by Dorothy Love
“Men are such idealistic dreamers,” Mrs. Mackay said. “They dwell too much upon the glories of war without counting the cost. Sometimes I think the country would be better off if women were in charge. We look at things with a more practical eye.”
“Yes, but the suffrage movement isn’t making much progress,” Celia said. “I doubt women will get the vote in my lifetime, much less achieve elected office.”
A carriage rumbled past the hotel. Mrs. Mackay peered around the potted palm and through the window opposite. “I believe that is Mrs. Lawton’s rig. Which reminds me, I promised to call on her this afternoon. I suppose we should be going soon.”
They gathered their things, and half an hour later, Celia was returned to her father’s house. Ivy was still out, but Joseph was waiting patiently beside the gate. He tipped his hat. “Miss Ivy said you wanted to go calling this afternoon.”
“Yes. To the Stileses’ and then to the Quartermans’.”
They set off in the carriage. Celia called on Mrs. Stiles, where she collected a box of warm winter coats and six scarves knit from the softest wool. As Celia prepared to leave, the older woman proffered a check. “I find cash is always appreciated at the hospital.”
“Yes.” Celia tucked the check into her bag. “Mrs. Lawton will be delighted.”
“Give her my regards and tell her I’ll call soon. I want to see the baby.”
Celia waved and returned to the carriage.
“You goin’ to the Quartermans’ now?” Joseph asked.
“Yes, please.”
“You planning on staying long?”
“Not long. Why? Is there some place you need to go?”
“Got to fetch Miss Ivy from the Female Asylum. I expect she’s waitin’ on me by now.” Joseph climbed up and flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched along the dirt road. At the Quartermans’ handsome house on Abercorn Street, he halted and helped her down.
“No need to wait for me,” Celia told him. “According to Mrs. Lawton’s list, I’ve only to collect a check from the Quartermans—no heavy boxes to carry. I can walk home.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. It’s a beautiful afternoon. I’ll enjoy the chance to spend a few minutes outside. Besides, Ivy took my turn at the asylum today. I don’t want to make her wait too long.”
Joseph frowned. “Well, if you’re sure. Mr. Browning tol’ me I was s’posed to carry you and your cousin wherever you want to go. Keep you safe from the troublemakers on the street.”
“Go ahead. I won’t be long.”
The driver waited beside the carriage until she had rung the bell and the Quartermans’ butler had answered the door.
“Please follow me,” the butler said. He led her into the parlor and disappeared.
Celia perched on the edge of the velvet settee. She had been so busy all day that she hadn’t had time to think about the bracelet or to decide what to do about it. Now, in the silence of the Quartermans’ elegant parlor, her fears came roaring back. Who had sent it and the cryptic messages? What did it all mean? Was this some sick game, or was someone out to harm her?
Mary Quarterman hurried into the parlor. “Celia, forgive me for making you wait. Mother was in the middle of one of her lectures, and I had no choice but to hear her out.” Mary laughed. “She thinks she can simply harangue me into getting married. If only it were that simple!”
Celia smiled. She and Mary were the same age and moved in the same social circle. Celia was not as close to Mary as to Alicia Thayer, but she and Mary liked each other. And today, at least, it seemed Mary didn’t intend to hold Mr. Channing’s scurrilous writings against her.
“I imagine you will be engaged before Christmas,” Celia said. “Alicia says Miles Frost is quite taken with you.”
“So says my brother, who has his own romantic prospects to think about.” Mary glanced toward the door she had left ajar, and lowered her voice. “He’s sweet on Alicia, but don’t you dare breathe a word of it.”
“I won’t tell a living soul.” Celia grinned. “Maybe the four of you will have a double wedding. Remember when the Sinclair sisters married on the same day?”
“I remember.” Mary sighed. “If Miles does care for me, he has yet to declare himself.”
“Oh, I know you’ll make a good match one of these days.”
“Spoken with the confidence of one who is safely engaged. But I do appreciate the encouragement. But enough chat—you’re here for the check for the hospital. Come on in to Pa’s study.”
Celia followed Mary down the hallway and into a book-lined room overlooking the street. Mary crossed the room to a walnut desk piled high with papers, drawings, newspaper clippings, and magazines and began tossing things aside. “I know he left that check here somewhere.”
She paused in her search to show Celia a large sketch of the waterfront. “Pa’s latest idea. He wants to dredge the river so larger ships can access the Port of Savannah. He’s corresponding with Mr. Lee in Virginia about it. Mr. Lee supposedly has experience with such things.”
More books and papers went flying. Desk drawers opened and closed. Mary frowned and burrowed farther into the pile. “Aha!”
She emerged at last, triumphant. “Here it is.” She glanced at it and whistled. “Generous too. Don’t tell Mother. She worries about money all the time.”
“I won’t. But it is for a good cause. Without the hospital, the sick and the indigent would have no place to go.”
Mary’s gray eyes hinted at mischief. “Pa says the hospital is more for the sake of the city than for those poor unfortunates. He says we must keep them off the streets to protect Savannah’s reputation among the Northern investors.”
“Whatever the true reason, the funds will be put to good use.” Celia folded the check and put it away. “I suppose I should go. Our driver has gone to collect Ivy from the Female Asylum, and they’ll be home soon.”
“How is Ivy?” Mary plopped into her father’s chair. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
Celia frowned. “I thought she went on an outing with you on Sunday.”
“No. Mother wasn’t feeling well after church, so we came straight home.”
“That’s odd. I could have sworn . . . but maybe I misunderstood.” Celia started for the door.
Mary walked her out. “Give your cousin my regards. An outing would be wonderful. We should plan one soon before the weather turns cold.”
Mary waved as Celia went through the gate and headed for Bull Street. The afternoon was waning. A cool breeze blew in from the river, and the low sun cast long shadows across her path. Celia tucked her bag securely beneath her arm and headed home. She was exhausted after a day of shopping and visiting and eager to reach the safety of her room to ponder Mary’s assertion that she and Ivy hadn’t spent Sunday together. If Ivy had not been with the Quartermans on Sunday as she claimed, where had she been? And why had she lied about it?
Celia hurried past a group of children playing beneath the trees on Abercorn Street. Here the shadows grew longer, and she felt a sudden, inexplicable chill, as if something unseen waited for her behind the tall brick walls surrounding the houses. She glanced around, but nothing moved save the thick ropes of Spanish moss undulating in the breeze.
Holding tighter to her reticule, she hastened toward home. But as she turned the corner a man stepped through a short iron gate and blocked her path. “Miss Browning.”
Leo Channing wore the same suit and battered felt hat that he’d worn on his visit to her home. His ink-smudged collar sat slightly askew. The smell of spirits came off him in waves.
She attempted to step around him but he put out an arm, blocking her path. “What’s your hurry?”
“Please let me pass, Mr. Channing. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “What I can’t know for sure, I’ll have to make up.”
“Isn’t that what you do anyway?”
“I worked hard on those newspaper piec
es.”
“That doesn’t mean you should have written them.”
“I was working on another one,” he said, shrugging. “Before I got the sack.”
She blinked. “Mr. Thompson dismissed you?”
“This morning. Your daddy went by there complaining about my latest piece, and the next thing I knew, Thompson had given me the old heave-ho.” Channing drew a dented flask from his pocket and took a swig from it. “But it’s what you might call a silver lining because now I have time to write the book I intended to write in the first place. I’ve always thought your family’s story would do well in book form. Mystery, romance, scandal—it would put a novel to shame, don’t you think?”
Relief turned to despair. The longer Leo Channing kept the story alive, the harder it would become to remain above it all. Celia didn’t want the old, sad story to be the thing that defined the Brownings. And for all their professed loyalties, even the Mackays and her closest friends would tolerate only so much.
But she would not allow Channing to see her weakness. “You’ve heard of slander, I presume.”
“Of course.”
“Write even one word about my family that is not a matter of public record, and my father will have you in court faster than you can count to ten. Now get out of my way.”
The reporter laughed. “Why certainly, your highness. Far be it from me to hinder you on your royal rounds.”
“Since you are so determined to destroy my family’s reputation and peace of mind, may I at least know the reason why?”
He pressed his fingers to his mouth to suppress a fetid, noisy belch. “It has nothing to do with you. Back in Baltimore I’ve got a wife and four young’uns to feed, two of ’em sickly most of the time, and newspapering hardly covers the bills. I need a big story, one that will get readers’ attention. And yours was one of the biggest stories ever to hit Savannah.”
“So you are willing to invent a scandalous, sordid tale and to destroy my family in order to save your own.”
“Well, parts of it I had to invent—or hint at, anyway.” Channing leaned against the gate and sent her a bleary stare. “But other parts of what I have written are true. People know things, Miss Browning. Things that would shock you if you knew. Things they’re too polite to say to you because your family is richer than Croesus himself.”
Celia’s heart constricted. She and Ivy had been so young when the accidents occurred. Undoubtedly they both had been shielded from circumstances they were too young to understand. The explanations she’d been given as she grew older had been hurried and vague. Were there details she didn’t know?
She met his unfocused gaze. “Then perhaps you’d enlighten me.”
Channing shook his head. “Not yet. Because what you say about slander is true, and I don’t intend to get myself thrown in jail. That wouldn’t help the missus and the young’uns at all, would it? I am looking for proof. And I believe it exists.”
In the distance Celia spotted her father coming along the street, headed for home. It was bad enough that he refused to let Joseph drive him to Commerce Row. The last thing he needed was to see her talking to the despicable newspaperman. Without another word, she darted into the street.
“The red diary. That’s the key,” Channing whispered as she hurried past. “Mark my words. Sooner or later every secret comes to light.”
11
CELIA REACHED HOME JUST AHEAD OF HER FATHER AND HURRIED up the stairs, her mind whirling. People know things. Was Leo Channing trying to scare her into divulging facts that she really didn’t have? Was it true that behind her back all of Savannah was buzzing about the house of love and grief? Two horrid accidents within two weeks was unusual and certainly a regrettable spate of bad luck, but that is all they were. Accidents.
Weren’t they?
In her room, she tossed her shawl and reticule onto the bed, removed her hat, and sank into her chair beside the window. The street and the garden were in shadow. The distant, boarded-up carriage house brooded in the stippled light. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon the memory of the night in late spring when Ivy and Aunt Eugenia had arrived unexpectedly from their St. Simons Island plantation.
Aunt Eugenia had told Papa she had quit the island out of fear for Ivy’s health, that an outbreak of fever had taken the lives of several slaves already. Listening at the parlor door, Celia had wondered about Uncle Magnus. Wasn’t his life in danger too? But he’d stayed behind for three days before showing up in Savannah.
Celia vaguely remembered late-night discussions between her father and her uncle, discussions that had sometimes become heated. But in the mornings, peace had seemingly been restored, and the household had fallen into a new routine that accommodated Ivy and her parents.
“Celia?” Ivy’s knock at her door dispelled the memory. “Dinner is almost ready.”
“Coming.”
Celia checked her appearance in the pier glass and joined Ivy in the dining room. Soon Papa appeared, looking tired but also inordinately pleased about something. The three of them sat down to Mrs. Maguire’s roast beef, gravy, and roasted potatoes.
Papa offered a blessing and passed a platter to Celia. “How was your day, my dear?”
Avoiding the topic of Mr. Channing, Celia told him about her shopping trip with Mrs. Mackay and described the china and linens she had chosen. “Mrs. Haverford at the linen shop had some very pretty things.” She paused to eat a bite of potatoes. “I thought of Louisa from the Female Asylum when I saw the fine embroidery. She may well find a good position for herself in such a shop when she leaves.”
“That may happen sooner than we think,” Ivy said. “Mrs. Clayton told me today that Mrs. Foyle is looking for an assistant. Mrs. Clayton intends to recommend Louisa.”
Papa chewed and swallowed. “Mrs. Foyle? Do we know her?”
“She’s Mrs. Stiles’s modiste,” Ivy explained. “Very talented. She made the dress Mrs. Stiles wore to last year’s Christmas ball. It was quite the talk of the evening.”
“I see.” Papa’s eyes twinkled. “I suppose I ought to pay more attention to such things, now that Celia is in need of a wedding gown.”
“Well, I don’t think you can do better than Mrs. Foyle.” Ivy spooned gravy onto her roast beef. “But I wouldn’t wait too long to engage her services. Mrs. Stiles says Mrs. Foyle stays quite busy.”
Papa turned to Celia. “Tell me. Were you able to finish collecting for the hospital Christmas drive? I saw Alexander Lawton at the club this afternoon, and he said his wife has been anxious about it.”
“All finished,” Celia said. “I’ll take everything to the hospital tomorrow.” She caught Ivy’s eye across the polished mahogany dining table. “I called on Mary Quarterman. We had quite an interesting conversation.”
“Oh?” Ivy paled, but her gaze was steady. “What about?”
“This and that.” Celia intended to get to the bottom of her cousin’s deception, but not in front of Papa. Though he claimed to be quite recovered, she didn’t want to upset him. “Mary says that her father has been corresponding with Mr. Robert Lee in Virginia. Something about a scheme to deepen the river.”
Papa nodded. “People have talked about it for years, but dredging the river will be terribly expensive and will require investments from many on the waterfront. Mr. Quarterman may well be onto something, but now is not the time. Too many people are still trying to recover from last year’s financial setbacks.” He helped himself to more coffee. “But at least we have some personal good news on that front.”
That explained his unusually cheerful mood. “What is that, Papa?”
“Sutton returned from Charleston this afternoon with news that he has secured a new investor in Mackay Shipping. One that will make it possible to replace the Electra and hire a new captain—and repay the loan I secured on their behalf.”
“That is wonderful news,” Celia said. “I’m relieved, as I’m sure you are. Though I should be cross with Sutton for not letting me know h
e’s home.”
“He’s only just arrived, darling. I’m certain he’s eager to see you.”
Mrs. Maguire came in carrying a lemon pie. “’Tis the last one of the season; there’ll be no more till we can get some decent lemons again. Will you be wantin’ a piece just now, Mr. Browning?”
“I never pass up a chance for your lemon pie, Mrs. Maguire.”
Mrs. Maguire served the dessert, collected their dinner plates, and returned to the kitchen.
Celia took a bite of pie. Cold and tart, just the way she liked it. “Did Sutton say how his shipbuilding proposal went?”
“There wasn’t time,” Papa said. “Just before I headed for the club, I had a visit from Mr. Thompson at the paper.”
“Oh?”
“He came by to let me know he has dismissed Leo Channing. And good riddance, I say. That piece in this morning’s paper was far beyond the pale.”
So that was why Papa had taken the Daily Morning News with him today. To shield her from its contents.
“Even Mr. Thompson was dismayed that Channing would go so far as to accuse a member of this family of murder,” Papa continued.
Celia’s breath caught.
“Who?” Ivy breathed.
“Channing wouldn’t say outright. It’s only more innuendo, aimed at selling papers and generating talk. Thompson feared, and rightly so, that I would suspend advertising in his paper and sue him for slander in the bargain. He’s prepared to print a retraction in tomorrow’s edition along with a notice that Mr. Channing has been discharged.” Papa pushed away his empty plate. “I sincerely hope this is the end of Mr. Channing.”
For a moment Celia was tempted to tell him about her encounter with the drunken newspaperman and to ask what the man had meant by his reference to a red diary. But Papa looked better tonight than he had in some time. Clearly he was buoyed by the news of Channing’s dismissal and of the new investor for the Mackays’ firm that would absolve him of the burdensome loan he’d made. Besides, Channing was such a liar, who knew what to believe?
The faint chiming of the doorbell drew her attention back to the table. Papa was enjoying another cup of coffee, but Ivy seemed distracted. Lost in thought.
