Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  Becky had not been to the new tea-shop and she was delighted at the prospect of going there Sunday with a party of elegant people. She said she was sorry about Captain Cole, but his injury was not serious. And anyway, he was billeted at the Baxters’ and they had a lovely home.

  Friday morning Ida came to choose the material for her kerchiefs. Miss Loring said it was all right for Celia to make them, and Celia felt elated. This would give Ida an excuse to come in often, and receive a message if she had one to give.

  However, by Friday night Celia had begun to feel discouraged. For though she had listened as hard as she could, she had heard nothing more that could be of use to Marion’s men. She told herself the best spy on earth could not hear what people did not say. But the fact remained, it had been more than a week since she had caught that remark of Mrs. Kirby’s, and it did seem that she should have picked up something else.

  On Saturday, though the shop was full and the parlor was chatty and gay, she had hardly any chance to listen. Everybody wanted something. Celia went upstairs so many times that by afternoon she ached all over. And finally, just as she was wearily thanking heaven that it was almost time to close, Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan dropped in. Just looking, they said. They began to admire the displays, many of which had been changed since the last time they were here.

  They stayed, and stayed, and stayed. They were still there after everybody else had gone. Celia got tireder and tireder, but the two ladies, sitting by a table with samples spread out before them, were too much interested to leave. The supervisors were supposed to notice the time, and when customers forgot to go home Miss Loring or Miss Perry would come in and tell them the shop was closing, but Celia could not do this herself. She had to wait.

  So she waited, and the end was worth it.

  Too tired to sew, she sat with her hands in her lap, thinking about how her legs ached from all that stair-climbing. Mrs. Sloan said this gray-and-yellow striped silk was beautiful, but she simply could not wear any shade of yellow. This plain gray, though, it would be lovely combined with this dark green. She asked if Mrs. Baxter remembered the dark green dress Emily Torrance had worn to church last Sunday. Mrs. Sloan said she had noticed it particularly when Mr. and Mrs. Torrance were standing outside the church after services, chatting with Captain Cole. It was too bad, said Mrs. Sloan, about Captain Cole’s accident.

  “I don’t think,” said Mrs. Baxter, “that he minds it too much.” She sounded amused.

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Sloan.

  Mrs. Baxter laughed softly. “He had been ordered out of town on outpost duty, and you know how they all dread that. Now he can’t go, at least not for a while.”

  Mrs. Sloan laughed too. “How do you know? Did he tell you?”

  “Not exactly—I mean—” Mrs. Baxter gave a half-embarrassed giggle. “Oh, I can say it to you, you’ll understand. Lieutenant Meadows came by this morning to see him, and while they were both in Captain Cole’s room I happened to pass and I noticed that the door was open. Of course I don’t make a habit of listening at doors, but I do like to hear if Captain Cole has any complaints. If your billets like you they can do you so many favors. It doesn’t hurt to hear what they say.”

  “Of course, I understand,” said Mrs. Sloan. “He wasn’t complaining, was he?”

  “Oh no, they were laughing and talking, and Captain Cole was saying that now he couldn’t go up to Lenud’s Ferry next week. It seems he was to lead a troop there to guard the crossing. But they’re to leave Tuesday, and he won’t even be able to stand up by then. Another officer will have to take his place. And I must say I was glad to hear what Captain Cole said about it—he said duty was duty, but he was so comfortable with us, he wasn’t sorry to stay longer. I didn’t know he’d been ordered out. I suppose they aren’t allowed to talk about their orders.”

  In her dim corner, Celia sat with every nerve strained lest she miss a word. Lenud’s Ferry was on the Santee River about twenty miles from Sea Garden, close to the church of St. James Santee. It was an important crossing, which would be used for men and supplies going from Charleston into the country back of Georgetown. And a troop was leaving for Lenud’s Ferry next Tuesday.

  The ladies had gone back to their discussion of the samples. Mrs. Sloan was saying, “It’s a beautiful shade in this light, but I’m not sure how it would be in bright sunshine.”

  The door from the staircase opened and Miss Perry came bouncing in. She told the ladies she was oh so sorry to disturb them, but really the shop had to close. The ladies were oh so welcome here, their patronage was an honor, but Mrs. Thorley made the rules and she was quite strict and wouldn’t they come back Monday?

  Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan said they had had no idea how late it was, and they did not know what became of the time. At last they left, and Miss Perry bounced out again, and Celia began to lock up. Tired as she was, she heard herself humming a tune. She had no way to get a message out tonight, but she could do it tomorrow.

  Pushing back the curtains of a front window she looked out at Lamboll Street. The sun was going down, and the street was striped with shadows and sunlight. Not far off she saw the little hairdresser Hugo, carrying his bag of pomades and curling-tongs. It was the first time she had seen Hugo since the day he had taken the bullet from Jimmy’s leg, and the sight of him sent a painful memory shooting through her. As he came nearer she watched him, her eyes held to him by the memory. Hugo looked very spruce with his cocked hat atop his curly white wig, his fine purple coat, and the last rays of the sun flashing on the buckles of his shoes. As he passed he caught sight of her in the window, and doffed his hat in an elegant gesture of greeting. Apparently the day she remembered with such pain had been for him only another day. Celia managed a stiff little smile in return, and Hugo pranced along. He walked into another ray of sunlight, and Celia caught her breath.

  Her hands on the sill, she leaned farther out, her eyes following Hugo. No doubt about it. Hugo had on fancy lacework stockings just like those that Luke had been wearing the first time she saw him.

  Celia drew back from the window. It had been here in this very room that she had noticed those stockings of Luke’s. She remembered herself asking, “Mr. Ansell, who made your stockings?” She remembered how startled he had been, and how he had recovered his poise so quickly that she almost thought she had imagined it.

  But she had not imagined it. Engaged in dangerous business on the wagon track, Luke had had many secrets to keep from the king’s spies in Charleston. Those stockings had been a signal, like the basket on the windowsill. And they still were. Hugo, doing ladies’ hair, heard the talk of the town. Like herself, he was in a perfect situation to hear what Marion wanted to know.

  “He’s one of us,” Celia said to herself. As she closed the window she said it again. “He’s one of us.”

  One of us. Where had she heard that phrase before?

  In the letter written to her by Mrs. Rand, about her own engagement to Jimmy. Celia remembered how warm and friendly the words had made her feel.

  But she had lost all that. In these past months she had felt so unwanted and alone. Now she did not feel that way. She had heard the same phrase again somewhere, not long ago. After a moment she remembered.

  Luke. The other evening, when he told her good night in the curtained room, he had said, “So now you’re one of us.” She was not alone any more.

  CHAPTER 25

  AS THE NEXT DAY was Sunday and Celia had no excuse to put her workbasket in the window, after breakfast she walked over to Godfrey’s. She did not need to ask permission, for on Sundays the girls were allowed to do about as they pleased, so long as they did nothing improper for the Sabbath quiet. It was still so early that there were not many people out. One or two redcoats spoke to her, but she hurried on and they bothered her no more.

  As she reached Tradd Street she heard a peal from the bells of St. Michael’s. She walked on to Godfrey’s house, and from the doorstep she looked across the roofs to t
he steeple, black on the sky. “Lighten our darkness,” she whispered as she knocked on the door.

  The maid showed her into the reception room, and summoned Godfrey. He was surprised to see her. “Don’t tell me why you’ve come,” he said in a barely audible voice, and added clearly, “Glad you dropped in. I’ll take you up to see Ida, lazy girl’s not dressed yet.” He led her upstairs to Ida’s sitting room, which opened from their bedroom. Looking pretty and frail in a boudoir robe of misty blue, Ida was finishing her breakfast egg.

  In her low voice Ida explained to Celia that in these two rooms she and Godfrey could be sure of privacy—something not easy to achieve with two redcoats billeted in the house. Major Brace and Captain Woodley were courteous guests, but they were loyal to the king and it would not do to have them suspect what their host and hostess were up to.

  Glancing from Ida to Godfrey, and keeping her own voice as low as possible, Celia asked, “Shall I tell you why I’ve come?”

  They shook their heads. Godfrey cupped his hands around his mouth, bent close to her ear, and said, “I’ll send you to Luke.”

  Celia smiled involuntarily. Before she thought what she was saying she asked, “Where is he?”

  Ida looked at Godfrey. He nodded. Whispering into Celia’s ear as he had done, Ida said, “Mr. Westcott’s tea-shop on Cumberland Street.”

  Celia started. The new tea-shop—a fine place to hear the talk of redcoats, but for Luke, how terribly dangerous. Yet where in town would it not be dangerous for one of Marion’s men? Godfrey had drawn a chair close to hers and was telling her something else.

  “I’ll send for Darren and he’ll go with you. When a girl goes walking with a bachelor nobody pays any attention. But I’m a married man and somebody always notices that. Besides, we go to church on Sunday mornings.”

  “I think it’s sacrilegious,” Celia said shortly, “for us to go to a church where they pray for the king.”

  “So do I,” said Godfrey, “but we’re pretending to be Tories now, and we figure the Lord will understand.” He went out, saying he would send a servant to bring Darren from the inn where he lived. Ida said to Celia that while they waited she would send for a pot of tea.

  “Tea?” Celia repeated. “I—I don’t like tea any more, Ida.”

  Ida smiled wisely. “If you’re one of us,” she said in her sweet soft voice, “you’ll like tea.”

  Celia burst out laughing. The maid brought the tea, and they sipped like any other Tories until Darren arrived. He and Celia strolled uptown, Darren’s cane tapping on the sidewalk.

  The tea-shop occupied a building near the powder magazine from which Darren and Miles had helped move the gunpowder that night during the siege. Next door to the shop was a warehouse, and between them an alley—Celia could see now how she had been brought here in the dark. The place was well chosen.

  This time, in the bright light of mid-morning, they paid no attention to the alley. They went up the front steps and into the shop by the main door. The air was rich with the smell of baking.

  They were in an entrance hall, which had a door at each side and another door at the back. Through the side doors Celia saw a large room on either side. In one of these rooms, Darren told her, Mr. and Mrs. Westcott served gentlemen only; in the other, gentlemen accompanied by ladies. In the first room several men were having late Sunday breakfasts of buns and tea. But since it was mostly single men who took breakfast out, there were no customers in the other room.

  A boy about twelve years old came into the hall carrying a plate of butter. Darren spoke to him. “Morning, Ricky. Tell your mother I’ve brought a young lady to try her nut-bread.”

  Ricky grinned alertly. “Yes sir,” he said. He carried the butter into the bachelors’ room, and Darren led Celia into the room where ladies were served. A pleasant room it was, with fresh cloths on the tables, and at one end a counter, draped with a white net to keep off flies, where Celia saw and smelt a fascinating array of tarts and buns and fancy breads. Beyond this counter, leading toward the back rooms, was another door.

  This door opened and a woman came in, a nice little woman with a dumpy figure, wearing a blue dress with a white cap and kerchief—plainly the woman who had carried the lantern the other night. Darren introduced her as Mrs. Westcott.

  Mrs. Westcott spoke cordially. “I’ve got a fresh batch of nut-bread that ought to be coming out of the oven about now. Want to see it?” She stood aside for them to go through the doorway toward the back.

  Darren glanced around to make sure nobody was observing them. Quickly he led Celia through this doorway. Mrs. Westcott did not follow. She closed the door behind them, and Darren led Celia along a dim hallway to another door, which he unlocked with a key from his pocket. Ahead of them a staircase led down to the cellar. Darren murmured, “I’ll go first, I know the way.”

  The staircase was dark and steep. With one hand Celia gathered her skirt around her, keeping the other hand on the rail. Reaching the foot of the stairs they crossed the brick floor of the cellar to another door, barely visible by the glimmer from a sidewalk grating. Darren opened this door, beyond which she saw a homespun curtain, and they went into the same muffled room where she had seen Luke before.

  Though the sun outside was bright, the curtains covering the sidewalk gratings made this room nearly dark. Drawing a bench out from the table Darren said, “Sit down. She’ll send Luke.” He rested his cane across the table and began to rub his knee.

  Celia sat down. A strange business this, but how proud she was to be part of it. Today was the first of October. She thought of Marion’s men, creeping silently through the silver-green light of the swamps this very day, to attack the wagons carrying clothes to Camden. They knew where to lie in wait because she had sent word when the redcoats would leave Charleston and where they were going.

  Luke came in, carrying a candle. With what looked like a single movement he strode across the room and set the candle on the table and grabbed both Celia’s hands in his.

  “The gallant dressmaker!” he greeted her. “More news?”

  Luke’s vitality had a grandness about it, like a forest wind. Celia said, “Yes, I heard something in the shop yesterday.”

  Luke sat on the edge of the table and swung his legs. “Tell us.”

  Celia recounted what she had heard Mrs. Baxter say about Captain Cole and the troop for Lenud’s Ferry. Luke listened intently.

  “Good,” he said. “Good.” He leaned nearer, his elbow on his knee. “Now tell us again.”

  Celia repeated her story. Luke asked several questions. At length he turned to Darren.

  “Got it, Darren?”

  “Yes.”

  “Start it out now.”

  “Right.” Darren picked up his cane and left them. From his perch on the table Luke grinned down at Celia.

  “You’re doing a good job, Sassyface.”

  “Oh, and I’m so happy doing it!” she exclaimed. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt that I was doing something really important.”

  Luke smiled gravely. “It is important, Celia.”

  Their eyes met. More than Darren, more than Godfrey or anybody else, Luke made her understand that their task had greatness; they were not merely getting rid of the redcoats, they were making a nation. Celia said eagerly, “Luke, when Marion’s men act on a message I’ve sent—how do I know?”

  Luke shook his head. “Sassyface,” he said quietly, “you don’t know.”

  “What! You mean I’ll just have to—to hope that I’m doing some good?”

  “That’s it. You won’t know if they get your message at all. Some letters don’t get through, some arrive too late. Even if you should hear definitely that a troop on its way to Lenud’s Ferry has been attacked, you won’t know if it was because of you. Six other people may have heard the same thing and sent it out.”

  Celia tried not to show her chagrin. “Well, if that’s the way it is, I’ll have to get used to it.” She smiled up at him and sh
rugged. “Not knowing—I suppose that’s the hardest part of this job.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Luke. He spoke grimly. “Harder than that, is knowing—knowing, and not being able to do anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes we get a message like yours. We come close to the track they’ll have to take. We send scouts ahead. They climb trees and look. They bring back the word. We’re outnumbered six to one. And the redcoats are all armed, and a lot of our men are not. We don’t dare attack. We have to sit, and let them go by. Wagons loaded with barrels of gunpowder, barrels of beef, crates of guns and shoes, letters telling about their plans.”

  “I should think,” said Celia, “when that happens—you could practically hear your heart breaking.”

  “It does seem like that.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” she said thoughtfully. “Still, it is sort of disappointing, not to know if I’m doing any good.”

  Luke put his big hand on her shoulder. “What you do know, Celia,” he said, “is that it’s folks like us, all together, who are keeping Cornwallis and Clinton apart. So long as the job gets done, it doesn’t matter who does it. Right?”

  Celia nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Now can I ask you something else?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Westcotts. What they’re doing—isn’t it very dangerous?”

  “Sure it is,” said Luke. “But they’ve got three sons in the swamp with Marion.”

  “What sort of place is this?” she asked.

  Luke chuckled merrily. “This is a profitable tea-shop, my girl. Mrs. Westcott makes the best pastries in town, Mr. Westcott is a shrewd manager, and they’re doing fine. They used to run a shop like this in Georgetown. When I was on the wagon track two of their boys were in my outfit. You must try Mrs. Westcott’s nut-bread, Celia, it’s great.”

  “Nut-bread,” said Celia, remembering the grin of Ricky Westcott. “That word is a signal, isn’t it?”