But the fever came early that year, well before the usual summer exodus had begun. It struck the Row with a terrible ferocity, killing whole families or leaving behind one or two dazed survivors.

The Thompson house had stood on the Row for over a century. The family was now much reduced in number if not in social standing; from the Thompson brothers who had made fortunes in indigo, rice, and shipping, there was now only Charles H. Thompson, his wife, Nora, and their daughter, Leah.

The fever took Leah first. She was just past fifteen, with the full bloom on youth on her. Perhaps it was only that youth which saved her, for she was one of the lucky ones, though the fever had removed the bloom, left her pale and listless. But it had crueler work to do: within the space of one day, while Leah herself was still recovering, it took both her mother and father.

There were three other funerals scheduled for that day at St. Peter's Episcopal. The deaths had come so fast and so thick that the city was running low on lime. All the good coffins were gone; even the Thompsons were laid to rest in plain pine boxes. Because of fear of contamination, or perhaps just exhaustion with the endless funerals, there were few mourners at the Thompsons' service, though they had been well-liked and much respected.

Leah was the chief mourner, small and frail in a mourning cloak and bonnet that had belonged to her mother. Beside her was Hugh Gaveston, her father's closest friend and attorney. Behind them were the family slaves. In Charleston it was not nice to use the word "slave," the preferred term was "servant," but slaves they were. In the Thompson house the word servant had been more appropriate than in many; Charles Thompson was a gentle and enlightened man who believed neither in whippings nor separating families. The family's kindness was returned a hundredfold. Hannah, who had been Leah's nursemaid, had been tireless in caring for the family during its sickness. Leah could not help noticing that none of the Thompsons' society friends had bothered to show, but the slaves were out in full force, though there had been no pressure on them to attend.

It was a hot, still day, and her veil, which reached her knees, was stifling. She was all cried out, exhausted, and stood now with the dry-eyed dignity favored by Charlestonians. She knew how badly the city had been struck, but the lack of mourners stunned and hurt her.

She remembered the crowds that had flowed through the Thompsons' house this spring, for brunch after the great St. Cecilia's ball.

Leah had begged her mother to attend; Nora had demurred. "Not even fifteen yet; no, my dear, another year at least. We will see."

But she would not see. Nora would not live to see her only daughter make her debut, demure in white, at the city's most exclusive ball.

Who would guide Leah now? How would she unravel the intricacies of Charleston life without her mother?

Who will take care of me? It was a question that went deeper than any surface concerns about calling cards or ball introductions, though it helped to busy her mind with such superficial worries. Her parents both dead; her half-brother, whom she had met but once, far away in California. She was just fifteen, not old enough in any case to take care of herself. It had never occurred to her that such provisions would need to be made. Had it occurred to her father? She doubted it. Charles had been a quiet, retiring man, though willing to take his part in Charleston society. But he preferred his novels to the ugly business of reality. Somehow Leah could not imagine him preparing for the tragic situation that now faced his eldest daughter.

But at least she had Uncle Hugh. Uncle Hugh was a lawyer, practical where her father was dreamy. Uncle Hugh, who had been so kind already, who had tried to convince her not to come to the funeral. "You are hardly well yourself, my dear," he'd said, and Hannah had been quick to agree. But it was inconceivable that she could let these two dear parents be buried without her paying proper respect, so long as she was this side of the grave.

Hugh said gently, "It's time, Leah." She stepped forward, scooped up a handful of the yellow clay. It made a horrible sound when it hit the pine. It struck her, more forcefully than ever, that they were truly gone. She would never again see her mother, her graying hair still giving off a faint scent of lavender, opening her curtains in the morning, saying, "Now, Leah, it is past time for you to be up..." She would never again laze on the rug in her father's study while he read to her from Jane Austen on a rainy afternoon.

They walked back to the house slowly, passing another funeral procession. At the house a cold collation had been prepared for the mourners who never showed. Impulsively, Leah said to Hannah, "Please tell the others to come in and eat with me. There's no point in having all this go to waste."

So she shared her parents' funeral meats with the family servants. There were long grave faces all around her. Just as she'd lost her security, so had they. They all knew the Young Miss was too young to take the reins of the household, and there was, along with a genuine grief, fear that the household would be disbursed, families broken. For the first time Leah realized her parents' death would affect all of these people as well–and they were just as powerless to determine their own future...

"Uncle Hugh," she said at last. "We must talk."

"Not today, my dear," he said gravely. "First you must take a few days to recover."

"Is it so grave, then?" she asked.

"It can wait," he said simply. "Hannah, you must take good care of Miss Leah. Don't let her go exerting herself until she is stronger. She is all we have left of our dear Charles and Nora."

Hannah looked hard at Hugh, suddenly mistrustful. "I looked after Miss Leah since she first drew breath," she said. "And I gonna be looking after her til the good Lord call me home. You don't need to worry about her bein looked after, Mr. Hugh."

"Good, good. Don't worry yourself, my dear. I shall be by in a few days and we shall discuss the future when you're a little stronger."

"Hannah," Leah said, "you were almost rude to Uncle Hugh. He means well."

"I hope he do well," Hannah muttered. But she would say no more to Miss Leah. Miss Leah had a bad way of trusting everyone who came her way. Why shouldn't she? Her parents had kept her sheltered in comfort and gentility; she had never come near evil. Hannah knew better. Somehow she didn't trust Hugh Gaveston. Her prayers for the souls of her beloved Miss Nora were crowded out by her anxious intercessions on Miss Leah's behalf. Lord, send someone to watch over this child. I can't do it all by myself.

Hannah did her best to coddle Leah, tempting her with the finest delicacies Charleston's market had to offer. But Leah turned from them. She sat at her window, overlooking the Row, and watched more funeral processions go by, day after day. The whole town was in mourning, it seemed, with white wreathes on every door. Some of the coffins that passed were heart-renderingly small; other processions contained two, three, four hearses, with whole households being wiped out. At times Leah wished she were dead, too. The future seemed too grim to contemplate. This was the first real tragedy that had ever disturbed her safe, circumscribed world, and it shocked her. Before she had been a joyful, laughing girl, amusing her parents with her singing and jokes. Now that joyfulness seemed hollow. She could not believe she would ever laugh again. She could not believe it could get worse. It did.

A week after her parents' funeral, the axe fell. Uncle Hugh came as promised. They sat in her father's study. How empty it seemed!

Her father had been a quiet man, spending his leisurely afternoons reading and smoking a pipe. The scent of his special tobacco, shipped all the way from London, lingered in the air. She decided she would close up this room and not enter it again after today. Here, more than in any other room in the house, her loss was magnified beyond bearing.

"As you may know, I drew up your father's will, Leah, and am the executor. That means I am in charge of the estate and settling your parents' affair."

"Does that mean you shall have charge of me, too, Uncle?"

"No, my dear. Your father made no provision for your guardianship. Certainly he did not contemplate dying so young, and your mother passing too."

Leah looked around at the room. "Then who, Uncle? There is no one else in Charleston that's close kin to me."

"No, my child, there is not. The nearest relative you have is your brother–half-brother, I should say."

"Matthew?" Leah frowned. Her mother had been married once before. Her brother was a good ten years older than she. He had, as Charleston said delicately, turned out wild. He had been expelled from West Point and the University of Virginia. He had gone West to seek his fortune. The family hadn't heard from him in years. She herself had seen Matthew only a few times, and not at all in the last five years.

"Yes, Matthew. You may not know this, but I have remained in touch with Matthew, at your mother's request. He is in the territory they call California–all the way across the continent, on the Pacific Ocean."

"California!" She had heard the word but had no true idea how far away it was. Why, she had been away from Charleston only in the summers, and once to the mountains in western Virginia. California might as well be the moon. "Shall he be my guardian, then?"

"Yes, the law requires it. Happily for you Matthew is married now and can make a suitable home for you."

"A suitable home? He is coming back to Charleston, then?"

"No, my dear." Hugh could not meet his eyes.

A terrible idea dawned on her. "Then I am going–to California?"

"I'm sorry, Leah. After the terrible upset of losing your dear, dear parents, this must be an especial shock. But I have no choice, Leah. You are underage; your father made no other provisions; the law says you must go to your nearest adult relative until you are eighteen. It cannot be helped."

"But–leave Charleston? Leave this house? Why can't Matthew come here, at least until I'm old enough? Uncle Hugh, this is my home! My home and my parents' home. I know nothing else. Why must I leave?"

Hugh got up, walked to the window. With his back to her, he said, "Leah, I must tell you, first, not to judge your father harshly. He had no head for business. And he certainly had no idea that he might leave you in such straits. But your father was deeply in debt, my dear. Poor investments, railroad speculations. This war with Mexico has upset the financial markets a great deal. And the plantation has not been yielding well–your father had no talent for managing darkies, Leah. He has been robbed blind by those he trusted."

"Our people? Stealing from Papa? I can't believe it! I would trust them with my life!"

"Leah, you would trust Hannah or Peter or Bella. You don't know the farm hands well. Rice is a difficult crop. It takes careful cultivation. For years now Charles has been misled about the true state of his affairs. And of course, with his good nature, he did not suspect. No, Charles was too trusting by far...And, my dear, I'm afraid you have been left to face the consequences."

Leah knew virtually nothing of her father's business. She had taken the wealth and abundance of her life as a given, never dreaming it might end. "But the plantation. Might not the plantation be sold?"

"It is heavily mortgaged and about to be foreclosed."

"Then–this house?"

"Must be sold. It will just clear your father's debts and leave a little nest egg for you, although not much, I'm afraid."

"And everything in it–the furniture, Papa's books?"

"They will go with the house. I have been lucky enough to find a buyer who will take the house as it stands."

"And–our servants? What will happen to them?"

Hugh sighed. "Some will go to the new owner. But your parents have always kept far more servants than this house warranted. Some will have to be sold."

"Sold! But Uncle Hugh, you know how Papa felt about selling our people! Better I should grow rice myself than any of them should be turned out."

"Leah, Leah–you are so much like your father! If it could be otherwise, do you think I would be here like this? I know only too well how this would grieve Charles. I will do my best to see that they find good situations."

"Not Hannah," she said firmly. "Uncle Hugh, I can't be parted from Hannah. She is all I have left..." Leah fought back a sob. Hannah was as much a fixture of her life as either of her parents–more, even. She could not bear to think of being parted–worse, Hannah sold, like a horse, perhaps South to the terrible cotton fields. She would die first.

Hugh sighed. "I think you may keep Hannah. There should be sufficient funds to pay her passage West. But, my dear, are you sure? Your funds will be slim. To keep Hannah, when you will not be in a position to need a maid..."

"She is not a maid," Leah said with quiet dignity. "She is my friend."

"Very well, my dear. It is your choice. I would suggest you begin packing right away. But only your clothes, Leah, and whatever daguerreotypes there might be. The rest must go with the house?"

"What about Mama's jewelry?"

Hugh looked uncomfortable, too. "Leah, I'm sure you know your mother had some very valuable pieces, heirlooms. I'm terribly sorry–but they must go too."

For a moment Leah saw her mother, dressed for St. Cecilia, pearls and diamonds at her throat and ears. Or the heavy gold chatelaine's chain she wore, with the keys to the various clocks and storerooms. Or the rubies she wore at Christmas time. How often had she watched her mother dressing for the evening, playing with these shining treasures? Her mother's soft laugh, her smile, "Someday, little one, someday, you'll wear these and be the most beautiful girl at St. Cecilia's! But pearls for your complexion, my sweet...you won't wear those until you're very grown up!"

She would never wear them now. Her mother's dreams were ashes.

"I understand," she said. "And thank you about Hannah, Uncle Hugh. When do I leave?"

"There is passage booked for you, leaving on Tuesday."

"So soon?"

"Forgive me, Leah, but I always think it is best to do an unpleasant thing right away."

Leah looked around again. In so few days she would leave this house, and all its memories, forever. Someone else would live in this house, read these books, dance in her mother's ballroom. Someone else would welcome guests, the heavy rope of pearls dangling to the waist. It was worse than pain; it was a violation. She lifted her chin. Hugh was right. The sooner the better.

"There is one other thing, Leah...No one else knows of your father's financial plight. It may still be possible to keep things quiet and protect his memory. I thought perhaps you would wish..."

Oh, Charleston! With its thousands of rules and intricate society! How happy her parents had been here, how they had taken their position for granted. She knew instinctively that her parents would not wish to be shamed, even in death. "I do wish," she said firmly. "How is this to be done?"

"Speak to no one. Your going to your brother is natural enough, as is the sale of the house. No one else need ever know."

"Very well, my dear. Your ship leaves at 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday. I shall, of course, accompany you."

"And Hannah."

"And Hannah, of course."

"One thing, Uncle Hugh. The stone for my parents' grave."

"It has been ordered, of course."

"But will it be in place before I must go?"

"Yes, my dear, I shall see to it. We will visit on Tuesday, directly before you leave."

"Thank you for that...thank you for everything, Uncle Hugh. I'm glad Papa left things in your hands. I know you've done the best that you can."

"I'm only sorry that it can't be more, dear Leah. When I think how your father must feel now, looking at us from Heaven...Remember, Leah, not to judge him harshly. It would be most unfilial."

But Leah was not the sort to judge harshly, even with her world destroyed about her. Her father had been too good, too good to her, for her to turn on him now. He had given her love and his gentle guidance; they were worth far more to her than a house on the Battery. He would always be her ideal.

Had Charleston not been such a chaotic place in 1845, Hugh Gaveston would probably not have been able to pull off this trick. Had not so many families, so many of the better families, been stricken, someone would certainly have taken more time to look into the affairs of the orphaned Leah Thompson. The Thompsons were as good a family as Charleston had, and their gentle good manners had made them popular even where their pedigree had not. Someone would have taken Leah under their wing–and perhaps given more attention to her father's estate.

Her father was not in debt; his plantation was not mortgaged; his slaves had not cheated him. But his will left matters almost entirely in the hands of his boyhood friend, Hugh Gaveston. Hugh had suffered terrible losses in the recent financial upheavals; speculative bubbles had burst with grave consequences. Had Charles not been so considerate to die when he did, and take Nora with him, Hugh would have gone to the wall.

And had he not kept in touch with that rapscallion Matt Simmons, he might have more trouble on his hands. No; Matt's silence could be purchased for a reasonable price. He wanted a hotel in some California mining camp; very well, he'd have his hotel if he took on his half-sister as well. He would even provide a small nest egg for Leah. Later he would spread the rumor that Leah, deranged by the loss of her parents, had run away to parts unknown. It would be left to him to manage the Thompson fortune without oversight. He was willing to part with a little extra money to get rid of Hannah. Keep her with Leah and she wouldn't be a problem. Parted from Leah, who knew what harm she might do? She seemed an unworldly creature, wrapped up in her duties and her religion, but every so often Hugh had caught a gleam of cold, questioning intelligence in those dark eyes. Better to have her far, far away on the California coast.

Or, tragically, in an unmarked grave on the Panama peninsula. The crossing was difficult at the best of times and now, in summer, the trip would be rife with dangers of malaria, cholera, typhus. That was if a Gulf storm or typhoon didn't sink the boat...Yes, poor little frail Leah; it was all too likely her crossing would end in tragedy.

Charles Thompson had considered Hugh Gaveston his closest friend. He had been welcomed him into the Thompson home on countless occasions; he had been godfather to Leah; he had seen her go from baby to child to girl to now, on the tragic verge of womanhood. He felt nothing. He excused his actions on the grounds that his finances were too pressing to give precedence to personal ties. And Leah was a pretty little thing, if thin after her illness. If she survived her crossing, no doubt she'd have no trouble finding a husband on the west coast. Women were in short supply. He gave no thought that a California mining camp was no place for a fifteen-year-old girl used to the refined ways of Charleston.

His only concern was to get her on the boat before she could open her mouth.

On her last night in the house, Leah went slowly through each room, breathing the still-scented air and counting over her memories. After tonight, she promised herself, she would remember this place only as a happy one; she would leave her sadness and be able to look back on her memories without pain. Happy scenes played out in her mind in each room.

She came last to her parents' room. It had been undisturbed since her parents died. Here was her mother's little French clock, unwound, for she had trusted none of the servants with the delicate workings. Here was her hairbrush, there her father's pipe. Uncle Hugh had taken away the heavy velvet boxes containing her mother's valuable jewelry. All that was left were a few small pieces, not particularly valuable, that Nora had worn everyday around the house.

With a small cry of pleasure she saw her mother's garnet broach. It was worked in delicate gold filagree as a basket of roses. It had been Charles's wedding present to his wife on Leah's birth. Her mother had worn it nearly every day; one of her earliest memory was playing with the brooch while on her mother's lap.

Somehow Hugh had overlooked this; though Nora wore it every day, it was of exquisite workmanship. Briefly she thought of telling Hugh.

No, she decided, it was fate this one, precious piece had been left behind. She had a little piece now of her mother to carry with her across the ocean; along with the pipe, they were the only things she took. Everything else–the books, the china, the silver, the paintings–they were all left, untouched, for whoever the new owner would be.

Good-bye, good-bye, she thought constantly. But finding her mother's brooch had removed a little of the sting of parting. She felt she would not be so alone.

Hugh came by for her at six. Her two cases were to go directly to the docks. He took her, in a closed carriage, to St. Peter's cemetery.

"I'll wait in here, Leah. I thought you might like to go alone." He also thought he might be seen.

"How kind of you, Uncle Hugh. Yes, I would like that. Hannah?"