The wait for the season to become warm enough to plant the indigo seeds my father sent was interminable.
Unable to be patient, I had Togo till the land on a mild day in early March. Mr. Deveaux came by unannounced to “check on us women” and I was relieved to be able to let someone know of my plans.
After tea and a walk round the fields, Deveaux held a small black seed up to the sky at arm’s length as if he could focus better. “It seems so hard-cased. I wonder …”
“You wonder?” I prompted.
“I wonder if you might soak or score them as we did the woad seeds.”
“I certainly don’t want to chance them not coming up,” I agreed. “I’ll do it. Come, let me show you your live oaks before you go.”
Over the next few days, Togo, Quash, Sawney, and I sowed rows upon rows of the soaked indigo seeds.
For the rest of the month, the weather dipped back to winter, and I prayed it would be over soon.
I received word from our merchant Beale that the rice I had sent into town had settled some of the outstanding accounts for tools, materials, and a portion of the essentials we’d had to purchase upon arriving in Carolina.
It was a relief to be out from under some of the debt. And it marked my first bold fraud, whereupon I had insisted that my father had requested a full three quarters of all rice production be barreled up and sent to town for export and sale at the markets. Of course, he had suggested nothing of the sort. Though I assured myself he would agree if the suggestion were put to him. I would still need to visit Starrat, as the Waccamaw plantation had not heeded my requests as well as Garden Hill had done.
We kept up with our visits to the Woodward home. Certainly after the rebellion it seemed imperative to maintain a connection with others in our area. And we traveled to town to visit with Mrs. Pinckney as much as Mama’s nerves would allow.
“Oh!” my mother suddenly exclaimed one day as we spent a quiet afternoon with Mrs. Pinckney and her close friend Mrs. Cleland in Mrs. Pinckney’s private parlor. “I quite forgot! Colonel Lucas, far from neglecting his fatherly duties, has informed me of a suitor for Eliza’s hand.”
My attention flew up to my mother’s face. “Ow,” I yelped as I jabbed the needle into the pad of my finger. “Dash it all,” I snapped, sucking my finger into my mouth. The vaguely salty sweet taste of blood coated my tongue. I grimaced.
“Well, no need to be quite so dramatic, Eliza. It’s not like this plantation business could go on forever. George is only a few years away from coming over to rescue us.”
I kept my lips pressed together, trying not to react to my mother’s needling.
“Though, I daresay, your brother will be quite pleased with the state of his inheritance upon his arrival,” Mrs. Cleland murmured and I smiled gratefully at her, even while my heart turned inside out.
Mrs. Cleland resided north toward Georgetown and had vowed to keep an ear to the ground regarding our rice interest on our Waccamaw plantation up there. Or at least to ask her husband to do so. She was older than Mrs. Pinckney in looks and manner but they had been friends for years, and in mannerism could almost be taken for sisters. They were two of the kindest ladies I had ever met. “Do tell us about the suitor,” Mrs. Cleland directed at Mama.
“Oh. Well. I don’t know much about him. Mr. Walsh, I believe.” She looked up as if to peer into her memory banks. “Yes. Mr. Walsh, that’s it.”
If it was the same Mr. Walsh I’d had occasion to meet when we had visited the Pinckneys’ Belmont estate during the Yuletide festivities, then I had about as much knowledge of him as Mama. I hadn’t given him a moment’s thought. Nice enough man, I supposed. But entirely forgettable. What on earth was Papa about? He knew how I felt about this. I could only imagine it was Mama’s doing.
Mrs. Pinckney smiled blandly, not endorsing nor vetoing this vague Mr. Walsh fellow. That, to me, spoke volumes.
“May I see Papa’s letter when we return home?” I asked my mother.
She gave a small smile. “Of course, dear. I would have thought he’d have mentioned Mr. Walsh to you also.” Of course, she didn’t. And she’d waited until we were in polite company to reveal her announcement.
“I’m surprised you haven’t thrown your hat in for William Middleton,” Mrs. Cleland directed at me. “He was extremely dashing at the Yuletide ball, didn’t you think?”
I thought back to the splendid affair. The candles all alight, gleaming silver, the polished brass buttons of the gentlemen and sparkling jewels on some of the dames. William Middleton had indeed cut a fine figure. We had been able to procure new dresses for the event too, from a seamstress recommended by Mrs. Pinckney.
“And I’ve heard the Middletons’ Crowfield plantation is absolutely magnificent,” Mrs. Pinckney added. “As an amateur botanist, Eliza, surely you must be eager to see the gardens we’ve heard so much about. One would almost think he was the perfect match for you. Imagine, you could garden all day long and wander about the grounds and never see the same flower twice.”
I chuckled at the image my friend had conjured. “I think I rather bored him with my take on plantation affairs. It’s one thing being interested in flowers, quite another to be interested in crops, or what makes money.”
“Oh, Eliza,” Mama said with despair.
“In fact”—I paused in my stitching as I remembered—“I do believe he said, ‘Why would you worry your pretty little head with a gentleman’s affairs?’ Then he told me to hire an overseer so I may rather enjoy the many parties and diversions town has to offer.”
I must admit, I’d been quite stung to be so summarily dismissed. Anyway, he seemed to have an eye for Miss Williams, an heiress in town.
“Quite right. You see it’s not just me who notices, Eliza. I fear you are getting a bit of a reputation. What gentleman is going to want you if you carry on like this?”
Why would I want a gentleman who doesn’t respect my interests? I wanted to ask but gritted my teeth instead. But of course, tears pricked my eyes. As only my mother’s words could so effectively cause. I was ashamed to be spoken to like this in front of our dear friends.
Mrs. Pinckney was too polite to acknowledge my mother’s comment. “Shall I ring for more tea?” she asked instead.
I cleared my throat. “That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Pinckney.”