by Dorothy Love
“But you have taught me everything about being human.”
“Well.” He wiped his eyes. “I’d better get to work. Now that Mr. Shaw has left us, I seem always to be behind.”
She fingered her veil. “I looked over our ledgers last week as you asked. We’re doing well.”
“We’ve been lucky this season. Good cotton crops, no bad storms at sea. Everyone on Commerce Row will make money this year—even the Mackays, thank God.” He threw back the covers. “Enough dawdling. You must excuse me now. Time’s a-wasting.”
Celia returned to her room and put the veil away. The door to Ivy’s room across the hall stood ajar, revealing a jumble of dresses, shawls, and hatboxes on the unmade bed. In the middle of it all sat Maxwell calmly demolishing one of Ivy’s delicate kid gloves.
“Maxwell, no!” Celia chased him down and took the mangled glove from his mouth. “Now look what you’ve done!”
He sat on his haunches and cocked his head, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Now we shall have to buy Ivy a new pair. Come on, you little thief. Let’s go outside.”
She patted her thigh, and he raced ahead of her down the stairs. She let him into the garden, then peered into the parlor, expecting to find Ivy. But the room was deserted, the morning fire nearly out.
A moment later the puppy scratched on the door, and she went to let him in. Celia took his towel from its peg beside the kitchen door and dried him off before giving him a bite of bacon left from breakfast. He gobbled it and waited for more.
“Sorry, sweet boy. That’s all.” She held up both hands, palms out, and Maxwell headed for his favorite napping spot next to the warm kitchen hearth.
Mrs. Maguire came in with an armload of wood for the cook-stove and dumped it into the wood box. She dusted off her hands and filled the teapot. “Is your da up and about?”
“Yes, but I wish he’d stay home. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and the weather today is so disagreeable.”
“So ’tis.” Mrs. Maguire took two cups from the cupboard and set them on a tray. “I thought I heard him prowling around down here last night, and not for the first time, either.”
Celia avoided the housekeeper’s steely expression. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Maguire to suspect her, even though the diary had already given up all the information it was going to. The missing pages nagged at her, begged to be found, but Celia’s search had turned up nothing. “Papa told me the laudanum isn’t working very well. He won’t talk to the doctor, but somebody should.”
Mrs. Maguire measured tea leaves into the pot. “’Tis surely a worrisome situation, but your da is a grown man, and capable of looking after himself. He won’t take kindly to your interfering.”
“But I can’t bear to think he’s suffering if there might be another medicine—”
“Laudanum’s the most powerful tonic there is, as far as I can tell. And the truth is, the longer a person takes it, the more the body gets used to it. Eventually Mr. Browning will have to take larger doses to ease his pains.” Mrs. Maguire paused to pour hot water onto the tea leaves. “Leastways that’s how it was with me poor sister back in the Waterford days.”
“I never knew you had a sister.”
“’Twas a very long time ago now, but I miss her to this day. Talkin’ about her still makes me weep, so I try not to.” The housekeeper turned away. “Now where on earth did I leave my sugar tongs?”
The doorbell sounded, rousing Maxwell from his nap. Mrs. Maguire patted her hair and retied her apron. “You sit tight, Miss Celia. I’ll see who it is.”
But Celia followed the housekeeper along the long, narrow hallway, stopping just inside the parlor door.
A moment later, Mrs. Maguire returned. “A visitor for Miss Ivy, shy about givin’ me her name. I told her Miss Ivy’s gone out for the day. So now she wants to see you.”
“I can’t imagine who would venture out on a day like this.”
Mrs Maguire nodded. “Looks like a drowned rat, she does. I’d best bring the tea in. And some cake too—from the looks of her she hasn’t eaten for a while.”
The housekeeper hurried away and in a moment returned with the visitor. “Miss Celia, here she is.”
Mrs. Maguire turned to rekindle the fire in the grate. The caller removed her hooded cape and stood dripping water onto the carpet.
“Louisa? Heavens above. Where on earth have you been?”
“I’ll get the tea.” Mrs. Maguire headed for the kitchen.
Celia took Louisa’s cloak to the hall tree and motioned the girl to a chair before the fire. “Do you realize Mrs. Clayton has been frantic to find you? Why did you run away from the asylum? Does she know you are safe?”
“She knows. I went by there this morning and told her I won’t be living there no more.” Louisa pushed her damp curls off her face and warmed her hands before the fire. “I got me a job and a room at the boardinghouse on Broad Street.”
“A job? Doing what?”
“Fancy needlework for the linen shop down from the hotel. Embroidering monograms on sheets and pillowcases and such. Mrs. Foyle at the dress shop said she didn’t have no room for people like me.”
“I see.” Celia paused while Mrs. Maguire delivered the tea tray.
The housekeeper eyed the girl warily. “Is everything all right, Miss Browning?”
“Fine. Thank you, Mrs. Maguire.”
Mrs. Maguire withdrew. Celia filled a plate with slices of cake and poured tea into a delicate ivory cup. “Here you are, Louisa.”
The girl picked up the cake with her fingers and devoured it in three bites, washing it down with gulps of tea. “Sure tastes better’n anything we get at the Female Asylum. I purely got sick of nothin’ for breakfast ’cept grits and eggs.”
“Nevertheless, it was thoughtless of you to leave there without telling anyone, after everything Mrs. Clayton has done to help you. She could have turned you in to the police. Captain Stevens could have as well. You’ve repaid their kindness by running away—not once, but twice. At least.”
The girl lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Can I have some more cake?”
Celia placed another slice of cake on the girl’s plate. Louisa consumed it at a more leisurely pace as she surveyed the parlor. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and crumpled it into her plate. “I always wondered how this house looked. It’s even fancier than I thought.”
Celia sipped her tea and gathered her patience. “Why do you want to see my cousin?”
The girl opened her drawstring bag and withdrew a thin volume of poetry. “I wanted to return this.”
“Thank you. I’ll see that she gets it. I’m happy that you thought to return it.”
Another small shrug. “I didn’t like it enough to keep it. I couldn’t understand a single word of it. Why don’t poets say what they mean in plain old words ’stead of fancying it up so nobody can make heads or tails of it?”
The girl lifted her hem and extended her feet toward the fire. “My toes are freezing.”
Celia noticed a ragged hole in the hem of the girl’s petticoat. Recognition dawned. Frowning, she set down her cup. “How did you get that tear in your petticoat?”
“What tear?”
“Louisa. The night of the riot I went to investigate a noise in the garden and discovered a prowler hiding near the carriage house. That prowler shoved me into the dirt and got away. Later I found a piece of torn fabric there. It matches your petticoat.”
“Must be dozens of petticoats just like mine in Savannah.”
“Not with the same fine needlework as yours. I saw your work when we first met at the asylum. So maybe you ought to tell me why you were sneaking around here in the middle of the night. Or if you prefer, we can go down to the police barracks, and you can tell them.”
Louisa dropped her gaze. “I wanted to see the carriage house, but it’s all boarded up.”
“Yes, we stopped using it many years ago. I can’t imagine why it would have any interest for you.”<
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Louisa lifted her head, her blue eyes defiant. “I didn’t mean to scare you that night, and I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted to see the place where my mother died.”
21
AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT GLINTED ON THE RIVER. WHITECAPS stirred by a light breeze lapped against the boat as Sutton rowed toward Screven’s Ferry Landing. A morning storm had delayed their departure, but at last the skies had cleared, promising a fine day. Celia, tucked into the stern of the sturdy little craft and snuggled beneath a woolen blanket, scarcely stopped for breath as the story of Louisa’s visit poured out of her. Sutton’s return from Charleston the previous week had been delayed, and Celia hadn’t wanted to tell anyone else about Louisa’s startling claim.
“How do you know the girl is telling the truth?” Sutton asked.
“She knew Septima’s name, which I didn’t know myself until I found Aunt Eugenia’s diary. Somehow Louisa found out her mother had died in our carriage house. Aunt Eugenia’s diary mentioned that my uncle’s mistress had a child. It’s hard to tell Louisa’s age exactly, but with the dates in the diary—it’s not out of the question.”
Sutton let out a low whistle.
“Septima left St. Simons just before her baby was born and returned shortly afterward. When Aunt Eugenia found out about the affair, she left St. Simons, and Uncle Magnus followed her here. Apparently Septima followed them to Savannah—or else my uncle provided a place for her to live in the city. Aunt Eugenia mentions that he was absent from the island quite a lot, and she mentions seeing the two of them riding in a carriage together in Savannah.”
“How in the world did Louisa know it was your family who was involved?”
“After Septima’s death, my uncle disappeared. Friends of Septima’s living on St. Simons raised Louisa. When they finally told her as much as they knew of the story, she stowed away on Captain Stevens’s boat and came here to Savannah to find out the rest for herself.”
Celia watched a wood duck flapping along the water’s surface. “It was just a coincidence that Mrs. Clayton asked Ivy and me to help Louisa catch up on her reading.”
They approached the landing. Celia steadied herself as the boat scraped the sandy bottom.
Sutton rested the oars in the locks but made no move to go ashore. “You haven’t told Ivy she has a half sister?”
“Not yet.”
“How do you know Louisa won’t spill the beans?”
“I told her I wouldn’t mention to the police that I caught her trespassing on my property if she would wait and let me tell Ivy in my own way. You know how flighty Ivy can be when she’s upset, and I don’t want her worrying Papa. He has not been sleeping well lately, and there is no need to make matters worse by bringing up this entire sordid episode.”
Sutton released a noisy breath. “What a story. It is unsavory, but darling, it has nothing to do with you. Magnus Lorens is not your blood kin, and even if he were, no one could hold you or your father accountable for his sins.”
“I know. And I will tell Ivy soon. But I want our wedding to be perfect and not marred by fresh gossip. If word gets out that Ivy and Louisa are half sisters—”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled into her eyes. “Our wedding will be perfect. You’ll see.”
“I hope so, for Papa’s sake as well as ours.”
“So do I. But the weather is fine, and we have the afternoon to ourselves. Just for today, let’s put everything else out of our minds and enjoy it.” Sutton secured the boat to the rotted wooden pilings and helped Celia out, then reached for the picnic hamper Mrs. Maguire had packed.
The area was much as Celia remembered it—flat and overgrown, veined with narrow paths leading into the woods and the rice fields beyond. She studied the trunks of the old trees, wondering which one bore the marks of Sutton’s pocketknife. Together they started up a narrow footpath that disappeared into the old forest. The wind stirred the Spanish moss draping the gnarled oaks. The brown leaves trembled with the shadows of a pair of jays.
After a few moments Sutton stopped and pointed. “It must be right around here somewhere.”
Celia looked past his shoulder to a massive oak whose branches spread across the path and over the water. “Is that it?”
He grinned. “I think so.”
They picked their way through the undergrowth and stopped beneath the tree. “There’s your initial, Celia. And here’s mine.”
He set down their basket and ran his fingers over the carvings. “I can’t believe they’re still here.”
“It seems so long ago,” she said. “But I remember everything about that night. I was half scared and half thrilled to be out here with you, alone in the dark. It seemed very grown-up and very adventurous.”
He laughed. “I was the one who was scared. I was dying to impress you, and after that old woman showed up and then got hurt, I figured you’d never speak to me again.”
“I knew it was an accident.” She smiled up at him. “I’ve never doubted your good intentions, your good heart. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
“Really?” Sutton folded his arms and leaned against the tree, clearly enjoying her compliment. “What else do you find irresistible? My amazing business acumen? My skill on the dance floor? My devastating good looks?”
She tilted her head and pretended to consider. “No, all in all, I’d have to say it’s your incredible modesty.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and she joined in.
He lifted her off her feet and twirled her around. “Celia Francesca Browning, I do love you quite beyond all reason.”
He bent his head to kiss her, and she was lost in the moment, all her troubles forgotten. All she felt was Sutton—his warmth, his touch, his tenderness, and his strength.
They drew apart. A wave of emotion pulled at her like an undertow. She watched the play of sun and shadow on his face, and suddenly he looked as he had as a young boy with the sun on his shoulders, intent upon the steamers and schooners in the harbor, one hand shading his eyes against the brittle light reflecting off the river. Despite the difficulties of an Atlantic crossing in winter, Celia was impatient to begin their voyage to England, to share his love of ships and the sea.
He retrieved their basket and took her hand. “Hungry?”
“A little.” She chafed her arms. “A bit chilly as well. I’m glad Mrs. Maguire insisted we bring an extra blanket.”
“Let’s find a spot to build a fire and warm up that coffee you brought.”
Hand in hand they retraced their steps along the tangled footpath. Sutton told her about the shipment of lumber he was readying for transport to Jamaica and about some improvements he was making to the Celia B. She told him about the Christmas preparations taking place at home and the gifts she had purchased for her father and Ivy.
“Nothing for me?” he teased when she paused for breath.
“Of course I’ve bought you a present, but I don’t want to talk about it. You’re too good at guessing, and I want you to be surprised.”
He grinned. “So long as Ivy doesn’t surprise me with more gifts. I never know what to make of her.”
Celia jammed her hands into her pockets. “Sometimes I don’t either. She has always set so much store by presents. Once, Ivy told Papa she wanted a doll she had seen in a shop window downtown. It was beautiful and shockingly expensive. But it was Ivy’s birthday, so Papa bought it for her. Aunt Eugenia had been dead for less than a year, and I suppose he thought the doll would comfort her somehow.”
They walked for some time, discussing this and that, Sutton’s occasional laughter ringing through the trees. Celia paused while Sutton lifted a fallen branch from the path, then returned to the subject of her cousin and their difficult kinship. “One year when my birthday came around, Papa gave me a blown-glass carousel with six white horses that pranced when you pressed a button to start music playing.”
The memory slowed her steps along the narrow path. “It was the most enchant
ing thing I’d ever seen. Papa said my mother had purchased it in Paris before I was born. I kept it beside my bed and played with it every night just before going to sleep. It was like keeping a little part of her with me.” Sutton placed an arm around her shoulders to draw her closer, but he didn’t interrupt. “One day I found Ivy in my room, playing with the carousel. I yelled at her to put it down, that it was mine. And the next thing I knew it was on the floor, broken into a million pieces.”
Celia paused, surprised at the anger she felt even now. “Of course Ivy claimed it was an accident. Mrs. Maguire took her side and told me I had to forgive Ivy because she was an orphan.”
A thorn caught at her skirt as they passed, and she yanked it free. “It was that way for most of our childhood. Even though Ivy is older, I was always the one expected to forgive and forget.” Celia shrugged. “She would never admit it, but she’s envious that I’m younger and marrying first.”
They continued along the path until they reached a clearing near the river’s edge. Sutton set the basket down. “Maybe she’ll meet someone at our Christmas party next Friday.”
“Your mother told me she’s invited half of Savannah.”
Sutton laughed. “It’s not much of an exaggeration. Mrs. Johns has been baking all week. If half the city shows up at my house, there has to be at least one acceptable bachelor in the lot.” He looked around. “Wait here. I’ll get some wood for the fire. I won’t be long.”
Celia watched him disappear into the trees. To her left, the river shimmered beneath the pale winter sun. A squirrel darted across the clearing and scampered up a tree. She spread the tablecloth on the ground, then set out their plates and cups. The jar of coffee Mrs. Maguire had sent was still warm in her hands, but already the winter afternoon was waning. The wind was rising, bringing a chill from the river.
She heard a noise behind her and turned to look over her shoulder, certain she’d heard someone breathing. But that was impossible. Hardly anyone came out here these days. Unless the old woman who lived here all those years ago was still around.