The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  The light in the attic faded as the storm intensified. She put everything back into the trunk and poked around in the corners of the room. But there was no sign of a rosewood writing box, no sign of a diary. Perhaps Uncle Magnus had taken them when he left. Perhaps Ivy had them after all and had simply forgotten about them after all these years.

  She was retracing her steps, stepping carefully around a couple of hatboxes and a wreath made of silk ribbons, when the attic door slammed shut. She jumped, then shuddered. She distinctly remembered propping open the door. She made her way to the door. The knob wouldn’t turn. She was drawn back in time to that day in the garden shed. Panic swept over her like a rogue wave, stealing her breath.

  Now she pounded the door with both fists, but the sound of the storm drowned the sound of her voice. “Let me out! Mrs. Maguire! Help!”

  Celia sank to the floor. They couldn’t hear her. She tried to think. What time was it now? Surely it was near noon, and Mrs. Maguire would miss her when she didn’t show up for lunch. Or else Ivy would eventually notice her absence. At the very worst, they would look for her this evening when Papa came home and Celia was absent from supper. All she had to do was remain calm. Breathe.

  Minutes passed. An hour. The storm subsided. She pounded on the door again and fought the rising fear that all the air was being sucked from the room. The walls seem to press in around her. Rationally it made sense to simply sit and wait for rescue, but fear compelled her to look for another way out.

  She ran her palms along the wooden walls, and eventually her hands closed around a metal doorknob. A tiny door, perhaps only three feet high, swung open. She bent and stepped forward into a void, her foot twisting painfully as it landed on the narrow stair. She started down, keeping one hand on the wall for balance. Reaching the bottom step, she looked around for the door that would take her into the main house and safety. But there was no door, just a narrow passageway that seemed to lead away from the house and toward the garden.

  Surely this passageway eventually led to the outside. Celia felt her way along the narrow space and tried not to remember that here there was even less air to breathe. All she had to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  At last a shaft of light fell across her darkened path, and she rushed toward it. She pushed through another door, the planks grayed and thick with cobwebs. Realization dawned as she looked around. She was in the carriage house.

  After the death of the laundress, Papa had sent their carriages to the livery and locked the doors to this place. There was nothing here now except odds and ends—a wooden table with a splintered leg, a stack of rusted tin buckets, a coil of rotted rope. The windows—one of them broken—were too high up to allow her to climb out, but at least there was light. And she could breathe.

  The wind rattled the loose glass in the broken window pane. She couldn’t explain it exactly, but she felt a strong presence here, an ineffable sadness mixed with a fierce anger that seemed to shimmer like a live thing in the pearlescent light.

  A sudden movement in the rafters caught her eye and she looked up. A sparrow had flown in through the broken window and was desperately seeking a way out. She watched the bird circling in confusion until it rested on a rafter near the center of the building.

  Her breath caught.

  Hanging from the rafter were the remains of a noose, the ends of the rope frayed and gray, moving ever so slightly in the stale, damp air.

  18

  OUTSIDE: MAXWELL’S FRANTIC BARKING. CELIA RUSHED TO the wide front doors of the carriage house and pounded them with her fists. “Maxwell! Come! Here, boy!”

  The puppy scratched at the doors. She knelt on the floor and pressed her face to crack between the doors. “Maxwell, here I am!”

  “Maxwell.” Ivy’s voice. “Get back here.”

  But the puppy kept up his barking and scratching. Soon footsteps sounded on the path.

  “Ivy!” Celia yelled. “Open the door and let me out of here!”

  “Miss Celia?” Mrs. Maguire’s voice came through the door. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doin’ in there?”

  “Never mind. Just let me out, please.”

  “I can’t remove all these boards, and besides, I don’t have the key. You’ll have to go back the way you came.”

  Back through the long, dark passageway, up the steep hidden staircase, across the gloomy attic to the door. She shivered. “Then go inside and open the attic door.”

  “What were you doing in the attic?”

  “Mrs. Maguire, please take Maxwell inside before he gets a chill and do as I ask.”

  “Come on, Maxie,” Ivy said, her voice muffled. “Don’t worry, Cousin. I’ve got him.”

  Footsteps receded. Celia left the carriage house, retracing her steps as quickly as she dared. By the time she returned to the attic, Mrs. Maguire had reached the second floor and stood at the opened door, the keys in her hands.

  “My faith, girl! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the housekeeper said.

  “I was frightened. I’ve always been afraid of being locked in, ever since the time Ivy—”

  “Then you ought not have been poking around in there.”

  “I propped the door open.”

  “With this?” Mrs Maguire picked up the valise and tossed it into the attic with more force than necessary. “No wonder. ’Tisn’t heavy enough to keep the door from blowing shut when there’s a draft downstairs.”

  “But—”

  “Are you all right, Celia?” Ivy appeared at the top of the stairs, a damp but joyful Maxwell at her heels.

  “I’m all right now.” Celia lifted Maxwell. The weight of the warm puppy calmed her frazzled nerves. She briefly buried her face in his damp hair. “I could use some tea, though.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Mrs. Maguire closed the door once more, locked it carefully, and started for the kitchen. “I’ll bring it to the parlor when it’s ready.”

  Ivy looped her arm through Celia’s. “You gave us quite a turn, disappearing like that.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Celia said as they started down the staircase to the parlor. “Ivy, did you know there’s a passageway between here and the carriage house?”

  “I . . . no. Is that why you were in the carriage house? How strange.”

  Celia nodded. “I found it accidentally when I was looking for another way out of the attic.”

  They reached the foyer and entered the parlor. The curtains were drawn against the late November chill. The fire in the grate had burned to coals that gleamed like rubies. Celia plopped down on the settee, settled Maxwell at her feet, and resumed her train of thought. “I can’t imagine a use for such a passageway. It’s narrow and dark, and certainly it’s—”

  “I’ll bet even Uncle David doesn’t know about it.” Ivy fluffed her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. “But I wouldn’t advise you to ask. It might upset him. You know how he is. He’d want to investigate every nook and cranny, and that elf-size door is hardly—”

  “Here we are.” Mrs. Maguire bustled in with the tea tray. She busied herself pouring, then pointed to the small plate of benne seed cookies. “I made those for Mr. Mackay, but he hasn’t shown himself here much lately, so you might as well have ’em.”

  Celia picked up her teacup. “Sutton’s been busy since the new ship arrived from Charleston. Did I tell you he’s decided to name her for me?”

  “I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Maguire said. “The boy is besotted with you. It wouldn’t surprise me if he named his carriage, his house, and everything else he owns after you.”

  The front door opened and Papa came in, his hat and cloak dripping rain. Maxwell lifted his head, considered whether or not to bestir himself, and went back to sleep. Celia rose and went into the foyer to greet her father, her heart warming at the sight of his gentle smile.

  “You’re home early, Papa.”

  He handed her his hat, and she set it on the hall tree. “A section of
the track washed out north of here and delayed the train from Marietta. It’s too wet to load cotton anyway, so I sent the men home for the day.” He glanced toward the parlor. “Is there tea?”

  “Yes, you’re just in time.”

  Celia took his arm as they returned to the parlor. “Aside from the delayed shipment, how are things on Commerce Row?”

  “Perking along. This morning I went over the books with Elliott Shaw. Barring any disasters, we should have a record profit this season.” He paused. “There is one bit of news. Mr. Shaw has given his notice. He intends to leave by the end of the month. He’s going back to his sister’s in Cassville.”

  “But why? I realize his sister has been ill recently. But Mr. Shaw has been your clerk forever.”

  “I asked that very question and he said, ‘Ask your daughter.’ ” Papa removed his coat and shook it out. “Has something happened that I ought to know about?”

  “Mr. Shaw turned up uninvited at the masquerade ball with a gift for me, which naturally I refused.”

  “I see.”

  “And then he showed up on the waterfront the night Sutton and I went to see the new ship. He said he’d been working late on some report you wanted. But I’m not sure I believe him. I—”

  “Mr. Browning.” Mrs. Maguire placed a brimming teacup on the small table next to Papa’s chair. “I’ve made your tea the way you like it, and there are cookies on the tray. But I can make something more substantial if you like.”

  “This will be plenty, Mrs. Maguire. I had lunch at the club and ate more than I should have.” He picked up a cookie. “Besides, I don’t want to spoil my appetite for whatever you are planning for dinner this evening.”

  Mrs. Maguire’s eyes widened. “Oh, my faith! In all the excitement I forgot all about my pork roast and cabbage. If I don’t get them in the pot soon, you won’t have any dinner till midnight.”

  The housekeeper hurried out. Papa looked from Celia to Ivy. “Excitement? What happened?”

  “Nothing really,” Celia said quickly. “I was up in the attic, and the wind blew the door closed. Ivy and Mrs. Maguire rescued me.”

  Papa helped himself to more tea. “I’ve been meaning to clean out that attic, but somehow I never get around to it. What were you doing up there?”

  “Just poking around,” Celia said. “The weather was too disagreeable for visiting or for walking Maxwell in the park.” She smiled at him and shrugged. “A girl can read only so many books on a day like this.”

  He laughed. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “I found some of mother’s watercolors. Would you mind if I had them framed? I might like to have them in my dressing room when Sutton and I are married and living on our own.”

  “Of course, darling. Take whatever you want. I’d forgotten how fond your mother was of painting. She never wanted me to see her work, though.”

  Maxwell woke, stretched, and padded across the room to nudge Papa’s hand with his nose. “Hello, my man.” Papa stroked the puppy’s head. “Ivy? You’ve been quiet. What did you do today, apart from rescuing your cousin from the attic?”

  “I had a letter from a school friend. Leticia Hopewell. She’s living in New York now and has invited me to visit. I’m thinking of going.”

  “Not before Celia’s wedding, surely.”

  Ivy’s eyes went bright with sudden tears, but she managed a smile. “No, of course not, Uncle David. Not before then.”

  He finished his tea and got to his feet. “If you ladies will excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a while before dinner. It isn’t often I get a chance to come home early for a rest.”

  He kissed Celia’s cheek. “You could do with a rest, too, my dear. You’re very pale. Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

  “I had a bad dream last night, that’s all. But a nap sounds like a good idea.” She picked up Maxwell and turned to her cousin. “What about you, Ivy?”

  “I want to finish my tea and write a letter to Leticia. I’ll see you at dinner.” She smiled. “Let’s hope Mrs. Maguire has the roast in the pot by now.”

  Celia followed her father up the curving staircase. At the top of the stairs they parted, and she went into her room and closed the door.

  She removed her dress and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes but she couldn’t shake the awful image of the frayed noose in the carriage house. She’d always thought the death of the laundress had been an accident. But how did a person accidently die by hanging?

  She didn’t believe that, any more than she believed that a sudden draft had caused the attic door to slam shut. Even if it had, it wouldn’t have locked all by itself. Mrs. Maguire had had to open it with a key.

  Her eyes flew open, and she sat upright in bed as another realization dawned. Ivy had claimed not to know about the secret passageway leading to the carriage house, yet she had perfectly described the door that led to the stairs adjoining it.

  Ivy could have locked the door, but surely she was past such childish mischief. And it was unthinkable that Mrs. Maguire would have locked her in.

  Or was it?

  Maxwell jumped onto the bed and licked her face. Celia tucked him beneath her arm and tried to think. But the harder she worked to understand the puzzle of the bracelet, the strange anonymous messages, the diary, and the attic and how they all fit together, the more confused and afraid she became.

  “Miss Browning, will you kindly hold still.” The dressmaker scowled as Celia shifted from one foot to the other.

  Celia returned the woman’s frown. How could the pinning of a single sleeve take so much time? Mrs. Foyle might be the most sought-after modiste in Savannah, but she was slower than the hands on a schoolroom clock. “Are you almost finished?”

  Mrs. Foyle spoke around a mouthful of pins. “Not too much longer.”

  She pinched the fabric at Celia’s waist. “You’ve lost weight since our last fitting.”

  “Too many things on my mind these days. They have stolen my appetite.”

  The dressmaker pinned the waist and held up a length of lace that would eventually be attached to the gown’s voluminous overskirt. “With your wedding only weeks away, I’m sure I don’t wonder at it. But you’ll want to keep some flesh on those bones between now and then if you don’t want to look like a refugee on your wedding day.”

  Mrs. Foyle stood back to admire her work. “That’s all for today. Please bring your mother’s veil as soon as you can so I can adjust the length for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Celia said. “I meant to bring it sooner, but it slipped my mind.” She ducked behind the screen in the corner of the dress shop and changed into her simple violet and cream day dress. She had done her best to emulate the best qualities her mother was said to possess: graciousness, discretion, charity, piety. But the compounding mysteries surrounding the bracelet, the diary, and the anonymous notes, coupled with the incident in the attic, had stretched her self-control to the limit.

  Never had she felt so alone. She couldn’t burden her father or Sutton with her worries; they had troubles of their own. Mrs. Maguire seemed to get angry whenever Celia brought up the subject of her aunt and the laundress. And both Mrs. Maguire and Ivy, for whatever reason, had lied to her yesterday. Clearly, Celia was on her own.

  Celia finished doing up her buttons, retrieved her hat and cloak, and headed for the door just as Ivy rushed in, her light-blue eyes shining. “Thank goodness I’ve caught you. I was afraid you might have gone by now.”

  “We’ve just finished her fitting,” Mrs. Foyle said. She waved them out the door.

  On the sidewalk, Ivy took Celia’s arm. “I’ve a tremendous favor to ask. I’ve just come from the circulating library, and there’s wonderful news. The Georgia Historical Society has invited Mr. Thoreau to Savannah, and it’s rumored he will accept. Mr. Truesdale at the library has asked me to help plan the occasion. He has called a meeting for noon today, and now I haven’t the time to read with Louisa. She’s doing so well lately that I hat
e to disappoint her.”

  Two gentlemen approaching on the street tipped their hats as they passed. Celia dipped her head in return. “And you’d like me to go in your place.”

  “Would you? After all, I took your turn when you went shopping with Mrs. Mackay.”

  They reached the carriage where Joseph waited to drive them home. Celia sighed. Working with Louisa was a trial, and yesterday’s events had left mistrust and anger simmering in Celia’s heart like soup on a fire. But Ivy was right. Celia did owe her the favor.

  Joseph jumped off the carriage and opened the door. “Going home, Misses?”

  Celia sighed again. “Take me to the Female Asylum, please, Joseph. And then deliver my cousin to the library. I shall be ready to return home at noon.”

  “All right, Miss.” The carriage driver helped the cousins inside and closed the door. “You two surely must be the mos’ busy ladies in all of Savannah.”

  Minutes later they drew up at the asylum. Ivy leaned forward to place a hand on Celia’s arm. “Be patient with Louisa. I know she can be stubborn and prickly, but she’s really a lovely girl when you get to know her. And we must remember that she has had no one except Mrs. Clayton and Miss Ransom to guide her.”

  The carriage rocked as Joseph got down to open the door.

  “There’s a Christmas tea at the library a week from Saturday,” Ivy went on. “Mr. Truesdale and Miss Bole are soliciting donations to purchase more books for our collection. I told him he could count on us to help.”

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful, and of course I want to support the library. But you should not have spoken for me. I already have plans.”

  “Here we are, Miss Celia.” Joseph opened the door and offered her his hand.

  “Sutton and I are planning an outing on that day.” Celia couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. Sutton had been so busy the past two weeks that they’d barely seen each other.