The indigo crop came back with all the vengeance of a hurricane roaring in from the Atlantic. It covered the fields from edge to edge, tangling and climbing over itself to fill every available space. I never knew if it came back from the seeds already nesting in the soil despite my asking Quash to clear the fields or if he’d deliberately ignored me and actually sown the seeds himself.
I did not ask and Quash remained silent on the subject.
Quash had begun rebuilding some of the dwellings with a new building substance we’d heard about named “tabby.” Similar to daub, it was combined with oyster shells to give it more heft and consistency. For a brief moment I wondered if we should rebuild the main house, and then I remembered with despondency that we probably wouldn’t be here much longer. Quash collected barrows of oyster shells from the shell midden on our bluff that had been there, according to Quash, since Indian days. He burned them white then bade me come and watch as he immersed the burnt shells in water and I saw them miraculously and instantaneously disintegrate into powder. He mixed the powder with sand and more oyster shells and packed it into wood casings he and Pompey had made where it dried into a hard foundation. Little by little they built the wall higher, moving the casing up a bit and pouring the new tabby onto the hardened level beneath. I was impressed with his experimentation and his skill, and so I let him continue learning. And perhaps part of me thought if he was busy elsewhere, he wouldn’t pester me about the indigo plants.
For my part, I kept myself busy learning law, mastering the harpsichord my father had sent Polly and me for Christmas, and imagining anything else I could harvest that wasn’t indigo.
I’d begun visiting the Woodwards again with Mama, looking forward to Tuesdays with a fervor that was almost unnatural.
Miss Bartlett never did come to visit me at Wappoo, having to return instead to London. And suddenly I became so very aware of the fact that all my letters to her had really only ever been for Mr. Pinckney, knowing he would read them. Somehow, even though we’d started out with this being the case, I had convinced myself otherwise. And now that I no longer had the veil of corresponding with Miss Bartlett to hide behind, I found myself quite unable to write with as much vigor.
When Mrs. Pinckney sent word for me to call upon her, my shame at the realization of how dependent I had become on writing to her husband kept me from responding right away.
So it was no surprise one afternoon when Charles Pinckney showed up unannounced, dancing down the lane on Chickasaw, his coattails flying behind him. Lil’ Gulla was the one who came running up to the house to announce his approach, so we could all go outside and see.
“My dear, Miss Lucas.” He smiled as he dismounted, and my words dried in my throat.
I was desperately happy to see him, of course, but my recent concerns for how important he’d become to me prohibited me from showing my usual joy. He and Mrs. Pinckney, and of course dear Mrs. Cleland, were some of my closest friends and soon I would have to say goodbye to them too.
“I’m sorry.” He was immediately downcast when he noticed my lack of response. “I should have sent word. I was just hearing a case up near St. Andrew’s church. And I have brought some letters for you from England.”
So it was not my absence that brought Charles here. I swallowed a fleeting stab of egotistical disappointment and shook my head. “No, no. It’s fine. I was just overcome for a moment. It is so very wonderful to see you.”
“Likewise. It has been far too long since you have seen us in town. Mrs. Pinckney has been ill again.” He scowled and looked out toward the creek as he spoke. “And still no explanation from the doctor.”
It felt like a gentle reprimand, and it was deserved. What a careless friend I had been. I’d write to her more often. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Please tell Mrs. Pinckney she is never far from my thoughts.”
“She’ll appreciate that.” He smiled. “And when she is feeling better, we wish to invite you on a tour of some of the upper neck plantations and the countryside. Before you”—he cleared his throat—“excuse me. Before you leave. Goose Creek, St. John’s, Middletons’ plantation at Crowfield. I’ve heard the gardens are spectacular. I thought—Mrs. Pinckney thought—you would be particularly interested in Crowfield.”
“I should very much like that,” I responded, genuinely cheered by the prospect of the gardens I’d heard so much about. “Thank you.”
“When will you leave?”
“My father has sent George to fetch us. But with tensions at sea like they are, it may be a while before he arrives. Then we shall have to pack up the house and resettle the slaves.”
“You won’t leave them?”
“We may. We’ll have to see what plans the new occupants have for the land. And I should hate to leave them to a harsh fate.”
“May I say … You have greatly impressed me with your eagerness to learn the law.”
I smiled thinly. “It’s an effective way to employ the mind from useless moping. But, I’m afraid the gentleman author is not nearly as good a teacher as you at explaining complicated issues.”
We walked to the house. My mother made a rare and brief appearance downstairs and took her unread letter with her when she excused herself.
A few moments after her departure, we heard a pained sound, followed by a muffled thud. When we rushed out of the parlor we found my mother sitting in a puff of skirts at the bottom of the stairwell clutching the letter to her chest. Her face was pale.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“What is it, Mama?” I asked after ascertaining there really was no injury. Charles and I assisted her to the settee.
“It’s Tommy,” she wailed. She handed me the letter.
It was from our guardian, Mrs. Bodicott.
I was not at all sure my heart would ever truly mend regardless of the passage of time. Each new tragedy chipped away at the jagged fissures so there would be no way to fit the pieces back together. This time it was my poor, dear, sweet little brother Tommy, with his temperate disposition and his eagerness to please. His illness had turned grave and we were to prepare for the worst. My breath hitched.
How arbitrary was the hand of death. Why not take the lives of evil men rather than innocent boys?
In that moment, though I’d thought I had begun to mend, keeping myself busy and becoming passionate again about learning, this time with the intricacies of law to keep my mind occupied, all I could see was the hopelessness and fragility of life.
I swallowed my grief to attend to my mother. After I saw Mama settled upstairs and Mary Ann bringing her some chamomile tea, I returned to find Charles ready to leave.
“Must you return so soon?” I asked as I descended the staircase. My voice wobbled.
He stood in the hall below, his hat in his hands, turning it in his fingers as he regarded a lithograph I’d hung of huntsmen on horseback, hounds scrapping at their heels.
He’d startled as I spoke and now watched my descent, his eyes thoughtful, and unless I imagined it, wistful. “How have you been, Miss Lucas? I mean before this new bout of tragic news. For which, I must say, I am deeply sorry.”
“Thank you. And fine.” I shrugged, lightly belying my inner anguish. “I have come to terms with the fact that our leaving here is a product of my own doing—”
“Eliza.”
I held up a hand and descended the last few steps. “It’s true, Mr. Pinckney. There are no two ways about it.”
“Charles. And no matter what you believe,” he said heatedly, “I will say that I have never met a woman, or man for that matter, with as much courage, integrity, and sense of purpose. That you will even take the blame when it is so very clearly out of your control astounds me. I will always admire you. You are remarkable.” He shook his head. “The things you could accomplish—”
In a fit of madness to stop his words I laid a finger lightly across his lips. Unthinking.
I snatched it back.
Charles sucked in a sharp breath.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, horrified, and turned my back to gather my wits.
Behind me Charles was utterly still.
“You must not say such things to me,” I whispered, my voice squeaking as I fought to control my emotion. I stepped away to put distance between us. “I … I depend on them too much. You make me feel as if I can accomplish anything. And yet in the light of day I can’t. It …” I swiped a tear from my cheek. “It’s too much.”
Charles was quiet so long I began to think he had left. But when I turned around he stood in the same spot. His expression struggled between a sort of pain and devoid of any discernible emotion.
Minutes ticked by.
“The indigo,” he started. “You can. You—”
“Stop. Please. I can’t.”
“Even if it meant you could stay? You won’t do it?”
“It won’t make a difference!”
Charles swallowed visibly, his lips mashed tight together. His eyes were dark, and his jaw clenched. “It would make a difference. It would to South Carolina … and”—his throat moved heavily as he swallowed again—“and it would to me.”
We regarded each other.
Charles had ambitions. Much like I’d had once upon a time.
I wondered what he saw when he looked down upon me. I barely reached his chest in height.
I wanted to ask him what he meant but fear held me back. We were already in a strange hinterland of intimacy. “Thank you for your visit,” I said instead.
Charles nodded stiffly. “Please think about our invitation. Seeing you would cheer Mrs. Pinckney immensely.”
“I shall.”