by Dorothy Love
“A childhood friendship is not the same as marriage. People change with time.”
“He hasn’t been away that long.”
“Two years is a long time in my book. You are not the same young woman you were when he left the city.”
“I hope not. I hope I’m wiser now. Certainly I’m old enough to marry, and there is no one on earth I’d rather marry than Sutton Mackay.”
“All the same, I don’t want you to fix your affections too hastily, Celia. Take your time getting to know Sutton again, to be certain his habits and principles are still a good match for your own.”
“Of course, Papa.” But deep down she couldn’t imagine any fault of Sutton’s that would dampen her affection for him. He possessed all the qualities of an ideal suitor—good blood ties, a fine education, solid economic prospects, and impeccable manners. He was quick to laugh, slow to anger, quick to forgive. And he was the handsomest member of the Chatham Artillery, the most prestigious of all the city’s volunteer companies. His letters from the Mackay’s shipping port on Jamaica’s Black River, though infrequent due to distance, were full of lively observations of local life and news of his thriving business, and they left little doubt about his intentions regarding their future. That suited Celia perfectly. She hated the whole tiresome notion that a girl must wait to be chosen. With any luck, her wait was almost at an end.
A carriage rolled past the window, the horses’ hooves kicking up clouds of sand. A fire bell sounded in the distance. Papa knocked the ash from his pipe. “Now you must excuse me, my dear. I must attend to some correspondence before dinner.”
“All right.” Celia rose, her silk skirts rustling, and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Don’t work too late. Mrs. Maguire has made a beef roast for dinner and syllabub for dessert and you know how she fusses if she has to wait to serve it.”
“Hmmm.”
She frowned. “You are worried, Papa, And not only about politics. What’s troubling you?”
He tapped the copy of the Daily Morning News folded neatly on his desk. Celia glanced at the headline. “The house of love and grief: New mystery surrounds Browning mansion on Madison Square.”
“New mystery? What new mystery?”
“There is no new mystery. It’s only the wild imaginings of a journalist who apparently has come to town for the sole purpose of writing about us and reviving the tragedy that befell this house all those years ago. There is no purpose in it apart from selling more newspapers.” Papa released a heavy sigh. “I’m quite disappointed in William Thompson. I’ve known him ever since he became the editor at the paper, and I can’t say I understand at all what is to be gained by resurrecting such painful memories.”
Celia had been only a child then, but fragments of memory still lay like shards of glass in her heart: A black wreath on the door. The parlor mirror draped in black. Mrs. Maguire’s grim, pale face, the furtive whisperings of the mourners, and Ivy’s heart-wrenching wails as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Then the dark, tragic coda to a story she still didn’t understand.
Now she worried that the whole scandalous story would play out in the newspapers all over again, just when Sutton Mackay was returning home. Even the best people were endlessly fascinated by tragedy so long as it was not their own, even a city such as Savannah, which prided itself on observing propriety above all else. She frowned. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“I intend to speak to Thompson tomorrow. But frankly, I’m not too hopeful he’ll quash the story. He’s in the business of selling papers after all.” Papa jabbed a finger at the folded newspaper. “If this Channing fellow can find even one new half-truth to splash across the headlines, I’m sure some people in town will be unable to resist reading about it.”
“Miss Celia?” Mrs. Maguire’s voice preceded her into the room. The Irish housekeeper bustled in carrying a stack of clean linens and bobbed her head at Papa. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Mrs. Maguire.”
“Miss Celia, I’ve been callin’ you for the last ten minutes and here you sit, daft as stone.”
“I’m sorry. What is it you wanted?” Celia regarded the housekeeper fondly. Though Mrs. Maguire had arrived in Savannah aboard a ship from County Waterford nearly thirty years earlier and had worked for the Brownings ever since, her speech still held strong traces of her native country. Especially when her feathers were ruffled.
Mrs. Maguire thrust the linens into Celia’s arms. “These are the things you wanted to donate to the asylum. Sure and you’ll be wantin’ them for your meeting tomorra mornin’. They’re auld, but serviceable. I’m sure the girls will be happy to have them.” With another bob of her head, she hurried toward the kitchen.
Papa cleared his throat and stared pointedly at the papers on his desk. Celia took the hint and hurried up the stairs to her room with her stack of linens, determined not to let politics or the specter of a scandalous newspaper story spoil Sutton’s homecoming.
If all went as she hoped, she and Sutton would be engaged by Christmas.
Other Books by Dorothy Love
Carolina Gold
The Hickory Ridge novels
Beyond All Measure
Beauty for Ashes
Every Perfect Gift
About the Author
A native of west Tennessee, Dorothy Love makes her home in the Texas hill country with her husband and their golden retriever. An award-winning author of numerous young adult novels, Dorothy made her adult debut with the Hickory Ridge novels.
