Downstream from the river crossing was an expanse of flat ground, a quarter of a mile long, with sandy soil and a stand of cottonwoods eighty feet tall or more. In the old days, they had operated a hemp mill and ropewalk in that shady grove, until everyone went to Manila hemp and the market dried up. And downstream from the ropewalk was the old slave cemetery, lovingly tended by Dathan and then by Charlotte when Dathan grew too infirm to cross the river regularly. And downstream from there lay a large slab of limestone, dropped or washed from God knows where, that sloped into the river at a gentle angle, and which Charlotte thought of as her own special spot, where she came to think, to plan, and to decide. The slab was thirty feet long and a dozen feet wide, and its slant was so smooth that passing boatmen had more than once mistaken it for a landing.
Thirty feet that she could see, anyway. She knew that the smooth expanse of gray stone extended far into the river, well beyond sight. She could feel it under her feet when she waded out. Garfish knifed by just below the surface, and occasionally a small fish, chased by these predators, would leap from the water and flop onto the rock.
But today all was still as Charlotte sat, chilled, with her wool coat wrapped around her knees to keep out the wind. She felt in her coat pocket. It was in there, the letter she needed to answer.
Across the river lay the empty tract of land where Josephine and Marie had lived, the house now gone, the pasture overgrown, scrub trees in the sandy soil. Perhaps they should sell off that tract. What use was it to them? Rabbit hunting and county taxes. Lord knows they could use the money.
But what good would selling the land do? The company didn’t want sycamores and cedars, witch hazel and greenbrier. To them the only purpose of the land would be use as a logyard, a staging point from which to cable the logs together and float them down to the rail crossing at Greenville. It would end up a mess of pottage and a permanent disfigurement across the way, hardly a bargain to celebrate.
She had seen Josephine Mercadier marching out of the village on some sort of constitutional, and now here she came again, walking even faster, her hair an uncharacteristic tangle and her face bearing a look of distress. For a moment she thought to let her pass. The girl was all edges and points, and Charlotte hadn’t the mood for a testy exchange. But something in the younger one’s expression made her call out.
“Josephine.”
The young woman stopped in the road and looked around, bewildered. Charlotte stood up so she could see her through the weeds.
“Over here. Come sit.”
Suspicion, uncertainty, fatigue, relief, all passed in quick succession across Josephine’s face. She paused a moment longer, then found the path through the underbrush and came to Charlotte’s side.
“Will you sit with me a while?” Charlotte said. “I spend quite a bit of time contemplating things from this spot.”
“Everyone knows about your sitting spot.” Josephine offered Charlotte a weak smile. “We should give this place a name.”
Charlotte laughed. “Turner’s Point, you think? A pretty fancy name for a big gray rock.”
Josephine’s face softened. “Why should the old settlers get to name all the landmarks? We should get to erase the map and write new names every so often.”
Charlotte sat down, and Josephine took a spot beside her. “I named Daybreak Ridge, believe it or not,” she said. “I’m not sure you were even born yet. A man came along and asked the name of the hill. Turns out nobody had ever named it. It was just ‘the big hill behind the village.’ So I called it Daybreak Ridge, and there it stuck. I guess that makes me an old settler.”
“Makes sense, though. Daybreak, so Daybreak Ridge.”
“Actually, I wasn’t even thinking about the town. I was thinking of the way the pine trees light up at first light. Like—”
“Like great candles,” Josephine said.
“Yes! Exactly.”
Josephine gathered her knees to her chest. “When the sun breaks over the mountains to the east, and their shadows begin to recede, there’s that moment when just the tips of the pines catch the light, like great candles all in a row. It’s the best moment of the day sometimes.”
Charlotte nodded. “Many a day.”
To her surprise, Josephine’s face worked as she fought not to cry. “How can you stand it?” she burst out after a moment, and Charlotte saw her ferocious determination as she pushed the tears to some deep well within her. When her demeanor settled, she waved a dismissive hand at everything around them— river, forest, village. “I know this is supposed to be a bucolic paradise, but mercy, it seems like nothing but work and drudgery, and to think that a moment’s light on the tops of some trees is the best thing that happens to us! Is that it?”
Charlotte sighed. What could she say? Even if she had wanted to argue, she had to admit that the same thoughts had passed through her own mind, not just once but often. Many a day, she asked herself, is this all there is?
Carefully—as if she were touching a captured animal, one that might startle or bite—she laid her hand on Josephine’s shoulder.
“What do you want?” she said softly. “To become rich? To see the world? To marry?”
“All of them!” Josephine cried. “Well, not so much the part about rich. But I want to be something and do something. I don’t know what, but I want to be and to do. Something.” She turned her head away and wiped her cheeks.
“Then do it,” Charlotte said. “You’re young, but not that young. I was not your age when I came here, and I’ve not regretted it. But if this place is not your destination, then you must choose another.”
Josephine faced her again, her eyes hard and glittering. “And my mother? Just leave her?”
Charlotte knew that she could answer yes, just leave her, leave her and the community would take care of her, as it had others who had grown old alone among them, but she knew that this answer would not do. So she stayed silent and dropped her eyes.
Josephine stood. “Then I must make my peace with what I have.”
Charlotte felt a rush of anger and stood as well, blocking her path. She held her face close. “Never make peace,” she whispered. “You were born to fight. Never make peace. Never, never, never.”
They stood a moment, eyes locked. Then Charlotte stepped aside and let her leave.
Charlotte briefly considered leaving herself, but decided to stay. Of course work waited to be done at home, but when didn’t it? Josephine was right. The world was full of work. But that was something to be accepted rather than despaired of, and besides, she had come out here to think. She settled back down on her rock.
She had imagined leaving the community in her darker moments. Everyone had, probably, except John Wesley Wickman and old Mercadier, Josephine’s grandfather, and the other old settlers who had cast their lot with Daybreak at first founding. Maybe them too. Who knew what went on in the minds of others? For herself, thoughts of leaving were always balanced out by the sense that this was her place, the ground in which she had been planted. Though the avenues by which she had arrived there as a young bride, swept away by the power of her husband’s enthusiasm, might not have been entirely rational, once planted she had taken firm root. She might just as well have imagined herself becoming Chinese.
She thought of the heady days when she and Turner had barnstormed the country on their lecture tour, Turner just back from the war and far too unsteady of mind to engage in it properly, and how she had been compelled to step into the limelight instead. No denying that she had enjoyed the thrust and parry of the debate, the excitement of potential confrontation at every stop, but when they returned to Daybreak, she felt so much at home that she knew she never wanted to leave again. A failure of her imagination, of her will to aspire? Perhaps. But also a victory for her ability to recognize what she wanted for herself instead of what would gain her the most acclaim.
For twenty years she had lived the life she had chosen. Home, family, community. And that was good, that was enough. But now with this company, this upsetment, her choices felt inadequate somehow. Perhaps she should have been more like Josephine, restless and unsatisfied.
She sighed. What sane person had ever sought dissatisfaction?
The letter in her coat pocket felt heavy beyond all common sense. Just her imagination, no doubt. She took it out and read.
MADAM.
We met by coincidence and under peculiar circumstances, to be sure, as I imagine you are as unaccustomed to entertaining aged troublemakers being escorted to another jurisdiction as I am to being one. Yet in those curious circumstances your politeness was sincere, your conversation involving, and your presence welcome. I find myself rehearsing our interlocution and enjoying it in memory almost as much as in the actual moment. “With thee conversing I forget all time,” &c.
I hope you are not disturbed by compliments. I have more of them, but shall wait to hear whether they are not unwelcomed.
Although I live a bachelor’s existence out here in my fastness, it would delight me to come down to Mrs. Bone’s house in Annapolis for lunch on Sunday if I knew you would be there. It would be a considerable surprise to me if a handsome and accomplished woman such as you would have an interest in an old scoundrel such as myself, but I have been surprised before. If you don’t know Mrs. Bone’s house, it is a respectable place that takes boarders and serves a fine Sunday lunch. It is easy to find as it is the only house in Annapolis that doesn’t look as if it might blow away.
Most sincerely yours,
AMBROSE GARDNER.
Charlotte folded the letter and returned it to her pocket. More complications, but she smiled at the words. An old scoundrel indeed, and one who loved big words, even if he didn’t always get them right. She had only been in love with two men in her life, her husband and Adam Cabot, and by the dice-roll of chance she had loved them both at the same time, so that she could only have the one and had to love the other across a broad and painful divide. At this moment of her life she could joke that the joys of love were nothing compared to the pleasure of a decent shade tree and a properly brewed cup of tea. But did she believe that? She wasn’t sure. She was sure that her heart was not dead, that feelings could be awakened in it, but that she was not about to open that door to just anyone. If she were to love again, she would only love someone worth loving, not just some stray goat with charming ways and a need for caresses.
Very well, Mrs. Bone’s on Sunday.