The Bracelet (3 page)

He smiled. “You didn’t miss a thing. Shaw only wanted to bring by these papers before he leaves for Cassville to spend a few days with his sister. She hasn’t been well these past months. We discussed nothing of consequence.” Papa removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and folded them carefully. “How is your work for the asylum coming along?”

“Very well. Mother’s friends are happy I’ve decided to finish the work she started all those years ago. I only wish I could have taken up the cause much sooner.”

“Your schooling had to come first.”

Papa had paid two hundred dollars a year for her and Ivy to attend the female academy in Atlanta. They had spent six years learning French and astronomy, science and mathematics,
needlework and music. Celia loved science especially, but marriage, motherhood, and charity work were the only permitted aspirations for a woman of her station. In the five years since graduation, she’d devoted herself to various causes, including improving the lives of the girls at the Savannah’s Female Orphan Asylum.

“I wish Mother could know how much progress we’ve made with the girls. But there’s still so much to be done, and all of it takes a good deal of money.”

Papa nodded. “I saw Alexander Lawton at the club last week. He said Mrs. Lawton intends to make a generous contribution.”

“I thought she might. She’s working hard to gather more support for the indigents at the hospital too. She feels as I do, that improving the lives of the least fortunate will benefit all of Savannah.” A thick dark curl escaped its pins, and Celia tucked it behind her ear. “I wish you could see how much progress Annie Wilcox has made. She has been at the asylum less than a year and already she reads as well as I do. And she’s a genius at trimming hats. Mrs. Clayton thinks Annie might one day find a position at Miss Garrett’s.”

Her father’s brows rose in a silent question.

“Miss Garrett owns one of the finest millinery shops in Charleston. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Annie could work there and one day open a shop of her own?”

His expression grew tender. “Seeing those girls succeed is terribly important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and not only for the sake of Mother’s memory. Most of the girls are working so hard to learn something that will allow them to live a respectable life. I can’t help hoping they will succeed. But we need more books and perhaps one of those new sewing machines everybody is talking about for those who want to learn dressmaking. And a piano for Iris Welborn. She’s a musical genius who plays much better than I do, even though she has
never had a lesson in her life. If she learns to read music, she might one day earn a good living as a music teacher.”

“Savannahians are generous people. I can’t imagine that you won’t raise enough for those things.”

“Oh, I think we will. Several of the ladies have already pledged their support. But we need to expand the building too. Just last week three new girls arrived. That place is bursting at the seams.”

Papa took off his spectacles and polished them on his sleeve. “A building expansion is quite an ambitious undertaking.”

“I know it. But if men like you and Mr. Green and Mr. Low will help, I’m sure we can do it.”

“Of course you can count on me, but you must remember most of Savannah is still recovering from last year’s financial crisis.” Papa raised an eyebrow as if to remind her of the importance of tact. “Many of our friends fared much worse than we did.”

“I’ll be circumspect, Papa. I’m planning a quiet reception later this fall where people can come to socialize and contribute to the fund anonymously. That way everyone can preserve appearances without feeling compelled to give more than they can really afford.”

He glanced out the window. “I’m pleased things are going so well, but something tells me you didn’t come here to give me a progress report on the Female Asylum.”

She shifted in her chair and dug her bare toes into the thick carpet. “Alicia Thayer called here this morning with the most exciting news. I hope it’s true.”

“Ah. Is this about Sutton Mackay?”

“Then it is true! He’s on his way home?”

“I haven’t spoken to Burke Mackay about it yet, but I saw Mr. Stiles this morning, and he says Sutton left Kingston last week. I imagine young Mr. Mackay will turn up here any day now—just in time for the start of the social season.”

“May we host an entertainment for him, Papa? Nothing too elaborate.”

“The last time you said that, we wound up with fifty guests for Christmas dinner.”

She laughed. “I will admit it. That one got a bit out of hand. But people still talk about how much they loved the food. And the Mysterious Fantasticals.”

“And well they should. Do you have any idea what that dinner cost me?”

“Mrs. Stiles says one never should discuss the cost of hosting guests. Or of anything else for that matter.”

“And she is right, of course. Forget I said anything.” Papa rose and retrieved his pipe from its stand on the corner of his desk. He took his time filling it while he stared absently out the window at the leafy, parklike square.

“Were you and Mr. Stiles talking business this morning? Or politics? If the former, I am quite piqued at being left out.”

He puffed on his pipe to get it going and sat down heavily behind his desk. “William prefers not to discuss business with women present.”

“Too bad. He could learn a lot from us. We women know much more than most men think.”

Papa smiled. “You didn’t miss any news from Commerce Row. William is concerned about the next presidential election.”

“Already?”

“He says there’s some talk Mr. Lincoln from Illinois might run. Lincoln says he has no wish to meddle in our affairs despite his opposition to slavery. But William is certain his election would spell doom for the South.”

Celia plumped the needlepoint pillow behind her back. “Last week at tea, Mrs. Quarterman said the Dred Scott decision should have settled the entire issue. She says the court has decided that a
slave is the property of his owner no matter where he goes. But if we secede, I don’t think the Northerners will care what the judges say.”

Her father nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’m proud that you’re so well informed, Celia. But I regret that the ladies of Savannah find it necessary to spend so much time worrying about politics.” He gestured with his pipe. “The election is nearly two years away. There’s no sense worrying about it today.”

“I agree. But Mrs. Quarterman said some of the Negroes are starting to talk politics in the streets, and not just in Currytown and Old Fort. She says they’re becoming outspoken right here in our own neighborhoods too.”

“There have been some noisy discussions in the streets of late. I do want you and Ivy to be careful when you leave the house. If you need to go farther than Reynolds Square, please have Joseph drive you.” He set down his pipe. “Now, what type of entertainment are you contemplating for the esteemed Mr. Mackay?”

“I haven’t had much time to consider it, but in the carriage on the way home this afternoon, I was thinking that a masked ball might be just the thing. Nobody has given one in quite some time, and I know Sutton would enjoy it. I’m sure people don’t host masquerades in Jamaica.”

“Perhaps not.” Papa opened his leather appointment book. “I must make a trip to Charleston at the end of the month, but we could arrange something for early October. The weather should permit us to serve a buffet on the rear terrace.”

“I suppose that’s enough time for us to send the invitations and for our guests to assemble their costumes.”

He ran his finger down the page. “Does Saturday the ninth of October suit you, my dear? Assuming of course that Sutton is home by then. Sea voyages can be unpredictable this time of year.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Papa. Will you ask Sutton the moment he arrives home?”

“I shall inform him of your intent at the first opportunity. And I’ll see his father at the club tomorrow. I’ll mention it to him then.” Papa took another draw on his pipe and sought her gaze. “I’m glad to see your happy anticipation, darling. I know how fond you are of Sutton. But I must caution you not to wear your heart on your sleeve.”

She laughed. “I’m afraid it’s entirely too late for that. Everybody in Savannah knows how Sutton and I feel about each other.”

“A childhood friendship is not the same as marriage. People change with time.”

“He hasn’t been away that long.”

“Two years is a long time in my book. You are not the same young woman you were when he left the city.”

“I hope not. I hope I’m wiser now. Certainly I’m old enough to marry, and there is no one on earth I’d rather marry than Sutton Mackay.”

“All the same, I don’t want you to fix your affections too hastily, Celia. Take your time getting to know Sutton again, to be certain his habits and principles are still a good match for your own.”

“Of course, Papa.” But deep down she couldn’t imagine any fault of Sutton’s that would dampen her affection for him. He possessed all the qualities of an ideal suitor—good blood ties, a fine education, solid economic prospects, and impeccable manners. He was quick to laugh, slow to anger, quick to forgive. And he was the handsomest member of the Chatham Artillery, the most prestigious of all the city’s volunteer companies. His letters from the Mackays’ shipping port on Jamaica’s Black River, though infrequent due to distance, were full of lively observations of local life and news of his thriving business, and they left little doubt about his intentions regarding their future. That suited Celia perfectly.
She hated the whole tiresome notion that a girl must wait to be chosen. With any luck, her wait was almost at an end.

A carriage rolled past the window, the horses’ hooves kicking up clouds of sand. A fire bell sounded in the distance. Papa knocked the ash from his pipe. “Now you must excuse me, my dear. I must attend to some correspondence before dinner.”

“All right.” Celia rose, her silk skirts rustling, and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Don’t work too late. Mrs. Maguire has made a beef roast for dinner and syllabub for dessert, and you know how she fusses if she has to wait to serve it.”

“Hmmm.”

She frowned. “You are worried, Papa. And not only about politics. What’s troubling you?”

He tapped the copy of the
Daily Morning News
folded neatly on his desk. Celia glanced at the headline. “The house of love and grief: New mystery surrounds Browning mansion on Madison Square. New mystery? What new mystery?”

“There is no new mystery. It’s only the wild imaginings of a journalist who apparently has come to town for the sole purpose of writing about us and reviving the tragedy that befell this house all those years ago. There is no purpose in it apart from selling more newspapers.” Papa released a heavy sigh. “I’m quite disappointed in William Thompson. I’ve known him ever since he became the editor at the paper, and I can’t say I understand at all what is to be gained by resurrecting such painful memories.”

Celia had been only a child then, but fragments of memory still lay like shards of glass in her heart: A black wreath on the door. The parlor mirror draped in black. Mrs. Maguire’s grim, pale face, the furtive whisperings of the mourners, and Ivy’s heart-wrenching wails as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Then the dark, tragic coda to a story she still didn’t understand.

Now she worried that the whole scandalous story would play
out in the newspapers all over again, just when Sutton Mackay was returning home. Even the best people were endlessly fascinated by tragedy so long as it was not their own, even in a city such as Savannah, which prided itself on observing propriety above all else. She frowned. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“I intend to speak to Thompson tomorrow. But frankly, I’m not too hopeful he’ll quash the story. He’s in the business of selling papers after all.” Papa jabbed a finger at the folded newspaper. “If this Channing fellow can find even one new half-truth to splash across the headlines, I’m sure some people in town will be unable to resist reading about it.”

“Miss Celia?” Mrs. Maguire’s voice preceded her into the room. The Irish housekeeper bustled in carrying a stack of clean linens and bobbed her head at Papa. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Mrs. Maguire.”

“Miss Celia, I’ve been callin’ you for the last ten minutes and here you sit, daft as stone.”

“I’m sorry. What is it you wanted?” Celia regarded the housekeeper fondly. Though Mrs. Maguire had arrived in Savannah aboard a ship from County Waterford nearly thirty years earlier and had worked for the Brownings ever since, her speech still held strong traces of her native country. Especially when her feathers were ruffled.

Mrs. Maguire thrust the linens into Celia’s arms. “These are the things you wanted to donate to the asylum. Sure and you’ll be wantin’ them for your meeting tomorra mornin’. They’re old
,
but serviceable. I’m sure the girls will be happy to have them.” With another bob of her head, she hurried toward the kitchen.

Papa cleared his throat and stared pointedly at the papers on his desk. Celia took the hint and hurried up the stairs to her room with her stack of linens, determined not to let politics or the specter of a scandalous newspaper story spoil Sutton’s homecoming.

If all went as she hoped, she and Sutton would be engaged by Christmas.