Charles + Maggie

Chapter 1 (Margaret)

August 1860
Margaret's POV

I shift uncomfortably, feeling the sweat forming on my forehead and souring my mood. The air buzzes with the sound of cicadas and is thick with humidity, settling heavily on my shoulders. The small black coach slowly ambles along the dirt roads, exhausted passengers dragged along by a weary horse. The brutal sun beats down upon the dreary scene leaving everyone present desperately hoping for a nonexistent breeze. I rest my head on the wall of the carriage, petticoat long forgotten on the seat next to me and face flushed, only to be jerked upright moments later by the clatter of the wheels over a particularly large rock on the uneven dirt road. I scowl and glance around, searching for anything to distract me from the horrendous weather. Unsurprisingly, I am met with the same scene I've been looking out upon since our departure this morning. My eyes listlessly wander over my monotonous surroundings. My father sits beside me, his face gleaming with sweat, glaring down at a newspaper he must have memorized by now. Like clockwork, he runs his hand over his beard, loosens his collar, and checks his pocket watch- a ritual he repeated every ten minutes. Of course, in these conditions, ten minutes feels like ten hours.

My gaze continues to drift lazily along their path, and I look out the window at the bleak landscape. The road ahead ripples with heat, and the dust, kicked up by the horses' steady trots, adds to the hazy image. I'm left feeling as if I'm lost in the illusion of a speckled sea, surrounded by endless waves of cotton crops, only disturbed by the slaves toiling in the fields. I grimace, suddenly very thankful for the minimal shade the carriage provides, and I avert my eyes from the men and women, shining with sweat and bowed with exhaustion, dutifully working only yards away. Regardless of how many trips I make down here with my father, seeing their backs, patterned with scars, continues to make it hard to smile at their overseers. My father's partners' homes stick out like islands among the sea of fields that surround them; however, it's hard to summon the wonder and compliments their owners expect when all I can think of is the tiny dilapidated shacks we see on the way there. Their long walkways lined with magnificent trees and their manors adorned with towering white pillars, wrap-around porches, and huge windows serve as cheap distractions from the 'maids' that greet us at the door with stiff postures and grim faces. I settle back into my seat, close my eyes, imagine the cool breeze from the harbor back home, and mentally hurry the horse along as if it would shorten our journey. Distantly, I hear my father click open his pocket watch.

Though it feels as if my eyes only closed for a second, they snap open at the sound of my father gruffly clearing his throat and looking pointedly at me. I blush, realizing I must've dozed off, and straighten up, my neck protesting the awkward angle. I glance around and realize that we are approaching our destination. Even though we're still half a mile out, I can clearly see the sprawling brick manor with white accents that practically glow in the harsh sunlight. Hurriedly, I straighten my skirts, wrinkled from the long journey, and shrug my petticoat back on despite the heat. I try to fix my blond braided updo, loose and frizzy from the humidity, placing a few strategic pins and running my hand over it. It was far from perfect, but it would have to do. I wince, still sore from the long and rough ride, and fan myself, looking forward to our arrival. Though I knew that the trip was mostly going to consist of my father and Mr. Johnson discussing business, I was still eager to explore the beautiful estate. I may disagree with its owner's morals, but I couldn't deny their house's charm. Though most of my father's potential clients were surprised by my presence, they always had an extra guest room due to these plantation manors' sheer size. It was definitely unusual that I traveled with him, but he insisted I accompany him on these business trips. It was a practice born of equal parts paranoia and protectiveness. My mother had died when I was young, killed in a home invasion while he was on a trip, and I was sleeping peacefully in the room next to her. He never remarried, and I never left his side.
I watch as we approach our next client's manor. Like most cotton plantation owners, they were extremely wealthy and apparently very eager to rub it in their nonexistent neighbor's faces. Their home was huge, with three floors and two porches supported by massive columns. Slowly, we come to a stop in front of the large wooden door. Letting out a sigh of relief, my father stands, cracking him back and opening the coach.