by Dorothy Love
“Begging your pardon.”
He waved one pudgy, ink-stained hand. “The advertising department is up the stairs. To your left.”
“I’m not here to place a notice. I’d like to see your archives, please.”
He tossed his pencil onto the desk. “Come again?”
“Back issues of the newspaper.”
“I know what archives are, girl. What I don’t know is what you want with them.”
“I’m in charge of raising funds for the Female Orphan Asylum, and I want to compile a list of charitable activities benefiting the various organizations here in town.”
“So’s you can figure out who’s got the deepest pockets.”
She laughed. “And the softest hearts.”
He picked up his pencil again, rolling it between his fingers as he squinted up at her. “From what I hear, the director out at the asylum’s not too popular with the board of managers these days. They say there’s no point in encouraging those girls to ambitions above their station.”
“There are some who think that the girls should be trained only for domestic service and that reading, writing, and arithmetic are a waste of time. But I agree with Mrs. Clayton that each girl should be literate and encouraged to employ whatever gifts she possesses—whether for music or teaching or needlework.” Celia fussed with the ribbons on her hat. “Not everyone is cut out for household tasks.”
“I thought there was already an organization that supported women who can sew.”
Celia nodded. “The Needle Woman’s Friend Society. But I hope some of the girls can establish their own enterprises some day, and for that they need more than a basic education. My aim is to see that their ambitions are not hampered by a lack of funds. Now, if you could show me where the archives are . . .”
The man shrugged and pushed back from his chair. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of female progress. Follow me.”
He wove among the desks, stacks of newsprint, and buckets of broken type waiting to be melted and recast and led her toward a cramped, airless room in the back. A desk and a single cane-backed chair were the only furnishings. Tall shelves were stacked with newspapers organized by month and year. Autumn light filtered into the room from a single window above the desk. Celia tensed and looked around for an exit—as she always did when entering a confined space. She relaxed when she saw another door on the outside wall.
The man pulled a stack of papers from a high shelf and plopped them onto the desk, sending up a puff of gray dust. “We put out a special edition back in ’55, when the Union Society reopened that orphanage for boys. I remember the year because it was around the time my wife died.”
He flipped more pages. “Here’s a story about the Female Seamen’s Friend Society keeping the drunk sailors off the streets. And one we published last spring about Mrs. Lawton’s appeal for donations for the Poor House and Hospital.” He scratched his head. “Savannah’s got so many charities and societies I can’t keep track of ’em all. But I reckon the muckety-mucks in this town always have more money to devote to a good cause. I’m sure they’ll support your project at the Female Asylum, despite the complaints from the managers.”
“Thank you, Mr.—”
“Just leave the papers there when you’re finished, and I’ll put ’em back.” He headed for the door. “Mr. Thompson is particular ’bout the way we keep things here.”
Celia pulled off her gloves and sat at the desk, glancing at the stories he’d mentioned though there was little about the ladies’ charity work that she didn’t already know. When the door closed behind him, she stood and shuffled through the stacks until she found the papers dated 1843—the year of the accidents that had so interested Leo Channing.
Movement outside the window caught Celia’s attention. Two young girls, their arms wound around each other’s waists, made their way along the street. Celia thought of her years at school, when the other girls had formed tight little groups that did not include her. She hadn’t been an outcast exactly, but not having a mother had set her apart. She’d been respected for her high marks and tolerated on field trips and outings. But she had never been included in their intimate little circles, never been privy to their shared secrets. Perhaps they’d feared her misfortune was contagious.
Whatever the reason, the memory of being on the outside looking in still stung. And it made her more determined than ever to quell Leo Channing’s threat to her family’s reputation and her future happiness.
She flipped through the issues for March, April, and May of 1843, her eyes moving quickly down each column of smudged and faded print. The big stories on May 29 were the departure of John C. Fremont’s second expedition to Oregon and an announcement that Mr. Thompson’s sketches of daily life in Georgia were to be compiled into a book. A rowing team had been established at Harvard, and someone named Albert Brisbane was forming a Utopian community in New Jersey.
She thumbed through several more papers, expecting to find some mention of Aunt Eugenia’s death and funeral. But every issue from August and September was missing. The next paper in the stack was dated October 25, 1843.
Obviously Leo Channing had taken the August and September papers. It seemed that he had thought of everything and would stop at nothing. But she couldn’t report the newspapers missing and still keep her investigation a secret.
She heard the front door of the office open and close, then voices. The bald man’s and then another, deeper voice. Mr. Thompson.
Celia scrambled to return the 1843 papers to the shelves, leaving the others on the desk. She grabbed her reticule and gloves and hurried to the outside door. She yanked on the metal doorknob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Her heart sped up. She would have to go back through the newsroom and risk running into Mr. Thompson. At least she had the story about the charities as her reason for being here and the bald man to corroborate it.
“Who left this door unlocked?” Thompson’s voice reverberated in the adjacent hallway, just outside the door where she stood. “I thought I told you to keep the archives locked up.”
She heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock and then a faint click as the lock engaged. She bit her hand to keep from screaming.
“Hello?” She knocked on the door. “Hello, Mr. Thompson.” But her voice was swallowed by the incessant clacking of the typesetter’s composing sticks and the muted street noises coming through the windows at the front of the building.
She looked around the room wildly, beads of perspiration popping onto her forehead as the old childhood panic overtook her. She leaned over the desk to open the window, but it was stuck. Painted shut. She returned to the outside door, grasped the knob with both hands, and pulled. At last it yielded.
Weak with relief, Celia leaned for a moment against the doorjamb and then stepped onto an unfamiliar street, weaving her way around loaded drays, horse droppings, a vendor’s cart. The squeak and clang of an iron gate slamming shut behind her sent a prickle of fear through her bones. She had the feeling that someone was watching her from the shadows of the buildings, but when she turned to look, no one was there.
She hurried past a row of shops and emerged at last onto the street where Joseph waited with the carriage. He jumped off the driver’s seat at her approach, a frown creasing his face. “Something the matter, Miss Celia? You pale as rain.”
“What? Oh, no—nothing.” She forced a smile and took a shaky breath. “I’ve a lot on my mind these days.”
“Yes’m, reckon that’s so. You ready to go home?”
“I had hoped to stop by Mr. Loyer’s jewelry store.”
He pulled his watch from his pocket. “You got time, I reckon.”
The jewelry store was just down the street, sandwiched between the bakery and a milliner’s shop.
“Wait here, please. I won’t be long.”
“That’s what you said this morning.”
She couldn’t help smiling. Joseph was the soul of patience, and she had sorely trie
d it today. “This time I mean it. I only need to speak to Mr. Loyer for a moment.”
He heaved a sigh. “Moment mos’ likely be a hour, but you the boss, Miss.”
“Oh, Joseph, I know it’s a nuisance having to escort me everywhere, but you know how Papa is these days.”
“Yes’m, I surely do. You go on now. The sooner you get your business done, the sooner we’ll both get home.”
Celia hurried along the sidewalk to the jewelry store and ducked inside. Mr. Loyer sat behind a row of glass cases displaying jeweled necklaces, pins and gold watches, ropes of pearls, and rings sparkling with sapphires and diamonds. He looked up from his work as the door closed behind her.
“Good afternoon. It’s Miss Browning, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Good afternoon.”
He swept a hand above the display cases. “What may I show you today?”
She opened her bag, took out the bracelet, and laid it on the counter. “I received this recently but I don’t know who sent it. I’m hoping you can tell me who purchased it.”
He shook his head. “I can tell you right now it didn’t come from my shop.”
Another dead end. She swallowed. “You’re sure.”
“Positive.” He picked it up and turned it over. “The settings are”—he paused, obviously deciding how to frame his comments without causing offense—“not as well-made as mine. See here? The underside is still a bit rough. I always smooth mine out so they are equally finished on both sides.”
He picked up his jeweler’s loupe and fitted it to his eye before running his fingers over each of the stones. “The diamonds on either side appear to be genuine, but not of the highest quality, I’m afraid. As for the emerald and the amethyst, I believe those to be made of paste.”
“I see.”
He removed his loupe. “I heard you and Mr. Mackay were recently betrothed.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wondering whether he sent this.”
“I know he didn’t.”
“Well, that’s something anyway.” He handed her the bracelet. “I wish I could be of more help.”
“Can you tell me who might have made it? Someone else here in Savannah? Or perhaps in Charleston?”
“I couldn’t say.” Impatience flickered in his eyes.” I don’t wish to be rude, but I am expecting a customer in a few minutes, and I promised to choose a few pieces for her inspection.”
Desperate to solve the mystery, Celia decided to trust him. “Mr. Loyer, are you familiar with the current custom known among the ladies as the language of the jewels?”
“The language of . . . no, I can’t say as I am.”
“It’s the latest thing according to the magazines. Gentlemen send secret messages to their ladies through jewels. The first letters in the names of the jewels spell out a message.”
He frowned.
“For instance, if he wanted to tell her she was dear to him, he might send a piece of jewelry made of a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, and a ruby. D-e-a-r.”
“I see. How intriguing.”
Wordlessly she slid the bracelet back along the counter and watched his expression change as recognition dawned. He blinked. “But surely . . . that is, I can’t imagine . . . . Who would want to harm you, Miss Browning?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” She slipped the bracelet back into her bag. “I know I can count upon your complete discretion in this matter.”
“Of course. But if you feel you’re in danger, why not go to the police?”
“Have you seen the papers of late? The stories about our family?”
He toyed with his jeweler’s loupe, not meeting her gaze. “I have.”
“If I alert the police, there will be even more speculation.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The jeweler rubbed his chin. “There is one man, name of Ryan. He has a shop in the Yamacraw neighborhood, caters to the Irish who live there. It’s mostly inexpensive things—plain wedding bands, paste necklaces for those with pretensions. Hard to imagine anyone of your acquaintance patronizing his shop, but I don’t suppose it would hurt to ask.” He scribbled an address on the back of a receipt. “Now, you really must excuse me.”
Celia took the slip and started for the door.
“Be careful, Miss.”
She let herself out of the shop and headed for the carriage. “Home, please, Joseph. I’m exhausted.”
“Don’t wonder.” Joseph opened the door and handed her inside. “You been runnin’ faster than the Cassville steam train this whole blessed day.”
He climbed into his seat and turned for home.
14
SUTTON HALTED THE RIG AT THE GATE AND JUMPED DOWN to help Celia out, his gloved hands clasping hers. He tethered the horse, and they hurried up the front steps and into the foyer. Overnight the weather had turned colder, and now fires burned in the parlor fireplaces and in Papa’s library.
“There the two o’ you are.” Mrs. Maguire hurried into the foyer, a laden tea tray in her hands. “I expected you half an hour ago.” She proffered the tray. “I hope the scones are not stone cold by now.”
“I’m sure they’ll be delicious anyway,” Sutton told her. “Nobody makes afternoon tea quite the way you do, Mrs. Maguire.”
She blushed. “You are full o’ the blarney, Sutton Mackay, and that’s the truth.”
He laughed.
“We’re sorry to be late,” Celia said. “Poseidon threw a shoe, and we had to wait for the groom to come back from exercising Miss Waring’s mare. And we hadn’t been out to the track in a while. Both the boys needed a good run.”
“Both the boys?” The housekeeper shook her head. “You talk about those horses like they’re regular people. Well, off with your coats and into the parlor. I don’t have time to stand here jibber-jabberin’.”
Celia shed her gloves, unbuttoned her cloak, and unwound her scarf. “The bergamot tea smells heavenly, Mrs. Maguire.”
The housekeeper preceded them into the parlor and set the tray on the side table beside Celia’s chair. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” Celia lifted the ivory-colored teapot and filled their cups. “Where’s Papa?”
“Still in his room. I heard him rattling around in his library at two o’clock this morning. I expect he’s still asleep. And don’t you go waking him.”
“Of course we won’t.”
“Miss Ivy sent for Joseph and the carriage just after you left this morning. Shopping, I reckon.” Mrs. Maguire headed back to the kitchen.
Sutton helped himself to a scone and slathered it with butter and strawberry jam. “Grandmother tells me you have chosen a gown for our big day.”
“Yes. I hope you will approve.”
“You’d look beautiful in homespun. All I want is for you to marry me.” He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Grandmother says I’m a fool for waiting.”
“I certainly respect her opinion,” Celia said drily.
Sutton laughed. “Me too. And she’s right. Whatever happens will happen whether we are married or not. I had a letter from Griffin Rutledge in Charleston last week. He’s nearly concluded his deal with the shipbuilders in Liverpool. They’re eager to begin construction of my boat as soon as I can secure commitments from the investors.”
“I see.” She had pushed his trip to England to the back of her mind, not wanting to face the prospect of another long separation. It took weeks for letters to cross the Atlantic, and the silence during his absences was nearly unbearable.
“So I figure we’ll sail at the end of January.”
Her cup rattled in its saucer. “We?”
“Yes. I understand it’s usual for wives to accompany their husbands on such voyages.”
“Wives? Wait. Are you saying—”
“I’m saying let’s get married right after the new year. That will give us a month to get settled before we sail.”
“But my dress isn’t close to being finis
hed. And what about the reception?”
“If I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long ago that you were suggesting a January wedding.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Offer the dressmaker a small bonus for putting a rush on it. I’ll bet she finishes in record time.” He reached over and cupped her cheek in his hand. “You do want to marry me?”
“Oh, yes.” All her life she had dreamed of the perfect wedding day. Coming down the stairs on Papa’s arm with friends around to share in the happiness. Tables set with the best china and silver, laden with enough food to feed half of the city. Banks of flowers from their own gardens in every room. Now it would happen sooner than she’d planned. Not many flowers would be blooming in the middle of winter, and some of her friends might not return from their Christmas travels in time to attend. But those were minor disappointments compared to the prospect of waiting months for Sutton’s return.
“I was so dreading being apart from you again, and now I won’t have to.”
He drew her onto his lap and wound a dark curl around his fingers. “You may regret it if we hit bad weather on the crossing. The Atlantic can be brutal in the winter.”
“Not as brutal as waiting here, wondering whether you are all right and counting the days till you come home. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Papa our news.”
“I can’t wait until you’re mine.” He kissed her, and she rested her head on his shoulder, listening to the crackling of the fire in the grate. Safe in Sutton’s arms, she could forget about the anonymous messages, the bracelet, the intruder who had shoved her to the ground in the garden. The niggling questions about the past.
“Oh, dear. I am sorry.” Ivy stood in the parlor doorway, her arms laden with packages. “I seem to be interrupting at precisely the wrong time.”
Celia slid off Sutton’s lap and smoothed her hair. “You might have knocked.”
“I should have, but I didn’t have a hand free.” Ivy dumped her parcels onto the settee and peeled off her gloves. “Is there any more tea? I’m half frozen. I do believe it’s turned colder since this morning. Maybe we’ll have snow, like the storm that came when Uncle David was a boy. He says the snowdrifts were waist high in some places. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
