by Dorothy Love
“An outing?” Ivy frowned. “In the middle of December?”
“It shouldn’t be that cold,” Celia said as Joseph helped her out of the carriage. “And you know what they say: Love warms the hands as well as the heart.”
Celia waved to Ivy, ran lightly up the steps to the asylum, and rang the bell. Red-haired Annie Wilcox answered the door, a beribboned bonnet in her hands.
“Hello, Annie,” Celia said. “You’re working on a new hat, I see.”
“Yes’m. It’s meant to be a Christmas present for Mrs. Clayton’s sister.” Annie stepped back to allow Celia into the hallway. “I’ve been working on it every chance I get.”
Celia smiled. “But not neglecting your reading and writing, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Miss Ransom would have a conniption fit if I was to stop my reading and such. Do you know I am the only girl in here who can work out long division?”
“You have a fine mind, Annie. I won’t be surprised if you become a very famous businesswoman one day.” Celia looked around. “I must go. I’m here to read with Louisa.”
“Louisa? Then you’d better come into the parlor, Miss Browning. I’ll fetch Mrs. Clayton.”
19
KNEELING NEXT TO IVY IN THE BROWNINGS’ USUAL PEW, Celia closed her eyes and murmured a prayer for her father, who had not felt well enough to attend church. Celia had left him propped on his pillows with his books and a breakfast tray. He tried to make light of his weakened condition, but his pallor and the circles beneath his eyes told a different story. Yesterday Dr. Dearing had called to check on what he called Papa’s “pleural effusions” and to leave a bottle of Sydenham’s laudanum. The powerful concoction was made of opium mixed with saffron, bruised cinnamon and cloves, and a pint of sherry wine. Nothing could stop the deterioration of Papa’s heart, but at least the laudanum would keep him more comfortable.
In the pew to Celia’s left, an olive-skinned child squirmed in her seat and fussed with the ribbons on her hat, reminding Celia of Louisa. According to Mrs. Clayton, the girl had disappeared sometime on Tuesday evening, apparently by climbing out the window onto the roof and then down a magnolia tree to the ground. Though Louisa had been difficult and not particularly interested in her studies, Celia couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss and more than a little curiosity. Why had she left the comfort and safely of the asylum? Perhaps she’d grown tired of rules and schedules and had left in search of more freedom and adventure.
Mrs. Clayton had reported Louisa’s disappearance to the police. Maybe they’d found her by now. Or maybe the girl was stowed away on Captain Stevens’s boat, headed for home—wherever that was. Celia prayed that Louisa was safe and that the girl might one day find her place in the world. For now, there was nothing more that the ladies of Savannah could do for one lost girl. There were so many others needing guidance and encouragement.
Last night’s fund-raising reception, which Celia had hosted at the Chatham Literary and Arts Society, had been mostly a success. Lucy Chase and her mother had declined Celia’s invitation without giving an excuse, as had one or two others. Still, the room had filled with ladies, who enjoyed an assortment of iced cakes, fruits, cookies, and candies while they chatted and discreetly deposited checks into a large glass bowl in the middle of the refreshments table. By the end of the evening, Celia had collected enough to purchase the piano, with enough left for the sewing machine when it became available. The remainder would be added to the building fund. Surely such a show of support for the asylum would silence Mrs. Clayton’s critics on the board of managers and allow her work to continue.
The chiming of bells signaled the end of the service.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore,” the rector intoned. “Amen.”
The crowd stirred, gathering cloaks and shawls, hats and gloves and small children. Ivy stood on tiptoe and looked around. “There are the Mackays, but I don’t see Sutton.”
“He came in late. He’s on the back pew.” Celia drew on her gloves. “What do you want with him anyway?”
“I bought him a Christmas present.”
Celia frowned as her cousin continued, “Oh, I know I’ve already given him a couple of things since he got home, but I just keep finding little things I know he will enjoy, and I can’t resist.” Ivy stepped into the aisle. “I hope I can catch him before he leaves.”
Celia caught Ivy’s arm. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
Ivy’s eyes widened, and she gave a short laugh. “Surely you’re not jealous.”
Just then Sarah Lawton crossed the aisle and nodded to Celia, her magnificent necklace—the one with the jewels that spelled adored—glittering in the light. Celia returned the older woman’s nod and pressed into the aisle behind Ivy.
“Of course I’m not jealous,” Celia murmured. She nodded to Mrs. Stiles as the older woman preceded them to the door.
“Then what’s the matter?” Ivy whispered. “Sutton will be family soon—practically a brother to me. I don’t see the harm in—”
“It’s embarrassing to him,” Celia said. “First you knit him that red scarf, and then you gave him the compass, and now you have another present. It’s too much, Ivy. Even for an almost-brother, it simply isn’t appropriate.”
Ivy’s eyes flashed. “So the two of you have been gossiping about me?”
“Not at all. Sutton mentioned that your generosity is a bit overwhelming. That’s all.”
They reached the yard where parishioners milled about, chatting, waiting for carriages and rigs to be brought around. Ivy spotted Sutton talking with another man and lifted her hand in a little wave. “Let’s let Sutton tell me himself.”
“Celia.” Mrs. Mackay wove through the knot of worshipers and, reaching Celia, planted a kiss on her cheek. “You look lovely this morning, my dear. Hello, Ivy.”
“Mrs. Mackay.” Ivy bobbed her head, then glanced over her shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just about to speak to that charming son of yours.”
“Ask him not to tarry. I want to get home as soon as possible.” Mrs. Mackay smiled at Celia. “My shoes are pinching my toes.”
Celia watched Ivy making a beeline for Sutton, sympathy for her cousin warring with her growing irritation at Ivy’s boldness. Sutton was too much a gentleman to speak ill to anyone, let alone a member of the family. But Ivy’s behavior was becoming an embarrassment.
“How is your father?” Mrs. Mackay burrowed into her cloak. “I noticed his absence this morning. Somehow church feels incomplete without him.”
Celia recounted the details of the physician’s latest visit. “Dr. Dearing says the laudanum will help, but it’s important not to upset him. And he must rest, which is the difficulty. Papa loves to be in the middle of everything that happens on Commerce Row. So we—”
“There you are!” Alicia Thayer made her way to Celia’s side, a saucy grin on her face. “I was hoping to catch you this morning. Good morning, Mrs. Mackay.” Alicia smiled at Sutton’s mother. “Wasn’t Celia’s fund-raising reception last night just wonderful?”
Without waiting for a reply, Alicia opened her reticule and handed Celia a check. “This is for the asylum.”
“Thank you, but you’ve contributed already.”
“Oh, this one isn’t from me. It’s from the Philadelphia cousins. I wrote to them all about the Female Asylum and our plans to expand the girls’ training beyond preparing them for domestic duties.” Alicia laughed. “My Yankee kin support emancipation in all its forms.” She gave Celia a quick embrace. “I must go. Mother is waiting. And the Quartermans are coming for lunch. But I’ll see you soon.”
Celia waved to her friend and tucked the check into her reticule just as the Mackays’ carriage drew up. Sutton handed his mother into the carriage and waited while she arranged her silk skirts. “Father and I will be along in a moment. He wants to speak to Mr. Waring.”
“Well, don’t be long, Sutton. Mrs. Johns will have Sunday
dinner ready soon, and you know how she fusses when she thinks the food is getting cold.” Mrs. Mackay waved a gloved hand at Celia. “Good-bye, my dear.”
Sutton knocked on the carriage to signal the driver and then turned to Celia. “Good morning, my love.”
Celia returned his smile but couldn’t help teasing him. “You were late to church, Sutton Mackay. Late night last night?”
“Yes, a wild night of wine, women, and song. There was much dancing.” He clasped her hand and twirled her around, his expression one of amused mischief.
“A wild night, was it? I thought you looked a bit bleary-eyed when I spotted you last night on my way home from that drinking establishment I so love to frequent.”
They broke into laughter just as Ivy joined them. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m having a delightful time teasing Celia.” Sutton smiled at Ivy. “But she gives as good as she gets. One of the many reasons I can’t wait to marry her.”
Sutton nodded to an older couple just emerging from the church. “There’s Mrs. Boles from the circulating library. Mother told me you’re helping with the fund-raising to bring Mr. Thoreau to Savannah.”
“Yes,” Ivy said. “We’re holding a tea this coming Saturday. I invited Celia, but she said the two of you already have plans.”
“We do.” Sutton squeezed Celia’s hand. “We’re taking a picnic over to Screven’s Landing, where we went the first night we met.”
“Oh? I have never been there. It’s too bad I can’t come along. I’d enjoy seeing where my dearest cousin first fell in love.”
“There’s not much to see.” Sutton caught his father’s eye and waved him over. “Just an old road through the rice fields and a couple of abandoned shacks. But it’s special to Celia and me.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Ivy said as the Brownings’ carriage rounded the corner and stopped before them.
Sutton helped Celia and Ivy inside and closed the carriage door. He leaned in to speak to Celia. “The inspections of the Celia B went very well. She’s tight as a drum and ready to go. Father and I are going to Charleston on Wednesday. While I’m there I want to talk to Griffin Rutledge about the plans for the boat. But I’ll be home early enough on Friday to go riding if you like.”
At Sutton’s mention of his plans for building the blockade-runner, the joy went out of the day for Celia. The specter of secession and war reignited her deepest fears and reminded her of the uncertainties of her future. But she forced a smile. “I’d love to go riding.”
“I should be back by two o’clock. I’ll send word to Finn O’Grady to have the horses tacked up and ready to go.”
“All right.”
“And then on Saturday we’ll head for Screven’s Landing. If this mild weather holds.” Sutton stepped back as Joseph spoke to the horse and the carriage began to move.
Ivy stared out the window as the carriage turned onto Bull Street.
“You didn’t give Sutton another present?” Celia said.
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
“Thank you, Ivy. Sutton truly appreciates your generosity, but I think it’s better not to—”
With a rattle of harness, the carriage came to a stop at their gate.
“I didn’t give him the present,” Ivy said again as they left the carriage and mounted the steps to the front door. “I almost did, but then I thought of something even better.”
The afternoon weather was exceedingly fine for December, and after a morning at his desk in the study, Papa had called for Joseph and had taken the carriage to Commerce Row. Watching from her window as her father slowly made his way down the steps and through the gate to the street, Celia stifled the impulse to go after him. Still, according to Dr. Dearing, some people with Papa’s condition lived for a long while, and it was important for her father to keep his spirits up. Perhaps it was better for Papa to stay busy and feel useful than to be treated as a complete invalid.
This morning he had included her in his perusing of the company’s ledgers. Despite last year’s financial crisis that had affected the entire country, Browning Shipping was having its best year ever. But Papa was not pleased that Elliott Shaw, in his haste to quit Commerce Row, had left without preparing last month’s bills for the factors who handled the transport of their clients’ cotton, lumber, and pitch. One day soon Papa would need someone to replace Mr. Shaw, someone who could work with Celia and with the lawyers and bankers who would act as trustees for Browning Shipping when the company passed to her. A development she didn’t like to consider.
Celia heard Mrs. Maguire’s footsteps on the stairs. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway in time to see the housekeeper unlocking the door to the attic. Celia darted back into her room, then slowly peeked out the doorway.
A few moments later, Mrs. Maguire came out carrying a bundle wrapped in burlap. Celia watched as the older woman locked the attic door, descended the staircase, and turned toward the kitchen. Leaving Maxwell asleep on the foot of her bed, she followed Mrs. Maguire. By the time Celia reached the kitchen, the housekeeper had disposed of the bundle and was hurriedly scooping flour into the yellow crockery bowl she used for baking bread.
“Mrs. Maguire.”
The housekeeper started, one flour-dusted hand clapped to her heart. “Miss Celia, you scared the life out o’ me. You ought not to sneak up on folks like that.”
“Sorry.” Celia perched on a stool next to the wooden counter and scanned the room, but there was no sign of the mysterious bundle. “Where’s Ivy?”
“Gone to another meetin’ about that big to-do they’re plannin’ for the library. She said not to expect her till late. There’s a dinner at the hotel for the committee members.” Mrs. Maguire busied herself mixing flour, soda, and salt. At last she looked up. “You’re not going to the asylum today?”
Celia shook her head. “I usually go on Wednesdays, but not anymore. My pupil absconded last week.”
“Pardon?”
“She ran away. Mrs. Clayton has no idea where the girl went.”
“My faith. She just up and left, after everything you and Miss Ivy have done for her?” Mrs. Maguire dusted the bread dough with flour and covered it with a towel. “Sure and I don’t understand it.”
Celia nodded absently, her eyes still searching the kitchen. What had the housekeeper taken from the attic? And what had she done with it?
Mrs. Maguire wiped the counter and set the teakettle on to boil. “No need to wait around in here. I’ll bring your tea to the parlor when it’s ready.”
“Oh, I don’t mind waiting here.”
“Don’t you have something to do?” Mrs. Maguire took down the tea caddy and measured tea into the warmed pot.
“Not really.”
“Nivertheless, I wish you’d give me some room, girl. You’re givin’ me the jitters. Have you taken that dog o’ yours—”
Maxwell raced into the room and launched himself into Celia’s arms, wriggling and wagging his tail. Seconds later he leapt to the floor and ran to the kitchen door.
“Better take him into the garden before he makes a mess to clean up,” Mrs. Maguire said.
Celia slid off the stool. “Come on, sweet boy. I’ll take you out.”
She opened the door and followed Maxwell into the garden. He raced around, sniffing at every bush and blade of grass on his way to the back gate. While he explored, Celia pushed through the rosebushes and jessamine and rounded the corner to the small kitchen window. She cupped her hands to the glass and peered into the kitchen just in time to see the housekeeper remove the burlap bundle from the cupboard behind the stove.
She spun away from the window, her heart hammering. What was Mrs. Maguire hiding?
“Maxwell!” She clapped her hands, and the puppy bounded toward her. She picked him up and returned to the kitchen as Mrs. Maguire emerged with the tea tray. Celia followed the older woman to the parlor and waited while the tea was poured. Mrs. Maguire returned to the kitchen with a commen
t about checking on the bread, but Celia scarcely heard her. She settled Maxwell at her feet and spooned sugar into her tea, her mind whirling.
The more she tried to unravel the mysteries of her own house, the more tangled it all became.
20
CELIA LAY AWAKE, LISTENING FOR THE CLICK OF THE KITCHEN door latch, the signal that Mrs. Maguire had finished her work and retired to her room by way of the servants’ staircase.
Papa and Ivy had gone to their rooms early. Surely by now they were deeply asleep. Leaving Maxwell to his puppy dreams, Celia rose and drew on a dressing gown. She lit the lamp, and, when the flame steadied, opened her bedroom door.
The house was quiet. Pale light from the gas lamps along the street filtered through the fanlight, illuminating the entry hall. She closed the door to her bedroom and hurried along the gallery, her bare toes sinking into the thick carpets covering the wooden floors. She descended the staircase, crossed the cold marble floor of the entry hall, headed past the parlor where the last orange embers from the evening’s fire still glowed faintly in the darkness.
In the kitchen, she set her lamp on the counter and crossed to the wooden cupboard behind the stove where Mrs. Maguire kept tins of coffee and tea, assorted spices, and bins of flour.
Outside a dog barked and she froze, hoping the sound wouldn’t wake Maxwell. He was still a puppy, but his sharp bark was loud enough to wake half of Savannah. The barking ceased, and she eased open a drawer that held an assortment of knives and serving spoons, then another drawer filled with dish towels. At last, beneath the stack of linens, she felt the solid object beneath the rough burlap.
The writing box was rectangular in shape, the rosewood highly polished as if the box were new. Celia carried it to the table and turned up the wick in the lamp. She lifted the small brass latch of the box and opened the lid. Inside were several velvet-lined compartments meant to hold nibs and pencils, bottles of ink, and writing paper. Tucked away in the back was a small book bound in red leather. She drew it out and held it up to the light.
