The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  “What does your father say?”

  “He was furious when he learned Mr. Channing had barged into the house and announced his ridiculous notion of writing a book. Papa intends to talk to the Morning News editor, but of course Mr. Thompson will do whatever he thinks will sell the most newspapers.”

  Sutton nodded.

  “But I don’t want to talk about that anymore.” Celia faced him and took his hands. “I missed you terribly, and I’m dying to hear all about Jamaica.”

  “I wrote you most of it. Jamaica is not the same place it was when I first went there with my father. I was just a boy, of course, but I remember the talk about how the slaves had received emancipation and the speculation about how that would affect the sugar crop.” Sutton waved away a bee buzzing about their heads. “Sugar was practically the only export back then. Now the colony is much more diversified. The last two years we shipped more bananas and coffee than anything else.”

  “Papa says the South Coast is still prospering, even without slave labor.”

  “Yes. The port at Black River is still growing.”

  “Doesn’t that prove we could survive here, too, if the slaves are freed?”

  “I doubt it. Most of the Jamaican farms are much smaller than ours, and their crops require much less labor than our rice and cotton plantations. The end of slavery here will mean the end of life as we know it.”

  “Some people think war is inevitable. Especially if that man from Illinois is elected president.”

  “Yes. My father thinks so, too, as do most of our friends at the club.”

  “I pray they’re wrong, Sutton.” The mere possibility of sending him off to fight with the Chatham Artillery was too much to bear.

  Sutton tipped her face to his and smiled into her eyes. “Let’s not think about that now. The election is still two years away. Anything might happen before then.”

  “Such as?”

  “Some kind of compromise.”

  “That seems unlikely now that the court has declared a slave to be a slave wherever he goes. From what I’ve read in the papers, it seems people’s attitudes are more unbending than ever.”

  Sutton was still smiling at her.

  “You’re amused?”

  “No, enchanted. Delighted that you’ve grown into a woman who is not only beautiful and gracious, but smart too. And not afraid to express an opinion.”

  “Papa thinks I should be more circumspect.” Celia sighed. “I know he’s right, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to observe so many rules.”

  “Well, you can break all the rules you want with me.” He clasped her hand. “Celia?”

  She caught her breath. Was this the moment she had been waiting for?

  “Yes, Sutton?”

  “I’ve been thinking it’s time we—”

  “Sutton!”

  Celia looked up to see her father hurrying across the square, his coattail flapping behind him, his face pink with exertion.

  She and Sutton rose.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  Papa kissed her cheek. “Hello, my dear. I’m sorry for this interruption, but I’m afraid a crisis has arisen. We’re meeting at the club in half an hour.” He glanced at Sutton. “Your presence is required, my boy.”

  “What’s happened, sir?” Sutton retrieved his hat from the bench and buttoned his jacket.

  “My driver is waiting. I’ll explain on the way.”

  3

  MIDNIGHT. THE LITTLE FRENCH CHIME CLOCK ON THE FIREPLACE mantel in her bedroom marked the hour. Wide awake, Celia slipped from the bed and parted the curtains. Flickering gaslights illuminated the empty street and the dark shapes of the houses on the square, the globes of orange light suspended in the inky darkness. A stray cat crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows.

  What could possibly be taking Papa so long? A thousand imagined horrors crossed her mind. Some problem with his business. More political unrest. A killer on the loose.

  After her father came for Sutton, she and Ivy had returned to the house, Ivy to resume her knitting, Celia to choose the books she would take to the Female Asylum for Louisa’s first reading session tomorrow. Mrs. Maguire had served supper in the parlor before retiring to her own room. Much later the Mackays’ driver had arrived to retrieve Sutton’s horse and buggy. And still Papa had not returned.

  The sound of a horse and carriage echoed in the empty street, and the Brownings’ carriage halted at the gate below. Finally! Celia grabbed her dressing gown and hurried barefoot down the darkened staircase just as the door opened.

  “Papa?”

  “Heavens, girl, you startled me.”

  Celia folded her arms across her chest. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been awake half the night, imagining all sorts of dire calamities.”

  “Forgive me, my dear. I intended to send word that the meeting would run late but nobody wanted to leave the proceedings.” He headed for his study.

  She followed and waited while he lit the lamp. “Is Sutton all right?”

  Papa fell into his chair and managed a tired smile. “Yes, but perturbed at me for taking him away from you so soon.”

  “I should be perturbed too. I think he was about to propose just when you arrived.”

  “Oh, my dear, I do apologize. But you can be sure he won’t let this interruption derail his intentions. If I know Sutton, he will declare himself soon enough.”

  She settled into the chair across from his. “What was so important that it took all night?”

  He sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes. When he looked up again, his expression was grave. “I’d rather you didn’t repeat this to anyone. The situation is volatile enough without the weight of too much discussion.”

  “Of course.” There had been only the two of them since her mother had died at sea. In the seventeen years since, whether the topic was business or politics, her father had treated her as an equal. He was the only person besides Sutton in whom she had complete faith and trust. “What’s happened?”

  “I barely know where to begin. You know about the articles William Thompson published in his newspaper this summer, calling for a reopening of the slave trade.”

  “Yes, Sutton mentioned it in his last letters from Jamaica. He says Mr. Thompson isn’t the only one. Some of the planters feel that way too.”

  “Charlie Lamar is in the middle of it. Apparently he spent this year up in New York state secretly building a new slave ship. He’s already made a trial run to New Orleans, and he’s outfitted the ship with enough water for a long voyage. It seems he intends to defy federal restrictions and bring more slaves into Georgia.”

  “Won’t the authorities stop him?”

  “They will try.”

  “But, Papa, who would purchase his cargo and risk having federal marshals at their doors?”

  “That’s what tonight’s meeting was about. We hoped to band together to convince Lamar not to pursue such an undertaking, but it appears we’re too late. We think the Wanderer has already sailed for Africa.”

  A wave of revulsion washed over her. Just last spring, on an outing with the Mackays to Isle of Hope, Sutton’s father had spoken at length about the early days of the African trade and the unspeakable cruelties that had taken place aboard the British slaver ships. It was unlikely that conditions had improved much since then. Celia balled her fists in her lap. “I cannot abide Mr. Thompson and his newspaper. It seems he’s always stirring up trouble. First the slave trade and now that disgusting Leo Channing prying into our family’s past.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door opened and Mrs. Maguire, in a blue dressing gown, her iron-gray hair in a thick plait, came in carrying a supper tray. “I heard your voices and thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thank you,” Papa said. “I am a bit peckish, but you should not have disturbed your rest on my account.”

  “’Tis no trouble.” The housekeeper set down the tray and poured coffee. “I was awake anyway. I
don’t sleep well until all my chickens are safely under the roof. And that includes you, Mr. Browning.”

  He laughed, blue eyes twinkling, and picked up his cup. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Mrs. Maguire.”

  Mrs. Maguire pointed a finger at Celia. “You’d best be gettin’ your sleep, my girl.”

  “In a minute.” Celia helped herself to a sandwich. “I want to say good night to Papa.”

  “Then don’t be blaming me when you wake up tomorra all out o’ sorts and with circles under your eyes.”

  Mrs. Maguire left, the hem of her dressing gown whispering on the carpet. Celia bit into her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “So, Papa, if Mr. Lamar has already left for Africa, what is to be done?”

  “Nothing. As nearly as we can calculate, he should be returning sometime in November.” He drained his cup and set it on the tray. “Until then, the less said about it the better.”

  “Was Mr. Thompson at the meeting tonight?”

  “He was—to try to convince us we’re wrong about Charlie Lamar.”

  “Did you ask him about Leo Channing?”

  “I stated my objections to Mr. Channing’s intentions in the strongest possible terms.”

  “And?”

  “He has assured me that Channing will stay away from this house and from you and Ivy.”

  “But he won’t order Channing not to write about us?”

  “He made no promises beyond assuring me that anything that is printed in the paper will be fair. But of course if Channing decides to write a book, Thompson can’t stop him.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Thompson’s articles have been fairly evenhanded, though I don’t always agree with his point of view.” Papa leaned forward to pat her shoulder. “I know you’re worried about Channing stirring up all those old stories again, especially now that Sutton is home. But Sutton knows us, Celia. He knows your heart. Nothing Channing can write will change that.”

  “It won’t change the truth either, but you know how people love to gossip.” Celia finished her sandwich and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “I didn’t care much for Uncle Magnus, but I hated the things that were said about him after Aunt Eugenia died. And now Mr. Channing has said he doesn’t believe her death was an accident.”

  She folded her napkin and placed it carefully on her plate. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, Papa?”

  Papa rose and briefly embraced her. “It’s late, Celia. Go to bed.”

  Celia followed Mrs. Clayton down the quiet hallway of the Female Asylum. The girls had gathered in the spacious parlor on the first floor with Miss Ransom, leaving their bedrooms empty, the narrow beds neatly made, curtains fluttering in the languid September breeze. Through an open window Celia spotted three young women hurrying across the lawn, the hems of their skirts flipping up behind them to revealing glimpses of white petticoats.

  Mrs. Clayton stopped before a closed door near the end of the hallway, knocked once, and motioned Celia to follow her inside.

  “Louisa,” she said softly. “I’ve brought Miss Browning to read with you.”

  The girl was a study in contrasts: coffee-colored skin, bright-blue eyes, a penumbra of curly hair that was neither blond nor brown. She was older than Celia had imagined, though it was hard to guess her true age. She might have been as young as twelve, as old as seventeen. Certainly she was as tall as Celia herself, whipthin and all sharp angles.

  The girl set aside her needlework and folded her hands, waiting.

  “Hello, Louisa.” Celia crossed the narrow room and held out both hands. “Mrs. Clayton has told me about your—about how you came to Savannah. I must say I admire your bravery.”

  Ignoring Celia’s outstretched hands, the girl shrugged.

  “Well,” Mrs. Clayton said, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” She left, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Celia perched on the edge of the bed and opened the small travel satchel she’d used for transporting the books. “I wasn’t sure what kind of stories you might like. I brought—”

  “Don’t matter.”

  “But surely you’d like to catch up to the others so you can study with Miss Ransom. I understand she plans to—”

  “Listen. You’re trying to do a good thing. It’s what rich ladies are supposed to do—got nothing else to occupy their time. But I have my own plans, and they don’t include staying at a place like this any longer than I’ve got to. It’s a waste of time, teaching me to read better than I already do.”

  “Learning is never wasted.” Celia glanced around the room. With whitewashed plaster walls, dusty windows, and plain furniture, it lacked a feminine touch, but it was clean and safe. The girl’s embroidery hoop lay on the narrow bed. The half finished piece was exquisite, featuring birds and butterflies and entwined flowers, each tiny jewel-colored stitch neat and perfectly matched to the others. “Someone spent a lot of time teaching you to do such beautiful needlework.”

  Silence.

  Celia tried a different tack. “I imagine Captain Stevens was quite surprised to find you aboard his boat.”

  The girl chewed off a ragged fingernail and spat it onto the braided cotton rug covering the pine floor. “Said I could get him in a peck of trouble. But I’m not a slave.” Louisa’s expression was one of steely determination. “I can go wherever I please. I told the captain I was born in freedom, but it didn’t matter. He was real mad.”

  “Because you might have made trouble for him. But he was still concerned enough to bring you to Mrs. Clayton. He could have turned you over to the authorities. There are penalties for stowing away.”

  Downstairs, the front door opened. Through the window Celia saw Miss Ransom and her charges spilling onto the narrow lawn bordering the street.

  Following Celia’s gaze, the girl unfolded her long legs, her movements fluid as smoke, and got to her feet. “Looks like reading time is over.”

  The girl’s lack of cooperation rankled. Most of the young women at the asylum were grateful for the chance to better their lives, but Louisa seemed not to care at all.

  Celia took a couple of books from her satchel and handed them to Louisa. “Perhaps you’d enjoy reading Jane Eyre on your own. Or Vanity Fair. The author, Mr. Thackeray, visited Savannah a few years ago. He stayed at the home of a friend of ours. Mr. Low. I was so excited to meet him that when we finally were face-to-face I could barely speak a word.”

  The girl set the books aside and glanced at Celia’s satchel. “What else you got in there?”

  “Let’s see. How about Indiana, by George Sand. It’s a love story that takes place partly in a castle and partly in Paris. But it was written almost thirty years ago. Perhaps you’ve already read it.”

  Louisa shrugged.

  “I brought a few magazines too.” Celia offered the girl the latest issues of Peterson’s Magazine and the Home Journal. Louisa flipped through the Peterson’s, not bothering to read anything, but pausing here and there to study illustrations of lavish ball gowns and plumed hats.

  Perhaps fashion was a way into this girl’s guarded heart. “I must go, but I’ll leave these with you. When I come again we can discuss the ones you’ve read, and I can help you with any words you don’t know. Would that be all right?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Good. In the meantime, perhaps you shouldn’t mention to Mrs. Clayton that we didn’t read today. She seems very determined that you should catch up to everyone else, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course not. I only meant—”

  “I have to go. Mrs. Clayton gets her drawers in a knot if we’re late to chores.”

  Celia stifled a laugh. “I’ll walk down with you.”

  4

  PAPA SET DOWN HIS GLASS AND SMILED AT HIS DINNER GUEST across the dining-room table. “We’re delighted you could finally join us, my boy. I’m afraid Celia has not quite forgiven me for interrupting your walk in the
park last week.”

  Celia took a sip of water from her cut-glass tumbler. “I forgive you, Papa. It wouldn’t be fair not to, considering everything you’ve done to help with the masquerade party for Sutton next month.”

  “I’m honored that you’ve all gone to such lengths to welcome me home.” Sutton ate another bite of roast beef. “There’s nothing more welcoming than a dinner under your roof, Mr. Browning. But I will admit a costume ball is more excitement than I’ve had these past years.”

  Ivy caught Sutton’s eye. “Have you chosen your costume yet? Or will it be a surprise?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t had much time to think about it.” Sutton’s expression clouded. “Father has not seemed quite himself of late, and then there was that worrisome business about the Wanderer.”

  “Has there been any more news?” Celia asked.

  “Nothing,” Papa said. “I ran into Captain Stevens a couple of days ago. He’s just back from a trip to St. Simons and hasn’t seen anything of the Wanderer. We are in for some difficult days if Charlie Lamar does return with human cargo.”

  Celia buttered a slice of bread. “I suppose you saw Mr. Thompson’s piece in the paper yesterday. He’s all for importing more slaves, and yet he seems to think the poor whites here in town might decide they have more in common with the blacks, economically speaking, and side with them against the slaveholders. Thus we must guard against an excess of democracy, or so he says. It’s quite contradictory. I didn’t know there was such a thing as too much democracy.”

  “Blacks and whites can work together,” Sutton said. “In Jamaica it’s the only way to get things done. Of course, slavery has been outlawed down there for twenty years.” He set down his fork. “I don’t like the idea of bringing in more slaves. Lamar is putting all of the Lowcountry at risk.”

  Papa nodded. “Mr. Sneed said as much in his piece in the Republican. I can see his point. If Georgia experiences another flood of Negro labor, the poor white men will have no chance to adequately support themselves, and the divide between rich and poor will only grow wider. That won’t be good for Savannah or for the rest of Georgia.” He sighed. “The whole situation is worrisome.”