed me how much rice he was expecting from Starrat based on his calculations, and from the looks of it, we were producing much more.
Up at the cottage, the door finally opened. The little boy scampered backward but not fast enough to avoid the hard clip over the head he received for his efforts. I winced, watching as the boy, holding his head, hustled back down to his post at the river’s edge. I’d have to find him before we left and make sure he was okay. Beside me, Quash made a small clicking sound in his throat but said nothing. He didn’t have to.
“Whose boy is he, Quash?”
“Sarah’s boy,” he said stiffly.
I glanced at him. “Sarah who knows about the indigo?”
Quash nodded.
Just then a dark-skinned woman came out of the door behind Starrat and hurried off toward the dwellings.
Starrat’s frown turned toward us and then dropped, to be replaced by something more neutral.
“Charming fellow,” Pinckney murmured as we approached.
“Good afternoon, Starrat. May I present Mr. Charles Pinckney, a friend of my father’s.”
Starrat wiped his hands down the front of his coarse waistcoat and then held one out to Mr. Pinckney. “Delighted to meet you, sir.”
I requested updates on the harvest, and Starrat answered me curtly and directed most of his conversation to Charles. Charles neatly volleyed back to me, and I thanked heaven he was so well versed in diplomacy.
Talk turned to the pitch production and the cattle. I told Starrat of the high hopes we had for the lucerne grass my father had sent, which I had planted at Wappoo. If it did well, I would be sending some, at my father’s request, up here and to Garden Hill for the cattle. We walked as we talked, and I was careful to begin every sentence with “Colonel Lucas asked, said, requested, wondered.”
Eventually we came to my first order of business, and I informed Starrat how many barrels of rice would be expected in Charles Town.
He blustered for a moment. His eyes grew narrow, and he drew a stained rag hanging from his pocket and mopped his forehead shiny with sweat. “That’s not possible. We never send that much. Besides, some of it is scheduled to leave from the new Georgetown port.”
“Well, I’d prefer it all go through our man in Charles Town. And it is possible because you just informed me how much rice was harvested. By my calculation—”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Your calculation?”
“Yes, my calculation. Or are you not the same Starrat who was present during that last visit with my father?”
“Yes, with your father. He’s the one what pays my wages. Not some girl child.” He glanced at Mr. Pinckney as if to say, What is the world coming to that a girl could be so brazen?
My skin blazed with heat from a temper that was starting beneath my skin. “Be that as it may,” I managed, my lips tight, “You’ll quickly find out I hold the purse strings.”
My tone was calm by sheer force of will.
Charles held up a hand.
But Starrat ignored it. “Is that so?” he growled and took a sudden small but menacing step toward me.
I gasped and reared back from him. I immediately realized my mistake at the flash of satisfaction in Starrat’s eyes.
He was a bully, plain and simple.
Charles Pinckney was between us in an instant.
I found myself staring at a broad back, close enough to see the individual stitches of a finely woven linen shirt. Charles’ dark hair was tied in a small queue at his nape.
My heart still pounded with the sudden fright, but I swallowed and, unthinking, reached up to lay a hand on Charles’ shoulder to let him know it was okay. He jerked under my touch and I withdrew my hand. I stepped up beside him.
Starrat held up both hands, but with a smirk that smacked of a secret he was hiding. “I meant nothing by that. Not used to taking orders from a girl is all.”
“Well, take orders from me then,” said Charles.
“It’s all right, gentlemen,” I appeased. “The good news is these are not my orders. They are my father’s orders. So please, just do as he requires, and I’ll let him know of your success in this year’s harvest. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased with you. And rest assured, I will ask nothing of you that has not my father’s approbation.” I smiled as meekly as I could possibly manage.
I motioned to Quash, who walked ten steps behind us. He called to one of the children and spoke in low, rapid tones. The child scampered off toward the fields.
“I’m sure you received my notes about the whipping post?” I asked casually as we headed toward the dwellings.
“I did,” Starrat answered but offered no more and as the offending equipment came within sight, I stopped.
“And yet, it still remains standing.”
“It does.”
I glanced toward Starrat then exchanged a quick look with Charles. Did I want to fight this battle now? I needed to. Or perhaps there was another way to deal with the problem. I’d have to think on it.
Starrat turned to me. “I find it is better to leave it. Even if I do not use it.”
I didn’t believe him for one moment, but I remained silent as I assessed him. “If I hear of it being used again, I will chop it down myself,” I said and was saved having to see his reaction when my attention was diverted by the arrival of the person I’d sent Quash to fetch.
A woman carrying a small girl with light skin approached warily. It looked to be the same woman who I’d seen slipping out of Starrat’s cottage earlier. Sarah.
I frowned.
“What do you want with that one?” Starrat’s voice was brusque.
“I have a few questions for her.”