The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  “We do,” Sutton said. “It has been quite a night.”

  Sutton and Mr. Lawton said their good-byes and soon were on their way.

  And still Ivy had not appeared.

  “I suppose I should go look for her,” Papa said.

  Celia shook her head. If Ivy wanted to risk her good name and her very life, that was her business, but it wasn’t Papa’s responsibility to save her cousin from her own poor choices. “Where would you look, Papa? She could be anywhere.”

  “True. But still I—”

  “I’m sure she’s safe with one of our friends. I’ll wait up for her if you like, but I won’t have you going out in the dark to search for her. She should have told us where she was going.”

  He sighed and set his empty glass on the table. “I suppose you’re right. But I still can’t help worrying.” He removed his spectacles and briefly closed his eyes. “I am tired.”

  Celia squeezed his hand. “Go to bed.”

  She followed him up the winding staircase. In her room she lit the lamp, removed her garnet silk gown, hung it in the clothespress, and pulled on her dressing gown. She unpinned her hair and lit a small fire to ward off the evening chill.

  Down below, the floor creaked as Mrs. Maguire headed up the servants’ staircase to her quarters off the kitchen. Celia peered out the window. At the far end of the street, a few torches still flickered, silhouetting a lone police wagon and an abandoned carriage. A dog barked.

  A dark shape at the rear of the garden drew her attention. At first she thought it was only the shadow of the old trees near her window. But as she watched, the shape—barely illuminated by the gaslights along the street—began to move, slowly at first and then faster until it disappeared near the abandoned carriage house.

  Celia found her slippers and opened her door. The house was silent. No light showed beneath Papa’s door. She descended the staircase, crossed the foyer, and headed for the back door.

  The kitchen door creaked when she opened it. Keeping to the far side of the garden path, she hurried toward the carriage house. The garden, though well past its summer prime, still held enough cover to conceal her movements.

  When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she walked around the back side of the old structure, the remnants of broken brick pressing through the thin soles of her slippers. She paused and held her breath, listening.

  The next thing she knew, she was lying face down in the dirt, and someone was sitting on top of her.

  “Who’s there?” With a loud grunt, Celia reared and threw off her attacker. She scrambled to her feet, but the person had fled, disappearing into the shadowed garden. Her palms stung. Her cheek throbbed. She looked around again and hurried back to the house.

  In the kitchen, Ivy and Mrs. Maguire sat in the circle of pale lamplight, two glasses of milk on the table before them. “Lord preserve us.” Mrs. Maguire got to her feet and hurried to Celia. “What in the world happened to you, my darlin’? You’re hurt.”

  She drew Celia to the fire and held the lamp to inspect Celia’s face. “’Tis nothing but a scratch. But saints in a sock, whatever were you doin’ out there in the middle o’ the night?”

  The housekeeper poured warm water from the teakettle onto a clean towel and cleaned Celia’s cheek.

  “I saw someone sneaking around in the garden. I went out to investigate, but whoever it was knocked me to the ground and ran off.”

  Ivy set down her cup. “You shouldn’t have been outside with everything’s that’s been going on. All sorts of people are on the streets.”

  Celia frowned at her cousin. “I might say the same to you. Where on earth were you?”

  “With Mrs. Clayton. I was late leaving the Female Asylum this evening, and when I saw the mob in the street, I asked her driver to take me back. He brought me home just now. I’m sorry you were worried, but I had no way to send word.”

  “I suppose all’s well that ends well.” Mrs. Maguire trained her steady gaze on Celia. “Methinks you ought to leave the investigatin’ of prowlers to the authorities. And don’t you be worryin’ your father with this either.”

  “I won’t mention it to Papa. But I intend to find out who is sneaking around our house.”

  Mrs. Maguire sniffed. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Come on, Celia.” Ivy linked her arm through Celia’s. “Let’s go upstairs so Mrs. Maguire can get some sleep.”

  They went up the stairs. At the door to her room, Ivy paused. “I know what you’re thinking. And I know I haven’t been exactly truthful with you of late. But I am not the one who was in the garden tonight.”

  “I know that. You couldn’t have knocked me down and returned to the kitchen before I got back inside. There wasn’t time.” Celia shrugged. “Maybe it was one of the rioters, too drunk to know his way home.”

  “I’m sure it was Leo Channing,” Ivy said. Her bottom lip trembled. “Anyway, I won’t be seeing Michael Gleason anymore.”

  Celia felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for her cousin. Ivy wanted so desperately to fall in love, and love always eluded her. Celia ushered Ivy into her bedroom and closed the door. “Tell me. What happened?”

  “He asked for money. To help organize the Irish workers and the Negroes.”

  “Mr. Gleason was part of this riot tonight?”

  “I suspect so. He told me last week they knew the Wanderer might be returning, and they wanted to show the planters around here that any more slaves wouldn’t be tolerated. When I told him that I had no money of my own, that I am dependent upon Uncle David, he got angry. He said if I loved him I would find a way to help him. This afternoon he came to Mrs. Clayton’s, and when I told him I had nothing for him except my affections, he laughed.” Her voice broke. “And then he left.”

  “Oh, Ivy.”

  “He cared nothing for me. He only wanted to use me.” Tears streamed down Ivy’s face. “Oh, why can’t I have someone like Sutton, who is kind and smart, and—”

  “Mrs. Maguire says God moves in mysterious ways.”

  “God? If God were paying any attention to me at all, my entire life would be different. Better. But who knows? Maybe I deserve everything that has happened to me. I suppose I ought to be grateful I haven’t been struck by lightning.”

  “Misfortune is rarely deserved.”

  Ivy shrugged. “In any event, Mr. Gleason is gone for good.”

  “You will meet someone else,” Celia said gently. “Someone wonderful. Someone who deserves your affections. You’ll see.”

  Ivy sniffled and shook her head. “I’m thinking of leaving Savannah.”

  “But where would you go?”

  Ivy brushed at her sleeve. “The night my father left, I begged him to take me with him, but he said it was better for me here, and I believed him. Now I wish I had fought harder to stay with him.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I was old enough. But maybe it’s too late now.” Ivy headed for the door. “We should try to get some sleep.”

  Celia stoked the fire and checked her reflection in the mirror. The scratch on her cheek would fade much more quickly than her questions about who had put it there, and why.

  13

  CELIA PEERED OUT THE WINDOW AS THE CARRIAGE HEADED for the dressmaker’s. She felt slightly silly at having to take the carriage on such a beautiful, crisp November morning. The weather was just right for a brisk walk from Madison Square to Rosie Foyle’s dressmaking shop on Drayton Street. But less than a week had passed since the disturbance that had shuttered the theater and sent the residents scurrying for cover, and Papa had insisted that Joseph drive her to the appointment.

  As they turned onto Jones Street, Celia noted that every vestige of the riot had been cleared away. All the broken glass had been swept away and every broken shop window replaced. The charred torches that had been left smoldering in the streets were gone. The trampled shrubs lining the little park had been removed and replaced with even nicer ones. Like the women in her circ
le, who kept any unpleasantness to themselves, the city of Savannah also presented her best face to the world. Beautiful, charming, and serene, as if nothing had ever disturbed her perfect façade.

  According to Papa, Charlie Lamar still was struggling to sell his human cargo to planters farther north. As predicted, the Georgia planters had no wish to call down more wrath upon their heads and so had refused to purchase slaves from the Wanderer at any price. There was talk that Mr. Lamar had so thoroughly displeased the members of his Northern yacht club that they were considering throwing him out. He was the talk of the Savannah Gentleman’s Club too. It was a relief to Celia that, at least for now, Savannah had found a topic of conversation other than her family.

  This morning at breakfast, Papa had mentioned that he and Sutton would be spending the afternoon at the club with a group of fellow businessmen, including Mr. Thompson of the Daily Morning News. Celia intended to take advantage of the newspaperman’s absence from his office to pay the newspaper a visit. Determined to get to the bottom of Leo Channing’s insinuations, she’d decided the best place to start was to read the old newspaper accounts of the deaths of Aunt Eugenia and the laundress—if the newspaper’s records went back that far. But first there was the meeting with the modiste to choose a pattern for her wedding dress.

  Sutton’s mother had planned to accompany her this morning but had begged off with a headache. Ivy claimed a prior commitment, though Celia suspected her cousin couldn’t bear to be part of such a happy errand when her own marriage prospects seemed so dim. Sutton’s grandmother was coming, however, and the prospect of seeing Mrs. Manigault again lifted Celia’s spirits. Caroline Manigault was everything Celia hoped to be one day. The years had not dimmed her intellect, nor had her losses dampened her spirit. That she had given Celia her own ring and welcomed her with such openhearted joy made Celia all the more determined not to let gossip and lies tarnish her own name and that of her future kin. Perhaps the newspapers would help her set the record straight.

  The carriage creaked to a halt outside the dressmaker’s small, tidy studio. Joseph helped Celia out and watched until her knock at the door was answered.

  “Come on in.” Mrs. Foyle, her gray-streaked hair in a messy bun, her ample bosom buttoned tightly into a plain green bodice adorned with straight pins, led Celia to a small room in the back of the studio. A rainbow of satins, velvets, and watered silks lay unfurled across a wooden table. A small, round stool stood in front of a full-length mirror affixed to the wall.

  Through a narrow doorway, Celia glimpsed two young girls at work appliquéing a bridal train. Yards of pale-pink satin studded with seed pearls spilled across their laps and onto a sheet of clean muslin covering the floor. The younger of the two whispered to her companion, and they shared a laugh.

  Celia watched as their fingers plied the expensive fabric. Where did they live, and how did they spend their free time? What would it be like to be a young woman on her own? Not that she aspired to a lower rung of the social ladder. But she couldn’t help envying the girls their freedom from rules and expectations, from worrying about other people’s judgments and opinions.

  “. . . right behind that screen.”

  Celia started. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Caroline Manigault isn’t here yet,” Mrs. Foyle said. “But I do have a schedule to keep, and what I said was, would you mind removing your dress so I can get your measurements? We might as well do that while we wait.”

  Celia shimmied out of her skirts and bodice. In her chemise and linen drawers, she stepped onto the little stool. Like a bee buzzing around a hibiscus blossom, Mrs. Foyle moved around Celia, measuring and muttering and jotting down numbers on a little tablet. The bell above the door jangled. Mrs. Manigault arrived.

  “Celia, dear, there you are.” Sutton’s grandmother peered around the screen, then plopped into a chair and propped her cane next to it. “I am late, and I have no excuse other than these old bones of mine take longer to get going nowadays.”

  Celia longed to sweep the older woman into a happy embrace, but she settled for a smile. “I’m glad you came, and I’m sorry Mrs. Mackay is not well.”

  “So am I. Cornelia sends her regrets.” Mrs. Manigault drew her black lace shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “We both wanted to be here in place of dear Francesca.” Her dark eyes glittered. “How she would have relished this day.”

  Celia fingered the small gold locket she always wore beneath the collar of her dress. It held a miniature portrait of her mother and a lock of glossy black hair that matched her own. In the years since her mother’s death, Celia had come to terms with her loss, but it had never stopped hurting. Not completely.

  Mrs. Foyle brought out a length of new muslin and began pinning it to Celia’s frame, forming a pattern for the lining of the gown. She draped and tucked and pleated and secured it into place while Celia stood on the stool obeying commands to turn first one way and then the other. At last the modiste was satisfied. While Celia dressed, Mrs. Foyle selected several fabrics and trims and spread them on the table.

  “Have you chosen a fabric yet?” she asked. “Perhaps you should tell me when the wedding is to be and I can offer some recommendations.”

  Sutton’s grandmother sent the dressmaker a rueful smile. “That’s just it. My grandson is waiting for the perfect time, and I have told that boy a million times there is no such thing. If war comes, it comes. If the business improves or not, there’s nothing Celia can do about it.” She leaned forward and patted Celia’s hand. “Sutton is my grandson, and I love him more than my own life, but he’s being silly not to set a date to make this girl his own.”

  “I’m hoping for early spring,” Celia told the modiste. “April perhaps. May at the latest.”

  The dressmaker nodded. “May is the perfect time for a Savannah wedding. In that case, I’d suggest this white satin.” She cocked her head and studied Celia. “A beautiful girl like you can get away with anything, but I think an off-the-shoulder style with pagoda sleeves might be especially becoming. A full skirt, of course. And then a train attached at the waist, something simple, with a single appliqué surrounded by pearls.”

  Celia chewed her bottom lip. “You don’t think such a style would be too immodest for a bride?”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Foyle took out a pad and sketched the gown she had in mind.

  Celia studied it. “Mrs. Manigault, what do you think?”

  “It sounds perfectly lovely.”

  Mrs. Foyle seemed relieved at having the decision made without too much haggling. “You’ll need a veil, too, Miss Browning. I could—”

  “I have my mother’s veil,” Celia said.

  The modiste frowned. “Oh, dear.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Sometimes sentiment can ruin a perfect creation. A veil should complement the overall style of the dress. If it’s the wrong fabric or the wrong length . . .” Mrs. Foyle sighed and shrugged.

  “It’s made of needlepoint lace,” Celia said. “My grandfather got it for her in Paris.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s very nice, but I don’t know whether it will work with what you’ve chosen.”

  “Can’t you use a similar lace for the undersleeves?” Mrs. Manigault asked.

  Another sigh from the dressmaker. “It would not be my first choice, but if you are determined—”

  “We are,” Mrs. Manigault said firmly. “Celia and I are most determined.”

  “Very well.” The dressmaker gathered her fabrics and her sketchpad and carefully folded the pieces of the muslin pattern she’d made. “Bring the veil to me, and I’ll see what I can do. And come by next week for your first fitting, Miss Browning. I should have the lining basted together by then.”

  Together Celia and Mrs. Manigault left the dressmaker’s shop. Both their carriages waited near the door.

  “Will you come back to the house for tea?” Mrs. Manigault clapped a hand on her white-plumed hat as a wind gust b
lew between the buildings. “Despite her headache, Cornelia would enjoy seeing you and hearing about the dress you’ve chosen.”

  Celia would have loved spending more time with the Mackay women, but this might be her only chance to visit the newspaper offices without having to dodge Mr. Thompson. She laid a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I’m afraid I can’t today. But I promise to visit early next week, and we can tell her all about it then.”

  “All right. I suppose I should be getting on home then. Cornelia worries if I’m out later than she thinks I ought to be.” Mrs. Manigault waved to her driver, and he ran around to help her into the carriage. Once settled, she leaned out the open window and caught Celia’s eye. “The next time you see my grandson, you tell him what I told the dressmaker today. He’s foolish for putting off such an important thing. We have no guarantees in this life, and I personally detest the thought of you two unnecessarily spending even one day apart.”

  “So do I.” Celia couldn’t hold back her smile. “I’ll tell him.”

  Mrs. Manigault waved as the carriage rolled away.

  Joseph jogged over from the bench across the street, where he had apparently been enjoying a slice of caramel cake from the bakery. Sugar crystals clung to his gray beard. “Where to now, Miss Celia?”

  “The newspaper office, please. I may be there for quite some time.”

  “Yes’m.” He dusted off his hands and wrenched open the carriage door. “Don’t make no difference to me. I got my instructions from your daddy to carry you wherever you decide to go. You go ahead and take your time.”

  Minutes later the carriage drew up at the newspaper office, and Celia hurried inside. The room smelled of ink and hot lead. The building hummed as the press churned out tomorrow’s edition. A copy boy scurried among several desks carrying pages of newsprint. A bald man in an ink-stained apron sat at a desk near the dusty windows, marking up copy with his pencil. Celia approached his desk and waited until he lifted his head, pencil poised, a question in his eyes.