by Gwen Bristow
Robert would raise flax while Agnes and her maidservants would spin linen yarn. Twice a year Robert and Agnes would take the yarn to Kingstree, to the weaver. These trips to Kingstree would be the high spots of the year for them; they would stay a week or more, visiting friends, meeting strangers, hearing the news. Between trips they would live peacefully, working six days a week and going to the Presbyterian Church on Sundays. They would have a house with wide fireplaces, and a pantry full of good food, and a cat with kittens, and a family of nice children. Agnes was not much interested in the war, and neither was young Mr. MacNair. Those flax-growers around Kingstree were busy and prosperous; they had no quarrel with anybody.
Maybe I could be as calm as she is, thought Celia, if I was content to spend my life spinning flax. But I’m not. I want things to happen to me!
Mrs. Thorley tapped her spoon on the side of her glass. The girls fell silent, and Mrs. Thorley rose to make the announcements.
Miss Duren was to report for a special assignment. Miss Todd would relieve Miss Garth in the parlor during the dinner hour. Miss Kennedy was to go on an errand at nine o’clock. These errands were carefully allotted, for Mrs. Thorley said young people needed exercise and worked better for it. The announcements over, she tapped the glass again and the girls left the dining room to go on with the day.
Celia opened the parlor. This was a pleasant room, with flower prints on the walls and white curtains at the windows, and chairs and sofas inviting callers to pass the time. In the best-lighted spots were cabinets with glass doors where Mrs. Thorley showed her wares. There were buckles and feathers, laces and hair ornaments, a pair of gentlemen’s stockings knitted of white silk thread on needles finer than the finest hairpins. Women’s stockings were not important, since you saw so little of them. But a man’s stockings, visible from his knee to his ankle, were a conspicuous part of his costume. When a man wore handmade silk hose like these, the chances were that they had cost him more than his coat.
In the largest cabinet Mrs. Thorley had placed four fashion dolls, twenty inches high, dressed like ladies and gentlemen in the newest styles. One lady doll wore blue silk, the other white and gold; they had powdered hair and they carried little fans. The man dolls wore white wigs. One of them had on a purple coat and tan knee-breeches, the other a black velvet suit with lace cuffs. The both wore white stockings and buckled shoes.
Celia drew a chair up to her worktable, and while she waited for callers she began sewing a button on one of Jimmy’s new shirts.
There could hardly be any news from Jimmy for several days, she reflected. He had a lot to do; his employer, Mr. Carter, was an elderly man, and more and more was leaving details in Jimmy’s hands. Besides, Jimmy had said he could not see Mrs. Lacy until she felt like seeing him. Celia felt a shiver of suspense run down her back. “I’ll just have to be patient!” she reminded herself impatiently. She had never felt so impatient in her life.
She had to wait three days. Then Jimmy came in to tell her the matter was arranged: Mrs. Lacy had agreed to send for her.
He did not have a chance to tell her much else, for the parlor was full of visitors and they all wanted something. A fidgety girl asked Celia to draw a curtain; a short-tempered fat man sent her up to the fitting-room to tell his wife he didn’t have all day to sit here; another man asked her to bring him the Gazette to read while he waited; two women from out of town, enraptured by the displays, wanted to know the price of everything; and Mrs. Kirby, the pretty redheaded Tory, asked for a glass of water. When Celia came back with the glass of water Mrs. Kirby was telling Jimmy about the remarkable cleverness of her little boy George (named for his majesty, she explained, not Mr. Washington).
Mrs. Kirby was careful to say “Mr.” Washington instead of “General” Washington. The British and Tories all did that. They held that the rebels, in revolt against their lawful government, had no right to military titles. As Jimmy wore a business suit today, Mrs. Kirby could pretend not to know which side he was on. This she was glad to do, since there was no other attractive young man in the room for her to talk to.
Another lady came in. Her name was Mrs. Baxter, she was a rebel, and she proclaimed it by wearing a blue velvet hat with a buff plume. Mrs. Baxter greeted Jimmy with a smile, but she gave Mrs. Kirby the icy stare she gave any woman who wore a kerchief of Tory green. She told Celia she had come to look at the new gauzes, and would Celia please run upstairs and tell Miss Loring? Oh but first, exclaimed Mrs. Baxter, she simply must see that fashion doll in blue. While Celia was upstairs, would she ask Miss Loring how long it would take to make a dress like this?
Celia said “Yes ma’am,” and started toward the door that opened on the staircase. At that moment a maid entered to tell Mrs. Kirby she could come up now for her fitting. Mrs. Kirby went upstairs, Celia following to report the wants of Mrs. Baxter. When Celia came back to the parlor she found that now Mrs. Baxter had taken possession of Jimmy and was telling him about her little boy George (named for General Washington, she explained, not that stupid old king).
Jimmy had an appointment with a client. By the time the maid summoned Mrs. Baxter, it was time for him to leave. Celia was straightening some samples of goods in a showcase. Jimmy came over, looked with apparent interest at the samples, then turning his back to the room he spoke in an undertone. “Did you know your cousin Roy was about to be married?”
Interested, Celia shook her head.
“Our office handles your uncle’s affairs,” Jimmy continued, “and Mrs. Carter got a letter this morning. Roy’s marrying a girl named Sophie Torrance.”
“Who’s Sophie Torrance?”
“I’ve never met her. But the Torrances are planters on Goose Creek.”
“Rich?”
“Pretty well off.”
“He would,” said Celia.
Jimmy chuckled. “Well anyway, you’ll hear from Vivian Lacy in a day or two. Got the rabbit’s foot?”
“In my pocket.”
“Rub it hard. I’ll rub the one on Rosco’s collar soon as I get home.”
He went out. Celia slipped her hand into her pocket and gave the rabbit’s foot a pinch.
This was Friday. She hoped a message would come Saturday from Mrs. Lacy, but nothing happened. Jimmy had told her she might get a glimpse of Mrs. Lacy Sunday at St. Michael’s, but again she was disappointed, for though there were several old ladies in the congregation they were all customers she had met in the shop.
No word came Monday. Nothing came Tuesday or Wednesday.
Too restless to keep still, when she went up to the bedroom Wednesday night Celia decided to give her hair a good brushing. She brushed so long and so hard that even gentle Agnes protested, “If you don’t stop you’re going to pull your hair right off your head!” Agnes sat by the candle, writing to Robert MacNair. Celia’s other two roommates, Becky and Pearl, were downstairs entertaining boy-friends in the little parlor where the girls received callers after working hours.
Celia said she felt like taking a turn in the hall, to stretch her legs before bedtime. She went out and walked up and down. It had been five days now since Jimmy’s visit to the parlor. What was the matter with Mrs. Lacy? Maybe she had changed her mind. Maybe she had decided not to have any clothes made till she could go to Paris again.
Here on the third-floor hall there was a window opening on the front of the house. Celia pushed up the sash and looked out.
Below her lay Charleston, glistening between two rivers. Charleston was built on a little peninsula shaped like Florida, and the shop was at the south end. At Celia’s left, on the west side, was the Ashley River, and on her right the Cooper; far ahead of her was the narrow neck of land that joined Charleston to the mainland; and behind her, where the two rivers met, there was the sea.
Toward her right, by the Cooper River, she could see the big dark block of the Exchange. This was the customhouse, post office, and business center where men gathered to talk about trade. Under the Exchange was the vault
where they had locked up the first shipload of tea that came bearing the king’s tax.
Most people had not yet gone to bed, and the streets were lined with lighted windows. Jimmy had said Mrs. Lacy’s house was on Meeting Street near Tradd. Celia could see both streets clearly: Meeting Street ran north and south, halfway between the rivers, while Tradd Street reached from river to river across town. A block above Tradd she saw Broad Street and St. Michael’s. In the spire of St. Michael’s was a beacon light that guided ships to Charleston and lit the whole neighborhood around the church.
In the street before the church, where carriages had to go around it, stood the statue of William Pitt. The people had put it there to honor Mr. Pitt for persuading the British Parliament to repeal the Stamp Act. The Stamp Act trouble had occurred when Celia was six years old and she did not know much about it, but she thought the statue of Mr. Pitt was the silliest thing she had ever seen. It had been made in England, where the sculptor had had a notion that an English hero ought to look like a man from ancient Rome, so instead of showing Mr. Pitt in his own clothes this artist had dressed him in a Roman toga. The effect was as if the great man had heard a noise in the night and had rushed out with a sheet wrapped around him.
Behind her, Celia heard a door opening. A candle cast a glow on the wall, and she heard the jangle of a bell. Plump little Miss Perry, holding a dressing-gown around her, was giving notice that it was nearly nine o’clock and if you weren’t ready for bed you’d better hurry. Celia turned toward her room, and Miss Perry smiled at her brightly. Celia was too impatient to feel amiable; however, since Miss Perry was a supervisor she smiled back.
But the next day, Thursday, when they had finished their midday dinner and Mrs. Thorley rose to make the announcements, she said, “Miss Duren will relieve Miss Garth in the parlor at four. At that time Miss Garth will report to my office.”
Celia felt a little jump in her throat.
Across the table Becky whispered, “What does she want with you?”
Celia managed to shrug. “How would I know?”
It was not quite four when Becky came to take her place. Becky loved minding the parlor. You never could tell what interesting men might drop in.
Celia dashed up to her room to make sure her cap and kerchief were straight, then down again to Mrs. Thorley’s door. Steadying herself with a long breath, she knocked, and Mrs. Thorley’s deep voice bade her enter.
Mrs. Thorley sat at her desk, a large solid block of authority in gray linen. Celia curtsied, and as she did so she found herself wondering what Mrs. Thorley looked like without any clothes on. Stop this, she warned herself, you must not be having sassy thoughts now. Keep your mind on pleasing that old lady from Sea Garden.
“Sit down, Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Thorley. Her voice sounded like a roll of drums.
“Thank you ma’am,” said Celia. She sat down, crossed her ankles, and laced her fingers on her lap. It was a pretty posture.
“I am happy to tell you, Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Thorley, “that your work here has been satisfactory.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thorley.” (Is that all she wants? Hasn’t she heard from the old witch?)
“As you probably recall,” said Mrs. Thorley, “your term of apprenticeship will expire at the end of this week. I shall be glad to have you continue as before.”
“Thank you ma’am. I’m glad you’re pleased with me.” (Just as I thought. She expects me to go on “as before”—pulling bastings and sewing on buttons—of course any job is better than no job, but oh Lord, please! Celia slid her hand into her pocket and rubbed the rabbit’s foot. Was it wicked to pray with your mind and rub a rabbit’s foot with your hand? She did not know, but she kept on doing both.)
Mrs. Thorley was saying that besides her room and board, Celia would now receive an allowance of eight dollars a month in South Carolina currency. Celia murmured something, she never remembered what, because just then Mrs. Thorley added, “Now I have another matter to discuss.”
There was a sudden sharpness in her voice. For some reason Mrs. Thorley was not pleased.
“Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Thorley, “are you acquainted with Mrs. Herbert Lacy?”
“No ma’am,” said Celia. Her hand, out of sight in her pocket, closed around the rabbit’s foot.
“You have heard of her, I suppose?”
“I’ve heard of her, yes ma’am.”
“This morning,” Mrs. Thorley said crisply, “I received a note from Mrs. Lacy, asking that you call to discuss some dressmaking.”
Celia wondered what made Mrs. Thorley so snappish. You’d think she’d be glad this rich woman wanted to patronize her shop.
“Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Thorley, “did you know Mrs. Lacy was going to write to me?” She sounded as if she thought somebody had been up to something behind her back.
Her hand in her pocket, Celia crossed her fingers. “No ma’am,” she returned. (Well, I didn’t know she was going to write! I just hoped she would and was scared she wouldn’t.)
There was a brief pause. Celia tried to look relaxed and intelligent, and not sassy.
“Have you any idea,” Mrs. Thorley asked her sternly, “why Mrs. Lacy should want you to do her sewing?”
Celia had planned an answer for this one. “I made a lot of dresses at home. She might know somebody who likes my work.”
“Possibly,” said Mrs. Thorley. She glanced down at her own large strong hands, folded on the desk. Mrs. Lacy’s request had surprised her, and Mrs. Thorley did not like to be surprised. After a moment’s thought she looked up. “Miss Garth,” she said suddenly, “do you want to accept this assignment?”
It was the first time since she came to the shop that anybody had asked Celia if she wanted to do anything. Smiling with astonishment and pleasure, she exclaimed, “Oh yes ma’am! Yes!”
Again, Mrs. Thorley considered before she spoke. “Generally,” she said, “when a customer makes a request for one of the young ladies, I am happy to grant it.” She looked at Celia directly. “In this case, however, I believe it would be unwise to do so. Mrs. Lacy is—”
“Oh please, Mrs. Thorley!”
Mrs. Thorley was not used to being interrupted. She went on as though Celia had not spoken. “Mrs. Lacy is exacting in her requirements.”
(If you mean she’s an old crank, thought Celia, I’ve heard that already.)
“The friend who recommended you,” Mrs. Thorley went on, “has no doubt exaggerated your ability. I am afraid, Miss Garth, that you exaggerate it yourself. Sewing for your family at home is quite different from sewing for a woman like Mrs. Lacy.” She paused again, to let that sink in. “Therefore, Miss Garth, I believe you will be wise not to undertake it. If this is your decision, I will write to Mrs. Lacy and offer to send her a dressmaker of more experience.”
This time she waited for an answer. (The thought flashed into Celia’s head—I understand. She doesn’t dare say no to Mrs. Lacy. So she wants me to do it. Well, I won’t.) Aloud she said, “I’d like to try it, Mrs. Thorley.”
Mrs. Thorley unclasped her hands and clasped them again. There was a rustle of starched linen as she changed her position in her chair. It struck Celia that even Mrs. Thorley’s clothes sounded stern. “Very well,” said Mrs. Thorley. “I shall speak to you in plain words.”
Celia felt a quake in her middle.
“This shop,” said Mrs. Thorley, “has always guaranteed its work.” Her steel-blue eyes looked at Celia straight and hard. “Understand me, Miss Garth. We do not apologize for poor work. We simply do not tolerate it.”
“Yes ma’am,” Celia said faintly.
“Since Mrs. Lacy has asked for you, I shall not refuse. But I do not feel that I can recommend you. If you insist on sewing for Mrs. Lacy you may do so. But if she is not satisfied, your employment here will be at an end.”
Again, Mrs. Thorley waited.
Celia was scared. She thought she could sew, but now she wondered—how could she be sure? Mrs. Thorley had off
ered her a good safe job, which at least meant that she would not have to go back and be Roy’s poor relation. And if she didn’t please Mrs. Lacy—then what? She could not sell her heirloom necklace until she was of age, and anyway she had no idea how you went about selling such a thing. No, if she failed here Mrs. Thorley would merely send her back home, to live on Roy’s unwilling charity until she married some worthy clodhopper.
But if she should turn down this chance, she might be stuck with buttons and bastings for years. Maybe for the rest of her life. She might turn into one of those respectable drudges known as “an old and valued employee,” plodding her way to the graveyard.
Celia doubled her hands into fists and said abruptly, “I want to work for Mrs. Lacy.”
Mrs. Thorley nodded. She rarely displayed emotion before her help. Reaching across her desk she took a pen out of her quill-holder. “Very well. Please ring for the maid.”
Glad of the chance to move, Celia went over and pulled the bellcord. Mrs. Thorley spoke to the maid who came in answer.
“Tell Miss Loring to send me one of the young ladies who has not had a walk today. I need her to deliver a note.” She turned to Celia. “Mrs. Lacy wants to see you at half-past five tomorrow. One of the other girls will relieve you in time for you to change your dress.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“That is all, Miss Garth.”
Celia curtsied and went out. Oh Jimmy, she thought as she closed the door, oh Jimmy, maybe you’ve gotten me into a dreadful mess.
CHAPTER 4
SHE LIVED THROUGH THE next day somehow, until Miss Loring sent Agnes to take her place in the parlor. Celia hurried upstairs to dress.
At length, in front of her glass, she looked herself over: her eager dark eyes and her light hair, her well-made homespun dress, her cap and kerchief crisp as frost. In her pocket her clean handkerchief and the rabbit’s foot. Yes, she did look well. With a smile of good-by to the mirror she turned and went down the stairs, and let herself out by a side door.
