by Gwen Bristow
At first Celia had thought the situation ideal. Her workroom was on the third floor, overlooking the garden. Marietta brought her dinner at midday, and in the afternoon came in again to do any small services Celia might want. Everything was comfortable, everybody was pleasant. But there were times when Celia was in despair.
Vivian’s dress was to be made of a printed silk imported by Godfrey Bernard. Celia measured, diagrammed, figured her cutting and seaming with exquisite care. But even so, she was not always good enough.
Every morning Vivian would come up to the workroom, in a bewitching wrapper and a cap of lawn and ribbons, always lovely, always the great lady who walked with pride. Celia admired her, envied her, and dreaded her visits. There were days when Vivian approved of what had been sewn yesterday, but just as often she did not, and Celia spent the next few hours taking out the stitches she had so carefully put in. Vivian was not bad-tempered, but she was merciless. She knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was perfection (or something so close to perfection that Celia often thought it was beyond human reach). And always, like a little demon sitting on Celia’s shoulder and whispering into her ear, there was Mrs. Thorley’s ultimatum. You will please Mrs. Lacy, or you will go.
With all these difficulties, Celia did think she had a right to peace and quiet in which to work. But there was no such thing as peace and quiet with Luke in the house.
She did not see Luke again. But she was constantly, and wrath-fully, aware of him. Luke was all over the place, vital, noisy, always doing something, shouting to somebody to do something else, rattling up and down the stairs, warbling silly ditties at the top of his voice. Now and then she would have a respite while he was off collecting guns or gunpowder that had been smuggled into some secret cove, but in a day or two the racket of his presence would burst forth again. Celia wished he would make haste to load his stuff and be off to yell at mule-teams and George Washington.
Gradually she met the other members of the family. Marietta sketched their backgrounds for her.
Mr. Lacy was an urbane and scholarly gentleman of seventy. He had read as much Greek and Latin as Uncle William, but his head was not merely an attic of useless learning. Until he retired several years ago Mr. Lacy had been a successful rice planter. But he liked books better than people, and horses better still. Both in town and at Sea Garden he had fine stables and took regular horseback rides. He and Vivian had a quiet, friendly relationship that seemed agreeable to them both. Marietta said that Mr. Lacy and Luke, though so different, got along well. Luke called him “governor.”
Burton Dale was Vivian’s eldest son. In his forties, Burton was a big man, handsome in a thick, florid sort of way. Most of his clothes were too tight. Now in wartime the supply of good material was so limited that even rich men had to make their wardrobes last, and while the clothes stayed the same size the men sometimes put on extra inches.
Burton came to dinner now and then with his wife Elise. They were much alike—stiff-minded, very correct in their behavior, and a constant source of amusement to Vivian. They had two sons, but as Burton had married late his elder boy was only twelve years old.
Besides his plantation on Goose Creek, Burton had a town house in the lordly suburb of Ansonborough, at the north edge of Charleston. Favoring the rebel side in the war, he gave the army regular donations of both rice and money, and Celia supposed he would be happy to go on doing so as long as nobody asked him to make himself uncomfortable.
Marietta said Burton’s father had died of fever brought on when he went up to his rice-fields in the sickly season without taking any Peruvian bark with him. Burton had had four stepfathers. He addressed Mr. Lacy as “Sir.”
Vivian’s second son was Godfrey Bernard. His father was descended from one of the French Huguenots who fled to America when King Louis XIV forbade them to worship in France. Many of these Frenchmen had settled along the Santee River, where they had prospered so greatly that “rich as a Huguenot” became a proverb. Marietta said Vivian had had another son by this marriage, but he had died as a baby. Godfrey’s father had lost his life not long afterward, drowned while on an exploring trip among the tributary creeks up the river.
Godfrey and his wife Ida—they had no children—lived around the corner from Vivian on Tradd Street. Their back yards touched in the middle of the block, and Godfrey, an energetic fellow who looked younger than his forty years, often ran down to the dividing wall to hand Vivian a box of ginger or some other hard-to-get delicacy that one of his ships had brought in.
Vivian’s third husband had been Mr. Rand, a relative of Jimmy’s family. By this marriage she had had two daughters. One of them had died; the other, Madge, now Mrs. Penfield, lived on Broad Street with her husband and three children. Mr. Penfield was a rice broker and an ardent patriot. As for Madge, she seemed to Celia one of those people who are just too normal to be interesting. Madge loved her family, enjoyed her life, and had a calmness that made her talkative sister-in-law Elise seem unfinished, like a half-iced cake.
Vivian’s fourth husband, said Marietta, had been Mr. Ansell, father of Luke.
As she had told the family story in bits and pieces while she was helping in the sewing room, Marietta did not get to Luke’s father until Celia had been working for Vivian about three weeks. Today Marietta had come up during the afternoon with a cup of coffee, for the time was now October and the weather had turned chilly. Celia remarked that she had not cared for coffee when the war began, but now she liked it as well as tea or maybe better. Marietta told her Mr. Luke had said the same thing the other day. She added that Miss Vivian had said she could hardly believe him, for Mr. Luke’s father had been such a tea-drinker and it was strange to see Mr. Luke preferring something different because he was so much like his father.
While she spoke, Marietta had knelt to gather up some scraps from the floor. Celia said she did not know anything about Luke’s father. She had not even heard that Luke was so much like him. Marietta said oh yes ma’am, Mr. Luke was the image of his father, that was what everybody said.
“Do you think so too?” Celia asked.
Marietta couldn’t say personally, because she didn’t remember Mr. Luke’s father. He was killed in the Cherokee War when Mr. Luke was eight or nine years old. That must be nearly twenty years back.
Celia set her cup in the saucer. So Luke’s father had been killed in a war. She thought of Vivian’s hands twisting the silver lorgnette.
Marietta said the war had been a long way off, in the Carolina Upcountry. The Cherokee Indians had been raiding the frontier settlements, and American and British soldiers had gone together to put them down. Mr. Francis Marion—Colonel Marion he was now—had come riding through the country asking for volunteers. Mr. Ansell rode off with him. Marietta’s sister had been a little girl then and she had told Marietta about this, and about the time when they brought word to Miss Vivian that Mr. Ansell had been killed.
It was dreadful. Miss Vivian was teaching a group of little colored girls to do mending, when her maid came in and said a soldier wanted to see her. When the soldier entered they sent the girls out, but the girls could see by his manner that he had come for something important. So they peeked around the edge of the window—they were just little girls, they didn’t know any better—and they heard him tell Miss Vivian the news.
Miss Vivian didn’t scream or faint or anything like that. She just sat there and turned green. That sounded funny, Marietta said, talking about a person turning green, but they all said this was just what she did. Then she got up and went into her bedroom and they didn’t see her again for days and days.
People said she took it harder than any of the others. They said she hadn’t cared for any of them the way she had for Mr. Ansell. Everybody was surprised when she married Mr. Lacy three years afterward. Some folk were shocked, for the fact was that while she didn’t look it Miss Vivian was about fifty years old then, and anyway they thought four husbands were enough. Mr. Burton Dale, for instance, th
at’s what he said. But Miss Vivian said she wanted a man around, to carve the roast and pour the wine and take her out in the evenings; and Mr. Lacy wanted to turn his plantation over to his son anyway, so why shouldn’t they get married? She told Mr. Burton Dale to run along and tend to his business. You know Miss Vivian, she never paid any mind to anybody.
But when Celia was alone again she sat for several minutes, her needle poised over her work. She was thinking. She had begun to understand that there was a lot more courage in the world than she had realized, and a lot more need for it.
The house was quiet today. Faintly, from away below, Celia could hear the tinkle of the spinet as Vivian played a tune.
Evidently Luke was not at home. The place was never so quiet when he was around. Odd, Celia reflected as she resumed her sewing, that she had not seen Luke again since that first evening. Vivian’s other children came by the house often, and spoke to her in friendly fashion if they happened to pass her in the hall. But though Luke lived in the house and the others did not, during the whole three weeks she had been working here he had never happened to pass her in the hall.
Yes, now that she thought of it, this was very odd. If it had not been such a foolish idea she might almost have thought he was avoiding her.
She plodded away at Vivian’s dress, sewing and ripping and sewing again. And at last, when she had been at the miserable thing six weeks, one day Vivian put on the dress and said it was right. In fact, said Vivian, this was the first dress she had had made since she came back from Paris that had really fitted her.
Celia held to the back of a chair, limp with relief. Still looking into the mirror, Vivian said, “Would you like to come to Sea Garden and sew for me this winter?”
Celia had been wondering if Luke was going to suggest this, and she had almost persuaded herself that she did not want to make any more clothes for Vivian, but as soon as she heard the invitation she knew she did. “I’d like to very much, Mrs. Lacy!” she exclaimed.
“Very well,” said Vivian, “I’ll tell Mrs. Thorley. We are planning to leave Charleston a week from next Monday.”
Vivian had been out making calls. She had an elegant coiffure by her French hairdresser Mr. Hugo, and around her neck she wore a chain of thirteen little silver stars. This was a present from Luke: the stars represented the stars of liberty on the rebel flag, and it was the newest fashion.
Suddenly Celia realized that the house had been quiet for some days past. She could not recall how many, but she was sure it had been longer than usual. “If you’re going to Sea Garden,” she ventured, “does this mean Mr. Ansell is on his way again?”
“Yes, he’s gone,” said Vivian. “He left some time ago.”
“And nobody knew!” Celia exclaimed.
“Why no,” said Vivian. She held up her arm and examined the sleeve-ruffle of her new dress. “There are plenty of Tory informers in Charleston,” she said, “who would be well paid if they could find out when the supply wagons started.”
She was looking at the hem of the sleeve. But Celia knew she was not really looking at it, because she was not wearing glasses and she could not see such fine stitches without them. Celia said, “I hope he’ll be all right, Mrs. Lacy.”
“Thank you,” Vivian returned in a low voice. Without looking up she added, “By this time, I suppose somebody has told you about his father.”
“Yes ma’am.”
There was a pause. It seemed to last a long time. Celia felt young and awkward. Suddenly Vivian looked up, her dark eyes bright under their black lashes.
“Celia, did you ever fall in love?”
“No ma’am,” said Celia.
“Don’t fall in love, Celia,” said Vivian. “It’s just asking for trouble. Make a nice cool-headed marriage—”
“Oh no!” Celia cried.
She spoke without thinking, as if the words came out by themselves. Vivian began to laugh.
“See what I mean? We can’t help it, can we?” She turned around briskly. “Now get me out of this dress without wrecking my hair.”
Celia unbuttoned the dress and slipped it down so Vivian could step out of it. She was thinking of how Vivian had covered up Luke’s departure by going on with her own affairs—making calls, entertaining company, trying on her dress. And all that time she had known he was riding into deadly peril. She must have been sick with fear. Yet she had given no sign.
Celia held up the wrapper, and Vivian put it on. “Mrs. Lacy,” Celia said earnestly, “since he left—I don’t know how you did it.”
Vivian was about to go out. Her hand on the door, she smiled over her shoulder. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t either.” She gave a graceful shrug. “But—one thing I’ve learned, Celia. You can do anything you have to do.” As she went out, she touched the chain of stars Luke had given her.
Celia thought of Luke, his noise and his silly songs and his absurd stockings. She wondered why he had been so startled when she noticed his stockings. But he had seemed to like her that evening—he must have liked her or he would not have suggested that Vivian take her to Sea Garden. It really was strange that he had not let her see him again before he went away.
When Mrs. Thorley received Vivian’s note, she made no apology for her earlier doubts. She merely said, “I am happy to inform you, Miss Garth …”
The next day Celia received a letter from Roy, telling her of the death of her Uncle William. After having heard of her uncle’s look of ill-health at the time of Roy’s wedding Celia was not surprised, but she felt saddened. Poor Uncle William, fumbling his way through life and now leaving it before he had ever had any fun.
Uncle William had left her five hundred dollars in South Carolina currency. Roy said this would be paid to her after he had come to town to sign some necessary papers. The details of the estate would be handled by Mr. Carter’s assistant, Mr. Rand.
Mr. Rand, Celia observed. Not Captain Rand. So Jimmy was right. Roy had decided to be a Tory. As she folded his letter she reflected that his father’s death had occurred at an opportune time for Roy: after he had had an elaborate wedding—which the bride’s family would have paid for—and before he had had time to give the usual balls and dinners for his new wife, which he would have had to pay for himself.
After supper she got some scraps of black crepe from Miss Perry and set about sewing a sleeve-band on the dress she was going to wear tomorrow. In ordinary times she would have been expected to go into full black, but the Continental Congress had urged the people not to discard their good clothes for mourning outfits. Even Tories, who flouted Congress as much as they dared, seldom wore full mourning these days because black crepe was scarce and expensive. As she stitched, Celia was thinking that this was something else Roy would find convenient. Undoubtedly he and Sophie had both bought a lot of clothes for their wedding, and Roy would have found it painful to let moths eat them while he bought others.
On Sunday, the day before she was to go to Sea Garden, Celia came to her room after dinner and packed her trunk. She had so few possessions that this did not take long, and she stretched on her bed for an afternoon of pleasant idleness.
All her roommates were out: Agnes spending the day with her aunt, Becky walking with two or three of her beaus, and Pearl entertaining a beau of her own downstairs. On the table Agnes had left a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, and Celia was thinking she might like to read it. The day was raw and ugly, just the sort of day to get lost in a good book. But while she was thinking about it she heard tapping little footsteps in the hall and then a knock. Pulling a robe around her she opened the door.
Miss Perry was there, fluttering like a plump little bird, while from the doorway across the hall Miss Loring peered out to see what was disturbing her Sabbath rest. Miss Perry chattered in happy excitement. Celia had callers, she said. Such lovely people. Mr. and Mrs. Roy Garth.
Miss Perry was delightfully awed by people who wore fine raiment and fared sumptuously every day. She went on to say that Mr. and Mrs.
Garth were waiting in the main parlor. Some of the girls were receiving gentlemen in the little parlor, and she was sure Mr. and Mrs. Garth would not like to talk to Celia in front of all those strangers. You could see they were used to every attention, such lovely people they were.
Behind Miss Perry, Miss Loring listened with patient endurance. Miss Perry’s joyful disposition was one of the burdens heaven required Miss Loring to bear.
Celia wondered what Roy wanted to see her about. Something unpleasant, she was sure. She had an impulse to say she was sick, but she had too much curiosity. So she said, “Thank you, Miss Perry. I’ll go down as soon as I can put on a dress.”
“All right, my dear, all right!” Miss Perry trilled. She pattered off, while Miss Loring, relieved at the prospect of quiet, closed her own door.
Celia put on the dress she had worn to church this morning, a brown wool with a white kerchief. Slipping the rabbit’s foot into her pocket she went downstairs.
The main parlor, not generally used on Sunday, looked dreary as she opened the door. There was no light except the dingy gray from outside; the cabinets were dull, the fashion dolls forlorn, as though they knew this was not their day. On the sofa between two windows sat Roy Garth and with him a woman in a long dark red cloak.
Hearing the door open Roy stood up. As she caught her first glimpse of him in all these months Celia noticed as she never had before, how much he looked like Aunt Louisa. It occurred to her that Louisa would have made a singularly handsome man.
Roy was tall and dark, with regular features and a generally imperious air like a man used to having people do what he told them. He wore a long cape of black broadcloth fastened at the neck with a dull gold buckle, and swinging back to show his dark blue coat and primrose-yellow breeches. He had a black band on his sleeve. Whatever else he might be, Roy was certainly a good-looking man.
And Sophie was a pretty thing, with gray-blue eyes and a fair skin and a face of harmless innocence. Celia knew her type because so many women like her came to the shop. Not really stupid, but she had never had to do anything for herself, so though Sophie was a woman in years she was still a little girl in her mind.
