The Bracelet (24 page)

On Friday morning, after finishing the invitations to her fund-raising reception for the Female Asylum, Celia asked Joseph to drive her to the Ten Broeck Racing Course, where she spent an hour riding Zeus. After their run, when Finn had returned Zeus to his stall and was brushing him down, Celia lingered. She leaned against the half-door and turned up her collar against the cold wind. “Busy day here today?”

“No, Miss. Not ’specially. I took Poseidon out for a while this morning like Mr. Mackay asked me to. And Miss Waring sent word she don’t intend to ride today.” Finn blew on his hands to warm them. “I reckon it’s a mite too cold for the likes o’ her.”

“Would you consider driving me to Indian Street? I’m happy to pay you for your time.”

He picked up a rag and began polishing her saddle, a frown creasing his brow. “Indian Street? Ain’t that up in Yamacraw?”

“Yes. I have some business there.”

“But that fancy carriage of yours will be warmer and more comfortable than my ratty old buggy.”

“Undoubtedly. But the reason for my trip is . . . private. I can’t ask my driver to take me. I’d be so grateful if you could help me out. It won’t take more than an hour. And I’m happy to pay you for your time.”

“No need for that.” Finn studied her face. “Yamacraw surely ain’t no place for the likes o’ you, Miss. But if you’re bound and determined to go—”

“I am.”

“All right.”

Fifteen minutes later she was bundled up in Finn’s buggy, an old blanket tucked around her knees, her face hidden by her wide-brimmed hat. The buggy bounced along the rutted road, the slate-colored river flashing through the trees, autumn leaves fluttering against the azure sky. As they drew near the Irish neighborhood, the rattle of wagons and the shouts of draymen and sailors assaulted her ears. The air grew thick with smoke and the stench of open sewers and boiling cabbage.

Celia covered her nose with her handkerchief and breathed through her mouth as she peered around her. The shanties and the dirt streets all looked the same. How would she ever find the
jeweler? She had been wrong to come here. She would have to think of another plan.

Just as Celia decided to ask Finn to turn around, he guided the buggy onto Indian Street. A skinny dog ran into the road, barking furiously. Finn snapped his whip and the dog retreated, running toward the river.

“Here we are, Miss.”

Smoke curled from the chimneys, giving off the odors of grease, ashes, and roasting sweet potatoes. Though it was barely past noon, groups of men, black and white, gathered near the drinking establishments. Two women in fancy dresses and plumed hats strolled past to the sound of whistles and catcalls. Ragged children kicked a stick along the unpaved street lined with horses, wagons, and buggies. A young man in a brown tweed coat lifted his hat and stared at them as they rolled past.

Spotting the jeweler’s sign in a dirty window, Celia said to Finn, “Stop here.” The groom halted the rig near the door, and she hurried inside.

The shop was barely large enough to accommodate the scratched wooden counter, upon which rested two small glass cases displaying rings, earbobs, and necklaces. The entire place smelled of unwashed bodies, rancid food, and tobacco.

Celia leaned against the counter. “Mr. Ryan?”

“That’s me. Help you, Miss?” The jeweler, an imposing man with a ruddy complexion and a shock of white hair, set aside his pipe and hooked his spectacles over his ears.

Celia took the bracelet from her bag and laid it on the counter. “Someone told me you might have made this.”

Mr. Ryan studied the bracelet. Held it up to the light. “’Tis my handiwork, to be sure.” He shook his head. “Too bad I wasn’t able to use real jewels instead o’ paste, but ’tis the intent behind the gift that’s the important thing.”

“That’s true.”

“Don’t be too hard on the lad what gave it to ye. When it comes to matters of the heart, we do the best we can.”

“So it was a young man who ordered it?”

“Aye. Paid in advance too. He was a shy one. Hardly more than a boy, that one. Didn’t want to give his name. Just told me where to send the bracelet when it was finished.”

“I see.” Celia tried to control the quaver in her voice. Now that she was getting somewhere, she realized that solving this mystery had become about much more than proving Leo Channing wrong. More even than figuring out who was out to harm her, though that was a nagging worry. She wanted to know the truth about her past—the whole truth, before her marriage to Sutton. There would be children one day. She wanted them to grow up without the nagging questions and the empty spaces that were part and parcel of her own childhood.

And yet she feared the very answers she was seeking. She had developed an attachment to the story of her own life as she knew it, and a part of her didn’t want that story challenged. What if, in solving the mystery of the bracelet, she discovered things she didn’t want to know? Things that might alter her feelings for those she loved most?
You can’t unring a bell,
Papa often reminded her.

Mr. Ryan handed her the bracelet. “I hope you enjoy the bauble, even though it ain’t real. ’Cept for the diamonds the boy brought in with him.”

Obviously the jeweler hadn’t heard of the language of the jewels either and saw nothing sinister in the arrangement of the stones.

Celia tucked the bracelet away. “I wonder—do you happen to have the address he provided?”

“I imagine I’ve got it here somewhere, but my customers depend on me to keep their secrets. They may be poor, but they
fall in love same as the fancy gentlemen and the lady mucks living in the mansions down from here.” Mr. Ryan tapped his chest. “The feelin’ inside here is just the same, whether you’re a pauper or a prince.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“’Tis not so unusual for a man to keep secret the name of his beloved. Or to want something special for her birthday, without her finding out ahead of time.” He peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “Back in Waterford, my old man had a sayin’: Melodious is the closed mouth. I try to remember that.”

“You came from Waterford.”

“Long time ago, Miss. I came to Savannah more’n thirty years ago—aboard a ship loaded with Paddies and Bridgets, as they say.”

“I have a dear friend from Waterford. She’s been here a long time too. Tell me, do you make barmbrack for All Hallows’ Eve?”

His whole face lit up. “Barmbrack—haven’t thought of it for years. I loved that cake when I was a lad. Loved me colcannon too.”

Celia nodded at the mention of the mashed potatoes with cabbage and butter that Mrs. Maguire made on All Hallows’ Eve. “Mrs.—that is, my Irish friend, still makes it every year.”

She waited, hoping the conversation and the mention of home would change the jeweler’s mind. But when he offered nothing more than a benign smile, she left the shop and returned to Finn O’Grady’s waiting buggy.

What young man could have commissioned the bracelet? Besides Sutton, she knew of no admirers apart from her father’s clerk. Given the bracelet’s poor quality, she doubted now that it was the expression of Mr. Shaw’s infatuation. But Mr. Ryan’s refusal to provide the delivery address put her at another dead end.

“Ready, Miss?” Finn handed her into the buggy.

The door to the jewelry store opened and Mr. Ryan hurried out, a piece of paper in his hand. “Wait!”

He hurried across the street, scattering another group of hollow-eyed children, and handed her the paper. “I don’t know why I’m doin’ this, goin’ against my own rules, but—”

Celia read the address scribbled on the gray paper, and hope soared again. “Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”

“See you keep it to yourself. I got to keep me customers’ trust, ye know.”

“I will. Thank you again.”

“Back to the stables, Miss Browning?” the groom asked as Mr. Ryan returned to his shop.

Celia checked the watch she wore on a chain around her neck. “Yes, please. Joseph will be returning to the track to drive me home.”

Finn glanced at her. “Looks like you got what you came for.”

“What?”

“That piece of paper. You’re holdin’ onto it for dear life.”

Celia tucked the paper away and tried to focus on the passing scenery. But she could hardly wait to visit the address on Liberty Street.

Dressed in a deep purple frock, Ivy swept into Celia’s room, her cloak draped over her arm. “Aren’t you ready yet, Cousin? The lecture starts in less than an hour and you know how crowded it will be.”

“In a minute.” Celia finished pinning her hair and turned from the mirror. Normally she enjoyed the readings, lectures, exhibits, and concerts at the Chatham Literary and Art Society, but this afternoon she was too nervous to think of sitting through a talk about the writings of Miss Jane Austen. She was counting on the large crowd and the celebrity of the lecturer to hold Ivy’s attention
while she, Celia, slipped away. The address Mr. Ryan had provided was only a short walk from the lecture hall. With any luck, she would be back before the program ended and Ivy discovered her absence.

“I wish Uncle David were coming with us.” Ivy picked up a book from Celia’s night table and put it down again. “I fear he’s working too hard these days.”

“I agree. He needs a diversion, but Papa is not one for the writings of a romantic like Miss Austen.” Celia picked up her cloak and reticule. Her puppy scampered from beneath her writing table, his little rump in the air, his tail moving back and forth like a metronome. She smiled and bent to scratch his ears. “No, Maxwell, you cannot come with me. But I promise we’ll walk in the garden when I get back.”

The puppy grabbed a shawl from the back of her chair and dragged it across the floor. She chased him until she cornered him. He yipped and looked up at her, his eyes bright, as if his antics might persuade her to change her mind. She took the shawl away from him and hung it in the clothespress. “I must go now. You behave yourself.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he understood every word and will behave perfectly in our absence.”

“He understands more than you think.” Celia tossed the puppy a scrap of old linen to play with before following Ivy down the curving staircase to the foyer.

The door to Papa’s study was ajar. He was bent over his books. A wispy wreath of smoke from his pipe curled toward the ceiling.

“We’re off to the Austen lecture, Papa.”

He nodded and waved one hand without looking up.

“Don’t work too long. Promise?”

He grunted and looked up at her, his blue eyes alight with love. “Stop fussing over me, Celia. I’m all right.”

“You should rest this afternoon.” She stepped into the room. “You’re far too busy these days.”

He set down his pen. “I might say the same for you, my dear. I hardly see you anymore.”

“Oh, I know it. Between wedding plans and organizing my reception for the Female Asylum and spending time with Zeus and Maxwell, I have hardly a moment to myself.”

“How goes the fund-raising?”

“Better than I expected, given that some on the board of managers oppose any efforts to equip the girls for anything except sweeping floors and polishing silver. Most of the ladies I’ve talked to have pledged generous sums, and I expect a reasonable turnout for the reception, despite the crowded calendar this time of year.”

“Celia!” Ivy shouted from the foyer. “Come away this instant, or I shall leave without you.”

“Your cousin sounds perturbed.” Papa turned back to his ledgers. “You’d better go.”

Celia followed Ivy out the door and into the waiting carriage. Soon they joined a line of other conveyances slowly making their way toward the society’s lecture hall. Ivy fussed with her hair and fidgeted in her seat. “Now we’re going to be late. I hate being late.”

“We’ve plenty of time. You know these things never begin promptly.”

“This one will. Nobody would dare keep Dr. Sharp waiting.”

Ivy had been enamored with Dr. Elizabeth Sharp since reading an article about her in the
Home Journal
magazine. Not only was Dr. Sharp a leading scholar of English literature, she had also traveled all over the world and was a poet in her own right. Some said her visit to Savannah was the most important literary event since Mr. Thackeray’s tours years earlier.

At last the carriage came to a halt. Joseph helped Celia and Ivy out of the carriage, and they joined the swarm of ladies and a
few well-dressed gentlemen pressing toward the door. When they entered, Celia saw that the lecture hall was already half full. Mrs. Lawton and Mrs. Gordon were sitting together in the second row, the brims of their hats touching as they talked.

Celia looked around, hoping to find Sutton’s mother similarly engaged. As the time of her wedding approached, Celia was growing even more fond of Mrs. Mackay. She’d rather not be forced into making an excuse for choosing to sit apart from her future mother-in-law.

At last she saw Cornelia, dressed in a cobalt-blue dress and matching hat and conversing with Mrs. Stiles. She seemed to have no idea Celia was even there. Good. It would be easier to sneak away if she was never spotted in the first place.

Celia and Ivy found seats near the back. Celia hung back for a moment to allow two other women to occupy the seats between hers and Ivy’s. Ivy sent her a questioning look, and Celia responded with a slight shrug. She waited impatiently as the gas sconces along the walls were dimmed, leaving the lectern at the front of the room bathed in light.