Page 17 of Where the Rivers Merge

The Carolina wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus) is a small bird native to the eastern and southeastern regions of the United States. It has reddish brown on the upperparts and pale underparts, and an off-white eyebrow stripe above its eyes. It is highly active and known for its upright tails and cheerful, melodious songs. It is the state bird of South Carolina.

1914

The sun rises even after the worst of nights. Every bone in my body ached from the exertion of the race, and my breathing still skipped a beat as I remembered my conversation with Hugh in the barn. I lay in bed, listening to the birds chattering and wondering why the house was quieter than usual. No shouts ricocheted from Lesesne and Heyward, no pots and pans were clanging in the kitchen. It seemed everyone had abandoned ship after the night of the banshee. I rose and quickly dressed, taking care to select a clean and pressed pinafore. In the bathroom I scrubbed my face, but looking in the mirror I moaned with dismay at my reflection. My skin was pinkened from the race on the beach, and there was nothing I could do about the cropped mop of curls.

I tiptoed down the hall, pausing at Mama’s bedroom door. It was still closed and silent within. Downstairs, the kitchen was empty. Only the smell of coffee lingered. Hearing women’s chatter, I peered out the kitchen door. Clementine was in the yard helping the two women hired to do our laundry. My stomach rumbling, I scrounged the larder and found an apple. I idly chewed, waiting for the inevitable summons from my mother.

It came a short time later. Lesesne entered the kitchen looking as tired as me. An unspoken truce floated between us following our joint effort at the gymkhana. I picked up no trace of his usual teasing rancor when he said, “Mama wants to see you. She’s in the living room.”

Les didn’t have to tell me I was in trouble. I smoothed my pinafore, tucked my unruly hair behind my ears, then walked down the center hall to the living room.

Mother sat on the pale blue silk sofa. She was neatly groomed in a navy skirt and white cotton blouse. She appeared tidy, but as pale as last night’s moon. I stood meekly before her, grateful for my care for my appearance.

Mama looked up when I entered. She lowered her cup and saucer on the side table then set her gaze to capture mine. Her eyes appeared tired, not angry. Maybe defeated too. Like she’d lost the race.

She took a breath then said, “Eliza, it’s decided. You’ll be leaving Mayfield and attending school in Charleston.”

I blinked, unsure if I’d heard correctly. “Beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I don’t see why you’re surprised. Your . . . performance . . . yesterday at the race was the last straw. It’s clear you are out of control. What did I hear someone say?”

She put her fingertips to her temple. “Ah yes. Your daughter is running wild.”

She lifted her gaze to my hair and sighed. “I’ve done the best I can, but clearly, I’ve failed. You are approaching womanhood, and since you are ready to begin higher learning, you’ll do so in Charleston. There are excellent schools there, culture, and the right society.”

“But . . . I don’t want to go to Charleston,”

I stammered. “I want to stay here. At Mayfield.”

She ignored me. “I will move to Charleston with you to my parents’ house. Lesesne will join us as well.”

“And Daddy?”

“He’ll stay at Mayfield, of course.”

My face was mutinous. “Then I’ll stay with him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to go to school in Charleston.”

I cried, my throat thickening. “I’m meant to go to Beaufort. It’s all arranged.”

“Not any longer.”

My fists clenched. “I won’t go! I am not leaving Mayfield.”

“Please don’t raise your voice. I have a headache.”

Mama waved her hand in dismissal.

My breath quickened. This couldn’t be happening. I expected some kind of punishment . . . but leaving Mayfield? “Mama, what about winning the race?”

“You dare mention that race?”

“We got back Sweetwater Pond!”

Mama’s dark eyes flashed. “Do you think because you’ve won a horse race that I should praise you?”

She laughed bitterly. “Please. Your win was my failure. A young lady should know how to ride, yes. For pleasure. To get from A to B. To join a hunt. But racing . . . as a boy . . . in britches?”

Her voice rose, emphasizing each point.

I stood erect, even defiant. I would not be ashamed of my race.

Mama composed herself and lowered her voice. “Eliza, you’re fourteen. We must face facts. You have no appreciable skills, no exceptional talents for a young lady. You have only your face and figure to secure your fortune and . . .”

She raised her hand to indicate my hair. “But now, well . . .”

She shook her head, not needing to finish the sentence. “Your greatest asset is your pedigree. You are Eliza Pinckney Rivers. Yesterday, you threatened your reputation. I cannot allow it. No more.”

Her gaze wandered to the window to look at her beloved rose garden. The sunshine came in slants from the mullioned panes, barely reaching the Persian rug. When she turned toward me, her face was implacable.

“I’ve selected a college preparatory school for girls. Mr. Coxwold informs me that you are exceptionally bright.”

That old prune face never hinted at that with his rude treatment of me and Covey.

“Eliza, you are my daughter and I want what is best for you. I know you love Mayfield. But remember. Someday, you will have to leave and create your own home with your husband.”

“I won’t marry if it means I have to leave Mayfield. I’ll stay here and help Heyward. He won’t even have to pay me.”

Mama laughed softly, but it was a sad laugh. “You are still so young,”

she said. “Do not fret. It is only for the school year, like Heyward. You’ll have summers here,”

she tossed in to sweeten the offer.

It astonished me that she was trying to make me soften toward the idea, but I refused to yield. I crossed my arms across my chest, glowering.

“I know you’re angry. You always seem to be angry at me,”

she added, shifting her weight on the sofa. Then with resignation she said, “Someday I hope you will come to understand I’m doing this for your sake. There is a great deal that awaits you in Charleston that is not available in this”—she waved her hand—“wilderness.”

“You aren’t doing it for my sake,”

I shouted, angry enough to speak the truth. “You’re the one who wants to leave. Go! But I’m not going. You can’t make me!”

I covered my face with my palms and began to sob hysterically. My fatigue was my undoing.

Mama’s brows furrowed and, wincing in pain, she said sharply, “That’s enough.”

When I didn’t stop she said, “Go outside and help Clementine finish the washing. I don’t have the strength for it today.”

When I didn’t move, Mama put her hand over her eyes. “Go now.”

I lifted my tear-stained face. “Where’s Daddy?”

My tone challenged her.

Mama dropped her hand and said with a disparaging huff, “I know what you’re thinking, and it won’t work. Not this time. It’s decided.”

* * *

A sanctuary is a haven of refuge. People tend to find such places in time of need, and I found mine at my tree hollow, or riding Captain, or in the cottage with Covey. I needed my best friend now and raced along the well-worn path to her. The pine needles were soft under my feet, sounding lonely, one foot after the other. I took the river path. Here and there a dogwood bloomed white or pink and a redbud offered a pop of color. A late flock of hungry robins foraged along the river’s edge, searching for worms. From the trees, I heard the cardinal’s cheer cheer. By the time I spotted the white cottage, my hot anger had morphed into simmering sorrow. Covey stood on tiptoe hanging sheets on the line. When I called, she turned and waved with joy.

I sprinted the short distance to her side, arms extended, and though I’d meant to be calm, tears gushed out with my words. Her arm slipped around me, and we walked arm in arm to the front porch to settle on the wooden chairs. Covey brought out mason jars of sweet tea, which I drank thirstily. My story spilled out as we sat knee to knee.

Covey sat back in her chair, taking in the news. She blew out a stream of air, shaking her head in disbelief. “We knew your mama was gonna stir the mud after the race . . . but leave Mayfield?”

“I won’t leave,”

I said, shaking my head mutinously. But even as I spoke, I knew my words were meaningless. What choice would I have?

“Remember the very first time you came here and asked if you could live here?”

Covey asked. “We were only eight years old then. Some days it feels long ago. Some days it feels like yesterday. But we’re fourteen now. We know better.”

Covey reached out to take my hands. “Eliza, if your mama goes to Charleston, I still say you can always live here. With me and Wilton. Forever.”

She was smiling and her words touched me deeply. I wanted nothing more. But she was right. We were older now, old enough to see the folly of that dream.

“Someday, when Heyward gets married and his bride tosses me out of the house—”

I offered a sad laugh “—that’s what we’ll do. But now . . . You know that my mama . . . and even Wilton . . . won’t let that happen.”

My words rushed out in a wail. “Oh Covey, I know they’re going to force me to go to Charleston. Mama and Daddy are for it. I can’t fight both of them.”

Covey’s face crumpled. “Eliza, you’re my best friend. My only friend. I can’t bear the thought.”

She and I hugged, holding tight, as though we could somehow physically hold our friendship together.

Pulling back, I searched the face before me. Covey’s eyes were tear filled, like mine. What would happen to her, alone at Mayfield? Where would she go to school? That meant so much to her. Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind. It seemed too easy . . . too possible. Wiping my eyes, I almost shouted, “What if you went with me?”

Covey jerked back. “To Charleston?”

I hurried to explain. “Mama’s house in Charleston is bigger than Mayfield. There’s a lot of room. You can live with us there.”

Covey looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “I can’t be no guest in a white folk house there. Charleston’s not Mayfield.”

“Well, I know,”

I stammered. “But . . .”

I paused, ashamed of the words I was to say. “There are . . . rooms you can stay in.”

“Servant’s quarters.”

I swallowed hard, ashamed. In Charleston there were strict laws enforcing where Negroes could not go—restaurants, schools, parks, churches, restrooms, transportation, even what door they could use entering a house. Nearly every facet of life. But Covey was not a servant, and I never thought of her as one. Yet we both knew the constraints of society.

Covey straightened in her chair and tightened her lips. “I don’t think so . . .”

“Covey, think about school. I know how important learning is to you. When Lesesne and I leave for Charleston, Mr. Coxwold will no longer be our tutor. Where will you go to school?”

Covey’s brows gathered as she became agitated. “I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t thought . . .”

She put her fingers to her temple. “I suppose I could go to the Robert Smalls School in Beaufort. Or maybe the Penn School in St. Helena.”

“That’s twenty-five or thirty miles away. Too far to ride a horse every day. Even a carriage.”

I looked down. We both knew that there would be no carriage.

Worry flooded her face and she let go of my hands and rose. Covey began pacing the porch.

I pressed on. “If you were in Charleston, you could go to a Negro school. And we could stay together. I know it will be hard, but Covey, think of your future. You don’t want to be stuck here. You want to become a teacher.”

Covey stopped abruptly and looked out over the field. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not your responsibility.”

“Covey . . .”

She shook her head. “Wilton would be alone . . .”

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“No different than Daddy. We’d come home for the holidays and summer.”

Covey slipped back down on the chair. I watched her long, delicate fingers dig at her nailbeds.

“I believe Wilton would want you to continue school,”

I said softly.

“I don’t know,”

she replied with a shake of her head.

“At least say you’ll think about it.”

Her gaze met mine. “Would your mother even allow it?”

Covey asked dubiously.

In my heart, I knew Mama wanted to go to Charleston more than she wanted me to go to school there. She was using my circumstances as a convenient excuse to move back to her parents’ house. Knowing this provided me with a position of power.

“If I come quietly, obligingly . . . I believe she would. And Daddy will support it, for certain. You know he’d do anything for you and Wilton.”

“What about Heyward?”

I scrunched my face in indignation. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He won’t even be at the house. He boards at Porter.”

My voice softened. “But Covey, you know he supports you. He’s your friend.”

Covey had her head in her hand. “This is dangerous. I’ve heard talk among my folks about the Jim Crow laws in Charleston, and I’m scared about what would happen to me in a place like that.”

She dropped her hand and looked at me, eyes blazing. “Eliza, in Charleston I cannot be your friend. Except in secret. It’s too risky for me. Even if I went . . . it’s not going to be easy. Our friendship . . . could change.”

“Never.”

She paused, then looked at me, eyes appealing. “But you’re right about one thing. I want more than what’s available for me living here at Mayfield.”

After a breath she asked, “Do you really think we could do it?”

“I do. Yes, it will be hard for—both of us. But we can do it.”

Covey licked her lips in thought, then leaned back in her chair. “If Wilton agrees . . . and your mama allows it . . .”

Her face released a smile of hope, and she nodded in agreement. “I . . . I will go to Charleston with you.”