by Dorothy Love
Mr. Gleason shook his head. “Sylvie wasn’t the reason. I’m—”
“What then?”
He paused and squared his shoulders, as if gathering himself. “After I met Ivy, I found out we’re kin.” He crushed his cap in his hands and stared at spot just past Celia’s shoulder. “I’m Ivy’s brother.”
Celia stood in the middle of her old bedroom, surrounded by trunks and hatboxes. Maxwell played among the jumble of dresses, jackets, crinolines, and shoes littering the bed. When he attacked one of her best white kid boots, she rescued it from his mouth and kissed the top of his head. “No you don’t, you little scamp.”
Celia could barely keep her mind on preparations for her departure. Michael Gleason’s startling claim had been keeping her awake at night. Was his story true? Had her aunt destroyed pages from her diary in order to keep the secret? Maybe it was foolish to pursue such questions now, but the Irish drayman’s story was too stunning to ignore.
“Spoiled that pup silly, that’s what you’ve done,” Mrs. Maguire said, coming in to dump another armload of jackets onto the bed. “I won’t be able to do a thing with ’im after you’re gone.”
“Oh, he’ll be a perfect little gentleman.” Celia scratched the dog’s belly, and he closed his eyes. “Won’t you, sweetheart?”
“You see, that’s just what I mean. Calling him ‘sweetheart’ and lettin’ him loll about on your bed like he was the king of Siam. Back in County Waterford, people were people and dogs were dogs, and niver were th’ two confused.”
Celia laughed. “I supposed I have indulged him these last few days. I’m going to miss him terribly. I wish I could take him with us.”
“On your honeymoon?” Mrs. Maguire shook her head. “Mr. Mackay might have something to say about that.”
“Sutton loves Maxwell as much as I do. He gave him to me, after all. But Maxwell is still growing. The ship would be too confining for him.”
“Humph.” Mrs. Maguire held up a dark-green velvet jacket. “Will you take this one or leave it behind?”
“I’ll take it. Springtime in Paris can be quite chilly.” Celia fingered the cuffed sleeves. “I won’t have much occasion to wear it, though. I’ll be mostly in mourning clothes.”
A deep silence settled over them like dust over a vacant room. Celia watched Mrs. Maguire fold more chemises and petticoats into a leather trunk. “May I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Why did you try to hide Aunt Eugenia’s writing box from me?”
The permanent flush beneath the older woman’s pale Irish skin deepened to crimson, but she denied nothing and calmly continued with her folding. “Are you happier now for havin’ read that poor woman’s diary?”
“Happier?” Celia made a space for herself on her bed and plopped down, Maxwell at her side. “Not really. More unsettled than ever, if you want to know the truth. I wish you would tell me what you know. Surely you remember what happened when Aunt Eugenia and Ivy came here from St. Simons.”
“Won’t change anything.”
“Of course not, but I still want to know. And there’s much more to the story. Aunt Eugenia’s diary mentioned that she was grief stricken when she first met Uncle Magnus and hinted that she was keeping a secret from him.” Celia looked pointedly at the housekeeper. “I think I know now what that secret was.”
Mrs. Maguire’s hands stilled above the half-filled trunk. “My mam used to say if you don’t want flour on your hands, best stay out of the bin.”
“Now that Ivy and Papa are gone, I can’t see the point of keeping me in the dark.”
With a resigned sigh, Mrs. Maguire moved a pile of clothes from the chair near the window. “Sure and ’tis a complicated tale. Heartbreakin’ too.”
“Even so, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were a child at the time. You didn’t need to know such things. And then, after you grew up—well, ’twasn’t my place. I’ve been in this house for most of my life, but I’m still a servant, and I never forget it. Besides, I thought it would make things worse if that story started goin’ around again. What good could come of it?”
“Is that why you locked me in the attic? That was you, wasn’t it? Were you trying to frighten me so I’d stop looking?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know you were in there.” Another massive sigh. “I passed by on my way to tidyin’ up your father’s room and saw the door ajar. I thought somebody had left the door open by mistake, so I closed it. ’Twasn’t till after you were rescued that I saw the empty valise a-sittin’ next to the stair.” The housekeeper frowned as Maxwell shook himself awake and turned in circles before climbing into Celia’s lap. “Then later on when you asked about Miss Eugenia’s writin’ box, I figured you wouldn’t rest till you found it—and her diary. And then you’d know what a terrible man your uncle was. So I took it from the attic and put it in my kitchen where you found it.”
Mrs. Maguire plucked at a loose thread on the pillow. “If you want my opinion, Magnus Lorens never was worth Miss Eugenia’s little finger, but there was no talking her out of marryin’ him.” She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and blotted her nose. “We niver discussed it, but I suppose she saw his proposal as the best way out.”
“Way out? Of what?”
“The day she wed him, she was already with child.”
The room spun. Celia blinked. “Go on.”
“Well before she met Magnus Lorens, your aunt was in love with someone else, but her parents thought he was all wrong for her. Unsuitable was how they put it. So her mother—your grandmother—took both her and Miss Francesca to Europe and stayed there for a whole year, waitin’ for Miss Eugenia to forget all about him.”
“But it didn’t work.” Celia could imagine her aunt’s feelings. Even if she were kept apart from Sutton for a thousand years, her heart wouldn’t change.
“No, it didn’t. And eventually they had to come home. Miss Eugenia continued living at home, pretending she’d let go of her affections for that young man—Sean Gleason, his name was. But one day he showed up on her doorstep with his own sad tale to tell.”
Sean Gleason. Celia’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t wanted to believe Michael Gleason’s wild story—a story he’d claimed to have learned at his parish church shortly after Leo Channing began publishing his newspaper articles. A story that linked his family with hers.
Mrs. Maguire stared out the window. “He and Miss Eugenia each thought they’d been forgotten by the other. While she was away, he married, and his wife had a child born too soon and sick as they come. The boy survived, but his mam didn’t. So there Sean Gleason was, a-standin’ on her veranda, widowed and with a baby to raise. And there was Miss Eugenia, heartsick and as besotted with ’im as ever.”
Celia put the pieces of the puzzle together. “So Sean and Aunt Eugenia got married after all?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “That was the plan the two o’ them cooked up, all right—to marry in secret and then tell her parents when it would be too late. But before they could do it, Sean got himself killed workin’ on the wharf, and he wasn’t even cold in the grave when Miss Eugenia realized she was going to be a mother.”
Celia took in a shaky breath. So it was true. “Uncle Magnus is not Ivy’s father.”
“He is not. He knew Sean Gleason from the docks—I think he was working in one of the shipping offices—and I suppose Sean must have told him about Miss Eugenia. Anyway, Mr. Lorens came to pay his condolences, and once he realized her family had money, he started courtin’ her. She was frightened and ashamed and afraid to tell her parents the truth. So when Mr. Lorens proposed marriage, she accepted.”
“And when Ivy was born she let him think—”
“That she did.”
“Does Ivy know?”
“Nobody knows, far’s I can tell. Except the dead, o’ course.”
The dead and Michael Gleason. And the parish gossips. Celia tried to sort out her feelings, but the
y were in a worse jumble than the clothes littering her bed. At least Michael hadn’t turned away from Ivy because he found her undesirable or because she couldn’t give him money. Celia felt a wave of sympathy for her cousin and a rush of anger for Michael Gleason. He ought to have explained everything to Ivy, but he’d waited until it was too late. And she had sailed for Cuba feeling more unloved than ever.
“Mrs. Maguire.” Celia shifted on her bed, and Maxwell raised his head before returning to his puppy dreams. “You’re the one who ripped out those pages?”
“I am. And I’m not sorry for it, either.” Mrs. Maguire clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I should have destroyed the whole thing. I don’t know why I didn’t. ’Tis all in the past.”
“But Ivy deserves to know who her real father is. If it was me, I’d want to know.”
“The Gleasons are only poor Irish, like me. Nothin’ to brag about.”
Celia digested this news. But still she had questions about the day her aunt died. “Aunt Eugenia knew about Uncle Magnus’s affair with Septima, and she knew there was a child. But her diary seems to indicate that most of her friends’ husbands behaved the same way. Would she have taken her own life over it?”
“She was beside herself the night she and Ivy arrived here from St. Simons with Mr. Lorens on their heels. But after a few days she seemed better. Reckon she got used to the idea of him takin’ up with another. But that’s not to say she still wasn’t madder than a hornet. I was surprised when she invited that wench into this house.”
“She asked Septima here?”
“Miss Eugenia wanted to talk to her. She asked me to make tea and bring it up to her room. I don’t know why she didn’t want to meet the woman in the parlor, but I did what she asked me to do. That woman arrived all decked out in satin and lace like the Queen o’ England herself. Miss Eugenia out came into the upstairs hallway and called for her to come on up.”
Mrs. Maguire closed her eyes. “Miss Ivy had been sick the whole night, and I went back to the kitchen to fix her some broth. When it was ready, I took the tray and started up the stairs, and I heard the two of them—Miss Eugenia and that mulatto woman—arguin’. I went on in to tend to Miss Ivy. Then I heard Mr. Lorens running up the stairs, calling for Miss Eugenia.
“I went into the hallway, intending to tell him Miss Ivy was sick and asking for him, but by the time I got to the door, he was already in Miss Eugenia’s room. The door was standin’ wide open, and I could see all the way through to Miss Eugenia’s balcony. The three of them were still fightin’. Mr. Lorens was trying to grab Miss Eugenia by the arm, and she was cryin’ and yellin’ at him to leave her alone. When he wouldn’t leave, she climbed onto the railing. To scare him into going away, I guess. Or to convince him she meant business.
“Miss Ivy came out of her room. I stepped in front of her so she wouldn’t see anything. When I looked again, Mr. Lorens was standing right in front of Miss Eugenia. He raised both his arms. The mulatto woman pushed at him and screamed. And then”—Mrs. Maguire shrugged—“Miss Eugenia was no longer there.”
Celia went numb. “He killed her?”
“I can’t be sure. Maybe it was the other woman that caused Miss Eugenia to lose her balance. Maybe Mr. Lorens meant to take hold of her and pull her to safety. Of course he said it was an accident, and that was the story that appeared in the papers. That woman—Septima—was never named, and that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come back to the carriage house. But she couldn’t stay away from your uncle.”
“And you never told Papa what you saw?”
“I wasn’t certain what I saw. All during the funeral for Miss Eugenia, I prayed about what to do. I didn’t want to send an innocent man to jail, even if he was the worst sort o’ human being. But if he had pushed Miss Eugenia off that balcony, he needed to pay for his crime.” Mrs. Maguire paused and stared out the window. “I spoke to Father O’Brien about it. And I’d made up my mind to tell Mr. Browning what I’d seen and let him decide what was to be done. But then Septima died and Magnus Lorens vanished.”
“Ivy thinks he left to protect her.”
Mrs. Maguire snorted. “By the time Miss Eugenia died, he had sold off her land and gambled away most o’ the proceeds. Your da got wind of it and that’s why that rat ran back to where he came from. Good riddance, I say.”
Celia let out a low whistle. “No wonder Mr. Channing was intrigued.”
“It was the talk of Savannah for a while, but eventually people went back to their own lives and the whole sad thing was forgotten.”
“Until Leo Channing showed up.” Celia felt as if she’d been gut-punched. How had Papa lived with the violence, the rumors of miscegenation, the multiple tragedies? With the burdensome secrets?
Mrs. Maguire sighed and wiped her eyes, seemingly exhausted by her tale. “Maybe I should have told you all this when that reporter showed up.”
“I wish you had, but I understand why you didn’t.” Celia paused. “Mr. Channing stirred up all this trouble, and yet he tried to warn me about Ivy.”
Mrs. Maguire looked up, a question in her eyes.
“He left a note at the door. ‘An oak is often split by a wedge from its own branch.’ I didn’t understand what it meant then. But he explained everything the night of the fire.”
A carriage stopped at the gate. Mrs. Maguire went to the window and lifted the curtain. “There’s Miss Thayer.”
“Stay put,” Celia said. “I’ll let her in.”
Celia went downstairs, Maxwell at her heels, and opened the door.
“Celia.” Alicia came into the foyer, her brown eyes wet with tears. “I’m so sorry I missed the funeral. Mother and I were in Cassville for Grandmother’s birthday. We just got home night before last. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Packing for England. We leave tomorrow. But I need a rest. How about some tea? You can catch me up on all your news.”
“I’d love some tea, but I can’t stay. I have a dress fitting at Mrs. Foyle’s. Mrs. Mackay”—Alicia broke off and laughed—“the other Mrs. Mackay told Mother you and Sutton were leaving soon. I wanted to see you before you left, to wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Alicia drew a small package from her bag. “I brought you a present.”
Celia unwrapped a soft leather case that opened to reveal a miniature sketchbook and a set of pencils.
“In case you want to make some sketches of your travels,” Alicia said. “You always were the best artist in our class at school. Madame LeFleur said so, and she was never one for false praise.”
Celia embraced her friend. “I love it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Alicia clasped Celia’s hand. “Mother and I went out to the asylum yesterday and spoke with Mrs. Clayton. While you’re gone, we’re going to take charge of raising money for the building fund. You’ve worked too hard to have the plans stalled now.”
“That’s wonderful news. I called on Mrs. Clayton last week to discuss it, but she was ill. I left a note for her with Annie Wilcox but haven’t had a reply.”
“Poor Mrs. Clayton had a bad cough for several days, but she seems quite recovered. I told her I was coming by here today. She says to tell you not to worry about the girls, and there will be plenty of work to do when you get home to Savannah.” Alicia peered through the window. “I should go. You know how cross Mrs. Foyle gets when you’re even a tiny bit late. You will write to me, Celia?”
“Every chance I get. Though the post can be woefully slow across the Atlantic.”
“And you will be home by spring?”
“If all goes according to plan. Why?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
Celia sent her friend a wry smile. “With the best of them.”
“Porter Quarterman intends to propose marriage on my birthday next month. He has already spoken to my father, though I’m not supposed to know. That’s why I’m off to the modiste’s for a new dress.” Alicia laughed. “Can you bel
ieve I’m to be a sister to Mary?” She squeezed Celia’s arm. “You simply must be home in time for my wedding.”
“Set the date for June. We’re sure to be home by then.”
“Done!” Alicia paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Well, good-bye, Mrs. Mackay.”
“Good-bye. Mrs. Quarterman.”
The sound of Alicia’s laughter followed Celia all the way back up the stairs. Mrs. Maguire had left the room, leaving trunks half packed and Maxwell still curled into a golden ball on the pillow.
Celia opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out half a dozen new handkerchiefs, a new jar of lip pomade, and several pairs of earbobs to add to the trunk. Her fingers curled around the small box containing the bracelet that had turned her world upside down. She opened the box and held the trinket in her palm, the fake jewels and the two small diamonds glittering in the light.
Would she have been better off not to have discovered her family’s secrets? Would knowing them make her different somehow?
You can’t unring the bell.
Celia walked to the small basket she kept for disposing of old letters, broken pencils, and faded ribbons and dropped the bracelet inside.
27
Wednesday, January 26, 1859
THE TIDE WAS IN. THE RIVER, DRESSED IN AZURE, MIRRORED a crystalline winter sky. The wharf teemed with dock workers loading the Celia B for the journey to England.
Yesterday afternoon Celia’s trunks—and Sutton’s—had been delivered to the dock and put aboard. All that had remained this morning was the packing of last-minute items—her toiletries and handkerchiefs, pens and writing paper, the new sketchbook, and the travel journal Papa had given her for Christmas.
Now she stood on the pier, one hand shading her eyes, watching Sutton talking with their captain. Sutton had said that if the weather cooperated they might reach Liverpool in six weeks’ time. He planned to spend the second week of March visiting the shipbuilders and making financial arrangements with the London bankers for the construction of his blockade-runner. After that she and Sutton would be off on their honeymoon to Paris, Rome, and Venice. They would return to Savannah in late May, in time to attend Alicia’s wedding before leaving for a summer in Saratoga.
