by Gwen Bristow
But though Roy did everything he could for Celia, she turned down two good offers. She said both men were perfectly impossible. The first was named Mr. Hawkins. He was rich, but he was also a tightwad. Mr. Hawkins made some fumbling attempts to be romantic, but Celia was pretty sure he had observed that besides her dowry she had rare ability to spin and sew, and he figured her skill would save him more than the cost of her keep. She said no.
Her other admirer, Mr. McArdle, was a widower with three small children. Again Celia declined. She was not fond of babies, and she thought minding her own would be bother enough without minding somebody else’s too.
Celia was in no hurry to get married. She knew that a girl whose parents had left her well off would always have beaus on the porch.
She worked hard on Harriet’s trousseau. She did not mind, for she liked to sew and she expected to have an equally elaborate pile of clothes when she got married. The wedding was beautiful. It was not until afterward, when the bills came, that William or Roy, or even Louisa, realized how much this happy event had cost.
Finally, Roy told his parents that Celia simply had to hear the facts. So one afternoon a maid came to Celia’s room to say that her uncle and aunt wanted to see her in William’s study downstairs.
In the study Louisa and William sat side by side. Louisa had an account-book on her knee; William was tying knots in his handkerchief. Louisa looked grim, William looked miserable. Louisa did the talking.
She said the worthy widower, Mr. McArdle, had been distressed when Celia refused him. Louisa thought Mr. McArdle would renew his offer if Celia’s guardians should hint that she had changed her mind.
Astonished, Celia said she certainly had not changed her mind. All Mr. McArdle wanted was a nursemaid, and it would be mighty convenient to get a nursemaid who would bring him a dowry.
With a sigh and a shake of her head, Aunt Louisa said Roy was right. It was their duty to tell her.
When she got this far in her narrative, Celia paused. She took a sip of tea, set the cup in the saucer, and looked thoughtfully at Darren and Jimmy.
“I didn’t have any dowry,” she said.
Jimmy nodded sagely, as if he had expected this. But Darren demanded, “You mean they had taken it?”
“Oh no. It was just used up. Aunt Louisa had the accounts. She had spent it on my clothes, books, school fees, things like that. She said she had hoped she wouldn’t have to tell me. She had hoped I would get married to some man who would love me for myself alone. Because they couldn’t afford to give me anything.”
Celia paused again. The men were listening with interest, and she went on.
“Well, I knew I wasn’t going to marry Mr. McArdle. So I decided to get a job. They didn’t like that idea at all. Especially Roy didn’t like it. He knew people would smile, and say it seemed the Garths weren’t as well off as they’d been pretending. But I said if they didn’t let me get a job now I’d get one as soon as I came of age. And the bills for the wedding kept on coming. So finally Roy said they might as well give in. I think he figured I was going to be an old maid, and dressmaking is genteel work and it keeps an old maid from being dependent on her kinfolks. So Uncle William brought me to town and apprenticed me to Mrs. Thorley.”
Celia shrugged, laughing a little.
“Poor Uncle William, he did hate it so. I think he was ashamed of them all. Before we left home he asked me to walk with him down by the river. He gave me the jewelry and told me to take care of it, especially the necklace. That’s an heirloom. He wasn’t sure how old it was, but the first Garths who came from England about a hundred years ago brought it with them. Uncle William said it had come to my father by my grandfather’s will, so now it was mine.
“I’d hate to sell the necklace. But I’m not going back there. Understand?”
“Yes I do,” said Darren, and Jimmy remarked,
“You’re not of age yet, are you?”
“Not for another seven months—next April.”
“Then you couldn’t sell the necklace before April,” said Jimmy, “even if you wanted to. But you needn’t worry about that. Remember what I asked you when I came in?”
Celia nodded. “You asked if I could make a dress that would really fit.” She said emphatically. “Yes I can.”
Jimmy reached for the teapot. “Couple of days ago,” he said in his lazy drawl, “I heard a lady say there wasn’t a dressmaker in Charleston who could do that.”
“I can!” Celia insisted.
Jimmy raised his hard brown hand in a gesture of caution. Again she saw that quirk of mischief at the corner of his mouth. “The lady I have in mind,” he warned, “is not easy to please.”
“Let me try, Jimmy!”
Calmly, Jimmy continued. “She’s very rich. She’s used to having her clothes made in Paris.”
Out of the corner of her eye Celia caught a glimpse of Darren, who stood on the opposite side of the counter, his chin on his fists. Over Darren’s face was creeping a look of astonished recognition.
If Jimmy had noticed Darren’s expression he gave no sign of it. “Now this lady I’m talking about,” Jimmy went on, “has just lately come to town from her country place. The other evening Mother and I were having supper with her, and she was lamenting about her trouble. Because of the war, it’s five years since she’s been to Paris. She has tried dressmakers on this side, but none of them has quite suited her.”
“Not even Mrs. Thorley?”
Jimmy shook his head. “And she claimed to be in great distress because her old clothes were falling apart. They didn’t look it to me, they looked beautiful and I told her so.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I was a silly-billy who wouldn’t know a dress from a dishrag. Now would you like—”
“Look out, Celia!” said Darren.
His voice was so sharp that she turned quickly. “Why? Do you know who Jimmy’s talking about?”
“Yes,” said Darren. “He’s talking about Vivian Lacy.”
Jimmy laughed under his breath. Celia asked Darren, “Who’s that?”
“Mrs. Herbert Lacy of Sea Garden,” said Darren. “Jimmy’s got no business—well at least, Jimmy, you ought to tell her something about Vivian first!”
Jimmy was still chuckling. Celia said to Darren, “You tell me. Is she—what is she like?”
“Well, let’s see,” said Darren. “She’s at least sixty-five years old, maybe more.”
Celia felt a touch of disappointment. It would certainly have been more interesting to make clothes for a woman who was young and pretty. But she answered brightly, “Oh, that doesn’t matter. I like nice old ladies.”
Darren groaned. Jimmy laughed out loud.
“Celia,” Jimmy said frankly, “let’s get this straight right now. Vivian is not a ‘nice old lady.’”
“But—?”
“She’s had her own way,” said Jimmy, “every day of her life.”
“How long have you known her?” Celia asked. She could not help feeling apprehensive.
“I’ve always known her,” Jimmy answered. “My father was related to one of her husbands.”
“One of her husbands? How many has she had?”
“Five,” Jimmy said, laughing as Darren added,
“And every one of them, when he died, left her richer than she was before. Except Mr. Lacy—he’s rich, but he’s still around.”
“Are you related to her too?”
“By marriage I am,” said Darren. “Another husband. She’s Godfrey Bernard’s mother.”
Celia looked wonderingly at Darren and then at Jimmy. “What happened to all those husbands? Did she poison them?”
“Oh no,” Jimmy returned. “If Vivian felt like killing a man she’d do it, but she wouldn’t use anything sneaky like poison. Vivian would shoot him in the middle of Broad Street.” He continued more seriously. “Maybe Darren is right, Celia, and you shouldn’t try to work for her. It won’t be easy.”
Bu
t Celia doubled up her fists. “I don’t care if she’s the devil’s grandmother. This very morning I made up my mind that I was going to do something about keeping a steady job. And now if I’ve got a chance I’m not going to miss it.”
Jimmy gave her an understanding smile, though he warned her, “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll tell Vivian there’s a new girl at Mrs. Thorley’s, a girl who can really fit clothes. Then maybe—just maybe—she’ll send word to Mrs. Thorley that she’d like to see you.”
Celia felt a lump of excitement in her stomach. Just then she heard the bells of St. Michael’s. “Oh my goodness, is that seven o’clock? Wrap up the gauze, Darren, I’ve got to get back.”
Jimmy took the package, saying he would walk with her to the shop. Celia was fairly tingling with eagerness.
“When can you see Mrs. Lacy?” she asked as they walked along Lamboll Street.
“At her pleasure,” Jimmy answered. “Celia my dear,” he explained mirthfully, “people don’t drop in on Vivian. They send over to ask when they can call.”
“Oh,” Celia said faintly. But she could not help admiring anybody who could arrange her life so exactly to suit herself.
As they reached the shop Jimmy handed her the bundle of gauze. “I’ll go home now and see Mother,” he said, “and pat my dog, and get some sleep. But before the day’s over I’ll send a note to Vivian. And here,” he added, “I’ll let you have this.” He unfastened a silver chain attached to a button on his vest, and drew the other end of the chain from his vest pocket. At the free end was a rabbit’s foot. “This is the left hind foot of a rabbit,” Jimmy said with a grin, “shot on a Friday the thirteenth.”
“That’s just right!” Celia exclaimed. “I was born on a Friday the thirteenth.”
“Then by all means you must have this. My colored boy Amos shot this rabbit and gave me the two hind feet for luck. I put one on my dog’s collar and I’ve carried the other myself.”
He put the rabbit’s foot into her hand. “I’ll carry it every minute,” said Celia.
They laughed at each other. Jimmy was not a handsome man, but as she looked up at him Celia thought he was an impressive one, with his strong lean face and his coat bright blue in the sunshine. The black bristles stood out on his jaw.
Jimmy gave a squeeze to her hand as it held the rabbit’s foot, and went off toward home.
CHAPTER 3
THE BREAKFAST BELL RANG while Celia was delivering the gauze to Miss Loring in the sewing room. The girls, who had been at work for an hour while breakfast was being prepared, joyfully took off their thimbles and trooped downstairs.
The dining room was on the first floor, behind the parlor. There was a long table with Mrs. Thorley’s armchair at the head. On either side of Mrs. Thorley were the seats of Miss Loring and Miss Perry, and below them came the others in order of importance. Celia’s place was down near the foot.
The girls stood behind their chairs, and the two colored maids stood by the door, all waiting for Mrs. Thorley. In their white caps and kerchiefs and their fresh homespun dresses, unbleached brown or dyed blue with Carolina indigo, they made a pretty group. Through the doorway came the sound and smell of sizzling ham.
Beside each plate was a glass of milk. Mrs. Thorley served neither tea nor coffee. This was part of her policy of not taking sides in the war.
The people of Charleston were divided in their opinions. The majority of them were rebels, but there were a good many Tories, still loyal to the king. In South Carolina as in the other colonies the Tories had organized their own green-coated regiments to serve alongside the redcoats of the king’s army. If anybody asked Mrs. Thorley which of these parties she favored, Mrs. Thorley replied that she was a simple dressmaker, willing to leave such weighty matters to weighty minds. She did not discuss the war and she forbade the girls to do so. Taking no sides, she kept her customers. If she had served either tea or coffee, that would have been taking sides.
Some of the rebels drank tea, but the most violent of them did not. Remembering the tax on tea at the start of the war, they regarded tea as a symbol of British tyranny and refused to touch it. They drank coffee instead, and called it Liberty Tea. But since hardly anybody in Charleston had served coffee at breakfast before the war, serving it now would have marked Mrs. Thorley as a rebel.
On the other hand, the Tories, bent on proving their loyalty to Britain and King George, drank tea on every possible occasion. If Mrs. Thorley had served tea people would have said she was a Tory. So Mrs. Thorley served milk.
Celia thought this a sensible arrangement. The war was nearly over and the rebels were winning—the Gazette said so every week—but in the meantime the shop had to stay open. Celia was glad the rebels were winning, because Darren and Jimmy were on that side and they were her best friends, but she really could not see that it would make any difference to her whether the country was run by King George or the Continental Congress. She was concerned with other matters. Now this rich old Mrs. Lacy—
The thought of Mrs. Lacy struck sparks in her mind. If she won the favor of a rich customer her job would be sure, and she would be independent of Roy. I don’t care if she is an old cross-patch, Celia thought, her hands tightening on the back of her chair. I’ll put up with anything.
Mrs. Thorley appeared at the dining room door. The two maids stepped aside. Mrs. Thorley came in, carrying her Bible with a ribbon marking a place between the leaves. The voices of the girls dwindled into silence. For a moment Mrs. Thorley stood by her chair, tall, broad, starched. Then with ponderous piety she opened the Bible at the place marked by the ribbon, and in her deep voice she read them a passage from the Psalms. When she closed the book the girls and servants bowed their heads and recited the Lord’s Prayer. Then the chairs scraped back, the girls sat down, and their talk rose again as the maids passed the dishes.
For breakfast they had ham, hominy grits with butter, hot cornbread, and the glasses of milk. Ham-and-hominy was Celia’s favorite breakfast, but this morning she hardly noticed what she was eating. I wonder why Mrs. Lacy is so hard to sew for, she thought. Probably she’s stooped—most old women are, and it’s hard to make clothes look well over a hump. Or maybe her stomach sticks out—
Celia heard her name, and started. The girl next to her was saying something. This girl was Agnes Kennedy, one of three girls with whom Celia shared a bedroom on the third floor. Agnes Kennedy had blue eyes and brown hair and a sweet disposition. “Your mind is a thousand miles away,” she reproved Celia gently.
“I’m sorry. What were you asking me?”
Agnes answered with a sweet smile. She was so sweet that sometimes Celia wanted to slap her. Agnes said, “I wasn’t asking anything. Becky was.”
Becky Duren, another of Celia’s roommates, was watching her with a gay teasing smile. Becky was a curly-headed flibbertigibbet who seldom thought about anything but men. The daughter of a small farmer near Moncks Corner, Becky had been taught to sew by her German grandmother and she was good at it, but she was not interested in sewing. She had come to town because she wanted to get married, and in spite of Mrs. Thorley’s strict rules Becky had met dozens of men in Charleston and was now engaged to three of them. She was going to get married as soon as she could make up her mind among her adorers; meanwhile she stitched dutifully and dreamed up new ways to tease them. “I was just asking,” Becky said merrily to Celia, “who’s your beau?”
Celia stopped short, her glass of milk halfway to her lips. “Don’t be silly. I haven’t got a beau.”
“Oooh!” said Becky. “There was a tall dark man in rebel blue walking with you this morning—I saw him—I was opening a window—”
“Oh for pity’s sake,” snapped Celia. “Captain Rand is just one of the customers.”
“Oh now Celia,” murmured Agnes, “Becky didn’t mean anything.”
One of the older girls, Ruth Elbert, asked Celia what names were on the appointment list today. Ruth Elbert was about twenty-eight years old, tall a
nd thin, with a sharp chin and beaky nose. She had a brother in the Continental Army, and Ruth herself was an ardent rebel. Addressing her as “Miss Elbert” (for Ruth had been here ten years and was a person of some influence in the shop), Celia said she had not read the list yet.
“Mrs. Kirby’s going to be here,” said Becky Duren. “I heard her say so yesterday.”
“That chatterbox!” said Ruth. “She talks and talks, she stays forever. Who’s making her dress?”
“I am,” said a girl across the table, named Pearl Todd, a pretty creature with light brown hair and a creamy skin. She was Celia’s third roommate. Pearl added, “I like Mrs. Kirby.”
“Oh yes,” Ruth said acidly, “of course you do.”
There was a sudden silence. Mrs. Kirby was a Tory, and always wore a touch of Tory green somewhere about her costume, partly to show which side she was on and partly because green was so becoming to her red hair and green eyes. Pearl Todd had Tory sympathies too. There was even a rumor that she was engaged to a greenjacket. As Ruth spoke, Pearl gave her an angry look, while one or two other girls who were hotly rebel glared at Pearl, and for a moment it seemed that there might be a dispute that would bring stern words from Mrs. Thorley. But before anybody could say anything more, Agnes Kennedy interposed brightly, “It’s going to be the nicest day! Don’t you love this weather?”
Some day, Celia thought, I’m going to really try to make her mad. Just to see if it can be done.
But the others seemed glad Agnes had changed the subject. The conversation went on, about the shop and the day ahead. Celia glanced at Agnes, serenely finishing her ham. Agnes always looked serene. She had her life all planned. Her father was one of the Scotch-Irish farmers who grew flax in the Williamsburg district, and Agnes had grown up in the country near Kingstree. She was engaged to a smart young farmer named Robert MacNair, and they were going to be married when he got his place in order for a family.
