by Gwen Bristow
“Yes, of course,” Celia promised. “I’ll get word to you.” She envied Marietta, who still had somebody to live for.
Eugene sent a note to Mr. Kirby, who wrote back that their schooner would stop for Miss Garth on the way to town. When they came to Sea Garden they made only a brief pause, and Mr. Kirby avoided mention of politics. Mrs. Kirby, pretty as ever with her green eyes and red hair, chattered about her clothes and her children. She now had two children, her little boy George, named for the king, and her new baby Freddie. She explained that Freddie also was named for the king, as “George William Frederick” was the full name of George the Third.
Herbert told Celia good-by with grave pleasantness, and gave her a volume of Shakespeare’s comedies to amuse her leisure. Vivian said, “I’ve handed Mr. Kirby a note for Burton. You can stay with Burton and Elise until you’re established at Mrs. Thorley’s. Good-by, dear.”
On the boat, Celia spent her time helping Mrs. Kirby’s maids wait on her. Mrs. Kirby was not a deliberate snob; it merely would not have occurred to her that a working girl had any mission in life but to wait on her betters. At the Charleston wharf two redcoats came on board and asked Mr. Kirby to identify himself.
Mr. Kirby showed them a document signed by the British commandant of the district where his plantation was located. This certified that Mr. and Mrs. Kirby were loyal subjects who during the late insurrection had given aid and comfort to his majesty’s troops and who had permission to return to their town house. One of the redcoats scribbled a paper allowing them to land.
The harbor was busy with British ships. Ahead of her Celia saw Charleston, glowing like an opal in the evening sun. It would have been beautiful except for the black steeple of St. Michael’s with the white scar where the shell had struck.
They went in a hired coach to the Kirbys’ home on Broad Street. Before dark Burton called for Celia, and they walked to Vivian’s house on Meeting Street. He told her his own house had been damaged by the firing, and so far—ahem, he cleared his throat—he had not been able to manage the repairs. She noticed that Burton still wore clothes too tight for him. Evidently he was not as prosperous as he used to be.
It seemed to Celia that they passed dozens of British flags and hundreds of men in red coats. I’ll have to get used to it, she told herself. At the corner of Broad and Meeting Streets they passed the statue of William Pitt, with his left arm gone and the broken place at his shoulder like an open wound.
Elise told her it was so nice to see her again and she did hope Celia wouldn’t mind sleeping in a little room on the third floor. It was all they had empty. The boys were with them, and also two officers were billeted here. British, yes, but really quite nice. The officers had gone to a party this evening. Really it was lucky that they were staying here, because Burton had not taken the oath of allegiance to the king, Godfrey had but not Burton, and sometimes things were made quite unpleasant for men who had not taken the oath. But with two officers in the house things were so much simpler. The maid would show Celia to her room and would she please hurry down again because supper was nearly ready.
Celia was washing up when suddenly she stopped, the cake of soap between her hands. Elise had said Godfrey had taken an oath of allegiance to the king. Celia thought of Godfrey’s patriotism during the siege. But now he had given in. And from the way Elise spoke, probably a lot of other patriots had too. I’ll have to get used to it, Celia told herself again.
The next morning she wrote to Mrs. Thorley, saying that her fiancé had been killed in the war and she would like to come back to work. A servant of Burton’s took the note to the shop and brought back a reply. Mrs. Thorley said she was distressed by the news, but would be glad to have Celia’s services again. She asked Celia to call this afternoon. Godfrey and Ida had come in to see her, and Godfrey said he would tell Darren to come over and walk with her to the shop.
Not long after dinner a maid came to tell Celia that Darren was in the reception room. She hurried down. Darren was well dressed and looked as merry as ever, but as he crossed the room to meet her she noticed that he limped and carried a cane. When she asked why, he said he was still having a little trouble from the leg-wound he had received during the siege.
“Oh!” she said, surprised, for she had not noticed Darren limping when she saw him at Sea Garden. “You mean the night you moved the—”
“Shh!” Darren said quickly. He beckoned her nearer, and gave her a smile of conspiracy as he whispered, “It’s still there. Walled up. No sense in telling them.”
Celia smiled back. It was a pleasure to know there were ten thousand pounds of gunpowder in the Exchange, which the king’s soldiers would like to use to shoot rebels but which they had not found. It was even more of a pleasure to observe that Darren was still loyal to the patriot side. But her bright thoughts were darkened at once, for Darren said briskly,
“First we’ll go to the office on Queen Street so you can swear in as a British subject.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Me?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
Celia shook her head.
Darren made her sit down by him on the sofa. He told her that if you did not declare yourself a good subject of King George you could not hold a job or engage in business. He pushed aside the curtain so she could see carpenters repairing a house damaged during the siege. Those men might have principles, said Darren, but they had taken the king’s oath because without a paper in your pocket saying you had done this, you could not earn a living.
“Have you done it?” she asked shortly.
“Oh yes. Everybody has, except a few men so rich they don’t need to work.”
“Like Burton,” Celia said with astonished respect. So this was why he had not repaired his suburban home and had not bought new clothes. He was holding out.
“Yes,” said Darren, but he added seriously, “I’m afraid even men like him are going to have to give in. Colonel Balfour—the city commandant—arrested about forty rich men the other day and shipped them to the British fort at St. Augustine, because they hadn’t taken the oath. Since then every man who hasn’t taken it is afraid of being exiled, and a lot of them have been swearing in so they can stay with their families.”
There was a silence. Celia wondered if he was trying to justify Godfrey. She thought Godfrey was rich enough to live without working, but she could not imagine his doing so. Activity was his life.
She was amazed at Darren’s attitude. He had slipped out of town in a farm cart so he could fight for his country, and now he talked about taking the king’s oath as though it was like signing a receipt for goods. Maybe he did have to take the oath, because he had his living to earn, but he might have shown some anger at the British for making him do it.
Then she asked herself, Why am I finding fault with Darren? He says I’ve got to take the oath too. I suppose if I had a really noble character I’d proudly refuse. Yes, and then what? I can’t ask Burton to support me, he’s got all he can do taking care of his family. And Godfrey, he’d tell me to go ahead and take the oath same as he did. So what could I do? Beg my bread from door to door and sleep in an alley and get arrested for vagrancy? Well, I’m not that noble. I’ll swear in. They’ve killed Jimmy and wrecked Bellwood and ruined my life and now they’re making me kneel down and kiss their boots. Oh, I hate them for making me do it and I hate myself for doing it.
Darren had limped to the door and was waiting for her. Celia stood up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
A building on. Queen Street had been partitioned into small offices for the king’s troops. Darren showed Celia into a room where two bored-looking redcoats lounged at desks. Darren spoke to one of them, showed his own paper, and said that Miss Garth wanted to take the king’s protection and resume her former employment.
The redcoat yawned, asked her name and age and wrote them in a ledger, yawned again, asked where she wanted to work, and wrote that too. Then he said, “Raise your right han
d do you solemnly swear bumble bumble bumble bumblebumblebumble.” Celia put her left hand into her pocket and crossed her fingers, held up her right hand and answered “Yes.” The redcoat took a printed form out of a drawer, filled in the information she had given him, put on an official stamp, and handed her the paper. As she took it he rubbed his eyes sleepily and asked the other redcoat what time it was. Celia and Darren started for Mrs. Thorley’s shop.
Celia was shocked at the look of the town. The streets had been cleared, but at the corners were piles of bricks and broken glass and other trash, not even yet carried away though the siege was four months past. Some stores were open and doing good business, but others still had boards nailed across the doors and windows. Repairs on damaged buildings were makeshift: window-panes had been replaced by oiled paper or sheets of tin, chimneys mended with pieces of brick stuck unevenly together, woodwork painted badly or not at all. The whole place looked tired and sick. Just the way I feel, she thought.
It was late afternoon, the fashionable hour for shopping and driving, and the streets were full of people. Here and there Celia saw redcoated soldiers on guard. Others, off duty, idled along the sidewalk or leaned on the walls, watching the people go past. They eyed her with such meaningful glances that she understood why Godfrey had sent Darren to be her escort. She saw officers accompanied by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. Several of these she recognized as customers of the shop, and she thought, Now I’ll be making their clothes and I’m no better patriot than they are.
At the shop she went to the side door, trying not to remember the gray Sunday afternoon when she and Jimmy had come to this door together and he had kissed her in the little hallway. Darren said he would leave her now.
He limped down the steps and away. Celia looked after him. It was really odd about that limp. She was sure he had not had it when she saw him at Sea Garden.
In Mrs. Thorley’s office you would not have thought anything had happened. Mrs. Thorley sat at her desk, large, calm, starched. The room was in perfect order. The windows even had all their panes. Either this building had been mighty fortunate or Mrs. Thorley had managed to get some glass from somewhere; knowing Mrs. Thorley, Celia rather imagined it was the latter.
Mrs. Thorley greeted her as if Celia were reporting for duty after a holiday. “Come in, Miss Garth. I hope you are well?”
“Yes, Mrs. Thorley, thank you.”
Celia stood respectfully before the desk. It had seemed the same. But it was not the same. Mrs. Thorley was saying, “I trust you have taken the king’s protection, Miss Garth?”
Celia felt a twitch of shame as she answered, “Yes, Mrs. Thorley.”
“May I see your paper, please?”
Celia handed it over.
“This seems in order,” Mrs. Thorley said crisply, and returned it. She folded her large hands on the desk. “Take a chair, Miss Garth.”
Celia sat down. She crossed her ankles and laced her ringers on her lap. It was like that other afternoon a year ago when Mrs. Thorley had summoned her to say she had received a letter from Mrs. Lacy.
But again, it was different.
This time the difference was in Mrs. Thorley herself. She had not spoken twenty words when Celia realized that Mrs. Thorley no longer looked upon her as a beginner fit only for buttons and bastings, but as a dressmaker who knew her trade. Mrs. Thorley was actually asking her what sort of work she would like to do. She said there was now a plentiful supply of good materials, and they had more orders than they could fill—orders for dresses, and fancy caps and kerchiefs, and the delicate little gauze aprons so fashionable just now, and gentlemen’s fine shirts and sleeve-ruffles—
And as Mrs. Thorley talked, offering her the sort of work she had yearned for, Celia felt nothing at all.
She remembered with wonder, almost with disbelief, how she used to enjoy working in the shop. She remembered how she had sent up prayers that Mrs. Thorley would keep her here, how she had schemed to prove that she was worth keeping. How she had dreamed of the day when they would give her the fine sewing she could do so well. And now she did not care. Embroidery or bastings, it did not matter. She remembered a proverb. “When you get what you want, you don’t want it.”
Mrs. Thorley was still talking.
However, she said, last year Miss Garth had been very good at minding the parlor. Not every young lady could receive the visitors with just the right manner, gracious and yet distant. And at present, circumstances were perhaps more difficult than usual. Of course, in the parlor, with its frequent interruptions, Miss Garth would not be able to do the sort of work that required close attention. Mrs. Thorley asked Celia which she preferred.
Celia did not hesitate. In the parlor something was happening all day long. She would have no time to sit and remember. She chose the parlor.
Mrs. Thorley nodded gravely. She said Celia’s trunk had been brought over by a servant of Mr. Dale’s, and had been put into her old room. Miss Todd and Miss Duren were there, and Miss Kennedy was expected back. Mrs. Thorley made a note in a ledger. “Then this is all, Miss Garth.”
Celia stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorley.” She curtsied and went to the door. As she reached her hand toward the doorknob Mrs. Thorley said, “Miss Garth.”
Celia turned toward her again. “Yes ma’am?”
Mrs. Thorley’s face was large and calm like the rest of her. She said, “You have my sympathy, Miss Garth.”
“Thank you ma’am,” said Celia. She supposed people felt they had to say something, yet she wished they would not; every word of commiseration was like a finger touching the wound. Mrs. Thorley’s deep voice was speaking again.
“It is hard to lose the person one loves.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Celia. She thought, Oh hush! You’ll make me cry and I don’t want to cry any more.
Mrs. Thorley said, “I remember well.” Her voice had softened strangely. “So many years, and sometimes it still seems like yesterday.”
Celia’s eyes had stretched wide, but there were no tears in them; she was gazing at Mrs. Thorley in astonishment. The woman meant what she said. Mrs. Thorley had been kissed often, and with love.
Mrs. Thorley said, “I wish I could make it easier for you, Miss Garth. But I cannot. I can only say again, you have my sympathy.”
In a low voice Celia answered, “Thank you, Mrs. Thorley.” Somehow she knew those words had been hard for Mrs. Thorley to speak. Mrs. Thorley never showed any weakness. She could not afford to. For the first time it occurred to Celia that maybe Mrs. Thorley was not naturally made like a man-of-war, she had had to make herself that way. Celia spoke again. She said, “You have my sympathy too, Mrs. Thorley. I think you’re mighty brave.”
Mrs. Thorley ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. Her hands moved a trifle. It struck Celia that Mrs. Thorley was embarrassed and did not like the feeling. Celia thought she had better get out of here. She curtsied again, and Mrs. Thorley gave her a nod of dismissal.
Celia went out, closing the door softly. She felt certain that they were not going to talk about this subject again.
After this, she half expected Miss Loring to make some confidence, and maybe Miss Perry too. But they did not. They spoke brief words of sympathy and no more, and Celia never found out if either of them had ever had a lover. She reflected that they probably felt it was none of her business, and they were right.
And so in those bright blue days of September, 1780, Celia went back to her job of minding the parlor.
It was not quite the same job nor the same parlor. Charleston was a town held by troops. They were a conquering army, they were a long way from home, and many of them considered that they were privileged to do exactly as they pleased. Mrs. Thorley had changed the parlor accordingly.
Across the room from wall to wall there was now a balustrade nearly as high as Celia’s chest, standing between the front door and the doors that led into the rest of the building. In front of the balustrade—so as not to dismay her legiti
mate customers—Mrs. Thorley had placed attractive furniture: comfortable chairs, a table with a bowl of flowers, the cabinets with their tempting displays. But the balustrade itself was broad and sturdy, and to get past it you had to go through a gate that could be opened only from inside. Across this barrier, Celia greeted all visitors with a smile. But within call was always Miss Loring or one of the older seamstresses, who could provide, when necessary, an atmosphere of ice and vinegar.
Celia never went to the front side of the gate during business hours. If someone wanted a closer look at a sample in one of the cabinets, she took a duplicate from a case on her side of the rail and handed it across. This custom had been in effect since a day when a couple of smart-alecky British lieutenants had asked Miss Loring to show them samples of linen shirting. Miss Loring went around to open the cabinet indicated, and when she bent over the lock one of the smarties thought it a fine joke to pinch her skinny bottom.
But there was not much of this sort of thing. Most of the redcoats who came in were escorts of Tory ladies, and behaved well enough. They sat in front of the balustrade swapping stories, or they mopped their foreheads and complained about the weather, or asked Celia for the Gazette to pass the time. The newspaper these days was edited by a Tory, and he had changed its name to The Royal South Carolina Gazette. He printed official announcements, news of parties attended by British officers, and reports of great British victories in parts of the country where the king’s men were still fighting the troops of “Mr.” Washington.
In the shop itself, life had not changed much. Mrs. Thorley still served milk. She still forbade discussion of the war. Several of the girls had not returned since the siege and new ones had replaced them, but this could have happened any time. The longer Agnes Kennedy stayed away the better Celia liked it. She was in no mood to put up with Agnes Kennedy’s sweet disposition, not now when she herself felt nothing but a black helpless hate.
She hated Charleston and everybody in it.
The city commandant, Lieutenant-Colonel Nisbet Balfour, was a fattish offensive man with a nasty reputation. People said of him that he had won his laurels while the British occupied Philadelphia. At that time Balfour had served as procurer of women for his commander, Sir William Howe, as well as for other leaders of the king’s troops. He did this duty so well that they promised him he would not be forgotten when the plums were passed around. So now Balfour was lord of Charleston.
