by Dorothy Love
She kissed the top of his warm little head and wondered where the Percival was this morning. Together, she and Ivy had told Papa the story they’d devised—that Ivy wanted to see a different part of the world. Papa had been surprised but too weak to ask many questions.
Once Ivy accepted the reality of the situation, she’d made short work of packing up her dresses and shawls, gloves and parasols and walking shoes. By eight o’clock Monday morning, her trunks and hatboxes, her books and her black silk umbrella were stacked in the hallway ready to go.
Mrs. Maguire plodded upstairs with Aunt Eugenia’s writing box. “This belonged to your mother. She would have wanted you to have it.” Neither she nor Celia said anything about the diary.
It was the only time Ivy shed a tear. She thanked the housekeeper, made room in her trunk for the items, and went downstairs to wait for the carriage.
Presently, Joseph arrived, having already collected Louisa from the boardinghouse. While Joseph loaded Ivy’s belongings, Louisa leaned forward and peered out the carriage window, her expression unreadable.
Celia pressed a roll of bills into her cousin’s hand. “Sutton says almost everything is inexpensive in Havana. This should last the two of you for a while if you’re not extravagant.”
Ivy dropped the money into her reticule and squared her shoulders. “Well,” she said. “We’re off.”
She had climbed into the carriage, arranged her skirts, and waived gaily, as if she were on her way to make morning calls. And Celia had stood at the gate, watching, until the carriage was out of sight. Pages of her past, a complicated tangle of love and grief and obligation, had been torn away as surely as had the pages of her aunt’s red diary.
Now Ivy’s room across the hall was empty, and the entire house seemed too quiet. Celia threw back her covers and padded across the room to tend the fire. She shucked off her nightclothes, shivering in the early-morning chill, and dressed quickly.
Mrs. Maguire tapped on her door. “Miss Celia, your breakfast is getting cold.”
“I’m coming.”
Celia followed Maxwell and the housekeeper down the stairs. She let the puppy into the garden and filled her plate in the kitchen. She climbed onto the stool and dug in. The biscuits were light as a cloud, the bacon thick and crisp, the grits warm and sweetened with maple syrup. It was her favorite meal from childhood. She regarded the housekeeper fondly. Undoubtedly this repast was Mrs. Maguire’s attempt to comfort her in the wake of Ivy’s sudden departure.
Mrs. Maguire poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the wooden counter. “How are you feelin’ this mornin’, my girl?”
“All right.” Celia buttered a biscuit and spooned on a blob of strawberry jam. “It’s quiet upstairs with only Papa and me.”
“Humph. It’ll be even quieter here when you are married and off on your own.”
“Once we’re back from England, Sutton and I will be here so often you’ll grow quite weary of us. You’ll see.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
Mrs. Maguire studied Celia over the rim of her cup, her expression so intent that Celia began to squirm. “Are you goin’ to tell me what really happened between you and Miss Ivy? It must have been something awful bad. I don’t believe for one minute she just up and decided to go see the world. Miss Ivy is not the adventurin’ kind.”
Celia’s appetite fled. She set down her butter knife. “Mrs. Maguire, do you believe some houses are cursed?”
“Cursed? By my faith, child, what kind of blather is that?”
The emotions Celia had fought so hard to control bubbled to the surface. “When that reporter, Leo Channing, wrote his first article for the paper last fall, he called our home the house of love and grief. He said the house was cursed because of what happened to my mother and then to Aunt Eugenia and the laundress. I didn’t believe it then. But now that Ivy has—well, it seems that every woman who lives here comes to grief.”
“What on earth are you talkin’ about? I niver heard of such nonsense.”
Celia had no doubt that whatever she told the housekeeper would never be repeated. Mrs. Maguire had been both mother and servant, confidante and friend. She was the very soul of discretion, the only one to whom Celia could unburden herself. It was true that the housekeeper had not been completely forthcoming, but surely she’d had her reasons.
“Ivy got the strange notion that she could force Sutton into marrying her.”
Celia poured more coffee and told Mrs. Maguire the entire story—the anonymous notes, the bracelet, the trip to Screven’s Landing, and everything that had happened there. But she saw no reason to share Ivy’s confession about her role in the death in the carriage house. “Ivy was jealous of me when we were children, but I never realized she hated me.”
Mrs. Maguire sank into her chair by the window. “By all the saints, I niver would’ve thought Miss Ivy could do such a thing. She’s always been a moody one and high strung, but to think she’s capable of stealing Mr. Browning’s medicine and his pistol and doin’ away with her own kin . . . I just can’t countenance it, that’s all.” She sighed. “On the other hand I guess I know how she felt. Fear is a powerful feelin’, Miss Celia.”
“Fear? Ivy had a very secure life here. She had nothing to be afraid of.”
“Until you started askin’ questions about how Miss Eugenia died and what happened in the carriage house.”
Celia didn’t try to hide her surprise. “You know what she did?”
Mrs. Maguire drained her cup. “What do you suppose people fear most in the world?”
Celia shrugged. “Death, I suppose.”
“No, darlin’. They fear loss. Miss Ivy lost her mother and then her father. Then you became engaged to Sutton, and Mr. Browning got sick. That poor girl was about to lose you and the uncle who provided for her. I can imagine her lyin’ awake and worryin’ about what would happen to her then. She needed a husband to make her feel safe, and Sutton was the only good man she knew.”
“That was her own fault. She never wanted to go to dances or to meet any of the boys in our circle. Besides, I’m sure Papa made provisions for her in his will.” Celia’s coffee had gone cold. She poured a fresh cup. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
A carriage drew up at the gate. Mrs. Maguire peered out the window. “Here’s the doctor.”
Celia left the kitchen and met Dr. Dearing at the door. He set his medical bag down and removed his coat and hat. “How is your father today?”
“I’m worried. He hasn’t been to Commerce Row since Monday, and you know how much he loves being there.”
Dr. Dearing nodded.
“We’re going to need a new supply of laudanum,” Celia said. “The bottle you left last time got broken.”
“I see. When was this?”
“Last Saturday. I went to your office on Monday to get more, but you were out.”
They started up the curving staircase together. “I was over on St. Simons,” the doctor said, “tending to the Couper twins. Just got back this morning. I came as soon as I received your message.”
Celia led him down the hall to her father’s room and tapped on the door.
“Leave us for a few moments,” the doctor said. “I’ll be down to speak with you as soon as I finish my examination.”
Celia returned to the parlor to wait. Mrs. Maguire had stoked the fire in the black-marble fireplace and filled a silver tray with the tea things and a plate of the cookies she’d baked for Christmas. Celia alternately sat and paced and peered out the window. What was taking the doctor so long?
Finally he came down and joined her in the parlor. He refused her offer of refreshments and perched on the edge of the chair nearest the fire.
Celia found herself near tears. “How is he?”
“Well, palpations and percussion of the chest indicate that the dropsy has worsened.” He cleared his throat. “That is, the fluid accumulating throughout his body has increased. This is not unexpected in
such cases.”
“But he will be all right? At least for a while longer?”
“Your father’s condition seems to be developing more rapidly than I’d hoped, but the course of hypertrophy is unpredictable. As I said when he first became ill, he might linger in this slow decline, or his heart may give out suddenly.” The doctor’s expression softened. “You must prepare yourself, my dear. Only God knows when the end will come, but I cannot help thinking it will be fairly soon.”
She nodded. None of this was news, of course, and the doctor had done his best to soften the blow, but the impending loss was enough to break her heart in two. Strangely, she found herself missing Ivy’s presence.
“I’ve given him a new tincture of laudanum, which will allow him to rest more comfortably,” the doctor continued. “I would suggest he refrain from eating ham and bacon. Anything salty will make him retain more fluids. Other than that, you can only keep him calm, keep his spirits up.”
The doctor took off his spectacles and polished them on the sleeve of his jacket. “Despite his condition he seems quite excited about Christmas and about your wedding. Let him celebrate as much as he wants to.” He retrieved his hat and coat. “I wish I could offer more encouraging news, but in cases like this it’s better to be prepared.”
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Dearing.”
“No trouble. I’ll be by after Christmas to check on him, but of course send for me anytime if you need me.”
“I will.”
She remained calm and composed as she saw him out. Then the tears came.
23
EVERY WINDOW OF THE MACKAYS’ MANSION GLOWED WITH golden candlelight. Wreaths of evergreens and mistletoe decorated the curved wrought-iron staircase leading to the front door, lending the entire house a festive air.
Joseph helped Papa out of the carriage. Celia looped her arm through his. “Are you warm enough, Papa?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “I am, and please do not start clucking over me like a mother hen. I intend to enjoy myself tonight without reminders of my infirmities.”
“I’m glad you felt well enough to come out tonight. And aren’t I lucky to be escorted by the handsomest man in Savannah.”
He laughed and patted her arm as they made their way up the stairs to the front door. Behind them came the sounds of prancing hooves and jingling harness as other carriages arrived for the Mackays’ Christmas Eve party.
The Mackays’ housekeeper opened the door and beamed at Celia and her father. “There you are, Mr. Browning. It surely does my heart good to see you up and about, sir.”
“Thank you.” Papa handed her his hat and unbuttoned his coat. “It’s good to be among friends on such a beautiful night. There’s something special about Savannah at Christmas, don’t you think, Mrs. Johns?”
The housekeeper bobbed her head, stepped behind him to greet the Greens and the Sorrels, and waited while greetings were exchanged. Then she directed everyone to the library, where a cheerful fire blazed in the grate and candlelight danced against the pale green walls.
“David. And Celia.” Mr. Mackay bowed to Celia, shook Papa’s hand, and directed him to a chair near the fire before turning to the other guests. Celia arranged her skirts and nodded to the other ladies, who were busy chatting with Mrs. Mackay.
Sutton’s mother excused herself, crossed the room, and bent to embrace Celia. “You look lovely, my dear. Despite recent events, I do hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”
“You too.” Celia squeezed Cornelia’s hands and made room for the older woman on the embroidered settee. Though she loved every room of the Mackays’ house, this one was her favorite because it held the most reminders of Sutton’s boyhood. She glanced at his framed charcoal sketches of the great herons on St. Simons, wings spread as they circled the marshes. The medals he had won at school, the jumble of mementos from the Mackay family trips to Europe that spilled from shelves flanking the fireplace.
“Has my son seen you in that dress?” Mrs. Mackay asked.
Celia shook her head. “It’s new. Mrs. Foyle received a shipment from Paris a few weeks ago, and I saw this one when I went for my final gown fitting. The color is called ashes of roses.”
“Well, it’s very becoming.”
“It was an extravagance, but when I bought it, I thought I could wear it during our wedding trip abroad. But now—”
“Celia.” Sutton made his way across the crowded library and bent to kiss her cheek. “I must go back upstairs in a moment to get Grandmother, but she insisted I not keep you waiting any longer.” His eyes shone with admiration and affection. “New gown?”
She nodded and blinked back sudden tears.
He frowned. “You don’t like it? I think it’s quite fetching.”
“Thank you. I—”
“You’re still upset about what happened last week.”
Mrs. Mackay murmured, “Sutton told us about it. I’m so sorry for all of it, but I hope you won’t dwell on it, my dear. Don’t let it spoil your Christmas Eve.”
Celia saw her father watching her from across the room and forced a smile. “I won’t. Papa has so looked forward to this evening.”
“I’m sorry not to have invited more young people. I’m sure you would have enjoyed seeing Alicia Thayer. And Mary Quarterman. But I trimmed the guest list so as not to tire your father overmuch.”
“That was very thoughtful.” Celia looked around the room at the faces of her father’s oldest friends—the Greens and the Sorrels, the Lawtons, the Stileses, and the Dicksons. She had known them all her life. And tonight, not one of them had asked after Ivy. She was grateful for their discretion.
“Perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t invite Mary,” Celia said. “She’s mostly kept her distance all season. Last Sunday at church, she brushed past me without a single word.”
“Because of that silly business with that newspaperman?” Cornelia shook her head. “Anyone who pays the slightest attention to him does not deserve your friendship. But perhaps Mary was simply preoccupied. Mrs. Dickson told me the Quartermans are entertaining cousins from the North for Christmas, and apparently the Northern folk have some very strange notions about us.”
Sutton raised a brow. “Such as?”
“They think we’re all slaveholders and not fit for the company of enlightened abolitionists such as themselves. Mrs. Dickson said they were astonished to learn that slaveholders are in the minority almost everywhere in the South.”
“Alicia Thayer’s kin in Philadelphia told her the same thing,” Celia said. “If you ask me, despite their air of superiority, the Northerners seem shockingly ill-informed.”
Sutton grinned. “Well said. Excuse me, ladies. I must get Grandmother before Mrs. Johns sounds the dinner gong.”
He left the library and returned a bit later with Mrs. Manigault, who looked regal in a cranberry-hued gown trimmed with black lace. The gentlemen rose as she entered the room. Mrs. Manigault took her time greeting each guest, her melodious voice warm with welcome, the suite of diamonds she’d donned for the occasion glittering in the candlelight.
“Mrs. Mackay?” Mrs. Johns said from the doorway. “Dinner is ready.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Mackay nodded to her guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we go in?”
Mr. Mackay escorted his wife. Sutton followed with his grandmother, and Celia went in on her father’s arm. The rest of the guests entered the sumptuous dining room, exclaiming over the table draped in heavy white damask and set with the Mackays’ best bone china. A blazing candelabra and deep red roses in silver bowls reflected the candlelight.
Two uniformed serving girls brought in each course—soup, oysters, roast capon, and a platter of root vegetables. While they ate, Mr. Stiles regaled the guests with a tale of the baseball game he’d attended in New York in the summer. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more lively crowd,” he said, gesturing with his oyster fork. “My ears rang for the better part of an hour after the game ended.”
“It was quite exciting,” Mr. Stiles said. “The team from Brooklyn got eighteen hits and still lost to the New York All Stars.” He paused while one of the serving girls refilled his glass. “I won’t be surprised if baseball becomes the most popular sport in the entire country one of these days.”
“It will never surpass the reading of a good book as entertainment, Mr. Stiles,” Mrs. Manigault said. “For us women especially there is nothing more delightful than the prospect of a new book.” She looked around the table, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Has anyone else read The Courtship of Miles Standish?”
Mr. Green shook his head. “Can’t say as I have, Miss Caroline. I never was one for Mr. Longfellow’s writings. I’m afraid I don’t find them very entertaining.”
Mr. Sorrel’s dark eyes glinted with amusement. “You’re very much in the minority then, Charles. Just last week, I read in the paper that Mr. Longfellow sold over three hundred thousand copies of his works last year.”
Mr. Mackay turned to Papa. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, David.”
Celia tensed at the thought that Papa might be feeling worse, but he lifted a brow and smiled at their host. “I’m enjoying the discussion. I’ve never seen a baseball game. It sounds like fun.”
Papa caught Mr. Green’s eye. “I saw a whole army of men over on Macon Street last week. Working on your house, I suppose.”
“Yes, but progress is slow. I don’t imagine it will be finished for another year or two.” Mr. Green picked up his fork and speared a bit of potato. “I want the best of everything, and perfection takes time.”
Sutton winked at Celia. Everyone in Savannah knew the story of Mr. Green’s arrival from England when he was just a boy. With hardly a cent to his name, he’d taken a job as a clerk and eventually gone into the cotton-exporting business with Mr. Low. Now he was among the richest men in Savannah. The house he was building on Macon Street would be the fanciest and most expensive on Madison Square.
