The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  She chewed on her lower lip as the carriage approached the race course. That Sutton’s father had needed a loan was worrisome. Perhaps Papa was in financial trouble, too, and waiting until his situation improved before undertaking construction of a new carriage house. How much money had he lent to Mr. Mackay anyway?

  Moments later, Joseph halted the carriage. Celia stepped out and looked around, hoping to spot Sutton’s big bay, Poseidon. But only the Warings’ chestnut mare, her thick tail swishing, waited in the enclosure next to the grandstand. Finn O’Grady, the red-haired groom, lifted one hand in a little wave as she neared the enclosure.

  “If you’re here to ride with Miss Waring, she ain’t got here yet.” Finn blew out an exasperated breath. “That woman’s never on time.”

  A rumble of thunder rolled across the track, and he frowned. “If she don’t get here soon it’ll be too late.”

  “I’ll ride alone, then. I need you to tack up—”

  “Zeus. Yes, Miss, I know that gelding of yours. Just about the finest horse in Georgia, I reckon.”

  She laughed. “Well, I think so anyway.”

  “A man come here the day before yesterday, asking if I thought you’d sell Zeus. I told him no, sir, not at any price.”

  “You’re right about that. Now, if we could please hurry . . .”

  Finn turned toward the stables. “I’ll get him ready. Won’t take me but a minute.”

  Joseph stood nearby holding the carriage horses’ reins, one eye on the darkening sky. “Reckon I might as well wait right here till you’re ready to go back, Miss Celia.”

  “Oh, Joseph, I hate to make you wait. Besides, Papa might need to go out this afternoon, and he’ll need the carriage. I wouldn’t want him walking about getting wet and chilled.”

  “If you don’t hurry yourself up, you gon’ get wet and chilled your own self.”

  “If it starts to rain, I’ll shelter under the grandstand.”

  “Well, all right then. But I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  Joseph vaulted onto the seat and turned the carriage for home just as Finn came out leading Zeus. The black gelding shied and danced behind the groom, but when he saw Celia he blew out a greeting and nuzzled her hand. She laughed and reached up to scratch behind his ears. “Hello, my darling. Did you miss me?”

  Zeus shook his head and pawed the track. She laughed. “I thought so. Let’s go.”

  Finn boosted her onto the saddle and handed her the reins. Zeus tried another little dance, but she gathered him in and urged him into a smart trot toward the track. She let him take one lap at his own pace, then bent low, and with subtle pressure to his sides, asked him to canter. Zeus responded, hooves flying, and they circled the oval, churning red dirt in their wake. Once he settled she’d take him down the wooded trail to the pretty little pond nestled at the back of the property—if the rain held off long enough. She glanced up just as the first drops plopped onto the ground.

  Celia sighed and took a firm hold on the reins. “All right, then. Just one more lap before the storm hits.”

  Zeus lengthened his stride as they approached the far turn. From the corner of her eye, Celia glimpsed movement in the thick stand of trees bordering the track.

  A dark-clad figure rose from the undergrowth and lobbed an empty whisky bottle onto the track. Celia wheeled Zeus just in time to keep him from tripping. But the sudden movement startled the gelding, and he bolted into the woods. Celia felt him stumble beneath her as he threw a shoe.

  The rain intensified. She slid from the saddle and checked his feet. Zeus’s left rear shoe was gone. She wiped rain from her face and chastised herself for not checking the horse herself instead of relying on the young groom.

  Zeus, his sides heaving, shook his head and snuffled. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll walk back.”

  The undergrowth rustled, and her breath caught.

  “Celia?” Sutton appeared on a weedy path through the woods leading Poseidon, his hat dripping rain.

  “Sutton! Where were you? I waited for you at church and then—”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve spoiled the whole day. And I will explain, but I think we ought to get out of this weather. What happened to Zeus?”

  She explained about the thrown shoe. “I’d rather not ride him back, even if it is only a short way.”

  “Come on.”

  In the pouring rain they hastened through the woods, skirted the muddy track, and headed for the stables. Finn appeared at the door of Zeus’s stall. Sutton walked Poseidon into an empty stall and began drying him off.

  “My horse has thrown a shoe.” Celia removed her sodden hat and handed Finn the reins. “You should have checked the shoes when you tacked him up.”

  “Sorry, Miss.” The groom picked up a heavy towel and began drying the horse’s flank. “It was careless of me, sure enough. It won’t happen again.”

  Celia nodded. “All right then. Please see that he is ready to ride again at ten on Thursday.”

  “I will.” Finn plucked another towel off a stack. “Looks like you could use this.”

  She squeezed water from her hair and blotted her face, keeping an eye on the groom as he removed Zeus’s tack and filled the water trough. Finn fished a key from his pocket. “This opens the grandstand office. You might want to go in there and dry off, wait out the storm.”

  Sutton appeared, beads of water dripping from his hair. She handed him the towel and the key.

  “We look like a pair of drowned rats,” he said. “Do you suppose Finn left any coffee in the office?”

  They hurried along the grandstand to the office, a small, plain room fitted with a desk and chair, a bookshelf, and a filing cabinet. A single window afforded a watery view of the track. Sutton started to close the door.

  “Please leave it open,” Celia said quickly.

  “Oh yes, I remember. Of course.” Leaving the door ajar, Sutton pulled out the chair for her, and then perched on the corner of the desk while she related the story of the thrown bottle, shivering more from the memory of the danger to her horse than from the dampness.

  “If I hadn’t turned Zeus when I did, he might have fallen and snapped a leg. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

  “It was probably some thoughtless child making mischief. It’s what children do—make decisions before they’re old enough to understand the consequences.”

  She looked up, surprised by the edge in his voice. “You’re talking about that night at the Screven’s Ferry Landing.”

  He nodded. “A couple of men rowed over yesterday to ask about working for me. They mentioned they’d been hunting over that direction—and I was reminded of that night yet again. Even after all these years, I still feel guilty for what I did.”

  Celia frowned. “That was a long time ago. We were just children, Sutton. There was no way you could know about—”

  “No, but my father taught me to be better than that.” He shrugged. “The only good thing that came out of that night was meeting you.”

  She smiled at the memory. “I wonder if our tree is still there.”

  “One of these days we should go look for it.” He released a gusty sigh and peered out the window. Rain pattered on the roof. “Celia, what would you say if I told you that I’ve come to a decision? That I’ve changed my mind?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her body folding in upon itself.

  “Miss Celia?” Joseph loomed in the doorway holding a huge umbrella. “Your daddy’s worried ’bout you being out in this storm. I’ve come to take you home.”

  Celia looked up at Sutton, her heart hammering. “You’ve changed your mind?”

  “We can’t talk now.” He clasped both her hands. “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  “Of course. But—”

  “I’ll be there at ten sharp.”

  There was nothing to do but to follow Joseph to the waiting carriage.

  Overnight the weather turned chilly. Celia rose to the
sound of a fire crackling merrily in the grate and the smell of Mrs. Maguire’s soda bread wafting up the stairs. She dressed carefully in a salmon-colored silk dress, pinned up her hair, and went down to breakfast. Her father had already left; his empty coffee cup still sat at his place at the table along with a copy of the Daily Morning News.

  Ivy looked up from her plate of eggs. “Good morning, Cousin. Did you sleep well?”

  Celia sighed and slipped into her chair just as Mrs. Maguire appeared with another plate and the coffee pot.

  “Here you go, my girl.” Mrs. Maguire studied Celia over her spectacles. “You’re looking pale as rain this morn. I hope you’re not getting sick from spending all afternoon yesterday in the damp.”

  “I’m all right. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Mrs. Maguire clucked her tongue. “If you’re askin’ me, Mr. Browning should niver have let you go to the track with a storm brewing. But I reckon he knows better than to try to keep you away from that horse.” She turned to go.

  “Mrs. Maguire?” Celia said. “Mr. Mackay is coming at ten this morning. I wonder if you’d make some tea and some of your benne seed cookies he’s so fond of.”

  “Aye, I will. Go on now and eat your eggs before they get cold.”

  When the housekeeper had gone, Ivy slid the newspaper across the table. “Mr. Channing has written another article about us.”

  Celia frowned as she scanned the headline and the brief story beneath.

  The Curious Case of the Laundress: Was It Suicide . . . or Cold-blooded Murder?

  Rumors persist that the death of the beautiful young mulatto fifteen years ago at the Browning mansion on Madison Square was not what it seemed. For some time, talk had swirled that the young woman, a resident of St. Simons Island, was involved in a romantic liaison with a member of the Browning family. Such a thing seems plausible to this reporter in light of the other death that took place in the same house only two weeks earlier. It was rumored . . .

  Celia tossed the paper aside. “If I weren’t so angry, this would be laughable. Is this what passes for journalism these days? Listen to him: ‘rumors persist . . . talk had swirled . . . it was rumored.’ Mr. Thompson should be ashamed of himself for printing such drivel. There is not one fact in the entire piece.”

  “Well, hardly any, anyway,” Ivy said.

  “How can you sit there so calmly when our name is being dragged through the mud for no reason? I should think you of all people would be outraged.”

  Ivy shrugged. “You forget that I was subjected to years of whispers and rumors at school.” She set her cup aside. “Of course no one will say so, but I’m quite sure it’s the reason I’ve had no marriage proposal. Or at least not one I cared to accept. And time is running out.”

  Celia felt a pang of sympathy for Ivy. Every young woman felt the pressure to find a suitable match before the window of opportunity closed, dooming her to spinsterhood.

  “Oh, Ivy, I didn’t—”

  “Mr. Channing’s silly newspaper article pales in comparison to the humiliations I’ve already suffered.” Ivy refilled her cup and flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I refuse to let it upset me. Plenty of women live fulfilling lives without the benefit of marriage, and I fully intend to become one of them. Now tell me. What was it that disturbed your dreams?”

  “At the racetrack yesterday, Sutton told me he has had a change of heart.”

  “A change of heart? About what?”

  “I don’t know. Joseph arrived to bring me home before we had time to discuss it.” Celia tried to eat a bite of bread and jam, but it stuck in her throat.

  “You don’t suppose that after keeping you waiting all these years, Sutton has decided not to marry?”

  “I thought I knew his heart, but I admit I’m afraid he—”

  “Has he said anything to make you doubt his intentions?”

  “Not at all. But then we’ve hardly had a moment alone since he got home. And now, with the loss of his father’s ship, I expect I’ll see even less of him, at least until it’s sorted out.”

  “Well, then, I would advise you to follow Sutton’s own advice and not borrow trouble.” Ivy placed her damask napkin beside her empty plate. “Now, I must go. I’m expected at the asylum to read with Louisa this morning.”

  “What book are you taking?”

  “Ravenscliffe, by Anne Caldwell. It’s an older book, but I doubt Louisa has read it.”

  “Perhaps it will hold more appeal for her than my choices. She showed no interest at all in either Emily Brontë’s work or Mr. Thackeray’s.”

  “Thackeray can be a challenge, even for an accomplished reader.” Ivy touched Celia’s shoulder as she turned toward the library. “Please don’t worry. I’m sure your fears regarding Sutton’s intentions are ill-founded.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Celia glanced at the mantel clock. “In any case I’ll know soon enough.”

  “Everything will work out just as you wish it. You’ll see.” Ivy hurried up the stairs for her cloak and hat and returned moments later, just as the Brownings’ carriage drew up at the door.

  She peered into the dining room on her way out. “I’m off. Remember me to Sutton.”

  6

  CELIA RETRIEVED HER WRITING BOX FROM HER ROOM AND settled into the library to wait. She rested her feet on a small footstool and began a letter, but her thoughts wouldn’t settle. For weeks she had looked forward to Sutton’s homecoming, but everything had gone wrong.

  First, there was Leo Channing and his nonsense. Was Channing the reason Sutton had changed his mind? The Mackays were one of the best families in Savannah. Perhaps Sutton wouldn’t want a wife whose family was mired in a salacious story even if the events that had precipitated it lay years in the past. Then there was the Mackays’ missing ship and Papa’s worrisome obligation for it.

  She closed her eyes and replayed yesterday’s brief conversation with Sutton, recalling the childhood escapade that had brought them together but nearly ended in tragedy. It had happened on All Hallows’ Eve thirteen years ago. Sutton had just turned fourteen and Celia was barely twelve.

  All of Savannah, eager for diversion after a summer marked by fears of yellow fever, had turned out in costume to promenade through the squares. Celia was with a group of girls from her school, laughing and teasing one another as they ran along Bull Street. It was dark as pitch, save for the flickering torches people had placed at the street corners. Firecrackers popped, scattering a group of smaller children playing in the park.

  A small boy tossed a ball into the air, and it lodged in the tree branches. He began to wail, and nothing would distract him. Setting her basket of goodies on the ground, Celia hiked her skirts and shinnied up the tree to rescue the ball. When she dropped to the ground, a very attractive young boy stood there, grinning down at her. “Bravo.”

  “Brava.” She tossed the ball to its grateful owner as the revelers headed toward the river to watch a fireworks display.

  “Come again?” He braced himself against the tree, one arm outstretched.

  “Bravo is masculine. Brava is feminine. I’m a girl.”

  He laughed. “You don’t say? You sound just like my teacher.”

  “Goodness, I hope I’m not as stuffy as all that. But it’s important to get things right, don’t you think?”

  “I do.” He handed her the basket of chocolates and oranges she’d been carrying. “Going to the fireworks?”

  “Of course.”

  “Want me to walk with you? Keep the haints away?”

  “No such thing.”

  “’Course there is. They’re everywhere.” He fell into step beside her. “The worst of ’em isn’t here in town though. The worst one lives in the woods out by Screven’s Landing. They say she knows how to mix a poison that will turn you into stone if you so much as get it on your skin. And if she catches you messing around her special tree, she ties you up and makes you drink the poison so you can never leave and t
ell anyone where she lives.”

  A delicious trickle of fear skittered along her spine. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” Celia looked up at him as they passed beneath a flickering torch, the grass brittle beneath their feet. “What’s your name anyway?”

  “Sutton Mackay. I know you. You’re Mr. Browning’s daughter.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I saw you coming out of church with him on Sunday. And with your sister, I guess.

  “My cousin Ivy. She lives with us because she has no parents anymore.”

  They cut across Reynolds Square and headed for the river, where the crowd had gathered for the fireworks.

  Celia shifted her basket to her other arm. “I should know you, too, but I don’t.”

  “Our fathers know each other from Commerce Row. I’ve been away at school every year since I was seven, and my family spends most summers in Europe. I like traveling around and seeing new places, but my mother complains that we are hardly ever at home in Savannah.”

  They stood together on the crowded wharf as the first fireworks exploded above the dark waters of the river and the onlookers broke into applause.

  “I can prove it, you know,” he said.

  “Prove what?” She glanced up at the gray-eyed, curly-haired boy who stood a head taller than she.

  “That the Screven’s Landing haint is real.”

  “Sutton Mackay, are you trying to scare me? Because it won’t work.”

  “Good. If you aren’t afraid, then you won’t mind coming with me.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You’re going over there now? In the dark?”

  “Of course. That’s when the haints come out.” He stepped back and grinned down at her. “Come on. I’ll row us over.”

  “I can’t. My father will expect me home soon.”

  “We can get there and back in an hour.”

  Celia hesitated for only a moment. Something about this boy spoke to her girlish heart. He was courteous. Smart too. And he would be an extraordinarily handsome man one day, if his muscles ever filled out his skinny frame. Her father knew his, so it wasn’t as if she were heading off with a total stranger. And for some reason she found it important to impress him. “All right. But we can’t stay long.”