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  Trenton stared toward a window. “I want to marry someone I love.”

  Mrs. Tessier pushed herself up higher on the pillows. “I want that for you too. But it may be hard to find. Not that many girls of your station available.”

  “I’ve already found it.”

  “What?”

  Trenton held his breath, not knowing whether to press ahead or not. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for this. Yet he’d already started, so he might as well finish.

  “Tell me what you’re saying,” insisted his mother.

  Trenton stood and walked to the window. Crowds of people milled about below, many of them busy with the food, others sitting about in chairs. The lace curtains on the window hung straight and still.

  “I plan to marry Camellia York,” he said quietly. “Just as soon as I finish school.”

  Silence fell. Trenton looked for Camellia in the crowd but didn’t see her. Probably in the cookhouse, he remembered, working like a darky. He’d change that for her, he decided fiercely. Dress her in the finest clothes, make her the lady of the plantation after his mother passed, treat her like the queen she deserved to be.

  “You’re a romantic,” said his mother. “I’m glad for that. But you can’t marry Camellia York, and you know it.”

  Trenton faced his mother again. “Why not?” he asked, although he knew what she’d answer.

  “She’s barely above white trash. Her stock is too low. She’s not schooled, has no refinement, no quality. People would laugh us right out of Charleston.”

  “I don’t care about people in Charleston,” he claimed. “Let them laugh all they want.”

  “They’d never accept her,” his mother continued. “Her children either, your children, my grandchildren.”

  Trenton moved back to the bed. His mother touched his face.

  “You’re not even twenty yet,” she said. “You grew up with Camellia; she’s the best friend you ever had. I can understand your attachment to her. But that doesn’t mean you love her. You’re so young—give yourself some time. You’ll meet the right woman. A lady you can love who’s equal to you.”

  “I’ve lived almost four years in Charleston,” he said. “I’ve met girls from all the society families. They’re all empty-headed; care for nothing but the next dance, the latest fashions from Europe, the step of the horses that pull their carriages. I want a woman of substance, somebody who knows how life really works, a woman of beauty and depth. Camellia is all of that and more.”

  Mrs. Tessier smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m not asking you to give up your romantic notions. Your father had them too, surprisingly enough. All young men do. I find such notions … charming. But don’t rush into this. Finish school, then see what you want. You can have love, but not with Camellia York.”

  Trenton shook his head. “I plan to ask her before I go back to school. With Father’s passing, I want that settled, want her by my side when I come back to run The Oak.”

  “Now isn’t the time to deal with this,” said Mrs. Tessier more severely, now sitting on the bed’s edge.

  “It’s exactly the time,” argued Trenton. “Everything changed when Father died.”

  “Then I say you can’t do it,” said Mrs. Tessier. “I won’t abide it. I need you too much, need you giving all your attention to your father’s business interests. You’re the heir, the one trusted to keep things running right.”

  Trenton eyed his mother. She stared at him for several seconds, then dropped her stare to the floor. Her posture told him she had more on her mind than his plans with Camellia. For the first time he realized she had some fears about her own future. He sat down next to her and put an arm around her waist. “What is it, Mother?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not say.”

  “You’re asking me to give up a woman I love. You have no choice but to tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She dropped her head to his shoulder. “It’s The Oak. You know the yield’s been down some the last few years.”

  “Yes, but I’m surprised you know it.”

  She smiled briefly. “I’m not as dull-headed as some think. I pay attention. Besides, your father told me more than most suspected. He knew that when it came to matters of finance, I was a most interested party.”

  “So the yield’s been down. What about it?”

  “Your father said he feared the land was played out—too much growing and not enough lying fallow. He was thinking about buying some land farther inland, starting some cotton maybe.”

  Trenton weighed that idea. “Nothing wrong with that. If we have to do it, we can. But maybe we’ll switch off some fields here for a few years and see if that helps. We’ve got enough land to do that easily enough.”

  Mrs. Tessier stood and moved to her dresser, then sat down heavily, indicating to Stella that she should brush her hair. “It’s not just the land,” Mrs. Tessier said. “Your father also owns my family’s shipping company.”

  “I know.”

  “We lost a ship to fire last year, before it even got finished. They were building it up in Philadelphia when a dock fire spread. Burned our ship and three others to ashes.”

  “So what? Losing one ship won’t break us.”

  “It won’t break us, but added to low rice prices and poor yields, it does cause us some concern. A few more strokes of such ill fortune and we could face some deep troubles.”

  Trenton wiped his face. “You’re telling me I shouldn’t marry Camellia because I might need to marry a girl of means? Is that it?”

  Mrs. Tessier’s eyes, reflected back from the mirror, fixed intently on his. “I’m telling you I want you to marry for love. But it would be helpful if the woman you love also brings some dowry to the altar, some standing in the community as well, some education and refinement—all the things a man of your breeding deserves.”

  Trenton paced to the window again. This time he saw Camellia as he stared out. She set down a plate of food on the table and took a seat. Her hair glistened in the sunlight. He considered all his mother had said and knew she hadn’t lied. Although he’d spent years away from The Oak, he’d not seriously courted many girls, not spent much time with anyone except Camellia. How did he know he loved her? Had he ever tried to love anyone else?

  He raised his eyes past Camellia, out to the land and property beyond. He loved this place, he realized, all it stood for and the power that came from being the older son of its owner. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing it. How could he live if that happened? How could he face other people? If marrying Camellia meant he couldn’t keep The Oak …? But how could he not marry her? He’d hoped for that since his boyhood, and the notion of giving her up because his mother said he should galled him to no end. He didn’t like anybody forcing him to do anything, especially his mother. Women shouldn’t tell men what to do or how to do it, mother or not. His father had shown him that; had taught him that men ruled, always had and always would. He’d accepted that teaching the same way he’d learned to shoot a rifle, without question or reflection. A man got to choose his course in life, and everybody else in the family had to follow what he chose.

  He drew his eyes back to Camellia. She looked so lovely, so soft, so …

  Trenton faced his mother again and felt tired all of a sudden, as if someone had dropped the weight of a barn on his shoulders and made him carry it for a long time. He wanted to run from his mother, run from The Oak, take Camellia and run until they reached a place where no one knew them, where no one placed any expectations on them, where no one wanted anything from them.

  “I don’t know, Mother.”

  “I’m counting on you, Trenton. You’ll do the right thing. I know you will. Just don’t rush your decision. Go back to school and give yourself some time to ponder matters.”

  Trenton took a deep breath.

  “Leave me now,” said his mother. “All this has weaned me.”

  Trenton nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and headed outside. Standing
on the porch, he wanted to go to Camellia, but knew he couldn’t until he figured out what he would do. To go to her now, while he remained so unsure of his course, might do more harm than good. He wiped his brow and hung his head. For the first time in his life he felt like a grown man, and he wasn’t sure he completely liked the feeling.

  About half a mile away from where Trenton stood, Hampton York eased to the ground and leaned up against a massive oak tree. Birds chirped overhead, but he barely noticed. A creek running toward the Conwilla River trickled twenty feet to his left, but he paid it no attention. Completely alone for the first time since learning of Mr. Tessier’s death, he placed the money box from Mossy Bank Creek between his booted feet and put a new wad of tobacco in his cheek. The sun splashed through the tree and bathed the box with a golden glow. York looked left and right to make sure of his privacy, then quickly opened the box and picked up a handful of the money that lay inside. His hands trembled as he counted the bills. When he finished the first handful, he put it to his side in a neat stack and started on the next. In seconds that stack joined the first one, and he grabbed the last fistful of money. His lips moved silently as he counted—four thousand, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred, nine hundred—an even five thousand.

  He spat into the underbrush and checked the box again, as if expecting to find more. His eyes widened as he saw a tintype picture resting on the bottom of the box. He again glanced around, then, seeing no one sneaking up on him, lifted the tintype from the box and studied it with squinted eyes. The picture showed the clear image of a man with a swarthy face, a stern brow, a long handlebar mustache, and weathered eyes.

  York ran his fingers over the image and cursed under his breath. Although he’d not seen the man in the picture for a long time, he had no doubt of his identity: Wallace Swanson.

  York studied the image. What was Swanson’s picture doing in this box? Nobody had seen or heard from him in years. Wasn’t he dead? Since he hated Swanson more than almost anyone on earth, he sure hoped so; he hoped Swanson’s sorry carcass was rotting somewhere in a grave, preferably one with no marker.

  What did this picture mean? Why was the man at Mossy Bank carrying it, along with five thousand dollars? Maybe most important of all, what should he do about all this?

  He spat again, laid the tintype back in the box, and nervously rubbed his beard. Five thousand dollars, a picture of Wallace Swanson, and a dead man made for some unusual happenings, that was for sure.

  York’s head hurt as he wondered if Swanson was alive. If so, where? No way to know, and he sure couldn’t leave The Oak to go looking for him. York picked up the money and ran his fingers through it. Did the money belong to Swanson? If so, how’d he get it? The last time he saw the man he owned little more than the clothes on his back. But if it didn’t belong to Swanson, why was his picture in the box? Was he a friend of the dead man? But what kind of man carried another man’s picture around in a money box?

  A light breeze blew across his face as York considered the possibility of asking around; maybe he could find out a few things about Swanson. But then he thought of the man who’d shot him at Mossy Bank. If he asked around and the man who shot him heard about it, he’d surely come looking for him, try to get the money from him. York checked the wound on his arm. At least it didn’t hurt anymore.

  After putting the money back in the box, York shut the lid and eased himself back up. Until he knew more, maybe he should keep things quiet; wait and see what happened. Who knew? Perhaps he’d never hear from anybody. If not, given a couple of years, he could probably start spending the money, a little at a time for sure, but better than not at all.

  A squirrel darted to the ground about fifty feet away and chattered at him. York thought of Josh and quickly reopened the box, lifted out the money, grabbed the tintype beneath it, and put the money back. The dead man had said “Ruth” as his last word. What did that mean?

  Too confused to think anymore, York put the picture in his coat pocket and closed the money box. Even if Josh came looking for the money, he didn’t want him knowing about Wallace Swanson. No reason for anybody but him to know about Swanson. No reason at all.

  Part

  Two

  Wait, thou child of hope, for Time shall teach thee all things.

  —MARTIN TUPPER

  Chapter Eight

  The rest of November passed slowly for Camellia. Although she stayed plenty busy, she gave no real attention to her labors. She cooked almost every day, side by side with Stella and Ruby and two other servants, but she was numb. After Tessier’s death, life seemed like a dream; she felt cut off from it all, as though somebody had put her in a trance. Not even a visit from Trenton and Walt, the sheriff from Beaufort, made any dent in her blank stare.

  “I already asked the Negro about Mr. Tessier’s death,” Walt had said when he came to visit a week after the incident in the cookhouse. But Walt’s round face and thin voice was blurry to Camellia’s eyes and ears. “Thought I’d talk to you too. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Camellia had repeated in flat tones the story she and Stella had rehearsed. Walt had watched her closely. Afterward she was sure he and Trenton could see through her lies. Yet, when she finished, Walt had said, “That’s what the darky woman told us,” and left her alone.

  The only part of that awful day she remembered well was her conversation with Trenton, who had waited behind after Walt had gone.

  “You feeling okay?” he had asked.

  “As good as I can expect,” she said, her eyes down. “Please know I’m sorry about your father.”

  Trenton waved it off. “He was a hard man to love.”

  “Just the same, he was your father.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  She waited for him to say more. He took her hands, but his palms felt cold and lifeless. He touched her chin and lifted her face. “I’ll go back to Charleston in about a week.”

  “You’ll finish your schoolin’ this spring?”

  “Yes. Then I’ll return to The Oak for good.”

  “I know you will be glad to come home.”

  Trenton smiled and straightened his back like a rooster stretching. “Will you be glad when I’m back?”

  Camellia pulled away and smoothed down her skirt, her feelings jumbled. She’d killed Trenton’s father. He could never love her if he knew that. “You’re my friend. Of course I’ll be glad to have you return.”

  Trenton put his hands on her shoulders, but she drew back again. Chaste girls didn’t let men take such advances.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  Camellia felt even more confused. How could she lie to Trenton, let him think so well of her when she knew better?

  “We need to talk,” he continued.

  “It’s too soon. Too close to all this.” She waved her arm, taking in all that had happened.

  “When I come home,” he said, “then well say all we need to say.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, hoping that would satisfy him so she could have time to clear her head.

  After Trenton left her she’d tried to go back to normal life, tried to forget Tessier’s death. But she kept seeing Mr. Tessier when she lay down at night; his face haunted her as she tried to sleep. The smell of his breath hung in the air everywhere she went, and the sound of his head cracking on the table sounded time and time again in her ears. Her eyes turned red from lack of sleep, and her feet shuffled like an old woman’s as she moved from manse to cookhouse and home again. She lost weight, and her clothes hung loose on her thin bones. She wanted to talk to somebody about it all but didn’t know where to turn. Her pa, never given to a lot of words, especially with her, seemed more distant than ever.

  Camellia knew that Tessier’s death had dropped a heavy load on him, but still she wondered why he’d withdrawn even more. Unsure of how to approach him, she decided to keep things quiet. Besides, what could her pa do if she told him? No way would he go to the law and tell them his daughter h
ad caused Master Tessier’s death. And, even if he did, what difference would it make? It wouldn’t bring Tessier back to life.

  After Trenton returned to Charleston, her pa started spending more and more time away, coming home hours after dark, eating quietly and falling straight into bed. Chester and Johnny managed to get him to talk some every now and again, but the talk usually stayed on matters of interest to men. Camellia felt more alone than ever. As the days got shorter and the weather colder, her spirits fell lower and lower. She wished more than ever for a close woman friend. She had Stella, but custom allowed a white girl to tell a darky only so much, no matter how close the two of them were. She considered going to her aunt Anna, a sweet woman if she ever met one, but Anna had three children and trouble with her headaches—Camellia didn’t want to add to her load.

  She traveled to Beaufort for church as often as she could and listened to the parson’s sermons. She wished she could just stand up and shout out the truth to everybody about what had really happened in the cookhouse. Guilt ate at her like rust on a pot; she felt if she didn’t confess her sin to somebody, she’d surely rot from the inside out. When she went to bed at night she tried to pray, but God seemed a long way off. She began to wonder if God even heard her stumbling words, and she became more and more silent, talking only when absolutely necessary. Her skirts hung on her like empty bags, and her hands turned redder and redder as she kept washing them over and over in the water pot in the cookhouse in a vain attempt to rid herself of guilt.