by Dorothy Love
“Doesn’t it seem odd that two such terrible events, occurring within weeks of each other in the same house, should both be attributed to bad luck?”
It was not the first time Celia had heard the question, but it was the first time it had been spoken so boldly in her presence. “Everything that happened here was thoroughly investigated. My father saw to it personally.”
“And through his friendships at the newspaper, he controlled the reportage.” Mr. Channing surveyed the spacious room. Celia watched him taking in the fine carpets, the mahogany tables and silk draperies, the Egyptian marble fireplace anchoring the far wall. “I haven’t been in Savannah too long, but long enough to know that David Browning is a man of means. And men of means in this city can do as they please.”
“That is quite enough, Mr. Channing. I won’t stand here and listen to you accuse my father of covering up the facts.”
His lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“What possible reason is there for bringing up such unpleasantness now and reminding my family of such terrible twists of fate?”
The reporter raised a brow. “How can I resist? Such intrigue will make quite an interesting book. And I intend to write one because, my dear Miss—”
“I am not your dear anything. Now please, leave us in peace.”
“Because,” he repeated, leaning languidly against the door frame, “I don’t believe it was accidental at all.”
2
“HONESTLY,” CELIA FUMED AS THEIR CARRIAGE ROCKED ALONG toward the asylum the following morning, “I have never met a more unpleasant character than Leo Channing.”
Beside her on the tufted red leather seat, Ivy shrugged. “True, his manners could use some refinement. But beneath those rough clothes he’s really quite handsome.”
Celia laughed. “You’re joking. I thought he looked rather like a Methodist parson.”
“Only because he didn’t smile very much. But you must admit it took courage to barge his way into the house.”
“Courage? By that measure any common burglar might be elevated to the status of a hero.”
“I don’t know why you’re letting his visit upset you so. If I was not offended, I can’t see why you should be.”
Celia kept her eyes on the passing scene. Behind banks of palmetto, Spanish dagger, and pride-of-India trees stood fine houses of pink stucco, gray brick, and brownstone, all of them graced with marble steps, copper finials, and cast-iron balconies. “You should be offended by anyone who calls our family liars.”
“He never said that.”
“Not in so many words, but everyone in Savannah knows that what happened was an accident. To imply otherwise is to impugn our veracity and our good name. I should think you’d be insulted for Papa’s sake, if not for your own. After everything he’s done for you.”
The carriage drew up at the imposing building that housed the orphaned girls. Joseph, the freedman who had worked for the Brownings all of Celia’s life, opened the door and handed her out of the carriage. “Want me to wait for you, Miss Celia?”
“Yes, please. We won’t be long.” Celia gathered the parcel of linens and shirtwaists for donation and looped her reticule over her arm. “Ready, Ivy?”
“I’m coming.” Ivy retrieved another parcel and straightened her ostrich-plumed hat.
They walked through the wrought-iron gate and up the steps to the front door. Ivy rang the bell. Faces appeared briefly in the second-floor windows before Annie Wilcox, the red-haired would-be milliner, opened the door. “Miss Browning and Miss Lorens. Please come in. I’ll fetch Mrs. Clayton for you.”
“Hello, Annie.” Celia smiled at the girl. “No need to disturb her if she’s busy. We only wanted to drop off these things for you girls.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” The girl took the parcels. “Some of the other ladies have been by this week. Mrs. Fondren and Mrs. Sorrel were here just yesterday. Brought some new bed linens and not a moment too soon either.” The girl frowned. “’Course, what we need most is a sewing machine and a piano for Iris, and—”
“Annie?” The asylum director hurried into the foyer, patting her silver curls into place. She adjusted her spectacles and squinted at Celia. “Who . . . oh, Miss Lorens. And Miss Browning.”
Celia inclined her head. “Good morning, Mrs. Clayton.”
The woman smiled and dismissed Annie with a curt nod. “May I offer you some tea? I’d like to discuss something with you if you have a moment.”
Celia hid her surprise. Though she was in charge of fund-raising, the older ladies in her circle—Mrs. Mackay, Mrs. Low, Mrs. Green, and Mrs. Lawton—were equally devoted to the aims of the asylum: to ensure that orphaned or abandoned girls grew up to lead moral, disciplined, and productive lives. Mrs. Mackay and Mrs. Lawton were usually the ones to whom Mrs. Clayton turned for advice.
“It won’t take long,” the director said.
Ivy stepped forward and smiled. “Of course we are happy to help in any way we can, Mrs. Clayton.”
The older woman led the way into her small parlor and rang a bell for tea. Celia took a chair by the open window that afforded a view of the carriages and buggies crowding the street and of a small garden filled with jessamine and magnolias. Palmettos rustled and clacked in the warm September wind.
A plump young woman in a faded calico dress brought the tea things. The director poured, passed the milk and sugar, and dismissed the girl. When the door closed, Mrs. Clayton leaned forward in her chair. “You probably don’t know Captain Stevens. He’s hardly a member of your circle. But he’s well known on the waterfront.”
Celia sipped her tea, recalling glimpses of a beefy, broad-shouldered man who commanded three cargo vessels. “I can’t say I’ve met him, but my father pointed him out to me several times. The captain is Danish, I believe. He makes quite a good living transporting produce from the plantations. He consigns his cargo to one of Papa’s colleagues on Commerce Row. Mr. Habersham.”
“That’s the one,” Mrs. Clayton said. “Well, last week Captain Stevens turned up here with a girl in tow. Apparently she hid herself away on one of his vessels, and he didn’t find her until he docked in Savannah. Of course he didn’t know what to do with her, so he brought her here. In rags and half starved she was, but she refuses to say where she came from. Captain Stevens will make inquiries on his next trip to the island, but for the moment we can’t be sure whether she is without a family or merely ran away.”
“But in any case, she must be looked after,” Ivy said, stirring more sugar into her tea.
“Precisely.” Mrs. Clayton turned her faded blue eyes on Celia. “That’s where you come in, my dear. So long as she is here, we must do our best to mold her mind and her character. She has shown some interest in books, but she is so far behind the other girls that Miss Ransom despairs of catching her up. I remember how much the girls enjoyed your reading to them on your visits last spring, and I hoped you might find time to read with Louisa. She seems bright enough.”
The director paused for breath. “I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask, especially when you’re working so hard to raise money for us, but everyone else has declined. All for very good reasons, but still . . .” She smiled. “I’m sure we will see great progress even if you can spare only a few hours each week.”
Celia set down her cup. She wanted to do as much as possible for the girls, and she was curious about the runaway. But in addition to the fund-raising reception, she had the masquerade ball to plan. And dinner tomorrow night with her father at the Greens’. And Sutton might arrive home any moment. “Mrs. Clayton, I would love to help but—”
“We’ll both help,” Ivy said. “With the two of us taking turns, the girl will progress even faster.” She set down her cup and smiled at Celia. “It’s always a privilege to help those less fortunate. Isn’t it, Cousin?”
Mrs. Clayton beamed. “Splendid. Miss Ransom will be so relieved. When can you start?”
&
nbsp; Celia stifled the impulse to do Ivy bodily harm. Nothing to cause permanent disfigurement. That would be wrong. But a good hard pinch on the arm or a swift kick in the shins . . .
She forced a smile. “May I consult my calendar and let you know?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Clayton rose. “I must speak to the cook, and I imagine you have much to do as well.”
“Yes,” Celia said. “We really must go.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you soon.” Mrs. Clayton patted Celia’s arm. “You, too, Miss Lorens. I cannot thank you enough.”
Celia and Ivy left the asylum and descended the steps to the street, where Joseph waited with the carriage. He doffed his hat and helped them inside.
Celia tamped down her anger and stared out the window as Joseph turned the carriage for home.
“Don’t be cross with me,” Ivy said minutes later as they approached Madison Square.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Celia let out an exasperated sigh. “First you defend that awful Leo Channing, and then you volunteer my services to the asylum when you know perfectly well I have a million things to do. Whatever is the matter with you?”
“Be honest, Celia.” Ivy reached up to corral a wayward blond curl that had escaped the confines of her veiled hat. “Aren’t you the least bit intrigued by the notion of a runaway? I haven’t met Louisa yet, but I must say I admire her for striking out and pursuing what she wants. It couldn’t have been easy to sneak aboard a cargo vessel and remain in hiding for days.”
As the carriage made a wide turn onto Bull Street, Celia spotted a familiar horse and rig standing outside her gate, and her anger dissipated like morning fog. The instant Joseph halted the carriage, Celia wrenched open the door and raced up the steps, Louisa and the masquerade and Leo Channing fading from her thoughts.
Sutton was home.
She found him in Papa’s library and stood stock still, drinking in the sight of him. He was every bit as attractive as she remembered—tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair curling over his forehead, his skin deeply tanned from two years beneath the harsh Jamaican sun.
“Celia!” He set aside the magazine he’d been reading and strode toward her, both hands outstretched, his gaze warming her like a fire.
Breathless with joy, she dropped her hat and reticule onto a settee and rushed into his arms. The long separation, the desperate silences between their letters, the powerful yearning to be with him every single minute were instantly forgotten. “You’re really here.”
“At last.” His gray eyes lingered on her face. “My dear Miss Browning. Just as beautiful as I remembered.”
“My dear Mr. Mackay. Just as silver-tongued as I remembered.” She laughed. “Not that the compliment is unappreciated.”
He stepped back and bowed, his expression grave. Their eyes met, and they dissolved into the helpless laughter of their childhood.
Mrs. Maguire came in with a tea tray and set it down with more force than was necessary. Celia sobered and inclined her head toward the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Maguire.”
“Sure and you’re welcome, Miss.” Arms akimbo, the housekeeper frowned at Sutton. “So here you are at last.”
“Yes, and very happy to be home.” Sutton grinned. “You’re looking exceedingly well, Mrs. Maguire. I do believe you are even more beautiful than when I left, if such a thing is possible.”
Mrs. Maguire blushed. “Humph. Had you given me decent notice, boyo, I might have made that almond cake you’re so fond of. Instead, you’ll have to settle for yesterday’s tea cake.”
Sutton winked at her. “I’m sure whatever you’ve brought will be just fine, and I thank you for it. You’re perfectly right. I should have given you more warning of my imminent arrival, but I was so eager to see you all that I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Ivy appeared in the doorway, her hands clasped at her waist. “Hello, Mr. Mackay.”
“Miss Lorens. You’re looking very well.”
Ivy lowered her gaze. “I am well. And happy to see you.”
“I’m delighted to be home. Jamaica was an interesting place to do business, but there is no substitute for Savannah.” Sutton motioned them to be seated on the settee. He took a chair opposite them while Mrs. Maguire poured tea.
“I cannot believe how the city has grown.” He waved one hand. “Waterworks, mills, more railroads, half a dozen new stores. It’s quite amazing in light of last year’s crisis.” He bit into a tea cake and closed his eyes in appreciation. “This is delicious, Mrs. Maguire. I think I like it every bit as much as your almond cake.”
A brief smile lit the housekeeper’s weathered face. She smoothed her apron. “Will there be anything else, Miss Celia?”
“No, thank you.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
Mrs. Maguire left, closing the door behind her.
Celia couldn’t stop looking at Sutton. She longed to throw herself into his arms and never let go, to have him all to herself for a private conversation, but of course propriety dictated that she not be alone with him until they were officially engaged. She nibbled at the tea cake, but she was too excited to taste a single bite. “When did you get home, Sutton? Have you seen Papa?”
“I arrived night before last.”
“Night before last? And you waited till now to visit me?”
“Trust me, I was in no shape to call upon a lady. We hit some rough water just off Kingston, and I was awake for twenty hours straight. I went directly to Mother’s and slept like the dead. Then I needed a trip to the barber’s. And the haberdasher’s.”
“I forgive you then,” she said, smiling. “And you do look quite fetching.”
He laughed. “Is that a word applied to gentlemen? What do you say, Miss Lorens?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Ivy set her cup down. “But it is very good to see you. I hope you’ll come to dinner soon and tell us all about your adventures in Jamaica. I’ve heard it’s quite primitive.”
“Parts of it are. But there are some fine homes there too. And some fine horse breeders, in among the crocodile-infested mangroves.”
He turned to face Celia. “I saw your father this morning. He told me about the ball you’re planning for next month.”
“Did he tell you it’s to be a masquerade? They are always such splendid fun, and nobody has hosted one since the last bad fever epidemic. At least this year’s outbreak was relatively mild. The Irish neighborhoods took the worst of it.” She studied his face, hardly able to believe that he was home at last. “You are pleased with my plans, I hope.”
“I am delighted but undeserving of so much attention. The Lawtons are hosting a dinner at the end of the week, and Mother is planning a reception for me at the Pulaski Hotel next Saturday. I’m sure you’ll all be invited to both.” He grinned. “I feel like a prospective bride.”
“Speaking of brides,” Ivy began. “Lacy Fondren is engaged to William Sikes.” She brushed a crumb from her green silk skirt. “But I’m sure you knew that already since she was such a good friend of yours.”
“Yes, Celia and Mother mentioned it in letters that arrived just before I left Jamaica.” Sutton helped himself to more tea and another tea cake. “I’m delighted for them. Celia and I both feel they are quite suited to one another.”
“Oh.” Ivy folded her hands in her lap and looked at the ceiling as if she expected to see another topic of conversation written there. “Celia and I visited the Female Asylum this morning and discovered there is a stowaway in residence. We’re to make a project of her, catching her up on her studies.”
“I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.” Sutton smiled at Ivy. “Miss Lorens, I wonder if I might ask a great favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“I’d like to escort Celia on a walk around Madison Square. I know you must be busy with your own pursuits, but I would certainly appreciate your coming along, if you can spare the time.”
“Of course.” Ivy smiled at Celia. “I kno
w how eager she has been for your return.”
“Well, then, shall we go?”
He offered an arm to each of them, and they left the house. The scent of the last of the summer flowers mingled with the smells of the sea, horses, and food cooking. Sutton chose a bench near a row of low green hedges.
Celia sat down, but Ivy stood, hands to her sides. “I’m sure you’d rather be alone. I’ll sit over there.” She indicated a white wrought-iron bench next to the small fountain.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Sutton said, but Celia read the longing in his eyes. He was as eager for time alone as she, but much too well-mannered to exclude Ivy.
“Well—” Ivy glanced away and fussed with her hat.
“You might enjoy all the catching up we have to do,” Sutton went on. “The business situation in Jamaica is quite interesting. I’ve always thought that a lady with such a broad and serious brow must surely have a lively mind.”
Ivy’s smile evaporated. Her expression went hard. “An attempt to console me for my plainness, Mr. Mackay?”
“Ivy!” Celia rose, frowning. Ivy had always been moody, and Celia usually felt protective of her prickly cousin. Right now, however, she wanted to strangle Ivy.
Sutton looked surprised but not angry. “Why, I’ve always thought you quite a lovely and charming lady, Miss Lorens. I’m sorry if my compliment missed the mark.”
Ivy gave him a grudging nod and whirled away.
Sutton watched her go. “Your cousin seems to be in high dudgeon about something.”
Celia plopped down next to him. “I know it. She’s been this way for days, and I haven’t a clue as to why.”
“Well, I am sorry to have said the wrong thing.” Sutton relaxed on the bench, his long legs crossed at the ankles.
“She’ll get past it.” Celia glanced at her cousin, who had perched on a bench beneath a moss-draped oak tree. “Her moods usually don’t last long.” She paused. “We had an uninvited visitor yesterday.”
Briefly she told him about Leo Channing and his determination to resurrect the events that had taken place fifteen years before. “Ivy claimed it didn’t bother her, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps Mr. Channing has upset her more than she’s willing to admit.”