The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  Once again, Celia had the feeling she was being followed, and she had had enough. She spun on her heel and retraced her steps.

  “Miss Celia?” Joseph called out. “Where in world you goin’? Where’s Mr. Sutton gone to?”

  Celia hurried along the wharf. All was quiet except for the sighing and creaking of the ships straining in their moorings. The cotton factor’s office was dark and locked up tight. Where was Sutton? Behind the building a group of rough-looking men had gathered beneath a gaslight and were passing around a bottle of spirits. One of their number slumped against the wooden stairs, his head falling onto his chest.

  Then someone bumped into her with such force that she nearly lost her balance. She gasped. “Sutton?”

  “Not quite.”

  Celia looked up and into the eyes of Elliott Shaw.

  17

  “FIND THE DIARY AND YOU’LL FIND THE NAME.”

  Celia woke and bolted from her bed, shaking and drenched in sweat. The memory of her last conversation with Leo Channing and her unexpected encounter with Elliott Shaw sent a chill through her, making her head pound.

  Mr. Shaw had apologized for frightening her. He had worked late on Saturday evening, finishing a report Papa wanted, and had just happened upon her as she turned the corner. His explanation seemed logical enough, but somehow she hadn’t quite believed him. Moments later, Sutton had returned and Mr. Shaw had taken his leave, disappearing into the wispy fog.

  Now Celia slid her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown and parted the curtains. A gray skein of clouds shrouded the sky, and a hard rain pelted the windows, drowning out the street sounds below.

  She splashed her face with water and pinned her hair, in no hurry to get dressed. None of her friends would come calling on such a disagreeable morning.

  Maxwell rose from his place at the foot of her bed and emitted a frantic yelp, his tail beating the air. She sighed. The thing about puppies was that they had to be taken out of doors regardless of the weather.

  She slapped her thigh. “Come on, then.”

  The puppy scampered down the staircase and spun in circles as he waited for her to reach the kitchen door. She opened the door and sent him out into the rain, watching through the window as he sniffed and circled before disappearing into a tangle of jessamine. A moment later he returned, making muddy paw prints on the floor.

  “You’re finally awake, I see.” Mrs. Maguire came into the kitchen carrying a stack of laundry. She pulled out a towel and handed it to Celia.

  Celia wrapped the wriggling puppy in the towel and cleaned his paws. “Yes. Sutton and I exercised the horses after church yesterday, and Zeus fairly wore me out. I’m sorry to be so late this morning.”

  “Lose an hour in the mornin’ and you’ll be lookin’ for it all day.” Mrs. Maguire set a plate of scraps on the floor, and Maxwell fell on his breakfast like a prisoner at a last meal.

  Celia laughed and stroked his damp head. “Slow down, boy. Nobody is out to steal your food.”

  Mrs. Maguire pointed a finger at Celia. “Now, I’ll thank you to get that wet dog out of my kitchen. I’ve got three loaves of bread in the oven, and I don’t need the likes o’ him underfoot while I’m tending to ’em.”

  “But he won’t be underfoot. See.” Maxwell had polished off the last of his meal, curled into a corner, and was fast asleep, his little golden head resting on his front paws.

  Mrs. Maguire retrieved the plate and shook her head. “Why on earth Mr. Mackay thought we needed a dog in this house is a mystery for the ages.”

  “Well, just look at him,” Celia said. “He’s adorable. And he’s such wonderful company.”

  “Humph.” The housekeeper turned toward the kitchen. “I expect you’re wantin’ some breakfast too.”

  “Yes, please.” Celia followed Mrs. Maguire into the kitchen and perched on a chair drawn up to a tall counter that ran the length of the stone wall. Heat from the stove warmed the room, and the smell of baking bread permeated the air. “Is Ivy awake?”

  “Still sleeping off that cough, I reckon.” Mrs. Maguire filled a china plate with biscuits, sausage, and eggs and slid it onto the counter. “Dr. Dearing sent over a tonic for her last evening.” The housekeeper laid out a place setting of heavy silver—knife, fork, and spoon placed just so atop a heavy white napkin. “Your da took the last of the coffee out to Joseph this morning, but I can make more.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want any.” Celia bit into a biscuit and watched Mrs. Maguire go about her work. The housekeeper’s practiced movements and the comforting smells coming from the stove seemed to invite the sharing of confidences. During Morning Prayer yesterday, Celia had decided to ask Mrs. Maguire about Aunt Eugenia’s death and the alleged diary. If she could think of a way to broach the subject that would not arouse the older woman’s suspicions. On those rare occasions when the subject of those long-ago incidents arose, Mrs. Maguire was as guarded and non-committal as Papa.

  Celia no longer knew how many of her memories were hard facts and how many were stories she’d imagined to keep from losing all sense of her own history. Perhaps in her girlhood it was better not to have known what really happened in those sad and mysterious weeks just after her eighth birthday. Even now, Papa deflected her occasional questions, apparently trying to protect her. But she was a grown woman, about to be married. She no longer wished to be protected. She wanted the truth, even if the truth rearranged everything she thought she knew.

  She finished her breakfast and pushed her plate aside. Through the open doorway she saw Maxwell lying on his side, fast asleep. The rain continued dripping off the eaves and beading the windows, but inside the kitchen the air was warm and still.

  “Mrs. Maguire? At church yesterday, Mrs. Cates remarked that my hat was very similar in color to one my mother once wore.”

  “Humph.” Mrs. Maguire picked up her kitchen knife and began peeling apples.

  “Papa says robin’s-egg blue was Mother’s favorite color. Did you know that?”

  “She did wear a lot of blue back in the day. But I always thought lavender was her best shade. It more nearly matched her eyes.”

  “Papa says my eyes are violet.”

  “Lavender, violet, it’s all the same.” An apple peel fell in a single spiral into Mrs. Maguire’s lap.

  “I remember once when I was very small, Aunt Eugenia came to visit and brought Mama some purple silk she’d bought in Charleston.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t remember.”

  “What do you remember about the two of them? Were they close? Did they like the same things?”

  Mrs. Maguire’s hands stilled, and she pursed her lips as if the questions called to memory something she’d rather not discuss. But at last she said, “They loved each other, sure. But Miss Eugenia’s keepin’ the slaves your grandfather gave her never did set well with Miss Francesca. She and your da have always been opposed to the idea of owning other people.”

  The housekeeper picked up another apple. “When Miss Eugenia married Mr. Lorens and he took over the plantation on St. Simons, she and Miss Francesca had quite a set-to over it. Miss Francesca wasn’t happy about a near stranger gettin’ his hands on Butler property. But all that is water under the bridge. I don’t see why you want to bring it up now.”

  “After dinner the other night Sutton was speaking of how important family history and tradition are. I’ve always felt like a big part of my history is missing. But I can’t ask Papa and risk upsetting him. You know what the doctor said.”

  “I do, and that’s another reason why you ought to let sleepin’ dogs lie. Just go on with your wedding plans and be happy with Sutton Mackay. Leave the past where it belongs. Anyway, I’m not the one you ought to be askin.’ ”

  “There is no one else to ask, Mrs. Maguire.”

  The housekeeper rose and dumped an apron full of apple peelings into the pail beside the door. She peered into the oven to check on the bread.

  “Do
you remember when Aunt Eugenia and Ivy arrived here, just before the accidents?”

  “Of course I do.” The oven door slapped shut. “Woke up half of Madison Square when that carriage rolled up to the door in the middle of the night and Miss Eugenia come running up the steps ringing the bell and screaming like the divil himself was after her.” Mrs. Maguire sprinkled flour onto her marble pastry slab and began rolling out a piecrust. “’Course it wasn’t the divil. ’Twas only Mr. Lorens. But some say the two was one and the same.”

  Celia nodded. Ivy had hinted at some kind of strife between her mother and father, but still this news put a dent in Celia’s image of the Brownings as one harmonious family. “I was only eight, but I remember feeling scared for Aunt Eugenia and for Ivy.”

  Thunder rumbled as Mrs. Maguire removed the bread from the oven and slid the pie in. “Miss Ivy was the tougher o’ the two, if you ask me.” Celia recalled those first few days after their arrival, when Ivy and Aunt Eugenia had occupied the bright, airy room across the hall from her own. Confused and frightened by her aunt’s tears, Celia had gone about her activities on tiptoe. But Ivy had seemed detached, retreating far beyond the reach of anyone. Sometimes she seemed to be there still—all these years later—in a world of her own making.

  Where had Uncle Magnus been during this time? Celia frowned, trying to remember. She recalled so little about him. But even to one of her tender years, he seemed more charming than attractive, with his butter-colored hair and eyes so pale they seemed nearly colorless. Certainly he was not nearly as handsome as Papa. He was foreign born and without connections or property. It made no sense why Eugenia Butler, who had plenty of both, had chosen him over other suitors. Perhaps it was true that a woman in love abandons all reason.

  Another memory surfaced. For her sixth birthday, Uncle Magnus had brought Ivy and Aunt Eugenia to Savannah for the celebration. She remembered his love of jokes and stories and how Aunt Eugenia, who seemed serious and a little sad, had refused to dance with him and frowned when he got too boisterous.

  She couldn’t recall another single instance of his presence in the house—until he’d followed Aunt Eugenia and Ivy here.

  “I remember that Aunt Eugenia spent a lot of time sitting in our garden,” Celia said. “One day she made crowns of magnolia leaves for Ivy and me. I cried when the leaves shriveled on mine and I had to throw it out.”

  Mrs. Maguire fetched her broom and began sweeping, her movements quick and full of purpose.

  “Do you remember that, Mrs. Maguire?”

  “I do not.” Swish-swish went the broom. “And nither do I see the purpose of all this talk. Half the morning’s gone and here you sit, still in your dressing gown.”

  “Well, I can hardly pay social calls in this weather.” Celia glanced out the window. “I hope the weather improves by tomorrow. Mrs. Foyle is already cross with me because I asked her to finish my dress sooner than planned. I don’t dare cancel my fitting.”

  Mrs. Maguire’s expression softened. “No, it won’t do to delay completin’ your weddin’ dress. Your da is sure looking forward to the festivities. Just this mornin’ he asked me about your cake. But that’s a job better suited to Mrs. Hemphill at the bakery.”

  “I suppose. May I ask one more question?”

  Mrs. Maguire leaned on her broom and sighed. “You’ll ask it no matter what I say, so go ahead. But I am not promisin’ to answer.”

  “Aunt Eugenia was here for several weeks before the accident. I was so young I can’t remember—what did she do with herself all day? I can’t imagine she would have gone visiting or that my mother’s friends would have visited her. Not after the ruckus Uncle Magnus caused when she left him and came here.”

  “She kept mostly to herself, she and Ivy. They slept like the dead for the first few days. Then your papa sent for the doctor, and he gave Miss Eugenia some kind of tonic that perked her up. After that she did seem to prefer the garden. Seemed like every time I called her for dinner, she was sitting on the bench beneath the magnolias with her writing box on her lap.”

  “She had a writing box? What did it look like?”

  “Oh, child, I didn’t pay that much attention. Your aunt’s arrival set this whole household on its ear. I had my hands full taking care of you and your da, and keeping an eye on your cousin. Miss Ivy was a handful back then.” She paused. “Now that I think about it, I remember that box was made out of a reddish-colored wood. Rosewood, maybe. With a lid that closed to make a writing desk. Not so different from your own, best as I can recollect.”

  “What happened to it after—”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Miss Ivy has it.”

  “Maybe I have what?” Ivy stepped into the kitchen, Maxwell at her heels. She was dressed, her hair pinned into a perfect cascade of blond curls, but her skin looked pale and dry. Faint blue half-moons bloomed beneath her eyes.

  “Your mother’s writing box,” Mrs. Maguire said before Celia could say anything.

  “Writing box?” Ivy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t remember a writing box.” She eyed the bread cooling on the counter. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Maguire. May I have some?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ivy found the bread knife and sliced into the loaf. Maxwell stationed himself at her feet, sat on his haunches, and stared at her until she picked off a piece and tossed it to him. “There, you little beggar. Now go away. I’m famished.”

  Through the window, Celia saw a carriage turning onto the street, flaps buttoned tight against the cold rain. Moments later, the bell rang. Mrs. Maguire sent Celia a pointed look. “Didn’t I tell you to get dressed? Now there’s someone at the door, and look at you.”

  Ivy brushed crumbs from her fingers. “I’ll answer it.”

  “Niver you mind.” Mrs. Maguire dusted off her fingers and patted her hair into place. “I’ll attend to it. Just keep that dog away from the door.”

  Celia scooped Maxwell into her arms. Mrs. Maguire hurried to the door and soon returned, a puzzled expression in her eyes.

  “Who is it?” Celia asked.

  “Wasn’t nobody there. They left this on the doorstep. It’s addressed to you.”

  Celia set Maxwell on his feet and took the envelope from Mrs. Maguire. It was spattered with rain, and the inked address had started to run. She tore it open and silently scanned the single line. “An oak is often split by a wedge from its own branch.”

  “What is it?” Ivy helped herself to another slice of bread. “An invitation of some sort?”

  “It’s nothing important.” Celia tucked the letter into her pocket. “You are so right, Mrs. Maguire. I have dawdled long enough. I must get dressed. Come along, Maxwell.”

  Celia and the dog hurried up the stairs. She dressed quickly and sat down to reread the note, the puppy curled contentedly in her lap. She thought of the other cryptic messages that had arrived at the house since last month, words both chilling and strangely familiar.

  “Foul deeds will rise . . .”

  “Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.”

  And now, “An oak is often split by a wedge from its own branch.”

  The words hinted at betrayal. Leo Channing had once suggested that Papa and Ivy were not to be trusted, but that was ridiculous. Papa would never do anything foul, and Ivy was practically her sister, even if they were no more compatible than oil and water.

  The diary. If Celia found the diary, maybe she would solve the mystery and discharge her obligation to Mr. Channing without causing her family harm. And maybe she would find some clue as to who had sent the bracelet and why.

  But the two might not even be connected. Maybe Leo Channing was right, and the bracelet was from some shy admirer who had no inkling of the message hidden in the jewels. But instinct told Celia the bracelet meant more. And she still couldn’t shake the sense that someone was watching her. Waiting.

  Wishing her harm.

  Find the diary and you’ll find the name. Ce
lia gently pushed Maxwell off her lap and stood. She hurried along the upper gallery to the end of the hall where a narrow door led to the attic.

  The door opened easily, and she stepped into the musty space. Light from a cobwebbed window high on the wall cast shadows over the jumbled contents of the room. Her heart sped up as she moved farther into the small space and realized there was no other means of exit. She propped the door open with an empty valise and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  The rain beat onto the roof with a sound like cannon fire. The air was thick with dust. Celia stifled a sneeze and sorted through a stack of books that smelled of mold. On a broken chair sat a box of faded newspaper clippings and three old ledgers from the Butler plantations on St. Simons. An old camphine lamp. A leather trunk with a rusted lock looked promising, but it was empty. In the corner, an oil portrait of Aunt Eugenia wearing a blue silk gown rested in a broken gilt frame next to a stack of watercolor pictures. Celia recognized her own garden in the paintings—the wrought-iron bench that sat beneath the magnolias, the pride-of-India trees, the riot of pink roses climbing a painted wooden trellis.

  She lifted the painting of the roses toward the fall of gray light coming through the rain-smeared window and saw the initials in the corner. FBB. Her mother’s work, then. She couldn’t remember seeing her mother at an easel, but a faded memory surfaced as she studied the picture. A spring morning in the garden with her mother, the bees gathering in the jessamine, the air heavy with the smells of wet earth and the river. Her mother’s enchanting laughter and the sense that the garden was their own private world, a magical place filled with beauty and wonder.

  Setting aside the painting, Celia moved farther into the attic. Here was another trunk, the key still in the lock. It opened easily to reveal more of her mother’s things—a small black velvet box containing a single garnet earbob, a packet of letters bound with a faded pink ribbon, a slim book of poetry inscribed by the author, a well-worn copy of The Book of Common Prayer. Celia ran her fingers over each item, imagining them in her mother’s hands.