by Dorothy Love
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 bec
ame 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.
“Listen to this.” Celia set down her pen and held her sheet of writing paper to the gray light coming through the parlor window. A thick layer of fog had come in with the tide, painting the city a somber shade of gray and bringing with it a steady rain that thwarted her plans to deliver clothing and linens to the Female Asylum.
Ivy set down the scarf she was knitting. “I’m all ears.”
Celia read aloud:
The dark Peruvian and the Naples maid
Fly through the waltz or down the gallopade.
Spain’s haughty grandee seeks the gypsy girl,
And Greek and Frenchman join the airy whirl.
Ivy nodded. “Very clever.”
“I’m thinking of putting it on the cover of our invitation to the ball. I know Mrs. Naughton will be pleased. Remember the year she came to Mrs. Sorrel’s party dressed as a gypsy girl?”
“Vaguely.” Ivy resumed her knitting.
Celia let out a sigh. “You might be a little more enthusiastic.”
“Yes, I might be, but this blowout has little to do with me.” Ivy’s needles made a faint clicking sound in the large room. “I know it’s important to you, but I’ve never been one for dances and such.”
Celia regarded her cousin with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. Though Papa saw to Ivy’s every creature comfort, she had grown up knowing little of the carefree gaiety most young women of her social class enjoyed. “You’d like them more if you’d learn to waltz. Papa would teach you or hire an instructor.”
“I know, and I’m grateful. But really, I’d rather stay home with a good book and a cozy fire than spend an evening pretending to like people I can barely tolerate.”
Celia set down her pen and paper. “You’ve been like this ever since we learned of Sutton’s return. What’s the matter? Our friends are the nicest people in Savannah. I should think you’d be pleased at the prospect of an evening with them.”
“Some of them are all right. But Fanny Ward sets my teeth on edge.” Ivy finished off a row of stitches and unwound more scarlet-colored yarn from the basket at her feet. “She doesn’t do anything except spend her father’s money and gossip. And Rose Shaw is too clever by half, if you ask me.”
“Rose is brilliant. Mrs. Mackay says Rose is to have her poetry book published next summer.”
“Nobody likes a woman who is too clever. And Rose simply tries too hard.”
“Well, I think she’s remarkable. I wouldn’t mind publishing a book someday.”
“Sutton Mackay might have other ideas about that.”
“Sutton will want whatever makes me happy. That’s one reason he’s so wonderful.”
Ivy frowned. “May we please speak of something else? It seems he’s the only topic of conversation in this house these days. I find it tiresome.”
Celia stared. “I thought you adored Sutton. Besides, you’re the one who brought him up.”
“I do like him. Very much. But too much talk of any one subject is like having pudding three times a day. Eventually one becomes sated.”
“Then how about helping me with the guest list. I must finish it soon and get the invitations to the printer’s.” Celia read off a list of names that included the Stileses and the Mackays, plus the Frasers, Butlers, Greens, and Wards. “Too bad the Lows have left for England. I’ll miss having Mary here. Have I forgotten anyone?”
“What about the Sorrels?”
The Sorrels were their neighbors on Madison Square, having built a magnificent home that rivaled her own. The dapper and engaging Mr. Sorrel, who was said to be half Haitian and half French, was the third richest man in Savannah and excellent company. But his poor wife, Matilda, was plagued by fits of melancholy and wildness that made her an unpredictable guest.
Celia scribbled their name and added a question mark beside it before glancing at her cousin. “I’m inviting Alicia Thayer.”
“I assumed you would. Despite my feelings about it.”
“How can I not? She’s my dearest friend. And she never meant to embarrass you by inquiring about an engagement that never happened. She thought you were quite serious in your intentions toward Mr. Carlisle. We all thought so.”
“I can’t help it. I’m still mortified every time I think of it.”
“Heavens, Ivy. That was more than a year ago. And Alicia has apologized more than once.”
Ivy kept her eyes on her knitting. “If you loved me as a cousin ought, you would never invite her.”
Celia doodled on her notepaper. Allowances must be made, Mrs. Maguire always said, because Ivy had no parents. Celia knew being an orphan was difficult. She had grown up without her mother after all, and she knew how lonely it could be. But all their lives, Ivy had wanted whatever was Celia’s, whether it was a doll or a hat or a new dress, and Celia had acquiesced rather than disappoint Papa. Now that they were adults, she had grown weary of being the one who was always expected to give in.
“What about the Gordons?” Ivy said. “You know how everyone in Savannah has taken to Nellie Gordon.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought that with all the lovely girls right here in Savannah, William Gordon would up and marry someone from Chicago?” Ivy laughed. “They say Mrs. Gordon has a habit of sliding down stairway banisters. Do you suppose it’s true?”
“I haven’t any idea. But I’m sure she isn’t sliding down banisters these days, and she won’t be here for the masquerade. Mrs. Mackay says Nellie’s baby is due any day now.”
Downstairs the doorbell chimed, and a moment late
r Mrs. Maguire appeared in the doorway. “Miss Celia, you have a caller.”
“At this hour? In this disagreeable weather?” Celia patted her hair and smoothed her blue gabardine day dress. “I’m not prepared for callers, Mrs. Maguire. Please ask whoever it is to leave her card.”
“’Tis no lady, my girl, but a gentleman. From the newspaper, he says.”
“The newspaper? You mean the one bent upon stirring up trouble for us?”
“I can’t say. Here’s his card.”
Celia glanced at the name printed on flimsy paper rather than engraved on heavy stock as a proper gentleman’s card should be. “Tell Mr. Channing I am not at home.”
“Ah, but you are.” The man strode into the entry hall and peered into the parlor.
Celia whirled and scowled at him, taking in his cheap wool suit, the jacket patched at the elbows and brown boots desperately in need of a proper polishing. “Mr. Channing, it is highly impolite to barge into a home when you have not been invited.”
Hat in hand, he sauntered into the room. “I realize that, and I do apologize for my lack of propriety, but I don’t imagine you would have invited me inside under any circumstances.”
“You are correct. Mrs. Maguire will show you out.”
His eyes caught hers and held. “You won’t grant me even a single question, Miss Browning? After coming all the way across town in this messy weather?”
“I’m not responsible for the weather, nor for your poor judgment.”
Ivy set down her knitting. “What is it you wish to know, sir?”
Celia glared at her cousin. “Surely you are not thinking of—”
“I saw the newspaper yesterday.” Ivy looked up at the interloper, who stood just inside the door, his hat tucked beneath his arm. “I am Ivy Lorens. It’s my parents’ story that has captured your imagination, I believe.”
“So I understand. But the, um, tragic events occurred here. Or, more precisely, in the carriage house.” He shrugged. “One of them did anyway.”
Celia waved one hand. “None of which is in dispute. I cannot see the point of this conversation at all.”
