by Dorothy Love
Mrs. Maguire came in, her cheeks pink. “Miss Celia. Mr. Mackay is waiting for you in the library.”
Celia shot to her feet. “I’ll be right there. Papa, will you excuse me?”
He laughed. “Would it make a difference if I refused? Go on. Ivy and I will adjourn to the parlor, perhaps for a game of chess.”
“Oh, Uncle David, would you mind terribly if I excused myself?” Ivy set down her cup. “The trip to the asylum today tired me out more than I realized. I think I’ll read in bed for a while if that’s all right.”
“Of course, my dear. I suppose I can entertain myself.”
Celia rushed to the library to find Sutton standing beside the fireplace. He turned as she entered and crossed the room, arms open in greeting. “Hello, my love.”
She relaxed into his strong embrace. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Mr. Rutledge had another appointment for tomorrow that he had forgotten. We had to conclude our business rather hurriedly, but conclude it we did.”
“Papa told us you found a new investor for Mackay Shipping too.”
They moved to the settee by the window. Sutton sat down beside her and took her hands in his. “Yes. Mr. Rutledge is investing in a new ship for us. It’s the answer to prayer, really.”
“Your father must be relieved.”
“We all are. Ever since the Electra was lost, Mother has tried to keep up a brave front, but she’s been terribly worried. I’m glad she had her shopping expedition with you to take her mind off Father’s troubles.” Sutton kissed her temple. “Mother says you have exquisite taste.”
“That is true. I chose you, didn’t I?”
He laughed. “I can’t wait to make a home with you.”
She drew back to meet his eyes. “Will it be soon, Sutton?”
“I hope so. Mr. Rutledge wants to invest in my ship and to build one of his own. He’s going to England next month to talk to shipbuilders. Once we make a choice, I shall have to go, too, to see that construction is started.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “so you’ve said.”
Recent incidents had awakened in her the desire for distance. If only it were possible to leave at once for Jamaica. To sail with Sutton among the sun-shot mangroves, the ship rocking on the waters of the Black River, the pink myrtle bushes baking in the heat. She longed for someplace where everything was foreign, where their future would unfold before them, unsullied and unfettered. But now, that dream would have to wait. Unless . . .
Sutton folded his arms and grinned at her. “What are you thinking, Celia Browning?”
“Let’s get married right after the new year, and I’ll go with you to England.”
“Liverpool is hardly the kind of place for a honeymoon, darling.”
“I don’t care. What if war breaks out while you’re gone, and you can’t get back to Savannah? I couldn’t stand it.”
“It could happen, I suppose. But I plan to be safely home from England long before the next election.”
“You promise?”
“Wild horses can’t keep me in Liverpool one second longer than is necessary.”
The mantel clock chimed. Sutton rose. “It’s getting late. I should go.”
“But you just got here.”
“I know. But I promised Father I’d go over the terms of our agreement with Mr. Rutledge this evening. He wants to get everything signed as soon as possible.”
Together they walked to the door. Sutton took her hands again. “Mother told me what happened at the hotel this morning. She said you were upset.”
“I tried not to show it, but I really wanted to kick that unctuous waiter’s shins.”
Sutton grinned. “He deserved it. But don’t let it bother you. People like him are always looking for someone they can look down upon, and when that someone is a Browning or a Mackay, the urge can be too powerful to resist.”
“That’s just what your mother said. Anyway, Papa says Mr. Channing has been dismissed from the paper and tomorrow there will be a retraction of today’s story. That’s something, I suppose.”
“Well, there you are then. The end of this whole silly business.” Sutton glanced down the hallway and then looked toward the gallery. “Are we alone?”
“Ivy and Mrs. Maguire have retired for the evening. Papa is probably still in the parlor, pretending to read.”
“Then we are as alone as we’ll ever be.”
Sutton bent his head and kissed her. She closed her eyes and clung to him, lost in his arms. When the kiss ended, she looked up at him, shaken, her heart brimming with love for him. All her life, Sutton Mackay had left her breathless.
“There’s a new play opening at the theater a week from Friday,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “Would you like to go?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll come for you at seven. Wear something pretty.”
She pretended to consider. “I was actually thinking of wearing my old fishing costume. The one with the patched skirt and the distinct odor of trout.”
“And you will look splendid in it.” He kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, my love. And don’t give this Channing fellow another thought.”
He left, whistling, as usual. She lifted the curtain and watched his rig moving down the gas-lit street.
If only she could let go of her worries about Leo Channing. He’d been dismissed from the newspaper, but he’d made it clear that he wasn’t finished with her family’s story. Not by a long shot. He would continue probing every nook and cranny for something to put into his book. Unless she could prove his theories were false, the cloud of suspicion would continue to hang over their lives, tainting their good name and harming their livelihood. Threatening the success of her work on behalf of the orphaned girls and diminishing her mother’s legacy. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
“The red diary,” the man had told her. “That’s the key.” Was there really a diary somewhere that would explain everything?
Celia let the curtain fall and headed to the parlor to say good night to Papa. He and Sutton and this house were everything to her. She would not allow any of them to be sullied. However difficult and painful it might be, she would find a way to stop Leo Channing.
She peered into the parlor, but Papa had already retired, leaving his book lying open on the chair. Celia doused the light and headed upstairs. Ivy sat on the landing. In her pale-green dressing gown, her blond hair falling loose around her shoulders, she looked young and vulnerable.
“You’re still up?” Celia said.
“It isn’t terribly late. Besides, I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Don’t be coy. I saw the look you gave me at dinner tonight when you mentioned your visit to the Quartermans’.” Ivy pushed her hair off her face and got to her feet. “No doubt you know I wasn’t out with them last weekend.”
“I wasn’t deliberately trying to catch you out. Mary asked how you were and said she hadn’t seen you in a while.” Celia opened the door to her room and motioned Ivy inside. She slipped off her shoes and sat on her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.
Ivy perched on the edge of the little velvet-covered chair beside the window like a bird poised for flight. “I met someone,” she said.
“A man?”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Am I so unattractive you can’t imagine anyone being interested in me?”
“Don’t be silly. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re quite pretty. Who is he?”
“Michael Gleason.”
“Do we know his family?”
“See? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you and Uncle David about him. The only thing you care about is whether someone is from the right part of town.” Ivy fidgeted in her chair. “You don’t know him. He’s Irish. And a drayman.”
“A drayman?”
“He has his own horse and wagon, and he makes deliveries all over town. I met him at the asylum the first day I went to tutor Louisa. He
was delivering kitchen supplies for the cook.”
“I see.”
“He’s very smart and kind, and he has a wonderful sense of humor. He asked me to walk out with him after church last week. I knew you and Uncle David wouldn’t approve, so I made up the story about visiting with Lucy Chase. Only it turned out Uncle David knew they weren’t in town, so then I said I was with Mary.” Ivy gave a brittle little laugh. “I have the worst luck in the world. I can’t even tell a lie and make it stick.”
“Papa doesn’t harbor ill will toward anyone just because of their social class. And he wants only the best for you. Surely you know that.”
“Yes, but his idea of what is best for me isn’t always the same as mine.”
“Well, you’re twenty-five years old, capable of making your own choices. If your affections are settled upon this Mr. Gleason, then—”
“I do feel something for Michael, though we haven’t spent much time together. We think alike. We laugh at the same things. It’s as if we’ve known each other forever. But then I worry that he might turn out like my father.”
“In what way?”
Ivy waved one hand. “Don’t tell me you have forgotten the gossip when we were at school about how Father courted Mother only to prove that he could win the heart of a woman far above his own social standing.”
“But that’s all it was, Ivy. Just silly schoolgirl gossip. I don’t remember very much about Uncle Magnus, but I am sure he and Aunt Eugenia loved each other.”
Ivy’s face clouded. “Maybe he loved her at first. But later—” She shook her head. “Anyway, I hope Michael’s motives are pure. You won’t mention this to Uncle David, will you?”
“Just be careful to guard your heart and your reputation.”
“My reputation? What am I saving it for? I am officially an old maid, the spinster cousin of the beautiful and soon-to-be-wed Celia Browning. I doubt very much if anyone else in Savannah cares what I do.” Ivy got to her feet. “That’s all I wanted to say. Good night.”
12
SUTTON HANDED CELIA INTO THE CARRIAGE, THEN SETTLED himself on the seat across from her and knocked on the door to signal his driver. As the carriage rolled down the street, Celia was filled with a sense of happy anticipation. She had always loved the theater. Stepping inside, settling into the darkness, was akin to entering another world, a world that allowed her to temporarily set aside her fears and worries. She snuggled into the warmth of her blue woolen cloak and watched the gaslights coming on. Tonight she would forget about Leo Channing, the anonymous notes, and the jeweled bracelet with its sinister message hidden in the bottom drawer of her dressing table.
“Warm enough?” Sutton smiled into her eyes and she felt the tension draining from her shoulders.
“Yes. It’s a bit chilly tonight, but I love November in Savannah.”
“Have I told you how lovely you look in that gown?” Sutton sniffed the air. “I can hardly smell the dead trout at all.”
She laughed. “Have you seen the program for tonight’s performance? I hope Mrs. Cushman reprises her role as Meg Merrilies.”
“Guy Mannering is one of my favorite plays too,” he said. “If only because it’s less complicated than Mr. Scott’s novel. I got bogged down in that book more than once, trying to keep all the characters straight.”
“Mrs. Lawton told me that Mrs. Cushman’s singing voice failed and she had to quit her opera career.”
“Opera’s loss is theater’s gain.” Sutton fished his watch from his vest pocket and peered out the carriage window. “We’re going to miss the curtain if Steven doesn’t speed things up. Wonder what’s taking so—”
The sound of breaking glass startled them both. “What was that?”
Sutton peered out into the growing darkness. “There’s a group of men on the corner. Maybe one of them dropped his bottle of spirits.”
Then came the pop-pop of gunfire. The carriage wheels ground to a stop. Before Sutton could open the door, the driver jumped down and rapped on the glass. “Mr. Mackay?”
“What’s the trouble, Steven?”
“I don’t know, sir, but the street is blocked off up ahead. Looks to me like a mob, with they shotguns and such. What do you want to do?”
“Take Miss Browning home. I’ll go see what this is about.”
The driver shook his head. “Mr. Mackay, I been workin’ for your fambly since you was in short pants, and I ain’t leaving you to no mob. No, sir.”
Shouts erupted behind them in the street. Celia turned to look and saw another group of men, some white, some Negro, moving along Bull Street, their torches blazing in the darkness. Another carriage drew alongside Sutton’s. A man got out and rapped on the window.
“Alexander!” Sutton opened the door and moved over to make room for Mr. Lawton, a husky man with a neatly trimmed beard and kind eyes that just now were filled with worry.
“What the devil is happening here?” Sutton asked.
“Word just came that Charlie Lamar has returned from Africa in the Wanderer with his load of slaves. More than four hundred of them, if the report is accurate.” Mr. Lawton glanced uneasily out of the carriage’s back window. “He is to blame for this unrest.”
“Surely he hasn’t brought the Negroes here to Savannah.”
A brick sailed through the air and shattered the window of Mr. Lawton’s carriage. Sutton’s horse shied in its traces, and the carriage lurched.
“No, he’s put them ashore on Jekyll Island.” Mr. Lawton let out a gusty breath. “The Irish and the free Negroes have joined in protest. The police are out to restore order, but we ought to get off the street as soon as we can.”
“Agreed.”
Celia peered out the window. The crowd seemed to be growing larger by the minute. Men stood five and six abreast in the street, packed as densely as cordwood, their voices like a chorus of angry bees. Bull Street was rapidly becoming impassable.
Sutton turned to Celia. “We’ll have to walk home. Can you manage?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mr. Lawton said. “My carriage can’t move either.” He shook his head. “Sarah was disappointed at the thought of missing the theater tonight. But our boy is sick, and she didn’t want to leave him with the nurse. I’m thankful now that she is home and safe.”
Mr. Lawton pushed open the carriage door, got out, and held his hand out to Celia. The drivers abandoned the carriages and pushed through the crowd.
Celia stepped into the packed street, Sutton close behind. Walking between the two men, she concentrated on taking one step, then another. Shouts, sporadic gunfire, and the sound of breaking glass erupted around her. The mob surged, their faces in the torchlight glowing with fervor and excitement. Sutton drew her close and pressed on through the crowd.
At last they reached her gate. Sutton and Mr. Lawton hustled Celia up to the door, and the three of them rushed inside. Lights blazed in the library where Papa and Mrs. Maguire sat, their expressions anxious, their cups of tea untouched.
“Sutton—thank God!” Papa rose to greet them. “Are you all right, Celia?”
“Fine, Papa. Sutton and Mr. Lawton kept me safe.”
Papa nodded. “Hello, Alexander.”
“David.” Mr. Lawton removed his hat.
“What’s happened?” Papa asked. “I heard gunfire on the street.”
Briefly, Mr. Lawton recounted the news of the Wanderer’s return and the resulting unrest.
Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, Papa’s blue eyes were worried. “Our old city is in deep trouble, my friend.”
“I fear so, yes, though I don’t expect Georgia planters will buy Lamar’s slaves. He’ll have to sell them farther north if he can find buyers at all.”
“Well, the whole enterprise was ill-advised from the beginning.” Papa’s shoulders drooped. “I suppose Thompson over at the newspaper is happy. He was all for Lamar’s scheme.”
“I’ve known Mr. Thompson for years,”
Mr. Lawton said, “and I always thought he was a reasonable man. But lately he has been on the wrong side of several issues. I don’t—”
“Where is Ivy?” Mrs. Maguire shot to her feet.” I thought she was with you, Celia.”
Celia shook her head. “I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”
“I thought she was goin’ with you to the theater. But it seems I’m mistaken.”
“Are you certain she isn’t in her room?”
“I’m sure. Unless she’s just come in through the window.”
Well, that was a possibility, since more than likely Ivy had sneaked away with Michael Gleason. “Perhaps she’s with a friend, waiting out this disturbance.”
Mrs. Maguire rolled her eyes. “That Ivy Lorens will be the death o’ me, sure as I’m standin’.” She motioned Sutton and Mr. Lawton to sit. “I’ll just go get some more cups. You gentlemen are bound to be here for a while longer.”
“No tea for me, Mrs. Maguire, thank you.” Mr. Lawton caught Papa’s eye. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of spirits though, if the ladies will indulge us.”
Papa went to the side table and poured a bit of bourbon into a cut crystal glass. “How about you, Sutton?”
“Yes, thanks.”
The three men clinked glasses and sipped. Celia helped herself to a cup of lukewarm tea and stared into the fire cracking in the grate. Another hour passed. A police wagon clattered along the street, setting off a chorus of barking dogs.
A short time later, the doorbell sounded. Mrs. Maguire hurried to the door, Sutton and Mr. Lawton in her wake. Sutton’s driver, Steven, stood at the door. Beyond the gate stood Sutton’s carriage and Mr. Lawton’s.
Steven snatched his cap off his head and nodded to Mrs. Maguire. “Evening, ma’am. Is Mr. Mackay still here?”
“I’m here, Steven,” Sutton said, “and so is Mr. Lawton. Are you all right?”
“Yessir, we fine. The horses is kinda spooked, and the carriages are a little the worse for wear, but I expect I can fix yours up good as new. Mr. Lawton’s going to need hisself some new glass, though.” The carriage driver paused. “The po-lice done got everything under control. Took some folks to jail, I reckon. Anyway, the streets is all clear now, Mr. Mackay, if you and Mr. Lawton want to go home.”
