The Bracelet: A Novel

by Dorothy Love

  “Your husband here tried to rescue one of the men on the bucket brigade, who got trapped beneath a burning timber. Apparently he went in through a busted-out window and then got trapped himself trying to find a way out. The doors were padlocked, and we feared they were doomed. When we finally broke the lock and got them out, he was half conscious and calling for you. He was threatening to walk all the way back to the hotel, so I thought I’d better fetch you.”

  Celia felt faint. “I’m grateful, but it wasn’t necessary to frighten me to death. You might have explained the situation instead of snatching me off the street like that.”

  Another water wagon rumbled past. Shouts filled the air.

  “I apologize. But given the nature of our relationship, I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.” Leo Channing looked down at Sutton. “How are you, Mackay?”

  “My lungs feel like they’re on fire.”

  “You breathed in a lot of smoke.” Channing rose. “You need a doctor.”

  Sutton licked his lips and struggled into a sitting position. “How . . . how is the other fellow?”

  Mr. Channing slowly shook his head. “You did everything you could. Stay put. I’ll get the carriage.”

  Moments later the reporter returned and helped them inside. “I’ve sent for Dr. Dearing. He’ll meet us at the hotel.”

  Sutton leaned heavily against Celia as the carriage rocked along the street. From what Celia could tell, the fire was finally out. The water wagons were lined up along the darkened road, and the policemen were dispersing the last of the crowd.

  Celia cradled Sutton’s head and let the tears come. Wordlessly, Mr. Channing proffered his handkerchief. When the carriage drew up at the hotel entrance, he ran inside and soon returned with the night clerk and another man. The three of them helped Sutton out of the carriage and carried him inside.

  “Let’s put him over there,” the clerk said. They half carried Sutton across the room and lowered him onto the settee nearest the fireplace.

  The crisis transformed the sleepy night clerk into a model of efficiency. He was everywhere at once, summoning a chambermaid to bring a pillow and blanket, fetching a pitcher of water and fresh linens. He turned up the lights in the gas chandelier and stoked the fire in the fireplace.

  Dr. Dearing arrived clutching his medical bag, his hat askew and his shirttail hanging out, his expression the very picture of disapproval. “Miss Browning? Is it your father? I specifically told him not to—”

  “Over there, Doc.” Mr. Channing pointed. “It’s Mr. Mackay. The younger Mr. Mackay, that is.”

  Celia started to follow, but the doctor held up his hand. “Please. I need room.”

  “But he’s my husband.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the emperor of China. I still need space to conduct a proper examination.” Dr. Dearing gentled his voice. “I know you’re worried, but the sooner I can assess his condition, the better for him.”

  The clerk appeared at her side with a tea tray. “Come along. You can wait in my office.” He motioned to Mr. Channing. “You look like you could use a spot of something yourself.”

  Mr. Channing rubbed his eyes. “You got anything stronger than tea?”

  “Go on in with the lady. I’ll bring you a whiskey.”

  Celia was uncomfortable at having to sit with Channing, but she was near collapse, and besides, he had looked after Sutton.

  They entered the small office, a cluttered space lit by a couple of guttering lamps. The clerk poured tea for Celia before leaving to get a bottle and a glass for the newspaperman.

  “I must keep an eye on the front desk,” the clerk said when he returned. “But let me know if you need anything. I’ll fetch you as soon as the doctor is done.”

  He left.

  Channing poured his whiskey and took a long sip. “So here we are again.”

  Celia added sugar to her tea. “I’m grateful to you for taking care of my husband.”

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t do for you to become a bride and a widow on the same day. And anybody else would have done the same. Mackay was frantic with worry. Said you wouldn’t know what had happened to him.” Mr. Channing took a sip of the whiskey. “I was enjoying a spot of Christmas cheer at the establishment for the convivially inclined just down the street and heard the commotion. By the time I got to the Row, that lawyers’ office on the corner was blazing away.”

  “Weems and Phelps.” The office was just three doors down from Mackay Shipping Company. Celia had passed it many times on her way to Papa’s office.

  “That’s the one. It took the volunteer fire companies some time to assemble, it being Christmas and all, and in the interim, Mr. Mackay and several others formed a bucket brigade to keep the flames from spreading.” The reporter finished the whiskey and helped himself to another. “Then he saw the man trapped inside and went in to save him. You know the rest.”

  Mr. Channing turned the glass in his hands, his gaze so intent that she looked away. “I didn’t realize you were married already.”

  “I didn’t realize you were still in Savannah.”

  “I was going home for Christmas but missed my train.” He shifted in his chair. “I got the note you sent. About the laundress. Septima. I was surprised you kept your side of our bargain.”

  The tea calmed her. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you told me about my aunt’s diary. It shed some light on things, though I still have many unanswered questions.” She set down her cup. “And apart from your wanting me to uncover the diary, I don’t know why you sent those unsettling anonymous messages.”

  “I didn’t send them to you. They were for your cousin. Except for the last one. I hoped it would warn you.”

  “ ‘An oak is often split by a wedge from its own branch.’ But Ivy said—”

  “After your cousin spoke to me the first time, I suspected that Ivy knew what happened in the carriage house.”

  “Why? What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing. But a reporter develops a sixth sense about people. I had a feeling your cousin knew more than she would admit. I hoped the notes would convince her that someone else knew the truth, too, and that she would confide in me.”

  Mr. Channing poured another drink. “I didn’t know she’d pretended the messages were for you. I didn’t know about the hidden message in the bracelet either. The so-called language of the jewels—or that she was the one who sent it.”

  Celia’s mind reeled. “Wait a minute. You knew Ivy was responsible for the bracelet?”

  “Now I do. But the day you came to my boardinghouse, I thought the little bauble was a gift from an anonymous suitor, just as I told you. It was only later that Ivy confided in me and asked for my help with her plan.”

  “To do harm to Sutton and me.”

  “Well, to one or the other. She wanted to prevent your marriage somehow. I’m the first to admit I’m no saint, but I wanted no part of her scheme.”

  Celia frowned. “And you didn’t think to warn me? To alert the authorities to a murder plot?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe you hoped she would do it, and then you’d have your big sensational story.”

  Mr. Channing clapped a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Mrs. Mackay. Any reporter wants a big story, but even I would not want to see you come to harm.”

  “Then why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  “I knew I would not be believed. Your father would have seen it as another attempt to stir up controversy. Ivy would have denied everything, and I had no proof. I would have been the one arrested.”

  Celia pondered his words. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Besides, when I told your cousin I wouldn’t help her, I got the impression she was giving up on her plan. I didn’t think she was brave enough to attempt such a thing on her own.”

  “I see. But when I called on the jeweler in Yamacraw, he told me a young man commissioned the bracelet. So who—”

  “Miss Lorens chose a jeweler in a part of t
own where she was unknown and unlikely to cross paths with any of your acquaintances. She told me she dressed as a man, in some get-up she made for a costume party. She’s tall enough and, if you don’t mind my saying so, big-boned enough, to have gotten away with impersonating a man.”

  “Robin Hood.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The costume she made for my masquerade party last fall. I saw it when I went to her room that night. Dark-brown trousers and a matching tunic. A brown felt hat. Completely nondescript.”

  “And therefore unlikely to be remembered. Even if a tunic isn’t exactly the height of fashion these days.” Mr. Channing stroked his chin. “Robin Hood, eh? Taking from the rich to give to the poor. One does have to admire her sense of irony.”

  Celia slumped in the chair and rubbed her eyes. “I suppose this gives you much more fodder for your book.”

  He smiled. “Well, I’m not altogether altruistic. A leopard and his spots and so forth. I still have my theories, but even with the name of the laundress, my investigation has hit a dead end. I could write a book filled with conjecture, but as it happens, I’m on the trail of an even bigger story back in Baltimore. Besides, since your cousin has left the country—”

  She stared at him. “My word, Mr. Channing. Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “A journalist is only as good as his ability to cultivate sources. I happen to have a few good ones down on the waterfront. One of them was loading the Percival when your driver delivered Ivy and her companion to the wharf.” The newspaperman drained his glass. “I can’t prove it, but my guess is that her companion was none other than the daughter of—”

  The office door opened, and the night clerk came in. “Mrs. Mackay, your husband is asking for you.”

  Celia shot to her feet. “Please excuse me, Mr. Channing.”

  The reporter followed her out of the office. She crossed the deserted lobby at a dead run, nearly colliding with Dr. Dearing. He put out a hand to steady her. “No need to rush. He’s got a few blisters and he’ll need a couple of days for his lungs to clear, but he’s going to be just fine.”

  “Thank God.”

  The doctor nodded. “Congratulations on your wedding. Your husband told me of your decision to marry earlier than planned. For what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice.” He took out his watch and snapped it open. “It’s later than I thought. I think I’ll toddle on home. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you. And many thanks.”

  Sutton struggled to his feet as the doctor left, and Celia walked into his embrace.

  Leo Channing retrieved his hat from the chair beside the fireplace. “Mrs. Mackay? I’m headed back to Baltimore the day after tomorrow. So I reckon this is good-bye.”

  He turned his collar up and left the hotel.

  The night clerk hurried over and handed Sutton the room key. “I’ve located your bags and will send them up shortly. I had the chambermaid put some extra linens in your room in case you’d like to wash the rest of that soot off. There’s champagne and sweet biscuits if you’re wanting a nightcap. Compliments of the Pulaski Hotel.”

  Sutton wrapped an arm around Celia’s waist, and they went up the stairs together. As they entered the room, Celia caught sight of their images in the cheval glass in the corner.

  Her hair was disheveled. Her wedding dress was wrinkled, the hem caked with mud. Sutton’s fine gray suit was peppered with holes, his white shirt blackened with soot, and a film of gray ash covered his shoes. His eyebrows were singed, his palms raw and blistered and shiny with salve. And she had worried that her wedding day would be less than memorable.

  Now that the crisis was past, she was filled with a mixture of profound relief and no small measure of indignation. She folded her arms across her chest. “How did you get mixed up in the fire, Sutton? I was terribly worried. I couldn’t imagine where you had gone.”

  “When I went out to get our bags from the carriage, a couple of sailors were shouting about a fire on the Row. I was afraid the volunteer companies couldn’t get there in time, so I organized a few men to fight the fire until they arrived.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I wasn’t sure whether our offices, or your father’s, were in danger, but I didn’t want to take a chance. Not after the losses we suffered this year, to say nothing of your father’s ill health.”

  “You should have told me you were going.”

  His brows rose. “I paid a boy a dollar to deliver a message to you. I even wrote down your name so he wouldn’t forget.”

  “Well, he never showed up.” Celia’s voice wobbled. “I sat alone in the lobby all night. In my wedding dress. Until Leo Channing showed up and manhandled me into his carriage.” She brushed away sudden tears. “I thought I was being kidnapped. I was scared I’ve never see you again.”

  “Ah, darling, I apologize. I’m sorry he frightened you. But we’re together now with our whole lives ahead of us, and our offices are all right. I only wish I’d been able to save that poor man.” Sutton stood behind her and wrapped both arms around her waist. “You aren’t too sorry you married me?”

  Despite his injuries and fatigue, his eyes held the glimmer of mischief she’d loved since the first night they met.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Sutton turned her around until they were face-to-face. “I hope you decide soon,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “because the suspense is killing me.”

  Outside, church bells rang.

  “Christmas is almost over,” he said softly. “I love you, Mrs. Mackay.”

  “And I love you, Mr. Mackay.”

  “I’m profoundly relieved to hear it.”

  Sutton bent his head to kiss her, and with one hand, doused the light.

  26

  IF THERE WAS ONE THING AT WHICH THE PEOPLE OF SAVANNAH excelled, it was in organizing a parade. The one for Papa’s funeral rivaled that of Mayor Wayne the previous June.

  Lines of buggies and carriages wound past the house on Madison Square and rolled slowly toward Laurel Grove Cemetery. Hand in hand, Celia and Sutton walked behind her father’s hearse, acknowledging the solemn nods and waving handkerchiefs of the crowd lining the parade route. Numbed with cold and grief, Celia moved as if in a trance. Nothing that had happened in these past days seemed real.

  Two mornings ago, Celia had left the Mackays for her daily visit to her father’s house and arrived to find Mrs. Maguire sitting on the bottom stair weeping into her handkerchief. “He’s gone, my girl. Not half an hour ago.”

  “Was it—?”

  “Peaceful? Yes. But then, Mr. Browning niver was one to make a fuss.”

  “Have you sent for anyone?”

  “Not yet. I thought you might want some time alone with ’im.”

  Celia went back outside to send her driver for Sutton and the undertaker. Then she sat beside her father’s bed and wept silently, holding his hand until they arrived. It was typical of him to die the way he’d lived—with a quiet courage and the inborn modesty that was the truest test of nobility. He left the house for the last time just as the sun came up, gilding the winter frost and the old oaks along the square.

  News of his passing made the front page of the papers as far away as Charleston and Atlanta. Condolence cards and telegraph messages arrived from the mayor’s office, the governor’s office, the members of Papa’s social clubs, and his business associates on Commerce Row. And now all those people and more had turned out on the streets to offer a final tribute to the man who had contributed so much to the life of the city.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Sutton asked as they arrived at the cemetery.

  She nodded and reached beneath her black veil to wipe her eyes.

  He squeezed her hand, and she felt the warmth of his hand through their gloves. “It will be over soon,” he said.

  The black hearse, pulled by a magnificent span of four, halted at the cemetery gates. In a cold silence broken only by the rattle of ha
rness and the snuffling and stamping of the horses, pallbearers carried the coffin to the place where Papa was laid to rest among the senators, bishops, and businessmen who had been his companions in life. After the committal, Celia knelt with the rector and Sutton at the grave for a final private good-bye.

  Despite her deep love for him and her bottomless sense of loss, she couldn’t help feeling a lingering disappointment that he had never told her everything he knew about what had happened in the house on Madison Square. The story still felt unfinished. Incomplete. What family secrets had he taken to the grave? Had the keeping of those secrets changed who he was? Who she was? When was it justifiable to keep secrets from those we love?

  Despite her questions, she could not wish Papa back to face more days of agony. He was at peace. In the high country. And as the old hymn promised, she would see him again one day in that bright place above. She rose and stepped away from the raw wound in the earth.

  “Miss Browning?”

  Celia turned to find a young man with green eyes and a neatly trimmed red-gold beard standing half hidden behind a marble tombstone. His black suit appeared to be new, but it was ill-fitting—the sleeves too long and the shoulders too tight. He held a worn watch cap in his work-roughened hands.

  “I’m Mrs. Mackay now.”

  “Oh. O’ course. Beggin’ your pardon.” He took a step closer. “I was sorry to hear of your da’s passin’. People say he did a lot o’ good for the town.”

  “Thank you.” Celia frowned. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  He glanced around the cemetery. It was still crowded with black-clad mourners who stood in small groups, murmuring together. “I’m Michael Gleason. I was hopin’ to see Miss Lorens.”

  Celia bristled. “My cousin is abroad. But I doubt she’d care to see you, after you feigned an attraction to her, then asked for money for your political activities.”

  The Irish drayman blushed. “I admit it looks unseemly. I ought not to have pressed her for money. But I had a good reason for—”

  “Yes, I know,” Celia said, taken aback by the force of her own anger. “A reason named Sylvie Kelly.”