by Gwen Bristow
Celia started. “You mean—what do you mean?”
Vivian laughed a little. “Celia, my health is good. I’ve probably got many years ahead of me. You don’t want me to spend those years bossing you around.”
“But you wouldn’t do that!”
“Oh yes I would,” Vivian returned coolly. “I’m not capable of living in the house with another woman and not bossing her around.” She paused a moment. Then, with an odd intentness, she said, “Celia, the day you came here to get married, you were afraid I wouldn’t like it.”
Celia had forgotten that moment of doubt. It was so long ago, and Vivian had been such a dear. But now, under Vivian’s steady gaze, she had to remember. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. She did not know what else to say.
“You were quite right,” said Vivian. With a smile she added, “I told you I was not ‘that kind of mother-in-law.’ I’m not, but I could be—oh, so easily. Celia my dear, about Luke I’m a fool. You know that. Long ago I made up my mind that when Luke brought a wife to Sea Garden, I would leave. I only prayed he’d choose a girl who would love Sea Garden and take care of it, and I think he did.”
Celia felt a lump of pain in her throat. She did not want to cry, but these days it was hard not to cry when things touched her. She could not speak. While she fought for control Vivian went on.
“Herbert and I have been talking this over. We’ll stay until Luke can take charge, then we’ll go to town. I understand that ever since Burton and Elise were sent to Philadelphia a pack of Tories have been living in our town house—I hope they don’t wreck it before they have to leave.”
Still fighting back her tears, Celia felt such a rush of gratitude as she had never known before. Vivian was smiling, her voice was steady, her manner was calm. But Celia knew that this was a moment of great renunciation. Right now, Vivian was holding out her two greatest treasures, Luke and Sea Garden. She was saying, They are yours now. Take them.
Aloud Vivian went on, “I’m assuming that if I behave myself like a nice person I’ll be welcome here when I want some country air, as you’ll certainly be welcome in my house when you come to town. But this will be your home and that will be mine, and we won’t interfere with each other. Oh, cry if you feel like it, Celia—don’t be ashamed. I’ve been in your state several times and I know how the tears rush out at the most awkward moments.”
Celia had a feeling that she could not have put into words. It was not knowledge, it was a deep instinctive grasp of the fact that she did not know yet how much Vivian was giving her. She would not know until she had been mistress of her own home and her own life, until after she and Luke had been let alone to work out their own marriage in their own way. Maybe she would not really appreciate Vivian’s gift for years to come, not until she herself gave up a son of her own to another woman. She felt this, and she did not know how to say it. She turned her head, and put her hands over her burning eyes, and stood there feeling young and clumsy, until at last she pulled out her handkerchief and scrubbed at her tears and managed to say, “You’ll never know how much I love you for this.”
Vivian stood up. Celia stumbled into her arms and sobbed on her bosom, and Vivian held her gently until she was quiet again. At last Celia raised her head. Vivian smiled at her, and Celia smiled back.
“Now,” said Vivian, “go to your room, and wash your face, and get a wrap—it’s chilly in the halls. I’ll wait for you.”
Celia’s baby was born on an afternoon in May. When the time came, Vivian summoned the Negro midwife from the quarters. The midwife was old and wise, and knew her business, but Vivian promised that she too would stand by. Celia had expected this to be a hard day, though she had not dreamed it would be as hard as it was, nor that any day could be so long. But at last it was over and she heard Vivian say, “You have a beautiful little girl,” and through Celia’s head went a confused vision of lace and ribbons and fine lawn. The colored woman brought her the baby, wrapped in garments made of an old sheet. Celia drew a happy breath and her eyes fell shut.
Her little girl was a week old when they heard a horse’s hoofs clattering up the driveway. Celia, lying in bed planning a baby-dress of white silk with pink shirring, raised herself on her elbow and said “Luke!” But the rider was Burton Dale, back from exile in Philadelphia.
Though she was disappointed, Celia was glad Burton had come safely home. Vivian brought him in to see her. Celia had not seen Burton since Balfour shipped him to St. Augustine eighteen months ago, and to her astonishment he seemed all the better for his experience. His clothes had been mended and re-mended, but he no longer looked as if he had been stuffed into them. Not only was he leaner, he was tanned and muscular (she did not wonder at this, when she found that he had alternately walked and ridden horseback all the way from Philadelphia). Also, he had an air of jaunty confidence, which for the first time made Celia notice that he looked rather like his half-brothers Luke and Godfrey.
Herbert joined them in Celia’s room, and Burton sipped a glass of wine and told them about his adventures. As Luke had surmised, Godfrey had given Elise money to help her get along in Philadelphia, but it was not enough to support the family indefinitely and they had had no idea how long they would have to stay there. So they rented rooms in a boarding-house, and Burton went out and got a job.
Vivian said, “Heaven help us, doing what?”—for Burton had never done any work in his life except supervise his rice crop. Burton chuckled, rather proudly, and replied, “I taught school.”
Vivian and Herbert together flashed him a look of startled admiration. Burton continued.
At first, he said, the situation had scared him. Besides day-today living expenses, the boys were growing out of their clothes; also winter was coming, a northern winter, and nobody among the Charleston exiles had clothes warm enough. Burton thought over his accomplishments. These, he readily admitted, were few. But he recalled that he had kept careful plantation accounts, which meant that he had years of practice in arithmetic.
“I went to the headmaster of a boys’ school,” said Burton, “and told him I’d like to teach the fellows to do sums. He put me to work. And do you know,” Burton said with a grin, “I enjoyed it.”
He went on to say that on the whole they had managed very well. “The boys ran errands, held horses, did all sorts of odd jobs. And Elise worked hard. The churches collected second-hand winter clothes for us—imagine!—and Elise patched them and made them over. A real helpmeet she was.”
“The grace of the Lord,” murmured Vivian, “can do wonders. How did you get home?”
Now that, said Burton, had been a problem. They had been free to leave as soon as the exchange of prisoners was officially accomplished, but the snows were deep, and the country through which they would have to travel was demoralized by years of war. He had waited till spring, when he had joined several other families to buy horses, and two wagons for their scanty belongings. By slow stages they had traveled south. They had spent the nights at inns, when they could find any; but oftener they had slept in deserted barns or farmhouses whose owners had fled the redcoats, or sometimes they slept in the wagons outdoors.
As they neared home the party scattered. Burton headed for the plantation of Elise’s brother Gilbert Arvin, north of the Santee and easy to reach. As they rode through the desolation, Burton and Elise prayed with every mile that Mr. Arvin’s home would still be there.
What they found was bad, though not the worst possible. The property had been confiscated for some good Tory; but the new owner had not cared to live on the place. All he wanted was fast money. He had stripped the plantation of everything that could be sold. As redcoats and Tories fled into Charleston, Mr. Arvin had brought his family home. Their dwelling and the other buildings were empty, but they were still there.
The Arvin family had returned shortly before the Dales arrived, and the house gave shelter to Elise and the boys. They had to sleep on the floor, but by this time they did not mind. Burton was now on his way t
oward Goose Creek, to see what was left of his own plantation. He spent a night at Sea Garden, and went on.
It was another two weeks before Luke appeared. Celia was up now, and sat on the piazza with the baby beside her in a little cart made long ago for Vivian’s babies. Leaning back in a big chair, she was lazily enjoying the summer day when she heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. Again she started eagerly, and again she said “Luke!”—and this time it was Luke. He had brought Amos with him, and the two of them rode up the driveway.
Before his horse had halted, Luke was off, tossing the bridle to Amos and bounding up the steps in what looked like a single leap. He grabbed her in his arms with a force that took the breath right out of her, and to her own disgust, Celia found that she was crying again.
Later, when they were alone in their room, she told him she wanted to name the baby but had been waiting for his approval. “I want to name her Vivian,” said Celia.
Luke smiled as he glanced at the crib. He still marveled that the baby could be so small, and yet be human, and his. “I like that,” he said. “And Mother will be mighty pleased.”
“Then it’s all right?”
“Of course. I’m glad you want to. What gave you the idea?”
“I’ll tell you sometime. But I don’t think you’ll understand.”
“Why not?” Luke exclaimed in surprise. He was not used to being told there were things he could not understand.
“Because you’re a man,” said Celia.
“Oh, good Lord,” said Luke.
Celia gave a shrug. “All right,” she said, and told him about Vivian’s plan to leave Sea Garden.
Luke smiled broadly. “Mother’s a grand person, isn’t she? But Celia, what made you think I wouldn’t understand that?”
“I meant,” said Celia, “the way she loves Sea Garden, and loves you—” She paused. It was no use to try to explain.
Luke began to laugh. “Celia, I know some women want to baby their sons, and hate their sons’ wives. But Mother isn’t that sort. Anyway, now that they’re getting older, I think she and the governor will be happier in Charleston. They like people and parties, and town life in general. But I do think it’s fine that you want to name the baby for Mother. I’ll go right now and tell her.”
He gave Celia a kiss. Leaving her to take the afternoon rest that Vivian said she must have now, he went off. Celia heard the clump of his great boots in the hall.
The baby’s name was Vivian. But Luke did not understand what she had understood when Vivian had talked to her that day. How could he be expected to? He was a man.
CHAPTER 34
BUT VIVIAN UNDERSTOOD. WHEN she saw Celia in the parlor later that afternoon, she said, “Thank you, dear. You make me very happy.”
They smiled at each other. But they said no more, for they had gathered to listen to Amos. He had slipped into Charleston several times recently, carrying messages for Marion.
Amos said the town was jammed. The rebels in South Carolina had been doing their job well. They were pushing into Charleston not only the king’s soldiers, but also the Tory civilians, who did not dare stay home without British guns to protect them. Rich Tories were paying fantastic sums for rooms at inns or private homes. Others were sleeping in stores, warehouses, anywhere they could. Nobody, rich or poor, could get enough to eat. The British troops had killed their horses for lack of fodder. They had a new commander, General Leslie, and he was trying to keep order, but he could not do much to ease the nightmarish state of things.
Celia thought of the Hendrix family, putting on airs as they spent other people’s money. She hoped Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix and Miss Dolly were very uncomfortable now.
Vivian spoke with concern. “But Amos, people who are not Tories—my children—can’t they get away?”
Amos said it was harder than you’d think. General Leslie wanted people to leave town, for every person who left took his mouth with him. But there were no horses, and the general himself had taken most of the boats so his troops could raid nearby plantations for food. However, Amos knew that Godfrey and Lewis Penfield were both trying to get boats. Marietta had told him this.
Herbert and Vivian began to ask about friends in town. Luke suggested to Celia that they sit on the piazza. As he drew out a chair for her he asked,
“Celia, would you mind very much doing without Marietta?”
“I’d miss her, certainly,” Celia said. “After what we went through together, she’s more like a friend of mine than a maid. What do you mean?”
“She’s still with Ida,” said Luke. “Amos has seen her whenever he’s been to town. He says they want to be married, and go away with Miles Rand.”
“Go where?”
“To the mountains. Wherever Miles goes.”
He said Miles was still resolved to dispose of Bellwood and go west, to the frontier. He would take Amos with him, and Big Buck, the other Negro who had escaped the fury of Tarleton’s Legion. Luke had bought some of Miles’ outlying land, and Miles had offered some extra acres as compensation for Marietta’s services.
Celia spoke doubtfully. “Does Marietta want to go out to the frontier?”
“Amos says she does. Why?”
“Because I shouldn’t like it,” said Celia. “Sleeping on the ground, and being scared of Indians—let me talk to Marietta. I’ll ask her how she feels about it.”
Luke said this was fair enough.
He had to leave the next day and go back to Marion’s camp. They had no more news from Charleston until August, when the landing-bell clanged violently one afternoon, and kept on clanging while Herbert and his men mounted and rode to the river-bank.
At the landing was a boat—a scrabby boat, ramshackle and creaking and patched and miserable—and on the boat were Godfrey and Ida and Darren, with Marietta and Godfrey’s servants. They were hot and tired. Their nerves were torn to pieces from their dread that their boat would not last to get here, and they were so hungry that they were nearly frantic.
Vivian and Celia hurried to call the maids, and set out a meal—“Cold rice will do,” said Godfrey, “stale bread, anything.” The kitchen boys dragged a long table out to the back porch, while Celia and the girls ran to the pantry and brought whatever they could bring fastest. They put it all on the table helterskelter, and Godfrey’s group fell upon the food like animals.
Between gulps, Godfrey told them that Madge and Lewis Pen-field and their children had joined another family going up to Goose Creek, where Lewis’ brother had a country place. Celia wondered if they were all as hungry as this. She sat down on the back steps. After a while, when Godfrey’s party had had enough to eat, with little embarrassed laughs they began to apologize for being so ravenous. Marietta came over to Celia. “You’d think we were a bunch of pigs!” she exclaimed.
“You forget,” Celia said laughing. “I know what it’s like to be hungry.” She patted the step beside her. “Sit down, Marietta.”
Marietta obeyed. “Miss Celia,” she said, “I’m so happy for you and Mr. Luke, and your little girl.”
“My little girl has big blue eyes,” said Celia. “And Marietta, I’ve heard about you and Amos. I’m happy for you too.”
“Thank you, Miss Celia,” said Marietta, and by the look of her she was happy for herself.
“You’re mighty brave,” said Celia, “not to mind going out to the mountains.”
“But why should I mind, Miss Celia? Amos—and Mr. Miles and Big Buck—they all want to go. So I want to go with Amos.”
“You’re sure you’ll like it?”
“Oh yes,” Marietta returned with conviction. “Amos wants to go.”
Celia reminded her that there would be hardships, even actual danger. Marietta was surprised that Celia should be worried about such things. She said Amos was all excited about going west. And since Amos was so happy about it, why naturally she was happy too.
Celia began to understand that Marietta was one of those rare women who could lose themselves c
ompletely in the lives of the people they loved. She was happy to go with Amos, but she would have been equally happy staying at home with him. To Amos and her children Marietta would give her life, and she would not even know that she was giving anything.
Celia smiled with a thoughtful wonder, for she knew very well she was not made like that herself.
A few days later Miles and Amos got leave to come to Sea Garden, and Mr. Warren was summoned again to marry Amos and Marietta. After the ceremony there was a supper in the quarters for the colored people. While Amos and Marietta were receiving the good wishes of their friends, Celia drew Miles aside and gave him the case holding the bracelets of gold roses that Jimmy had given her.
Miles looked at the bracelets with tender affection.
“I’ve seen my mother wear these so many times,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll keep them to remember her by. Thanks, Celia.”
Celia said, “You’re welcome, Miles.” She was thinking, You won’t keep them to remind you of your mother. You’ll give them to a girl. You don’t know it now, but you will.
As Miles closed the case, hiding the bracelets from her sight forever, she felt relieved. Miles would give them to a girl, but Celia was glad the girl would not be here in the Lowcountry. If she had to see those bracelets they would remind her of Jimmy, and she did not want to be reminded. It would hurt too much.
A month later, in September, three hundred British ships sailed into Charleston harbor. They had come to take the redcoats home.
Not only the redcoats, but as many Tories as wanted to go with them. Some Tories, who had nothing to apologize for except that they had taken the losing side, intended to stay and make up with their old friends. But there were others who knew they would never have any American friends again. Also, there were some who said frankly that they did not trust the future of the little new nation that would be made out of the Thirteen Colonies. They thought it wise to get away.
