Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  As they went back inside, Vivian said these boathouses were exactly alike even to a panel in the wall of each one like the panel that had moved to let them in, but in the other houses this panel was merely a fixed part of the wall. And the other houses had stout brick corners like this, but only in this one could a certain brick be turned—she showed Celia which brick it was—to reveal the levers that moved the panel.

  So this was how Luke came and went. “It’s wonderful!” Celia said with awe.

  “It’s mighty convenient,” Vivian agreed. With a smile she added, “And now that I’m telling you all our secrets, here’s one more. In all the boathouses there are wall compartments for tools. In one of them—we’ll walk over there one day and I’ll show you which one—we use a certain compartment as a letter box. We put messages there for Marion’s men, and they leave notes for us. Now if you’ve had enough fresh air, we’ll start back.”

  They walked through the passage again. On the way, Vivian told Celia that the windows of her bedroom had been set high, so that if by chance the curtains had not quite been drawn together when the panel was open or the screws were being oiled, nobody outside could look in and see that there was anything unusual about the room. As they came near the steps leading up to the bedroom, Vivian pointed toward a side passage, dimly visible here by the glimmer from the wall-gratings.

  “That leads to the ballroom,” she said. “I had it built because the ballroom is used only on special occasions, so it’s ideal for a secret door.”

  “Can we go out that way?” Celia asked eagerly. She wanted to see everything.

  “Why yes,” said Vivian, and they turned into the side passage, where they felt their way along the wall and up another series of steps. At the top Vivian said, “Maybe you can’t see it, but I know it all by heart—here’s the recess with the levers. Put your hand on this one—that’s it—turn the lever to the right, and we’ll go through into the ballroom.”

  Celia felt a thrill. This was the opening where she had seen Francis Marion and his servant leave the house. She put her hand on the lever. Vivian stepped behind her to make room, and Celia gave the lever a turn.

  Silently, the panel moved. Ahead of them was light—dim, for the ballroom curtains were closely drawn. Turning her head, Celia gave Vivian a questioning look. Vivian smiled and gestured for her to go in first. Celia stepped through the opening into the ballroom, and stopped short.

  She was standing at one side of the fireplace. Opposite her, between two of the long windows, was a sofa. On the sofa, serene as a baby, Luke was lying asleep.

  This was her wedding day. Luke told her he had slipped into the house about three o’clock this morning. He had ridden day and night to get here, for he could stay such a little time. When he came into the ballroom he was so sleepy that he had tumbled down on the sofa, and this was all he remembered.

  They were married that afternoon in the parlor. Mr. Warren read the ceremony, and the witnesses were Herbert and Vivian, and the house-folk. The sunset streamed through the parlor and fell on them like a blessing as Luke put on Celia’s finger the ring his father had given Vivian when they were married.

  It was so quiet, so simple, so beautiful, that they could almost forget how closely the house was locked and barred, so Luke could escape by the secret passage in case some Tory informer had found out he was here and had told the king’s troops.

  But nothing happened to disturb them. After the ceremony they all gathered for a wedding supper, and Herbert poured wine he had been saving for some grand occasion. After supper, Herbert and Vivian and Mr. Warren moved into one of the guest-houses, and left the big house for Luke and Celia.

  In ordinary times Luke and Celia would have been given one of the guest-houses for their honeymoon. These were charming little hideaways, designed with Vivian’s distinctive skill. But the times were not ordinary. Day and night, Luke had to be near the secret passage.

  He had three days to spend here. It seemed to Celia that the time went by like a flash, though when it was over she could remember so much that it did not seem possible for them to have crowded all this into so short a space. They had said so much, had loved so much, had given each other so much joy.

  In the daytime they walked outdoors under the ancient moss-hung trees. The nights they spent in their odd little room with the secret door. As she lay with Luke’s arms around her, Celia said to herself and to him, over and over, with a happiness so great that she could hardly believe it, “I am not alone any more. I am never going to be alone again.”

  At night Luke kept his weapons on the bedside table. All day he wore his pistol, and when they went outdoors they stayed in sight of the house. It was the last week of February. The jonquils and violets had begun to bloom; in the fields the Negroes were cutting mustard greens, and the mustard plants were brilliant with golden flowers. Luke and Celia talked and talked, and Celia was astonished at how much she had to say, now that she had a listener who understood her so well.

  She told Luke she had found out something. It used to be that she had clung to the future as so many old people clung to the past. Now she had learned that one was as foolish as the other. She had made up her mind to live in the present. She was interested in the future, of course, but she was not going to lean on it. She was going to count her happiness in terms of here and now.

  “Does that make sense?” she asked him.

  “Of course it does,” said Luke. “The here and now—that’s all we’ve got.” They sat on a bench under one of the great oaks. He looked at the beauty around him, and back at her. “And as far as I’m concerned,” he said, “it’s plenty.”

  But there was something about the future that he wanted to tell her. It had been arranged long ago that he was to have Sea Garden. Vivian’s other children had been amply provided for by their fathers. But Luke’s father, though a prosperous rice broker, had not owned land.

  Luke had been born at Sea Garden and he loved every stick on the place. The Lacy raised only what they used, but the plan had been that he should turn Sea Garden into a working plantation. The war had interrupted him, but this was still what he meant to do.

  “And this will be my home,” Celia said in a half-whisper, “as long as I live. Oh Luke, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There was so much else to tell you!” he answered. “Fact is, I hadn’t thought of it until you said you didn’t know what I had done before the war or what I meant to do afterwards.”

  But all this lay ahead. For the present, Luke said he did not know when he could be with her again. But he would be able to send her an occasional note, placed by some other scout of Marion’s in the boathouse compartment Vivian had told her about.

  He said General Greene, with the main body of his troops, was now in North Carolina. Cornwallis was there too. Cornwallis had been in North Carolina before, Luke reminded her with a chuckle, but had had to come back southward when he heard of the defeat at Kings Mountain. Now he and Greene would probably meet any day for another battle. “And in the meantime,” said Luke, “have we been busy in the Lowcountry!”

  He grinned proudly as he talked.

  “There are more of us now, so we don’t just attack the supply roads. The whole Santee country is overrun with Tory bands who live by plunder. Marion’s scouts bring him word of where the Tories are, and we ride. Many a time we’ve caught them in the middle of a raid. How many homes Marion has saved from looting, how many women he has saved from being raped, nobody knows.” Luke smiled as he added, “Nobody knows either how many grateful parents have named their little boys ‘Francis Marion.’ Must be hundreds. Those people on the Santee nearly worship him.”

  Celia felt the same way. It was because of Marion that none of those Tory bands had been able to come as far as Sea Garden. It was Marion who had made it possible for her and Luke to be married. She thought it likely that one of these days she too would have a little boy named Francis Marion.

  Luke told her good-by in the blac
k hours between midnight and dawn. They stood by the open panel in the bedroom, Luke’s arms around her. He said, “I love you and I’ll think of you every minute. And don’t worry about me.”

  “I won’t,” Celia promised. “I’m not going to be licked by anything that hasn’t happened.”

  Luke kissed her again. “You’ve got gumption, my darling.”

  Then he was gone. The panel slid into place behind him.

  Celia sat down on the bed. She took Luke’s pillow between her fists and put her face down into it and let go the sobs she had kept back while he was here. But even in this minute she did not feel utterly desolate. She had Luke. He loved her and belonged to her. And maybe she was going to have somebody else. A little girl with eyes like Luke’s, or a little boy to be named Francis Marion.

  CHAPTER 30

  SHE FOUND THAT SHE was not going to have a baby. She was disappointed, but perhaps it was just as well, for she had so much to do.

  Vivian told her Luke needed clothes. He had worn out most of his hunting-shirts and had little left now but parlor finery, which would not last a day in the swamps. Vivian said she had plenty of cotton on hand—they raised it at Sea Garden to make work-clothes—and one of the colored men was a good weaver, but it took several spinners to keep one weaver supplied with yarn.

  “I can spin almost without looking,” said Celia. “I’ll do that in the evenings, and in the daytime I’ll make a shirt for Luke.”

  Vivian gave her a piece of thick homespun made by the Sea Garden weaver. Celia made the shirt with a collar that could be brought up close around his neck to keep off mosquitoes, and cloth ties that would keep it on without need for buttons. Next she planned to make him a pair of breeches. She had never made men’s breeches—Mrs. Thorley would not have considered this a genteel occupation—but she could learn.

  Before she could make the breeches she had a visit from Luke. When she went to her room one night two weeks after he had left her, she found him sitting on the bed. With a cry of delight she tumbled into his arms and asked how long he had been here and how long he could stay.

  Luke said he had been here about fifteen minutes. He could stay tonight and tomorrow, but as soon as the dark came down tomorrow night he would have to go on. “What a way to be married!” said Luke.

  “I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Celia told him.

  She gave him the new shirt. Delighted, Luke gave her the one he was wearing, to be washed and mended before he came here again. When would that be? Luke had no idea.

  He brought news. Not about the war—he had had no word of Greene and Cornwallis, and he was forbidden to say where Marion was headed now. But he said Herbert’s grandson Tom Lacy, captive on a prison-ship since the fall of Charleston, was now with Marion’s men. Along with some other prisoners, Tom had pretended to yield to the blandishments of the guards, and joined the Tory troops. Then at their first skirmish these fellows let themselves be taken by the rebels, and were now fighting for their own country again. Luke said so many men had used this trick that now the British would not accept a deserting prisoner unless he would join a regiment bound for the West Indies. No more would be turned loose on their home ground.

  Later, Celia asked him about Miles Rand. Luke said Miles was still with Marion. He fought like a demon. If he lived through the war, Miles had said he would never rebuild Bellwood. He would go west, into the mountains or even beyond.

  Celia thought how fortunate she was. Her despair had been so hopeless, and now she had so much. She hoped it would be the same for Miles. She could understand his not wanting to go back to Bellwood, but the world was wide.

  Luke had to leave the next evening. But this time, when the panel closed behind him, Celia shed no tears. He had shown her how easily he could come and go. Any time, he might be back.

  She started the breeches. Eager to be useful, she would have liked to sew all day and spin all evening, but Vivian insisted that she must spend part of her time outdoors. So Celia tended the flowers, and with Herbert and Vivian she took turns walking to the boathouse in which was the compartment they called their letter box. One of them went there every day, to see if a scout of Marion’s had left a letter. If they found one, they knew they could expect another scout soon, to carry it on.

  But then the news stopped. Three weeks went by and no scouts appeared. The letter box was empty.

  They tried to hold up their spirits. Herbert and Vivian said the best thing to do was keep busy. Fields must be cared for, cotton must be seeded, soap and candles must be made. So everybody at Sea Garden kept busy. But white and colored, they all felt—and they felt it harder because they did not talk about it—that these silent weeks were like those weeks last year, before Darren brought news of the dreadful defeat at Camden.

  Celia tried not to worry, but she could not help it. In the daytime she had work to keep her occupied, but at night when she was alone, all sorts of possible tragedies went through her mind. Marion’s men could have been defeated. They could have been trapped in a swamp and cut to pieces. And in defeat or victory, always some of the men engaged were hurt, some were killed. When Luke was with her it was easy enough to be brave. But not now.

  Sea Garden might be raided by some plundering band. It was far from the main roads, but it was rich and tempting. Celia had once looked up Vivian’s birthday Bible verse. Vivian’s birthday was the sixteenth of June, and the sixteenth verse of the women’s chapter of Proverbs read: “She considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.” A fitting verse for Vivian. But for her dear Sea Garden to be destroyed like Bellwood—Celia shuddered at the thought.

  And Luke, Luke—

  Night after night, Celia clenched her teeth and doubled up her fists. “I won’t give in,” she said to the dark. “I’ll keep smiling if it kills me.”

  So she kept smiling, and she worked as hard as she could. Herbert and Vivian did the same, and they were all grateful to one another.

  At last, on a bright April morning, a Negro man rode in from Pinevale, the plantation of Herbert’s son Eugene. The field-workers recognized him as he rode out of the woods, and one of them dropped his hoe and ran to tell the folk at the big house. Herbert and Vivian and Celia hurried out to the back porch to ask what news he brought.

  But the man brought no news. He brought only a letter from Eugene Lacy to his father, in which Eugene was begging for news himself. He said he had received one note from Tom, telling how Tom had escaped the prison-ship. But this was a month ago. Had Herbert heard anything since?

  Sadly, Herbert told the Negro to go into the kitchen and get a meal. Shaking his head, he walked back indoors.

  Celia saw Vivian biting her lip and trying not to show how bitterly disappointed she was. Taking her hand, Celia spoke in an undertone.

  “Maybe there’s a letter in the box. Shall I walk over there?”

  Vivian nodded. “I wish you would.”

  They smiled at each other with desperate cheerfulness.

  Celia went through the room that they used as an informal gathering-place. Her sewing lay on a chair, where she had left it a few minutes ago. By the fireplace stood her spinning-wheel, and on the table lay several bound copies of the Gentleman’s Magazine, which Herbert used to receive regularly from London. Celia smiled. What a comfortable, welcoming room it was. Here at Sea Garden they had made her feel so pleasantly at home. If only she knew Luke was well, how happy she could be.

  She started toward the boathouse. This was not the boathouse that had the exit from the secret passage; this one was nearly a mile from the big house, on another creek that flowed into the river farther upstream. Celia hurried along the path and opened the door.

  As she went to the compartment where letters were placed, she felt a glow of hope. The silence could not last forever. One day she would find a letter. Maybe today. She opened the compartment.

  The box was empty.

  Celia choked back a sob. She wondered if any
certainty could have hurt much more than this long pain of suspense. From the trees outside she heard the twitter of birds. They sounded so gay in the sweet spring weather.

  Then she heard something else. The clang of the landing-bell.

  She started with a cry of joy. At last, somebody from outside! Not Tories sneaking in to loot and burn, but visitors who sailed openly up the river, who rang the bell to announce their arrival. These would be friends. They would bring news.

  Catching up her skirt, she began to run. She ran out of the boathouse and through the woods toward the main landing, but before she had gone far she stopped and told herself not to hurry so. Whoever the callers were, Herbert would go to meet them at the landing. In the meantime Vivian would open bedrooms, order refreshments, summon maids and house-boys to give service.

  And she herself was now also a lady of the house. It was her place to stand beside Vivian to welcome their friends and help with the duties of hospitality. She must not run like a child, and arrive all breathless and damp-faced; she must walk in fresh and smiling, like a person who knew her manners. This would be her first experience at being a hostess in her own home. Vivian might appear to be giving all her attention to the guests, but Celia knew Vivian would also be observing her, to see what she was doing and how she was doing it.

  With an effort Celia curbed her impatience and began to walk sedately along the path toward the house. She would smile at the company, explain that she had been taking a stroll when she heard the bell, and say how glad she was to see them. She hoped they would be people she knew.

  Surrounded by the woodland growth, she could not see the visitors, but by now she could certainly hear them. They were a mighty noisy group. She heard men shouting. There seemed to be a great many. Some of them sounded like men giving orders. Celia stopped again. Those men did not sound like friends. They sounded—she wet her lips—they sounded like an army.