Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  He had been at Sea Garden a month when he demanded her emerald necklace. He had an imposing group of visitors just now: the Torrances, a number of redcoat officers, and some pretty girls with their Tory parents. This evening there would be dancing—no longer was the ballroom shrouded with canvas. Emily Torrance was going to wear a set of pearls, heirlooms in the Torrance family. Sophie said she had nothing to wear that would impress her relatives, then she remembered. “Roy darling, hasn’t Celia been keeping a necklace that really belongs to me?”

  Roy sent a maid to summon Celia. He did not say what he wanted, but merely that she was to come upstairs at once.

  Roy and Sophie occupied the master suite on the second floor front. They were now in the little boudoir next to the bedroom. Vivian had designed this suite, and as Celia opened the door of the boudoir she could see Vivian’s taste in every detail, so clearly that she almost expected to see Vivian herself. But instead she saw Sophie, in a robe of apple-blossom pink, reclining on the long chair with Roy sitting beside her.

  Standing in the doorway, Celia said, “You sent for me, Roy?”

  Bluntly, Roy told her he had sent for her because he wanted the emerald necklace.

  Expecting this, Celia had hidden the necklace in the passage, behind the secret panel in her room. “I won’t give it to you,” she retorted.

  Roy was astonished at her manner. When she had lived in Uncle William’s home, Celia had talked back to Roy, but here at Sea Garden she had been so docile that he thought she had at last learned her place. However, though he was surprised he was not daunted. He told Celia sternly that her impudence would do her no good. He wanted the necklace. Now.

  “I won’t give you that necklace,” Celia returned. “I mean it.”

  Sophie began to cry.

  Roy’s dark eyes narrowed. He set his well-shaped lips in a line of exasperation. Handsome and angry, he told Celia he had been patient about this. He had wanted to give her a chance to do right, and return the necklace of her own accord. But she had not done so, and his patience was at an end.

  Celia said nothing. Sophie gave a little sob, and Roy patted her gently. He asked, “Where is that necklace, Celia?”

  “It’s put away,” she said.

  Sophie sobbed louder.

  Roy was angry. He intended to impress Sophie’s rich brother. If Leon Torrance could give his wife heirloom pearls, then Roy Garth could give his wife heirloom emeralds. Roy stood up.

  “Celia, if you don’t bring that necklace here at once, I’m coming down to your room. I’ll tear your bed apart, empty every bureau drawer, shake out every garment you own, until I find it.”

  Suddenly Celia began to tremble. When she put the necklace into the passage she had felt confident. But now, her thoughts were ticking as if there was a clock in her head. They were saying, Give it up. Give it up. Suppose he finds the passage.

  It could happen. Roy was mad. He would tear up her room like a pig rooting in a potato patch. He might, he just accidentally might, stumble against that brick in the fireplace and see it move. Or, suppose his heel struck the panel and he noticed a hollow sound. He would not hesitate to knock a hole in the wall. Sea Garden belonged to him. He could do anything he pleased here.

  And if Roy found the passage, and then if Luke came here to see her, he would never get safely away.

  Roy was standing over her, glowering. Celia said, “All right, all right. I’ll bring you the necklace.”

  Sophie looked up eagerly through her tears. For a terrifying instant Celia thought Roy might say he would come downstairs with her, but he sat by Sophie again, putting his arm around her as if to assure her that this was only one more example of how he was seeing her through the troubles of the world. Turning to Celia he said, “I’ll wait fifteen minutes. Right here.”

  Celia went to her room, locked the door, climbed on a chair and drew the curtains over the high little windows. Opening the passage, she brought out the purple velvet case that held the necklace.

  She closed the passage and took the necklace upstairs to the boudoir. The door stood ajar, and she pushed it open. Roy and Sophie were sitting together on the long chair, Sophie cuddled against him while he played with her soft light brown hair.

  Celia walked over to them. “Here it is,” she said.

  She felt, rather than saw, Roy take the case from her hand. She turned on her heel and walked to the door. Behind her she heard Sophie’s squeal of delight as Roy opened the case.

  Celia did not look back. She thought if she did she might cry, and if they saw her cry she simply could not bear it. She went downstairs and out of the house.

  It was a warm afternoon in May, and most of the guests were indoors. Celia hurried toward the woodland path. There might be something in the letter box. Hope of a letter was the only thread she had to hold her to the world outside of this nightmare island of Sea Garden.

  The woods were beautiful. She smelt honeysuckle and the bursting buds of sassafras, and she heard the joyful buzzing of bees. She was glad to see that the lush spring growth had almost hidden the path that led to the boathouse.

  The inside of the boathouse was dark and damp and cool. Celia went to the compartment where the letter box was. “Please, God, please!” she whispered. “I can’t stand it much longer!”

  She put her hand on the little door. For seven weeks—three weeks before the Lacys left, four weeks since, day after day she had done this without finding anything. For the past four weeks, when she opened the box she always saw her own letter giving a warning to Luke. The letter was getting grimy, and curling at the edges.

  She drew the door open. Her letter was gone. There was another letter in the box.

  Nearly sobbing with relief, her hand shaking, Celia reached in and took the letter. She closed the compartment door.

  There was one sheet of paper, but on it were two messages. The upper message was the sort she used to write herself in Mrs. Westcott’s basement so other patriots could post it around town.

  “To lovers of American freedom: Cornwallis won the battle of Guilford, but he lost one-fourth of his troops. Greene retreated but saved his army to fight again. Marion’s men have taken Fort Watson at Nelson’s Ferry. Praise God and keep fighting.”

  These lines nearly filled the page, but in the space at the bottom somebody had squeezed in a few words more. The first message was clearly written with good pen and ink; the second had been scrawled with some sort of makeshift, by a hand more used to a gun than a pen.

  “Mis Ansell dr madam sory for yr truble yr husbin wunded Ft Wotsn but beter now he will be tole.”

  So this was why she had heard nothing for so long. Fort Watson was on the far bank of the Santee, miles from Sea Garden. And Luke was away up there, wounded.

  The month of June came in, beautiful, but in Celia’s small-windowed bedroom, almost unbearably hot. Tossing in bed one night she wondered if it would be safe to tell Sophie she wanted another room. She could get it by the simple expedient of refusing to sew any more until they gave it to her. But there was always the chance that Luke might not have received her message. The scout who had taken her letter might have been killed or captured on the way. No, she had to stay here, guarding the panel, locking the door every time she went out. She had to stay if she smothered to death.

  She got out of bed and went to the washstand, and threw some water over her face. The water was almost warm. Through the high little windows the moonlight came in. She could not feel any wind at all.

  Standing there in the deep night silence, she heard a sound.

  It was a soft, silky sound. It was so faint that in the daytime she might not have heard it, but tonight she heard it and she knew what it was. The oiled machinery behind the wall was moving.

  The instant she heard the sound, she knew she had been expecting it and waiting for it. She knew, she had known all along, that no warning would make Luke stay away. By the moonglow she could see the panel sliding open. Luke came through and saw h
er, and he said, “My dear Sassyface,” and the next instant he had his arms around her and she was shaking and sobbing against him.

  It had been so long! Luke knew exactly how long—eighty-seven days. He had received her letter and it had sent him nearly out of his mind because he could not come to her at once. He had been lying in bed in a farmhouse near Fort Watson, his left side ripped open by a British gun.

  He still had on a bandage, and he was not yet able to fight, but he was getting well. As soon as the surgeon would let him move, he had obtained permission for Tom Lacy to row a boat for him. They had made their way to Eugene’s place at Pinevale. Yes, Herbert and Vivian were there, courageous as you’d expect them to be. Vivian had made him take a day’s rest, after which Tom had rowed him down to Sea Garden. Right now, Tom was asleep in the woods.

  Luke had to leave her before daybreak. But he had brought her a clear and practical plan. He could not fight, but he and she were going to work together again, for Marion.

  Luke would live in a cabin several miles away, which in happier days he had used as a hunting lodge. Celia was to stay at Sea Garden, and make herself useful, and listen. At intervals a scout of Marion’s would pick up Luke and row him to Sea Garden. Luke would slip through the passage to this room, and she would tell him what she had heard.

  For the rest of the summer they followed Luke’s plan. Celia wondered how many people there were who, like herself, led a secret life. People who seemed colorless, but who actually were walking hand in hand with glory.

  Roy continued to entertain prominent Tories, and officers on their way up and down the coast. Celia waited on men as well as women, offering to mend a torn shirt or sew on a button that had come loose from a red coat. She worked quietly. Sometimes she had to decline the attentions of an eager young soldier, but except for this she hardly opened her mouth. She was surprised at how much she learned. Men and women who would never have talked too much in a public place like Mrs. Thorley’s shop, were less discreet in the home of such loyal Tories as Mr. and Mrs. Roy Garth.

  Luke came to see her as often as he could. The summer was rainy, and sometimes the creeks were so swollen that the strongest rower could not manage a boat. This meant that sometimes her information was too late. But just as often, she knew about troop movements in time for Marion to act upon them.

  About midsummer the British and American authorities arranged for an exchange of prisoners. But the men in the fort at St. Augustine, being civilians, were not released to the American army. They were herded on a boat and taken to Philadelphia, where they were turned loose to get along as best they could. At the same time, in Charleston, Balfour ordered their wives and children, along with the families of several other leaders of the rebellion, to be loaded on several small ships and sent to Philadelphia also. What they were going to live on when they got there was no concern of his. As he ordered that their homes should be given to Tories, many of the women sent him humble letters begging his permission to sell their shoe-buckles or other personal articles, so they would reach Philadelphia with a little cash to buy food.

  However, Luke said he was sure Godfrey must have given Elise whatever cash he could spare, to take care of herself and Burton and their sons.

  “This war,” Celia said with admiration, “has been hard on Godfrey!”

  In the darkness she heard Luke laugh. “Hard? Why?”

  “I meant hard on his fortune.”

  “My dearest,” said Luke, “Godfrey can make money out of anything. Right now he has several British officers investing in his trade with the Indies. It’s honest, they get their share every time a ship comes in. But he hasn’t told them how much of his own share goes to pay spies for Marion’s men.”

  Celia smothered her laughter with her head in the bedclothes.

  But it could not last. Late in August Luke told her his visits had to cease.

  When she started back in fright, he said he had gone on meeting her longer than he had any right to expect. His wound was well and he was fit for active duty, but Marion had found him more useful getting information from her. Now, however, he was needed to fight.

  His lips close to her ear, he told her a British fleet had recently reached Charleston, bringing war supplies and fresh troops. This was no secret. But also, General Greene had received a letter from General Washington’s headquarters.

  “Remember,” said Luke, “I told you the French king was going to send us more men and ships? Well, at last they’re on their way. They’re coming up from the French West Indies.”

  In spite of her fear Celia gave an exclamation of glad surprise. Luke hugged her to him.

  “Honeychild, we’ve done a good job. Ever since they took Charleston, and that’s a year and three months ago, Cornwallis has been trying to meet Clinton’s northern army and he hasn’t done it yet.”

  “How far has he gone?” she asked.

  “Nearly to Virginia,” said Luke. “That’s where Washington is headed now.”

  “Yes, yes—go on.”

  “The redcoats have spies,” said Luke, “and good ones. They’ve certainly heard that the Frenchmen are coming, and that Washington is marching south. So Washington’s orders are: Don’t let the redcoats in South Carolina go to help Cornwallis. Draw them into battle, right here. That’s our job now. Understand?”

  She understood. She understood with a pain in her throat and a stiffness in her back and quivers in her knees. Luke was going into battle again. Last time, they had nearly killed him.

  She threw her arms around him and buried her face. He held her close. For a while they did not say anything. At length Luke stroked her hair, and kissed her. “This has to be good-by,” he said. He kissed her again, long and hard. “I love you, Sassyface,” he whispered.

  She had to let him go. She was alone again.

  Over and over in the next few days she asked herself desperately, Is it always going to be like this? Am I always going to be alone? Those people have taken everything. Sea Garden. My emerald necklace. My friends. Jimmy. And now maybe Luke. They leave me nothing. Always, I’m alone.

  And then, in those warm blue days of late summer, she found that she was not alone. She was going to have a baby.

  At first she would not believe it. She felt so lost and frightened, and it did not seem possible that anything good could be happening to her now. But as the time went by she was convinced. It was really true.

  At last, at last, she had something of her own. This they could not take away.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER was long and lonesome. Day after day the landing-bell hung silent. Roy was busy overseeing the fieldhands, but the work went slowly. Indoors the maids were slow too. In fields and house alike the Negroes resented Roy and Sophie, and hated the British for making them serve these trespassers. They worked because they had to, but nobody could make them work well.

  Celia said nothing about her coming baby. After her first joy, she had a reaction of fright when she remembered that she had no way to reach anybody who cared what became of her. She went on as before, darning the stockings, making clothes for Sophie’s little boy, and yearning for news.

  At last, one afternoon late in September the landing-bell rang. The visitors were Sophie’s brother Leon Torrance and his family. For some weeks the Torrances had been at their indigo plantation, but now Leon had left the place in care of his overseer while he took his household to Charleston.

  Leon Torrance was an earnest man, a Tory by pocketbook conviction; he had never hurt anybody and did not want to. He merely wanted to live in peace and comfort, but this, he said with a hurt anger, was getting harder every day. The rebels under that man Greene had attacked the British at Eutaw Springs. There had been no real victory for either side, but the king’s commander had withdrawn his men to a camp near Moncks Corner. As this troop was the major British force outside Charleston, now there was nobody to protect Tories in rural homes.

  Sitting in the parlor with the rest of
them, Celia listened with a tenseness that made her muscles ache. Leon had said in passing that Marion’s men had taken part in the battle. She twisted her hands together in an agony of apprehension. Would there never, never be an end to this torture of not knowing what was happening to Luke?

  Leon urged Roy and Sophie to come to Charleston too. But Roy said no. The idea of abandoning his new property was more than he could bear. He said Sea Garden was a long day’s journey from anywhere, and such remoteness was protection. If there should be any danger he could always go to town, or to Kensaw; his schooner, he said (meaning Herbert’s schooner), was ready in the boathouse. Leon nodded thoughtfully, and said yes, this was true.

  The Torrances went on to town. The weather grew cooler, with a tang of autumn, but Celia was miserable. She was worried about Luke and worried about herself, and she felt a thousand small discomforts. She had dizzy spells, and aches in her breasts and her legs, and sometimes nausea, all reminding her that her body was adjusting to a new state of things and that she wanted, more than ever, love and security and peace. But after what seemed like an endless time, on a starry October midnight Luke came through the panel into her room.

  Celia was asleep when she felt his arms around her and his kiss on her hair. She opened her eyes, and in the starlight she saw him kneeling by her bedside, and she could not speak, she could not even kiss him back. She simply burst into tears. Luke did not know why her nerves were so on edge, but he drew up the coverings and smothered the sound of her sobs until she could get quiet again.

  But she was still too choked up to talk, so he talked first. He had been at Eutaw Springs, and a fierce fight it was, but he had not been hurt. He said Marion’s plantation, almost in cannon-shot of the battlefield, had been utterly destroyed. Marion was a bachelor, and had left his home in care of a foreman who had kept it in good condition.

  “But I guess they decided,” said Luke, “that if they couldn’t catch him they could punish him. They wrecked everything he owned. I mean everything—what wouldn’t burn, they broke up.”