by Gwen Bristow
The coach stopped sooner than she had expected. When they got out she saw that they were on King Street, near Tradd Street where Godfrey lived. So the meeting-place had not been as far from the shop as she had thought. Evidently on their first ride the driver had taken a long zigzag route. If she had not chosen to join them, or if they had decided that she had better not be trusted with their secrets, he would have brought her back by the same long route and she could never have guessed where she had been.
The coach rattled off. The driver had let them out in a business block, where now in the evening the buildings were closed and dark. There was not much chance of anybody’s being around to observe them. They walked to the residential neighborhood of Tradd Street.
Here the windows were lighted, the gardens were fragrant, and from several of the houses came the sound of dance music. Celia remembered what Sophie had said at Sea Garden last summer, that Charleston had never been so gay. But now she did not feel the helpless disgust she had felt then. Now she knew about the secret war.
At Godfrey’s door, Darren put a key into the lock and drew her inside. Later he told her that Ida had arranged a signal for him by her manner of draping the curtain at a certain window. The two officers billeted in the house had gone out tonight to a party, and the curtain had told him they were still out. If they had returned he would have taken Celia directly back to the shop.
Godfrey and Ida were waiting in a room off the front hall. Godfrey shook her hand with warm welcome, and Ida said, “Sit down, here’s your dessert.” She uncovered a dish on which there was a fruit pudding piled with whipped cream. Celia had always thought of Ida as a colorless person, but tonight Ida was fairly twinkling with mischief. She whispered to Celia, “I’m so glad you’re with us.”
Speaking in careful undertones, they told Celia they talked about their undertaking as little as possible, even among themselves. You never knew when somebody might overhear. Ida remarked that she planned to come into the shop soon to order some kerchiefs, and she was going to ask that Celia make them because Celia had done such beautiful work for Vivian. Her eyes met Celia’s with gay conspiracy, and Celia smiled at her across a spoonful of pudding. The pudding was marvelous.
They all three walked with her to the shop, chatting about the weather. At the door Celia said, “Thank you for a lovely evening.” As she went toward her room she met Miss Perry, about to ring the nine o’clock bell. “Did you have a good time?” Miss Perry asked, and Celia smiled and said “Yes ma’am.”
In the bedroom she took a quick look at the pen and inkhorn on the side table. The pen had a good point and there were several sheets of paper in the table drawer. If she heard anything of use to Marion’s men, she had material at hand for writing a note. She could get more paper next time she went out.
When she woke in the morning the room was gray with dawn. Her eyes felt sandy from lack of sleep, for she had been so excited that she had lain awake long after she went to bed. But for the first time in months she had the delicious feeling that this was a new day full of promises and she was eager to begin it. She sat up and threw back the covers.
It was a bright sunny day and the shop was full of people. Celia smiled prettily at them all, showed them samples, went upstairs on their errands, and between times sat hemming a cap-frill, and listening. She listened till she could almost feel her ears ache. But though they talked, they said nothing. They talked about clothes, and parties, and who was flirting with whom. By noon she was ready to cry with exasperation.
A little past noon Mrs. Torrance came in, escorted by her husband and two redcoats. She said she wouldn’t be a minute, she was just going to run up and see how her dress was coming along, so the gentlemen sat down outside the balustrade to wait for her. Celia opened the gate. Mrs. Torrance went through, carefully not giving her any sign of recognition.
Mr. Torrance, a pleasant round-faced young man who looked like his sister Sophie, asked Celia if she had a copy of the Royal Gazette. She handed it to him, and the three men began lazily to discuss the day’s news. Celia resumed her sewing. One of the Britishers said the war could not last much longer. In places where American money still circulated, the American cause was rated so low that Continental bills were worth only two cents on the dollar. The others laughed, and Celia bent her head over her work, trying to look as if she did not care. The redcoat fanned himself with the newspaper, remarking that the day was getting hotter every minute.
Celia started. Her needle made a crooked stitch. For a moment she could not move to take the stitch out, for her hands were trembling and waves of excitement were rippling through her body.
Now she knew what it was she had been trying to remember, last night when she talked to Luke. She had a message for Marion’s men.
She could almost see and hear it. Those other redcoats last week, complaining about the hot weather; Mrs. Torrance saying it was not the heat that bothered them, it was their heavy uniforms; and Mrs. Kirby—“They’ve got a shipment of lightweight clothes ready for Camden right now … leaving here the first of October and that’s definite.”
This was real information. And that was exactly how Luke had told her to get it.
Celia thought fast. Today was Wednesday. The first of October would be next Sunday. She still had time to send the message. In a little while one of the other girls would come to take her place for the dinner hour, and she could go to the bedroom and write a note. This afternoon she would send it out. And somewhere on the road to Camden, Marion’s men would pop out of the swamp and attack the supply train.
Celia unthreaded her needle, took out the crooked stitch, threaded the needle again and put the stitch in straight. Her heart was bumping. She glanced up. The three men were asking one another how much longer Mrs. Torrance was going to make them wait.
The time dragged. Mrs. Torrance finally appeared, and her party left. Two elderly ladies came in and asked Celia a hundred questions about materials and prices, and then said they would not decide on anything today. At last Pearl Todd came to mind the parlor for the dinner hour. Pearl had already had her dinner, and she whispered, “It’s shrimp pie today, and it’s good!”
Celia managed to smile. She folded her sewing, put it into her workbasket, and hurried up to her bedroom. Becky was not here yet. Celia drew a chair to the table and opened the inkhorn. Tearing off a slip of paper, she wrote her message in the smallest handwriting she could manage.
“Wagons carrying clothes and shoes leaving Charleston for Camden October 1.”
She wondered if she should add her source of information, and decided no; they would understand she had heard it in the parlor, and Luke had told her to be brief. But Mrs. Kirby had known about this because of her husband. His name had better be there, so they could check the statement. She added, “Purchase arranged by Mr. Robert Kirby.”
There were footsteps on the stairs. The girls were coming up to their rooms to get ready for dinner.
The ink on her note was still wet. As fast as she could, she slipped the paper into the drawer, closed the inkhorn, and laid down the pen. She pushed back her chair and started for the washstand. Behind her the door opened and Becky’s voice said, “I thought Miss Loring would never let us go! I’m starving.”
Celia poured water into the basin and began to wash her hands. She had a blot on her finger. Scrubbing at the blot, she said, “Pearl told me we’re having shrimp pie.” The way her temples were throbbing, she was surprised that she could say anything.
She had to get her note out of the table drawer. If Becky would only go downstairs! But Becky washed her hands, took off her cap, smoothed her hair, put her cap on again, said she was going out Sunday with two perfectly charming men. Redcoats, but really it was all wrong what some people said about redcoats, they were just as nice as anybody else once you got used to the funny way they talked. Didn’t Celia think it was all right for a girl to go out with them? Celia, remembering the part she was playing now, said, “Oh yes, of course it�
��s all right.” The dinner-bell sounded. They both started for the door, but Celia bumped against a bedpost and stumbled.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I’ve torn my kerchief. I’ll have to change it. Go on down, Becky, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Becky went out. Celia changed her kerchief, hiding the old one so nobody would see that it was not torn at all. She dashed to the table. The ink on her note was dry now. She folded the paper over and over till it made a tiny wad, slipped the wad into her handkerchief, put the handkerchief into her pocket and went downstairs, reaching the dining room door just in time to stand aside and let Mrs. Thorley go in ahead of her.
The shrimp pie was good, but Celia ate so little that Miss Perry asked if she did not feel well. Celia said oh yes, she felt fine, and she hurriedly swallowed a morsel of shrimp. But her throat was tight, and she was glad when it was time to leave the table.
She went back to the parlor. As she opened the door she felt a tremor. Suppose there should be redcoats here? Some of them might be on the lookout for spies.
But the only visitors were a placid plump couple named Duff, examining samples of men’s shirting which Pearl was showing them. Dutiful and bored, Pearl was glad to have Celia take her place at the balustrade.
Mr. and Mrs. Duff were not people who had a great deal to do. Selection of material for half a dozen shirts was an interesting event in their lives. Besides the question of material, there was the decision of how the shirts should be made—with tucks down the front, or the little frills that men were wearing this year? These details were so important, they said to Celia.
Celia said tucks and frills were both fashionable, but the frills were more expensive because they took longer to make. Mr. and Mrs. Duff went into a conference. They compromised by deciding to have three shirts made with frills and three with tucks. And now, said Mrs. Duff, they would like to choose the buttons. Celia produced a box holding a variety of buttons, and set it on the counter. Her hand was shaky and she wanted to scream. For where, oh where in all this was there a chance for her to put her workbasket on the windowsill?
The basket stood on the table as she had left it before dinner, its straw top neatly in place. She had expected that when she came into the parlor she would open the basket and take out the cap-frill she was making, sit by the window and sew, and put the basket on the sill as if by chance. But she could not say, “Excuse me, while you’re looking at the buttons I’ll put my workbasket in the window.” She had to stand here, smiling and answering questions, while this very minute some messenger of Luke’s might be passing the shop, looking at the windows and going on in the belief that she had nothing to report because no basket was there.
Mrs. Baxter came in, accompanied by her sister from out of town, Mrs. Sloan. As they had an appointment Celia opened the gate in the balustrade, and when they had gone upstairs she returned to the Duffs. She told them that one of the senior seamstresses, Mrs. Woods, was in charge of making men’s shirts, and it would be better to discuss further details with her. Mr. and Mrs. Duff agreed, but they lingered awhile longer over the button-box. At last, however, they said they would like to speak to Mrs. Woods; and Celia, trembling with impatience, went to summon her. As men were not allowed upstairs where the ladies’ fitting-rooms were, Mrs. Woods led the Duffs into a side room off the parlor so Mr. Duff could take off his coat and wig, and be measured.
At last, Celia was alone. Going to the table she opened her workbasket. She took out the frill, placed her chair by the window, and set the basket on the sill.
Her heart bounced like a ball rolling down a staircase. She was as conscious of the wad of paper in her pocket as if it had been a coal of fire. Desperately, grimly, she went on sewing.
The Duffs finally finished their business and went home. More customers came and went. The sun moved westward over the Ashley River. Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan came downstairs, and lingered in front of the balustrade to look at the fashion dolls. A few minutes later the front door opened again, and Celia looked up to see Godfrey Bernard.
Hat in hand, Godfrey paused an instant and gave a quick glance around. This was long enough for Mrs. Baxter to catch sight of him, greet him effusively, present him to her sister, and ask about Ida. Courteous as always, Godfrey said he was happy to meet Mrs. Sloan, and Ida was well, thank you. They exchanged more pleasantries, but at length the ladies returned to the fashion dolls and Godfrey came to the balustrade.
Celia was sure he had come for her message, and she was scared. She had thought working for Marion would be exhilarating; she had not expected these stiff lips and shaking knees, nor the squeaky little voice in which she said, “How do you do, sir.”
When she had been Vivian’s guest she and Godfrey had called each other by their first names, but she thought this was hardly proper for the shop. Evidently he agreed, for he said, “How do you do, Miss Garth. Remember my wife said she wanted to order some kerchiefs? She asked me to make an appointment for her. Friday or Saturday, preferably before noon.”
Celia wondered if he too was quaking within. He did not look like it. Godfrey’s hair—he still had enough of his own not to need a wig—was neatly tied behind with a silk ribbon. He wore a dark blue linen coat and tan breeches, and a white lawn cravat. Godfrey looked like himself, a man who had the habit of success; he showed none of the slack discouragement she had seen when the weather ruined the meat supply last spring. No, right now Godfrey knew what he was doing and he had no doubt that he could do it well.
Behind him, Mrs. Baxter was saying the cap worn by one of the dolls was too elaborate for the dress she had on. The thought came to Celia that Godfrey’s confidence now meant that he also trusted her to do her part of the job. She said, “Certainly, Mr. Bernard. I’ll go up and speak to Miss Loring.”
“Thank you,” said Godfrey. “And Miss Garth—” he looked at her directly—“will you ask her to give me a written reminder of the time? I have a wretched memory for these things.” For the barest instant his eyes flashed to the basket on the windowsill.
“Certainly,” Celia said again. She turned and opened the door to the staircase. As she put her hand on the banister she asked herself what on earth she was scared of. She was sure Mrs. Baxter had not come to the shop to look for rebel spies.
In the sewing room, Miss Loring said Mrs. Bernard could come in Friday morning at ten. She noted the day and time in her book, and at Celia’s request she clipped a corner from a page and repeated the note for Mr. Bernard.
Celia started downstairs. Halfway down she paused. Taking her little wad of paper from her pocket she put it under Miss Loring’s note and held it there. The last of her quakes had left her; she felt strong and sure of herself. She went on down and with her free hand she opened the parlor door.
Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan were still talking about the displays in the cabinets. Godfrey stood by the balustrade. But also standing by the balustrade, his elbow on the counter and his hat beside him, was a good-looking young British lieutenant.
For an instant Celia felt paralyzed. Ideas rushed through her head. She must not show fear, she had to speak and act normally, redcoats came into the shop often and he was just another one. Godfrey was waiting; this showed that he expected her to give him her message somehow. She would attend to the redcoat first—that was it, ask what he wanted and get rid of him. Smiling pleasantly, she went to the counter and spoke to him. “May I help you, sir?”
The redcoat smiled back. “This gentleman,” he said, politely indicating Godfrey, “was here before me.”
Again Celia’s thoughts buzzed. Maybe she should give Godfrey only Miss Loring’s note, and let him come back later for hers. But how could she know that there would not be redcoats here again, next time he came in? And Luke had told her speed was vital. She must get her message out now, not later. She noticed how well tailored were the young Britisher’s red coat and white doeskin breeches, how shiny his boots, how properly powdered his hair; and she thought of what Luke had to
ld her, that many of Marion’s men were half naked. They needed those wagon-loads of clothes. She had to give Godfrey her message and if she kept her wits about her she could do it. She remembered what Vivian had said long ago: “You can do anything you have to do.”
Godfrey had acknowledged the soldier’s courtesy with a slight inclination of his head. Following this lead, Celia said, “Very well, sir.” Turning to Godfrey she held out Miss Loring’s three-cornered slip of paper, her thumb on top, her fingers hiding her own little note underneath. “Here you are, Mr. Bernard.”
Godfrey closed his hand so that her wad was hidden but Miss Loring’s note was held between his thumb and forefinger. He read as though to himself, “Friday morning at ten—good. Thank you, Miss Garth.” He dropped his hand into his pocket, and with his other hand he picked up his hat. “Good evening, Mrs. Baxter, Mrs. Sloan,” he said, and went out. Speaking as calmly as possible, Celia asked the lieutenant how she could serve him.
In his smooth British accent, he told her his name was Meadows. He had brought a note for Miss Becky Duren, about a change in their plans for Sunday, and he asked Celia if she would be kind enough to deliver it. Celia felt so happy that she gave him a smile more friendly than she had ever thought she would give a redcoat, and told him she would be glad to deliver his note. Lieutenant Meadows bowed, thanked her, and took his leave.
Mrs. Sloan called Mrs. Baxter’s attention to a pair of gloves in one of the cabinets. Celia returned to the chair by the window. She took her basket from the sill, opened it and took out her scissors, and put the basket on the table beside her. Her thoughts were singing. I did it, I did it, I sent a message to Marion!
Becky exclaimed joyfully when Celia gave her Lieutenant Meadows’ note that evening. She said she had promised to take a walk Sunday with Meadows and another officer named Captain Cole, but the note said Captain Cole had sprained his knee and could not go out. Meadows said if it was agreeable with Becky, the two of them would join a party who had engaged a carriage for Sunday. They would all go for a drive, and stop for refreshments at the new tea-shop on Cumberland Street.
