Page 4 of Where the Rivers Merge

The ACE Basin is the watershed of the Ashepoo-Combahee-Edisto (ACE) rivers. This vast and ecologically significant area is located across four counties in southeastern South Carolina. It is comprised of pine uplands, hardwood forests, freshwater swamps, former rice impoundments, salt marshes, and estuarine tidal creeks that converge into St. Helena Sound.

1988

I always believed the essence of a house was captured from the moment one crossed the property entrance. The choice of gate, driveway, trees, plants, flowers, the sunlight, the shade—all were as intrinsic to a house’s presence as the architecture.

The large black car rolled through the discreet entrance then slowly made its way down a long gravel road that wound under an allée of majestic, centuries-old live oaks dripping long tails of gray Spanish moss.

“There,”

I said with excitement as they caught glimpses of a white structure through the dappled shade. “Mayfield.”

The house grew larger until the space opened up to a sunlit grand entry.

“It’s like I imagined it,”

Norah said in a soft voice.

Savannah lowered the window and put her head out, looking up at the trees like a pup.

Mayfield was magnificent in its stature and architectural detail. Two symmetrical buildings flanked the main wooden house like the wings of swan about to take flight. My heart lifted at the sight. I thought it the most beautiful plantation on the Combahee River.

“Look there,”

I said, pointing with some excitement to a redbrick wall to the right of the house. “That is my camellia and rose garden. Umberto Innocenti designed it.”

I didn’t mean to sound pretentious. I was simply stating the fact. Then more to myself, “I really must check my roses.”

I gazed at the grounds, assessing, hungrily devouring details. The grass appeared lush, the shrubs neatly trimmed, the live oaks mulched. The camellias were past bloom, but the roses were showy. The property had been well managed in my absence, I noted.

The driver circled around a fountain then parked at the front of the imposing white house. I couldn’t wait and pushed open my door.

I stood with my hands on my hips and took a deep breath of the country air. It seemed to me to be softer here, more sweet smelling. Exhaling, feeling terra firma under my feet again, I turned to the women staring at the house.

“Girls, welcome to Mayfield. The original house was burned by Sherman, like so many others. My father rebuilt it in 1895 when he married my mother. He needed a home, and she had the family money to build it.”

I paused and smiled to myself. This was a point my mother had made to my father at every opportunity.

“Daddy built the center house, which is where I grew up. It seemed plenty big to me as a child. Mama insisted on a big kitchen,”

I added as memories flittered back. I saw in my mind the old kitchen dominated by the brick fireplace with an enormous wood-burning oven, the long farm sinks, and copper pots and pans. Another small building out back was used for cold storage. I was often sent scurrying to one or the other to fetch something for Clementine or Mother.

“When I married James, the house had been neglected for a long while. We didn’t have the money for repairs, and it needed so much work. James loved to build and renovate. He had lots of opinions.”

I smiled again, remembering the arguments we’d had over each detail. “We added the two additions on either side of the house. Pretty, aren’t they? And like my mother, I redid the kitchen and bathrooms with modern electric appliances and indoor plumbing. That was about 1930.”

“Wait,”

said Savannah, her eyes wide. “You didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing until 1930?”

I shook my head. “After the turn of the century, we were struck hard with hurricanes and the boll weevil. That made for difficult times in Beaufort County. Though, to be honest, we children never really felt poor. Life was good. And we didn’t know what life with indoor plumbing and electricity was like.”

I grinned and added, “But I can tell you, we were pretty excited when we got our first self-flush toilet inside the house. Going to the outhouse I was always afraid of snakes, so indoor plumbing was high cotton. Baths were held every Saturday, and let me tell you it was a major event. The water had to be heated in a big boiler pot on our stove then carried upstairs by hand. We had to share the water, of course, and we kids always fought over who got to go in first. Being the girl, I often won that battle.”

Savannah’s mouth slipped open.

I was glad to see it and know my granddaughter was hearing the real family story other than the facts recorded on ledgers. How had I never found the time to talk to my granddaughters of the past like this? I resolved to do better.

“Let’s go inside.”

I grasped the black iron railing and began walking up the stone steps to the front door, feeling breathless by the time I reached the top. The door swung open and a woman with blazing dark eyes and a brightly colored head wrap rushed out to greet us.

“You came home, Miss Eliza! This house was pining for you.”

“Mariama!”

In her sixties, Mariama had the vitality of youth. She loomed a vision of beauty in a denim skirt and a crisp scarlet blouse. Her wide smile outshone her sparkling eyes. We reached out to grasp hands and held tightly. Mariama was the grandniece of Clementine, our beloved housekeeper when I was young. I’d known Mariama since she was a baby and watched her grow to become a fiery young woman, mother, and now grandmother. Like her great-aunt, Mariama was a renowned cook and owned a popular Gullah restaurant in Beaufort. Over the many years, Mariama had catered my parties and family gatherings and become a trusted confidante.

“Seeing you here is both a surprise and a delight. How did you know I was coming home?”

“Hana called, so I scooted over to see you. And I brought food from the restaurant. We can have gumbo for lunch.”

“I can’t even tell you how good it is to be back,”

I said. “I missed you. Honestly, I couldn’t bear to stay in the city another day. There was always one more appointment, one more meeting, one more thing needing doing. But I’m home, at last.”

Mariama’s gaze moved from me to Savannah, prompting another burst of joy. “And welcome back to you, dear girl! It’s been way too long. Lord, look how you’ve grown. You’re a young woman now.”

Savannah stepped into Mariama’s outstretched arms and the two embraced.

Then Mariama’s gaze moved to Norah. Curiosity flickered in her brown eyes.

“Mariama,”

I said, “I’d like you to meet Norah Wilton Davis. Covey’s granddaughter.”

Mariama’s eyebrows raised, and, in a rush, she stepped forward to wrap her arms around Norah’s slender frame. Norah stood with her arms at her side, eyes wide.

“Child, you are a welcome sight!”

Mariama exclaimed. “So, you’re kin of Wilton and Covey. God rest their souls.”

Mariama stepped back, her hands still grasping Norah’s shoulders, letting her gaze sweep over the woman, catching details. Satisfied, she dropped her hands, but not her smile. “Norah, you said your name is?”

Norah collected herself and her smile was genuine. “Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty.”

“Married?”

“No.”

Mariama made a face. “As pretty as you are?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t asked.”

Mariama’s grin widened with approval. “Well, what are we standing out here for? Lettin’ the mosquitoes in. Come in, come in.”

Mariama moved aside and waved her arm.

I stepped into the center hall and exhaled long and slow, feeling every neuron being reassembled into its rightful place. How many times had I crossed this threshold in my many years? Each time the sensation was the same. Nothing felt as good as home.

The elegant living room was to the right and the large dining room to the left, looking the same as when I’d left them. “Let me show you around,”

I said to Norah.

“I’ll meet you in the dining room with lunch,”

said Mariama. “I need to check on my gumbo.”

The front rooms of Mayfield were formal with many family antiques, paintings and portraits, and rugs. But here and there I’d selected armchairs for comfort. Nothing was harder to sit on than horsehair cushions.

I led the way down the main hall and stopped at double doors that offered a sweeping view of the vast, fallow rice fields in back. “Those rice fields built this house,”

I said, knowing full well it was an understatement. We moved on to the east wing of the house, passing the gun room to a paneled family room with large windows, two fireplaces, and several leather sofas and chairs.

We returned to the main hall, and I led them to the dining room. One footstep into the room was akin to stepping back in time. A magnificent mural covered the walls of the dining room that depicted dozens of scenes from Mayfield’s history.

Norah gasped when she saw it. She walked slowly around the room studying all the scenes with soft exclamations of wonder. “These are incredible. When was the mural done?”

“Long before I was born,”

said Savanah with pride and a hint of proprietorship.

Memories gathered as I scanned the scenes of the mural painted across three walls. “Savannah’s right. It was the 1960s,”

I began. “James had died, and I was feeling my own mortality.”

I sighed, remembering that low point in my life, how I’d felt a pressing need to share personal stories about Mayfield. To somehow document my memories. “Arthur lived in Charleston at the time and had little interest in Mayfield. He rarely visited and made it clear he wasn’t interested in the family stories. The names of the Rivers family, mine included, have been duly recorded . . . but what about their lives? Their stories? I had no one to tell them to who cared to listen.”

I glanced at Savannah, whose expression reflected some hurt. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Though,”

I added in an upbeat tone, “you’re changing that by being here now. Of course, the house is on the historic registry.”

I looked at the mural. “But the real stories, those oral histories that go from one generation to another . . . told at dinner tables. From mother to daughter while cooking, or when taking long walks.”

I smiled at Savannah and Norah. “At a grandparent’s knee.”

“These stories are important,”

said Norah. “I want to know what inspired every scene.”

“Me too,”

said Savannah.

I walked across the room and pointed to a scene. “This one shows the construction of the rice fields in the 1700s,”

I began. “I may be old, but that was before even my time.”

I moved on to one portraying a young girl riding a horse, hair flowing behind her like a flag. “This one depicts a very important horse race. That’s Capitano, our prize Marsh Tacky stallion. What a fine boy he was. And that young girl riding him—”

I laughed lightly “—is me.”

My gaze traveled to another scene of a hayloft and a young girl and a blond-haired boy holding hands. My smile fell as I felt a stab in the heart that was too fresh for reason.

“There are so many stories,”

I said and turned from the wall. I stopped and rested my hand on the back of a chair, feeling lightheaded. I swallowed hard and tried again to speak. “I feel a sudden urge to tell the family history, to pass them on before, well . . .”

I paused for a breath, not wanting to appear maudlin. “Before I’m gone. Or . . . I don’t remember them anymore. I don’t want the family stories to die with me.”

I looked up and smiled brightly, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’d like to hear them all,”

said Norah.

Savannah nodded in agreement.

“It will take all day. Days, perhaps.”

I looked at the young women, concerned that their attention spans would endure that long.

“Grandma,”

said Savannah, her voice urgent. “This morning, at breakfast, you asked me to come to Mayfield. You said you wanted to show me what was important to you here. And then I saw you at the shareholders meeting. . . . What you said, how you took over.”

She laughed shortly. “Grandma, you rock. I was so proud of you, and I knew . . .”

She paused. “I want to get to know you better.”

“Thank you, Savannah. Hearing that means the world to me. I wish I’d spent more time with you when you were growing up. It seemed I was always filling my days with work. But now I intend to retire. That will give me time . . .”

I shook my head. “Oh, that precious, fleeting commodity. Let me just say that I hope I’ll have the chance to get to know you better.”

Norah said, “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

I looked at the woman before me and felt again the connection to Covey. “Indeed, it is. It’s a start. Perhaps it isn’t a coincidence that you two girls are here with me now. Look at you. I see you both and realize I’m witnessing the next generation of Mayfield. Both of you carry the history within you. It’s in your DNA. Maybe my stories and your being here will stir up that genetic memory a bit. I wonder what will happen then?”

I extended my arm toward the chairs. “Let’s try, shall we?”

We moved to sit at the long mahogany dining table. I sensed the presence of those who had passed gather around as though waiting to hear my telling of a tale in which they were all players.

“Where to begin. . . .”

My gaze scanned the many scenes then settled on one of a strapping blond-haired man in a frock coat beside a dark-haired bride, their hands held under a curved floral awning. I walked to the scene and let my fingers trace the joined hands. “This is my mother and father. Rawlins and Sloane Rivers. I guess my story begins with them.

“Theirs was a great love story—and not. A comedy and a tragedy. I’ve learned that life is really a combination of both. As a child, I was often caught in the crossfire between them. Finding humor in a harsh situation, and being able to laugh about it later, was my way to survive. You could say my childhood prepared me for the difficult future I was to endure. By taking the long view, I was able to distance myself from tragedy.

“My father was an original good ol’ boy—boisterous with a hearty laugh and always a story to tell. Oh, he could spin a yarn. Daddy loved Mayfield over all things. It was his north star. In second place was Mama, or maybe it was a running tie between her and his horses. The horses were easier to manage.

“When they met, Rawlins’s daddy had already passed and Rawlins was running Mayfield, though barely scraping by. Being good-looking and a landowner, his only choice was to marry money. My mother’s family was relatively new to Charleston. They had made a fortune in trade and trains, but no amount of money would open the doors to the city’s closed society. Pedigree alone was the key. So, Sloane Bissette set her sights on a husband from a founding family that would grant her entry. To be fair, Mama wasn’t just another pretty face. She was educated. She had studied at Converse College, though she never graduated. In her junior year, a friend introduced her to Rawlins Heyward Rivers. My father declared that he fell head over heels in love with her at first sight. When he invited her to the St. Cecilia Ball, she accepted and that was that. They were married a year later. My father’s dream was to restore Mayfield to her former glory. The house had fallen into disrepair after the Civil War and subsequent years of neglect. Sloane’s parents generously provided the funds as a wedding gift. Rawlins made certain the house had the same grand architecture as the original built on this knoll in the mid-1700s. Not long after the new construction was finished, my eldest brother, Heyward, was born. Mama had proved her worth by financing the restoration of the house and giving my father his heir.”

“Heyward Rivers. That was my grandfather?”

Norah asked.

“Yes,”

I replied, searching for any sign of my older brother in Norah’s features. She had a pleasing face with Covey’s unusual hazel eyes. I didn’t remember Norah’s father, but the girl’s high, chiseled cheekbones had to come from my brother.

“Heyward was, quite simply, the absolute best son and brother. A finer man was never born. I won’t say he was perfect. What man is?”

I chuckled softly. “Of course, he lost his temper from time to time, and I’m sure I gave him cause, but Heyward was genuinely kind, not just to me, but to everyone. A natural athlete too. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do—ride a horse, climb a tree, fish, shoot. I tried to keep up with him and he knew it, but rather than tease me, he’d encourage me, saying, ‘You can do it, Lizzie.’”

I felt a gentle twinge in my heart at the memory. “That was his nickname for me. He liked to give nicknames. Heyward gave our younger brother the nickname Les. True, it was the obvious abbreviation for Lesesne. But he claimed it also fit because he was less than Heyward.”

“Isn’t that a bit mean-spirited?”

Savanah asked.

“Perhaps. But it was true,”

I said. “His full name is French Huguenot and is pronounced ‘Le Zane.’”

“That’s an unusual name,”

Norah said.

“Lesesne is an old family name,”

Savannah said blithely, as though Norah should understand how common that practice was in the South.

“He was born two years after me and was a sickly child. Mama doted on him.”

“I’ve never heard anyone talk about Great-Uncle Lesesne,”

Savannah said. “Was he like, the black sheep of the family or something?”

I shook my head. “No,”

I replied quickly. There were stories about Lesesne that were best left untold. “I daresay I was my mother’s biggest disappointment as a child.”

“Really? Why?”

asked Savannah, leaning forward on the table. These personal stories were clearly more appealing to her than the historical ones.

How to make a young girl of this modern era understand the constraints on women at the turn of the century? “To be fair, my mother had the normal expectations for her daughter at that time. She wanted me to be trained in domestic arts, proper dress and behavior, modesty, and social etiquette. I didn’t want any part of that. Today you’d call me a tomboy. But at the turn of the century, I was an enigma. At the very least, I was not, shall we say, feminine.”

I sighed. “Back then, I was the opposite of my mother. Mama was a lady who loved poetry, her roses, and entertaining society. She had a curvaceous body that filled out a dress. I was, as my brothers often told me, as flat as an ironing board.”

I smiled devilishly. “Though I confess I was satisfied with that appearance, back when I was a girl who wished she’d been born a boy.”

“Were you always a trailblazer?”

Norah asked.

“Hardly,”

I said with a short laugh. “I just did what had to be done.”

“Then what were you like?”

asked Savannah.

“As a child?”

I considered her question and searched my memory for the headstrong girl I once was. “In truth, I was more like the ancestor I was named for, Eliza Pinckney. I’m proud to bear her name. Even in the colonial period, she was a little powerhouse. And capable. While her father was called away to Antigua, she ran his three plantations and brought indigo’s success to South Carolina.”

I looked at Savannah. “And she was but your age, Savannah.”

Savannah’s mouth slipped open then curved into a wry smile. “Cool.”

“She was my role model. I suppose because I was small and dark haired, like her. But also because I loved botany and farming. And horses. And my dream always was to manage Mayfield. But unlike Eliza Pinckney, I had a father who believed firmly in primogeniture and eschewed the idea of his daughter running his plantation, no matter how qualified.”

I heard the bitterness in my voice.

I paused to sip my tea, setting my glass onto the table with care. “Still, I have to say, my early years were happy ones in the Rivers family. All happy families are alike, but every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Tolstoy was right about that. For the Rivers family, the tragedies came later.”

I had to look away from Norah’s face, from the sympathy I saw etched there. I wasn’t looking for pity. It was too late for that, and unnecessary. I was simply telling a story. How the listener judged it was not something I could modify.

My gaze sought another mural scene and settled on one depicting the hollow of a large tree. From its dark center, one could see three children peeking out—myself, Covey, and Tripp.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly the intense dream of the night before burst forth again. In my mind I was back in the tree hollow, enveloped in a humid, heavy cocoon, sleeping on a cushion of moss. I could smell again the pungent earth, hear someone calling my name.

I opened my eyes and gasped, seeing Covey looking at me, concern etched in her hazel eyes. My eyelashes fluttered and as my senses returned, I realized it was of course Norah’s face before me. My hand went to my temple, and I took a calming breath. I was too old to believe in coincidences. God works in mysterious ways, I thought. I searched the young woman’s face and wondered, Why is Norah here at this important moment in time?

Lowering my hand, I thought I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I was here to tell a story of my family. My life. To share the memories, good and bad. Looking into the faces of the two women, I realized that this could be my last chance to do so.

“I warn you, I can’t help but shade the story with my own perceptions,”

I said. “I’m sure if they heard my telling of it, Mama and Daddy would shake their heads and tell you I had it all wrong. My brothers would agree. Especially Lesesne, who always saw the world through his own peculiar lens.”

“This is your story,”

said Norah. “Your family, your life. As you see it.”

“Very well, then. I suppose my first true memory of my childhood is the day I met my dearest friend, Covey.”

I looked at Norah. “Your grandmother.”

Part Two

Halcyon Days

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,

All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches;

Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous leaves of dark green,

And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself;

But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves, standing alone there, without its friend, its lover near, for I knew I could not.

—Walt Whitman, “Southern Live Oak”