by Gwen Bristow
As she walked up Meeting Street the town was golden in the late sun. The sidewalk was full of people. Soldiers and sailors roamed about seeing the sights; colored women sat by the curb selling asters and goldenrod and late roses; fine ladies and gentlemen were out making calls, gay in their many-hued clothes. Men of business, more sedate in dark suits, hurried on their errands while they discussed the ships from the Indies and trade on the wagon track. Ahead of her Celia could see the shining white spire of St. Michael’s.
Oh, it was a merry day, a laughing day, a day to feel sure of yourself. Celia walked fast, taking deep breaths of the tangy air. A man in a wine-colored coat swept off his hat and gave her a smile of admiration. He was a big rugged fellow with bright blue eyes and a sun-browned face, and down his cheeks two creases that looked as if they had been put there by a thousand smiles at pretty women. Celia liked the audacious air of him, and she smiled back.
Now she was coming near the corner of Tradd Street, and here was the town house of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Lacy.
The Lacys lived in a tall narrow brick house with white woodwork, and steps coming down to the sidewalk. Their garden was on the south side, divided from the sidewalk by a brick wall and a wrought-iron gate. There was nothing pretentious about the place, but Celia thought its very simplicity made it imposing. You knew when you saw it that the people who lived here did not need to prove anything about themselves.
She felt a tremor like a trickle of cold water down her back. Maybe she had been a fool to come here and risk her destiny with a grumpy old woman, instead of taking the sensible job Mrs. Thorley had offered her. If she should turn back now, and say she had changed her mind—
Quickly, before she could do any such thing, she put her hand on the brass knocker. As she heard it strike she had a sense of relief. Now then. She couldn’t turn back.
The door was opened by a colored girl in a neat blue homespun dress with white cap and kerchief. Celia gave her name, and the girl curtsied.
“Good evening, miss. I’m Marietta. Miss Vivian’s having her hair done and she’s not quite ready. You’ll come this way, please?”
Marietta’s voice was low and pleasant, and she spoke good plain English with the ease of one who is not used to hearing any other kind. She showed Celia into a formal reception room with mahogany furniture and a marble mantelpiece. As Celia sat down Marietta said,
“Maybe while you’re waiting you’d like a glass of water?”
“Oh yes I would,” Celia agreed, for her throat was dry with excitement. Marietta went out, and a moment later she brought in a glass on a tray. As Celia sipped gratefully Marietta asked,
“Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?”
She was so friendly that Celia was emboldened to ask advice. “I wish you’d tell me something about Mrs. Lacy. I do want to please her.”
(What a nuisance, always studying how to please other people. Some day, thought Celia, I’m going to be like Mrs. Lacy, and have my own way all the time.)
Marietta was answering. “Well ma’am, she wants everybody to be very neat and clean, but you shouldn’t bother, you look nice. And she’s very particular about having things done right.”
Celia nodded. “Do you know what sort of clothes she’s planning for me to make?”
Marietta wasn’t sure. She did know Miss Vivian had just gotten a lot of new materials from her son Mr. Godfrey Bernard. The mention of his name reminded Celia of Vivian’s many marriages, and she ventured,
“Marietta, tell me some more about the Lacys. They—they’re quite an unusual family, isn’t that right?”
Marietta said yes ma’am, they were. Miss Vivian had had five husbands and six children. Only four of her children were still living, three sons and a daughter, but they all had different names. She and Mr. Lacy had no children, but Mr. Lacy had been married before and had a son of his own—oh, sometimes things got right confusing around here. Celia could not help laughing, and she was glad to see that Marietta was laughing too. Marietta had turned her head toward the door, and now Celia realized that they were hearing music from the back of the house. “That’s Miss Vivian,” said Marietta, “playing the spinet. I guess Mr. Hugo is through with her hair. We can see her now.”
Celia stood up, hoping she looked more calm than she felt. Slipping her hand into her pocket she stroked the rabbit’s foot, and thought of Jimmy’s likable ugly face and his grin and the way he looked down at her when he put the rabbit’s foot into her hand, his eyes merry and encouraging under the black eyebrows.
Marietta was holding the door open. As she crossed the room Celia glanced at a mirror on the wall. She did look nice; she thought so, and Marietta thought so, and that brown young man in the street, he had certainly thought so. Marietta was saying that Miss Vivian was in her private sitting room.
She led Celia down the hall, past several open doors. The house was lovely. Everything Celia could see had a costly simplicity that appealed to her sense of good taste.
The tinkle of the spinet was clear now, a gay, rippling little tune. Marietta paused at a door that stood slightly ajar. She said in an undertone, “We’ll go in, miss, but don’t speak to her till she’s finished the piece she’s playing.” Celia nodded, and Marietta touched the door.
The door swung inward, silently. Celia remembered that every door she had seen in this house had been silent, no squeaks and squawks about them. She and Marietta stepped over the threshold. There was a rug just inside and their footsteps made no sound.
The music went on. The spinet stood on the other side of the room, and evidently Mrs. Lacy had not heard them come in. Celia was glad of this, for it gave her time to draw some deep breaths and calm her heartquakes.
The room was dim, for the curtains were drawn and there was not much light from outside. The only other light came from a stand of candles beyond the spinet, placed so that they shone on the sheet of music set there. It took a moment for Celia to get used to the glow and shadows, but she looked as hard as she could.
She was in a lady’s boudoir, and the room was as dainty as a fine lady herself. The wallpaper was printed with tiny pink and blue flowers. Celia saw a writing-desk; she saw a little table on which stood an hourglass with a silver base; scattered here and there she saw several delicate chairs and a sofa; and at the far end of the room, seated before the little rosewood spinet, she saw Vivian Lacy.
She could tell that Mrs. Lacy was playing the spinet with skill and enjoyment. But since the light was on the other side of the spinet, the great lady’s face and figure were in shadow, and it took a moment for Celia to get a good look. So instead of one general impression she had several impressions, one after another.
As she saw Mrs. Lacy silhouetted against the light Celia’s first thought was,
“She sits up straight. Not bent like most old women.”
This was good. Celia remembered how she had dreaded trying to make a dress look well over an old-age stoop. As her eyes went up and down Mrs. Lacy’s figure her dressmaker’s instinct further observed, “She’s kept herself little in the middle.” This too was gratifying. Whatever her age, a woman who had a waistline looked better in her clothes than a woman who had none. Gradually, as her eyes moved upward past Mrs. Lacy’s shoulders, Celia thought,
“She holds her head well. She’s got a good regular profile.” And then, as Celia began to see in more detail, her breath caught in her throat. She was so startled that for a moment she did not even believe herself, as the fact slipped into her mind and took form in words:
“She—it can’t be so—it is so—she—she’s beautiful!”
Along with the shock of discovery, Celia felt a twinge of shame. She might have known that a woman who could get five rich husbands must have something.
Vivian had not tried to cover up her age. On the contrary, she gave the impression that she had taken advantage of it. She had kept her figure and she was well dressed, but her real distinction was her look of being at ease in the world. You felt when you
saw her that she had lived deeply and had grown more worldly-wise with every year of her life, until now her assurance was like a glow around her.
On the bench in front of the spinet Vivian sat erect, her head well balanced on her shoulders and every line of her body in harmony. Her white hair was piled up high, with a decoration of three little pink plumes held by a jeweled pin.
Her face had lines, but they seemed not to matter because her skin was like fine white silk and her features were clear-cut and firm. There was a droop under her chin, but this seemed not to matter either because she held her head so proudly. Around her throat she wore a band of black velvet with one square jewel.
She was dressed in a shimmer of pink. Her dress was satin, and below the hem Celia could see her foot, in a pink satin slipper with a gold buckle, touching the pedal of the spinet as she played.
Vivian came to the end of the tune, and moved the sheet of music to one side. Marietta stepped forward. Glancing around, Vivian said, “Oh yes, Marietta. And you are Celia Garth? Come in.”
Her voice was low and her words were clear, no mumbling like some people. As she turned, the candlelight caught the jewel at her throat. The jewel too was pink. Maybe a pink sapphire, thought Celia; she had heard of pink sapphires but had never seen one.
Marietta curtsied. “Miss Vivian, Mr. Lacy told me to ask you first if you had answered Mr. Burton Dale’s letter.”
“Letter?” Vivian repeated. “What letter now?”
“About Mr. Dale asking you to stay with him when you went up to Miss Torrance’s wedding.”
“I’ll answer right this minute,” said Vivian. Without moving from the music-bench she added, “Come here, Miss Garth.”
Astonished, Celia stepped forward too, and curtsied. “Yes ma’am?”
“Do you write a good hand?”
“Why—I believe so, ma’am.”
“Write a letter for me. There, on the desk—show her, Marietta.”
Trying not to look as puzzled as she felt, Celia sat down in the chair by the desk. But Marietta did not seem surprised. As smoothly as if Celia were a secretary who worked here every day, Marietta handed her a quill, took the top off the inkhorn, and opened a portfolio holding writing paper.
“Ready?” Vivian asked. “All right. Mr. Burton Dale, Gaylawn Plantation, parish of St. James Goose Creek.” She dictated clearly, spelling the proper names. “My dear son, I am not going to Sophie Torrance’s wedding or anybody else’s wedding. Weddings and funerals are all alike and they bore me silly. Since I am now old enough to do as I please, I am never going to another wedding or another funeral unless I am the bride or the corpse. Your affectionate mother—now bring that here and I’ll sign it.”
Celia had almost forgotten that Roy was about to marry a girl named Sophie Torrance. Hearing his wedding treated with such disrespect gave her a wicked joy. Keeping her face demure, she brought the letter and quill to the spinet. Vivian wore no glasses, but now she took up a lorgnette that lay on the music rack.
“You write very nicely,” she commented. Changing the lorgnette to her left hand she took the quill and signed “Vivian Lacy” in a swift dashing script. In a lower corner of the sheet she added “Charles Town, 17 September 1779,” then held it out to Marietta. “Here, seal this and send it out with the next mail, and tell Mr. Lacy it’s done. Now turn the glass. Let me know when the sand has run down.”
Celia felt confused. Nothing so far had been what she expected. For reassurance she slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the rabbit’s foot.
Vivian stood up. She did not push herself up with her hands, like an old woman; she simply stood up, like a young one. For a moment Celia had an impression of height, then she noticed with surprise that Vivian was not tall. She was, in fact, rather smaller than the average, but she held herself so well that she looked stately. Touching the back of a chair she said, “Marietta, I’ll sit here. Bring the light.”
It was Vivian’s left hand that touched the chair-back, and Celia noticed a wedding ring. She wondered if Vivian got a new ring with each husband and what she did with the old ones.
Marietta moved the candle-stand and stepped aside. Vivian sat down. The candlelight glimmered over her soft fine skin and her jeweled hair. The chair she had chosen was upholstered in sea-green damask, a perfect background for her pink dress. She leaned back gracefully, one hand on the arm of the chair and the other in her lap holding the lorgnette by its long silver handle. “Will you come closer, Miss Garth,” she asked, “into the light?”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.
She moved into the full glow of the candles and stood there, her right hand at her side and the left in her pocket. She expected that now Vivian would start asking questions. How old are you? Where did you go to school? Who taught you to sew? What sort of clothes have you made? Can you do drawnwork? Quilting? Embroidery?
But Vivian merely looked. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they moved quickly, like young eyes. She looked up and down Celia’s figure, along her shoulders, across her waistline. She looked until Celia felt like something put up for auction.
At last Vivian spoke. “Hold up your arms. No, not out from your shoulders, just away from your skirt—understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.
She stood like a doll, her arms held stiffly, her hands about six inches from her skirt at each side.
“Turn around,” said Vivian. “Slowly. Keep your arms out.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.
She thought she had never felt so foolish. When she had turned around twice Vivian said,
“That will do, you can put your arms down now. Come nearer.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.
She came and stood by Vivian’s knee. Holding the lorgnette to her eyes Vivian examined the stitching of Celia’s dress; she ran her fingers along the seams, and took a pinch of cloth between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you make this dress?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now I suppose you can see all these little stitches without glasses.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I can’t. This is homespun linen from Kingstree, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of saying yes ma’am?”
“Yes ma’am!” Celia exclaimed, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh I’m sorry, Mrs. Lacy! I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You’re not rude,” Vivian said. “You’re scared. Now I’m going to ask you some questions and I want some intelligent answers. Marietta, bring Miss Garth a chair.”
Marietta obeyed, and again Vivian leaned back. The questions were still not what Celia had expected—not about her, but about her dress. “How did you bleach the linen to that sand-color?” Vivian asked. “How did you measure those darts in the back?”
Celia answered as clearly as she could. After what seemed like a thousand questions Vivian raised her lorgnette once more, as if to make sure there was no stitch they had not discussed. Then she spoke.
“Your dress,” she said, “is beautiful.”
Celia gave a happy start. Vivian continued,
“That linen is good honest stuff, it’s fine for men’s hunting shirts and for children to climb trees in. But this is the first garment I ever saw made of it that had any more grace than a rice-barrel. My dear, if you started with a bolt of raw homespun and produced this, you’re an artist.”
For a moment Celia thought she was about to cry, which would have embarrassed her frightfully. Nobody had seen her cry since she was a little girl, and anyway she felt that Vivian would not like such goings-on. Vivian was saying,
“Miss Garth, you know your trade. You can begin here Monday. You’ll come over every morning and work in my sewing room. I don’t like going out for fittings. And now, please, what have you got in your pocket?”
With a blush, Celia drew out the rabbit’s foot on its silver chain. Vivian took it, and began to laugh.<
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Celia thought how different Vivian was from Mrs. Thorley. This dress, for instance—she had worn it often in the shop, yet Mrs. Thorley had never noticed it. And yesterday during their interview she had rubbed the rabbit’s foot many times, but Mrs. Thorley had not noticed that either. Such alertness undoubtedly made Vivian an exciting personality, but Celia saw that it would also make her a frightening one.
“Is this the rabbit’s foot Jimmy Rand carries around?” asked Vivian. “First time I ever knew him to part with it.” She gave it back, asking dryly, “I suppose you brought it because everybody told you I was an old crank?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Lacy!”
Vivian crossed her ankles. “You’ll have to be a better liar than that,” she said, “if you want to amount to anything in this world. I know I’m hard to work for. I want things done right, and mighty few people want to take the trouble to do things right.”
Celia decided to be frank. “That’s not the only reason I was nervous, Mrs. Lacy. You see, it was a week ago that Jimmy told me you were going to send for me. The waiting made me shaky.”
“I did intend to send for you sooner,” Vivian said smiling. “But a son of mine came home—he’s been up the wagon track with supplies for General Washington. I’ve not done much this week but listen to his yarns.”
Celia had never met any of the gentlemen adventurers of the wagon track. “Is that the one I wrote a letter to just now?” she asked eagerly.
“Oh no,” said Vivian. “You wrote to Burton Dale—he’s a rice planter. No lover of derring-do. The one on the track is Luke Ansell.”
She examined the silver handle of her lorgnette. There was a pause. Somehow, it was a tense pause. Celia noticed that Vivian was turning the lorgnette over and over, her fingers working up and down the design on the handle. It was the first time during their conversation that Vivian had made a nervous gesture. Celia had heard of the perils of the wagon track, and the idea came to her now that Vivian knew all about these perils and was terribly afraid for her reckless son.
Celia began to feel awkward. It was time for her to go, but she could not properly do so until Vivian dismissed her. Since Vivian had spoken last, Celia decided it was her turn to say something and perhaps ease the atmosphere. She asked,
