by Gwen Bristow
PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF GWEN BRISTOW
Jubilee Trail
“Miss Bristow has the true gift of storytelling.” —Chicago Tribune
“This absorbing story giving a thrilling picture of the foundation on which our West was built is heartily recommended.” —Library Journal
Celia Garth
“An exciting tale of love and war in the tradition of Gone with the Wind … The kind of story that keeps readers tingling.” —Chicago Tribune
“Absorbing and swift-paced, well written … The situations are historically authentic, the characterizations rigorous, well formed and definite. The ‘you-are-thereness’ is complete.” —The Christian Science Monitor
“Historical romance with all the thrills [and] a vivid sense of the historical personages and events of the time.” —New York Herald Tribune
Deep Summer
“A grand job of storytelling, a story of enthralling swiftness.” —The New York Times
The Handsome Road
“Miss Bristow belongs among those Southern novelists who are trying to interpret the South and its past in critical terms. It may be that historians will alter some of the details of her picture. But no doubt life in a small river town in Louisiana during the years 1859-1885 was like the life revealed in The Handsome Road.” —The New York Times
Celia Garth
A Novel
Gwen Bristow
To my mother
CAROLINE WINKLER BRISTOW
who first told me about
her Revolutionary ancestor
NICHOLAS WINKLER
one of Marion’s men
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
CELIA GARTH HAD BLOND hair and brown eyes. Her hair was a thick fluffy gold; her eyes were dark, and they looked at the world with brisk attention. She had a good figure, and she was proud of it and carried herself well. Celia’s face was lively and irregular: stubborn mouth, pert square chin, straight nose with freckles. It was not a classic face, but it had verve and twinkling humor—a sassy face.
Celia was twenty years old. In September, 1779, she had been for three months an apprentice at Mrs. Thorley’s sewing shop in Charleston, South Carolina. When she went into Mrs. Thorley’s office before breakfast that morning to get her orders for the day, Celia was trying to look meek. She did not succeed, but she did look interesting.
Her blond hair was brushed up from her forehead and topped with a perky little cap of white lawn. Around her shoulders she wore a white kerchief, knotted on her bosom. Her dress was homespun linen. This linen, woven by the flax-growers of Kingstree and sent down to Charleston in bales, was sturdy, cheap, and ordinary. But on Celia it did not look that way.
The natural color of this cloth was a harsh hickory-brown, but Celia had washed and sunned it till it faded to a creamy tan, becoming to her dark eyes and light hair. Below the white kerchief her bodice clung like satin to her midriff. The sleeves had deep white frills, rippling halfway to her wrists. Her skirt flared backward, graceful as a flower, and short enough to show an inch of her white stockings and her black buckled shoes. Celia had never had an expensive costume in her life, but she loved clothes and she loved her pretty self and she never looked frowsy.
The owner of the sewing shop, Mrs. Thorley, sat at her desk. Celia stood before her, saying “Yes ma’am” whenever Mrs. Thorley paused. But behind her sassy face, Celia was having sassy thoughts. She was trying to imagine Mrs. Thorley being kissed by a man. Of course she must have been kissed, for she was Mrs. Thorley, but Celia could not get the picture in her mind. Mrs. Thorley was a dame of massive build; her starched gray dress stood upon her like a suit of armor, and her starched white cap rode stiffly on her head. She had blue eyes and slate-gray hair and a deep rumbly voice. Celia wondered what Mrs. Thorley’s husband had been like. No matter, the idea of Mrs. Thorley’s being embraced by any man at all was just outrageous.
Celia had been kissed, several times, but not during the months she had been working here. Mrs. Thorley was strict. She employed only girls from respectable families, and those who did not live with their own people in town lived here in the shop, where they were guarded like the pupils of a boarding-school. Mrs. Thorley was proud of the care she gave her girls. (She always spoke of them as “girls” or “young ladies,” though several of the senior dressmakers were past forty.)
She was telling Celia to go to Mr. Bernard’s warehouse and pick up some rolls of silk gauze. Gauze was rare and costly these days. It had to be imported, and now that the Thirteen Colonies were in rebellion against the king, the trading ships ran the risk of being captured by the king’s navy. But a ship of Mr. Bernard’s had just come in from the West Indies, loaded with fascinating stuff.
“Now, Miss Garth, before you start for the warehouse,” said Mrs. Thorley, “go up to the sewing room. Miss Loring will give you a piece of heavy cloth to wrap the gauze.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia. She was noticing that Mrs. Thorley had quite a lot of hairs on her upper lip. A kiss from her would be scratchy, like a kiss from a man who needed a shave.
“After breakfast,” continued Mrs. Thorley, “you will open the parlor.” Celia wondered if her voice had always been as deep as it was now. Imagine such a voice saying “I love you” to a man. Mrs. Thorley rumbled on. “There will probably be more visitors than usual, because of the new displays. I announced in the Gazette that they could be seen today.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.
“Several ladies have left orders for gauze caps,” said Mrs. Thorley. “So if anyone asks you, say the gauze has arrived.”
“Yes ma’am—and oh please, Mrs. Thorley—” Celia’s eagerness cracked through her effort to be sweetly respectful. But before she could go on, Mrs. Thorley interrupted with astonishment.
“What is it, Miss Garth?”
“Please ma’am, can’t I make one of those caps? I can do beautiful stitching on gauze, really I can, if you’ll just let me show you—”
“Miss Garth, you have your work assigned to you,” said Mrs. Thorley. She was not angry. Her voice merely had its usual determination. She asked, “Have you finished sewing the buttons on those shirts for Captain Rand?”
“No ma’am, but I can sew on the buttons in the evenings after supper, I won’t mind the extra time, please let me—”
“Go on with the work you have been given, Miss Garth. Now if you need any help in the parlor today, tell Miss Loring.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia. It was no use. They were not going to let her prove herself. All they would give her was work so simple that she could have done it when she was six years old. Sewing on buttons!
“That is all, Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Thorley.
Celia curtsied. Mrs. Thorley turned to her desk, opened a ledger, and set
to work on her accounts. The light from the window showed up the hairs on her lip. “I don’t believe he enjoyed kissing her,” Celia thought.
She went upstairs to the sewing room. This was a large room, well lighted, with plenty of space for the twenty seamstresses who worked here. Mrs. Thorley was not especially tenderhearted, but she knew that people did better work if they were comfortable. A Negro housemaid was dusting, and a man was emptying the trash-boxes where the girls threw scraps of cloth too frayed or too soiled to be of further use. These would go to the Gazette, for papermaking. Nothing at Mrs. Thorley’s was ever wasted.
The girls were not at work yet, but the two supervisors, Miss Loring and Miss Perry, were already busy. Miss Loring sat by a table, writing; Miss Perry was bustling around, pulling curtains and opening and shutting drawers. Celia went to the table and stood there politely until Miss Loring looked up to say,
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
Miss Loring was thin and tense. She always looked as if she had more things to do than she could possibly get done. Already, though she had not been dressed for more than twenty minutes, her hair was coming down and her cap was crooked on her head. Celia wondered if Miss Loring had ever been kissed. Probably not. Some of the girls said Miss Loring had once had a beau, but he had died. Celia did not believe them. It just did not seem possible that any man could have felt romantic about that scrawny fussbudget. Celia asked for the wrapping-cloth.
“Cloth?” said Miss Loring. She scowled as if she had never heard the word before, then she remembered. “Oh yes, yes, for the gauze, in just a minute, but—” she held out the slate she had been writing on—“this is the list of people who have appointments today. I’ll put it in the drawer of your table.” She tapped her fingers on the slate and turned her head toward Miss Perry. “Oh Matilda, will you hand me that cloth right there, on the shelf by you?”
Miss Perry was a round, chubby little woman with a shiny pink face. Saying, “Pleased to oblige,” she trotted over with the cloth, a piece of heavy unbleached muslin compactly folded.
“Thank you, Miss Perry,” said Celia. “I’ll go now.”
Miss Perry patted Celia’s arm, smiling brightly. She looked like a middle-aged cherub. “Well, well, we’re going to have a nice walk before breakfast, aren’t we?”
Celia said “Yes ma’am.” She wondered how it felt to be like Miss Loring and Miss Perry, old maids who weren’t ever going to have any fun. Well, she wouldn’t be like that. Exciting things were going to happen to her, because she intended to see to it that they did,
She ran downstairs and came out on the front steps. Oh, it was lovely outdoors. The time was a little before six and the sun had not quite risen, but you could tell it was going to be a shining day.
The street was pearly in the morning light. Celia smelt a whiff of geranium from the bush by the steps, and heard the bells of St. Michael’s ripple in the air. A little wind blew in from the sea, fluffing her skirt and lifting the tendrils of hair about her forehead. The wind brought her the odors of the waterfront—salt and tar, coffee and molasses and rum. Over the housetops she could see the tall masts of the ships. Some of them had foreign flags, others the new flag of the American rebels. The rebels had been using this flag only about two years and it still looked odd, though Celia thought the design was quite pretty: thirteen red and white stripes for the Thirteen States, and one corner blue with thirteen white stars.
As the church bells fell silent she heard the birds twittering, and the rustle of wind in the palmetto trees along the sidewalk. Two soldiers came down the street, handsome in their blue uniforms. These uniforms were neither dark blue nor light, but what people called “rebel blue,” a clear medium shade with facings of buff-color. When the men saw Celia they swept off their smart three-cornered hats—rebel blue like their coats, with rosettes of buff ribbon—and bowed to her, exclaiming, “Morning, ma’am!”
Celia smiled and said “Good morning,” but then she looked down and became busy straightening the folded muslin she carried under her arm. You certainly could not be annoyed when handsome soldiers reminded you that you had blond hair and brown eyes and a tempting figure, but there were those unkissed old maids and the unkissable Mrs. Thorley, who might be looking out of the windows. And next week her apprenticeship would be up, and they would tell her whether or not she had given satisfaction. If she had, she could stay here, with the glitter and excitement of the fashionable world around her. If she had not, Mrs. Thorley would tell her to go back to the country and live with her Aunt Louisa and Uncle William and her stuck-up cousin Roy Garth.
“I won’t go back!” Celia told herself fiercely. “They can’t make me!” But even as she said it she knew they could make her, because she was only twenty years old and until her next birthday other people would have the right to boss her around. “Please Lord,” Celia whispered, “let me stay in Charleston!”
Turning her head she looked up at the shop. Mrs. Thorley occupied a stately three-story corner building on Lamboll Street, in the aristocratic southern tip of town. This house had formerly been a residence, and still looked like one, except for a small neat sign over the door saying “Amelia Thorley, Sewing.” A larger sign would have been out of keeping with the tone of the establishment. It would also have been unnecessary. Everybody knew Mrs. Thorley’s shop. Not only was it the most fashionable place in town to have clothes made, but also it was the place where the smartest people gathered to flirt and gossip and hear the news. Besides women’s clothes Mrs. Thorley took orders for men’s shirts and cravats, so both ladies and gentlemen came to her shop. More than one romance had blossomed there.
As Celia had been to a good school and had graceful manners, she had been chosen to act as reception clerk—they called it “minding the parlor.” She loved it. In the parlor she heard the talk of the town and she met so many people—admiring men, and women who thought Mrs. Thorley should choose someone “more settled” to receive callers, and young girls who carefully paid her no attention. Some of these girls were former schoolmates of hers. But that was when Celia had been Miss Garth of Kensaw Plantation. Now that she was a sewing-girl they found that they did not remember her very well; they explained that at school Celia had gone around with another crowd entirely.
But in spite of such annoyances, working at Mrs. Thorley’s was fun.
Celia started toward Mr. Bernard’s warehouse, on the waterfront. She would know next week if they were going to let her stay. Next week, next week—her footsteps beat it out on the brick sidewalk. All her life Celia had had a keen sense of the future, maybe because her present had never been exciting enough to match her dreams. Now this awareness of tomorrow pushed on her and threatened her. If they would only let her show them! The day she was five years old, Celia’s Aunt Louisa had given her a needle and told her it was time she learned to make stitches. That day, Celia had found her talent. She could sew.
Now at twenty she could sew better than most women twice her age. She knew it, but nobody else in the shop knew it and she could not persuade them to let her prove it. Mrs. Thorley, though a competent woman of business, did not have a flexible mind. To her, an apprentice was a beginner who pulled bastings and sewed on buttons and did other dull little jobs that nobody else wanted. Celia felt a helpless anger as she walked along. She prayed again, “Please, please let me stay!”
She glanced toward the spire of St. Michael’s. “Faith without works is dead.” How often she had heard that text read in church. “All right, I’ll do something about it,” Celia told herself. “I’m not going back to the country and be a poor relation the rest of my life.” At that minute the sun popped out, straight ahead of her, and struck her in the eyes with the promise of a golden day. Celia laughed softly. The world was full of promises, and if you put your mind to it you could make them real.
Lamboll Street was coming to life. In front of one residence a Negro boy was sweeping the sidewalk, at another a man was polishing the knocker on the door. Far
ther down the street a colored girl, gilt rings in her ears and a red kerchief on her head, was scrubbing the front steps. The soapsuds had a fresh clean smell. As she passed, Celia said “Good morning,” and the Negroes answered, “Mornin’, miss, happy day.”
“Happy day to you,” said Celia. She turned from Lamboll Street toward the wharfs along the Cooper River.
Early as it was, the waterfront was clackety with business. Men were going down to buy goods brought by the ships, or to load rice and timber to be sent out; women both white and colored were on their way to the fish-stalls to get their choice of the morning catch; sailors hurried about, their pigtails bobbing and their wide breeches flapping around their knees. Soldiers in rebel blue were scrambling into rowboats, which would carry them to the harbor forts for guard duty. Celia wondered why they were so careful to keep guards at those forts. Now in the fall of 1779 the war had been going on nearly five years and everybody knew it was practically over. But the men were good-looking in their bright blue coats, with their guns catching the light. They were having a fine time, too, shouting greetings from boat to boat and waving at pretty women along the wharfs.
Except for their officers, these fellows were mostly very young. Many of them were boys in their teens. Crack marksmen, they had been hunting in the woods and swamps around Charleston all their lives, though few of them had ever shot at anything that could shoot back. They were not part of the Continental troops, but the state militia. The Continentals were full-time soldiers in the national army commanded by General Washington; the militia were volunteers who did regular shifts of duty but between shifts went on with their usual business.
There were not many Continentals left now in South Carolina. Early in the war, before the men in Congress had signed the Declaration of Independence, the British had tried to take Charleston. They had made a thundering attack on Fort Moultrie, out there at the harbor entrance. Celia had not been in town then, but she had heard so much about the battle that she felt as if she had seen it. Fort Moultrie was manned by the Second South Carolina Regiment. Like the fellows yonder in the rowboats, most of those men had never seen a battle, but they fought one nobody would ever forget. They tore the British ships to pieces.
