Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  “And my darling,” he said softly, “you’ll like it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  NOW CELIA WAS SO confused that she hardly new what was happening around her. Day after day she went through her routine in the shop, almost without thinking about it. She tried to listen as before, and pick up hints that might be of use to Marion’s men. But after a minute or two she found her mind back where it had been, concerned with herself, and with Luke.

  He says he’s in love with me. He says I was somewhat in love with him from the first. He says I was not in love with Jimmy.

  What does he mean? Jimmy was so warm and strong! I knew I could count on him. I loved him. But—

  But Luke was talking about something different.

  She tried to be practical. It would be easy to say, “Why yes, Luke, if this crazy talk means you’re asking me to marry you, I’ll be glad to do it. Any girl as poor as I am would grab the chance to marry into a rich family like yours.” Of course she would say it in prettier words than this.

  But these days there was no counting on wealth. Look at what had happened to General Sumter, to Burton, to hundreds of other rich men. No matter who won the war, at the end of it Luke might not have a penny.

  Or she might say, “Yes, yes! I’ll take you rich or poor. Anything is better than being a dried-up crosspatch like Miss Loring.”

  But she knew she was not really in danger of turning into a dried-up crosspatch. Now that she no longer felt the hopeless despair with which she had come back to the shop, Celia knew that here she did have a future. She had proved that she could become a famous dressmaker. She could be a woman with a career, proud of herself.

  No, she had no reason to pay attention to Luke. No reason at all. Unless she was in love with him.

  There she was, back where she had started.

  Day after day her mind followed the same circle. She would sit behind the parlor balustrade, sewing and thinking, until her thoughts were cut by a peevish voice. “Miss Garth! Can’t you hear me? Please open the gate!”

  Celia would spring up, saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry, do come in.” But as soon as she went back to her sewing the circle of her thoughts would start again.

  The war seemed a long way off, though there were signs of it all around her. Luke had done his work so well that now the spy system reached every corner of town. Marion’s helpers were rich men, laborers, tavern maids, peddlers calling shrimp and oysters in the street. They gathered information, they passed notes, or they engaged the attention of the British guards so other people could do so. More items about Marion’s men were posted in the night, to be read in the morning. Gradually, to redcoats and rebels alike, Marion was becoming a figure of legend, a ghostly hero who came out of nowhere and went back into nothing.

  But to Celia, this seemed to be no concern of hers any more. Always she was thinking, Luke may be back any time. What am I going to say to him?

  Ida sent Marietta over one day with an invitation to supper. After supper, when they gathered in Ida’s little sitting room, Godfrey said, “We were getting worried about you—hadn’t heard from you lately.”

  Celia said with Christmas so near, the shop had such a rush of business that she had hardly five minutes at a time to sit and listen for what the customers might say. “I’m sorry,” she added.

  She felt guilty. She felt even more guilty when Godfrey urged, “Don’t apologize! That wasn’t what I meant. You’re doing a great job.”

  Ida said she had thought of a new way to pass the next note across the balustrade. She would write to the shop ordering five yards of pink ribbon, and would ask them to have the package ready so that she could have a maid pick it up. Little packages like this were customarily put into a drawer of Celia’s worktable. Next time Celia had a note to send out, Ida continued, she was to give a signal by way of the window. Marietta would come in to ask for the ribbon, and Celia could hand the package and note together across the balustrade.

  And they really must think of a new window-signal, said Ida. Now in winter the parlor windows were kept closed, so the signal must be one that could be seen through the pane. Celia had already used the special draping of the curtains.

  Celia said she would try to think of a new signal. She bit her lip, telling herself that she must keep her mind on Marion and not on Luke, or she would have no more notes to pass.

  Godfrey and Ida walked with her back toward the shop. They had not gone far before they sensed an unusual excitement around them. It was a chilly evening when you would expect people to be more comfortable indoors than out, but the streets were crowded. Men stood in groups, talking angrily. The redcoat patrols were telling them to move on and not block the sidewalk, but as soon as one group broke up, another began to cluster near by. A little way past the home of old Simon Dale on Meeting Street, Celia caught sight of Mr. Dale himself. Striking his cane on the pavement, he was announcing to a gentleman of his own age that this was an outrage, sir, an outrage, and he’d gladly say so to the king himself.

  Godfrey paused to ask what had happened.

  Simon Dale gave a growl. Speaking so vehemently that his breath was like the smoke of cannon in front of him, he exclaimed that he hardly liked to discuss this matter in the presence of ladies. That’s how disgraceful it was.

  Ida took Celia’s hand and drew her gently back into the shadows. Pretending to think that only Godfrey could hear him now, Simon sputtered out the story. Celia had felt inclined to giggle, but as she listened she felt like that no longer.

  Simon said Balfour had ordered the arrest of two women of good reputation—unmarried sisters, named Sarazen—and had put them into that dungeon under the Exchange. The Misses Sarazen had been told that they were suspected of sending out rebel information. They had not been told who accused them, nor what information they were supposed to have sent; nor had there been any trial. All that had happened was that a few hours ago a redcoat party had appeared at their home, and the leader had told them they were under arrest. They were led through the street to the Exchange, and locked up in the vault with the criminals.

  This vault was called the Provost. It was the only place where criminals were kept nowadays, for the town jail was being used as a barracks for British soldiers. The Provost was a stone-walled room, damp and almost airless, crawling with vermin. The place was already jammed with fifty-six human beings. These were men and women, white persons and Negroes; they were killers, drunkards, prostitutes, street-brawlers, some of them suffering from loathsome diseases. There was no separation by sex, day or night. There was no privacy at all, not even for what Simon Dale referred to as “calls of nature.”

  As he talked, Simon nearly choked with fury. He said he knew the Misses Sarazen. They were ladies, and Simon made it clear exactly what he meant by a lady. Also, said Simon, the fact that the Sarazen sisters had never been married made the whole business even more of an insult. It was an insult, he added, to every decent woman in town.

  Celia felt Ida pressing closer to her. Ida carried a fur muff; she took Celia’s hand and drew it into the muff and held it, as though for security. Celia returned the grasp. They were both trembling with the thought, This could have happened to me.

  “Now, now, good people,” said a tired young voice with a British accent. “Walk on, don’t crowd.”

  “Very well,” said Godfrey, and turning to Simon Dale he said good night. By the glow of the street-light Celia saw his face. Godfrey looked sick. He too was thinking, It could have happened to anybody. To my friends. To my wife.

  Simon Dale was right, thought Celia. It’s an insult to every decent woman in town.

  For the next few days, everybody talked about the affair of the Sarazens. People on both sides were shocked. They said it was just about what you would expect of Balfour.

  Balfour knew—how could he help knowing?—that rebel news had been going out of Charleston. But they said, and had been saying for a long time, that he was too drunk and lazy to carry through an efficient p
lan of stopping it. His guards had arrested a few boys posting news on fences, a few fishermen smuggling notes written by other people. These fellows were usually thrown into the dungeon until they paid a fine.

  This procedure, no matter how often repeated, did nothing to dig up the roots of the spy system. The rebels had scoffed at Balfour. So had some of his own subordinate officers in Charleston. Many of these men had given years of real service to their country, and they did not enjoy taking orders from a fellow who had used Balfour’s methods of getting ahead.

  Prodded to do something about the informers, one day Balfour angrily shouted the order to throw the Misses Sarazen into the dungeon. People in general agreed with Simon Dale that he had chosen them because he thought the indecencies there would be especially painful to women used to living in maiden isolation.

  Balfour’s own officers waited on him with such violent protests that after three or four days the Sarazen sisters were allowed to go home. They were besieged by visitors. Some of these were busybodies panting to hear a sensational tale, others were genuine friends. In their state of distraction the sisters could not tell the difference. They locked their door, and refused to discuss their days and nights in the dungeon. What had happened to them there, nobody ever knew.

  Nothing was proved against them. This might have been because there was nothing to prove, or because the British authorities were so eager to forget the episode that they did not try.

  After her first shock, Celia found that she was not so much scared as she was just plain mad. She felt a burning defiance. For the first time since Luke had kissed her, she was thinking of something besides Luke. She was wondering, Does Balfour think this is the way to stop us? I’ll show him.

  She found herself again keeping her ears alert. With no effort at all, she thought of a new signal she could give from the side window. Because of the gloomy weather she suggested to Mrs. Thorley that they brighten the parlor with some potted ferns. Mrs. Thorley said it was a good idea, and Celia then suggested that the pots be of different colors, such as red and yellow and white.

  When she saw Darren again she told him that next time she had a message to send she would put the white-potted fern at the window. The white pot could be easily seen through the glass.

  She felt refreshed, glad she was back on the job. In spite of the rush of business she managed to listen. December ended, the year 1781 began, and in January her attention was rewarded. She heard Mrs. Hendrix bragging to another stout overdressed woman that Mr. Hendrix had been so busy lately, collecting wagons to take barrels of gunpowder up to Camden.

  Mrs. Hendrix had a great deal to say about her husband’s importance in this matter. Celia guessed that all he had done was guide some British officers to plantations where they would find the sort of wagons they needed, so the British could take these and give the owners promissory notes, which Mr. Hendrix would then buy at a discount. Many Tories did this. They were most helpful, leading the way to supplies of all kinds. Naturally they took care to recommend that supplies be bought from people who for one reason or another could not come to town to cash the notes for themselves.

  However, this did not matter right now. What did matter was that in the course of her bragging Mrs. Hendrix clearly said the wagons were gathering at Dorchester, and would start very soon unless it rained again.

  Celia thought it was likely to rain again, for the winter so far had been a mushy one and she saw no sign that it was drying up. But sooner or later the wagons would start. Meanwhile, some bright fellow could be sent to Dorchester to keep an eye on them. Now at last after her weeks of uselessness she had something to report.

  Everything went well. She thought of a new excuse to get up to the bedroom alone and write her message. Putting some wood on the parlor fire, she smudged her arm; raising her arm to push back a lock of hair, she wiped the smudge on her nose. So she had to step out and ask that somebody take her place while she went up to get washed.

  When she came down she had her note in her pocket. As soon as she had a minute alone she took hold of the stand holding the fern in the white pot, and moved it to the window. Before anyone came in she had returned to her sewing.

  She waited serenely. Odd to remember how jittery she had been about this at first. All she felt now was a cool triumph. Balfour thinks he can scare us, does he?

  Late that afternoon Marietta came in. Curtsying politely, she said to Celia that she had come to pick up a package of ribbon for Mrs. Bernard. According to plan, Celia handed her the package and the note together. Marietta went out. She would deliver the note to Godfrey, who would start the news on its way. Celia had learned by now that many of her messages were passed by a certain bartender at a tavern on the highway. As Marietta went out, Mrs. Baxter came in. Celia smiled at her pleasantly, and Mrs. Baxter said she wanted to order some gloves.

  The shop continued to be busy. Celia had expected a quiet period after the turn of the year, but there was none; trade at the port was good, so the Tories had money and were spending it. Celia ran up and down the stairs until she thought her leg-muscles must be as hard as those of an infantry soldier.

  On a Sunday morning late in January she decided to rest by staying in bed. Becky and Pearl went to breakfast, as they were both going out for the day with their boy-friends; and Becky brought Celia the glass of milk that had stood by her plate. Celia drank it gratefully and lay down again.

  She had a restful morning, dozing and reading. It was nearly noon when a maid knocked on the door and gave her a note. The maid said the boy who brought it was waiting for an answer.

  The note was signed “Sarah Westcott.” Mrs. Westcott asked Celia to be her guest at a little private luncheon today. She said Ricky, who delivered the note, would walk with her to the tea-shop.

  As soon as she saw the signature Celia’s heart began to thump. Sunday was the Westcotts’ busiest day. Mrs. Westcott had no time for a little private luncheon. This was a summons.

  Luke must be here. Her heart thumped harder, and it seemed to be up in her throat instead of in her chest where it ought to be. She wet her lips. Trying to speak to the maid as if she was merely pleased at having a chance to go out, she said, “Tell the boy I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  With Ricky, she walked uptown toward Cumberland Street. It was a silent walk, for she could not talk about Luke and she could not think about anything else. Ricky led her to the family living quarters at the back of the shop, and saying, “I’ll call my mother,” he left her there.

  When Mrs. Westcott came in, she laid a warning finger on her own lips. Silently she led the way along the back passage, and pointed down the cellar stairs. Celia nodded, and Mrs. Westcott bustled back to her customers.

  Celia crept down the dark staircase and felt her way to the door of the muffled room. Here she paused. Her mouth felt dry. Luke was there, on the other side of that door, she was sure of it. He was going to remind her of what he had said. Six weeks ago—she should have made up her mind by now, but she had not. She was scared. It was a strange sort of scaredness, not the way she would have felt if she had heard somebody tiptoeing behind her on a dark street. Not that, but—what? She did not know. She thought, I’ve got to go in, I’ve got to speak to him, answer him, I’ve got to—

  The door opened and two imperative hands grasped her and pulled her in between the curtains, and his voice said roughly, “Thank God you’re here! I’ve never been so worried in my life—tell me, Celia, are you all right?”

  One hand still gripping her shoulder, with his other hand Luke pulled the door shut and dropped the curtain across it. All Celia could think at the moment was that with Luke, nothing was ever the way you thought it was going to be. In a voice thin with astonishment she answered, “Of course I’m all right! What did you think was wrong?”

  Luke strode across to the table, where stood the hourglass and a candle. He struck the table with his fist, so hard that the shadows leaped crazily around the room. “You little fool,” he b
urst out, “what made you send that message about the wagons at Dorchester?”

  Celia’s knees felt weak. She made her way toward him and grasped the table with both hands. “Oh good heavens—did I make trouble? Weren’t the wagons there?”

  “Oh yes, yes, the wagons were there—but Celia, you half-wit, you reckless imbecile—what made you send any message at all? After what happened to those Sarazen women—suppose you’d been caught?” Luke was pacing up and down. His voice and gestures were so violent that the room seemed like a cage too small to hold him. “Balfour might have put you in the dungeon, or sent you to St. Augustine, or anything else his evil mind could dream of—didn’t you think of that?”

  Celia shook her head.

  “Well, I thought of it!” roared Luke. “I haven’t had a night’s sleep since—”

  Celia felt a wicked amusement. “Luke!” she cautioned. “Keep your voice down!”

  Luke tried to. “I’m sick with worrying!” he said. “If you weren’t thinking about yourself couldn’t you have had some consideration for me? Away out in the swamp, not knowing—”

  Celia began to laugh. She could not help it, and she could not stop laughing until Luke grabbed her shoulder and gave her a shake.

  “What’s the matter now?” he demanded.

  Her lips still quivering with merriment, Celia managed to answer. “Now you know what other people have borne because of you.”

  “What?” said Luke.

  He spoke blankly. Celia thought with sudden understanding, We’re like each other. He hasn’t thought of that, any more than I thought of it.

  “But this is war!” said Luke. “I’m a soldier. Soldiers always—” He broke off again. “Oh, stop talking about me. I want to talk about you. Celia, didn’t you know—”

  “No I didn’t know!” she retorted. “It never occurred to me that I was in any special danger. I was just so mad with Balfour, for doing such a vile thing to those two women, and thinking he could scare us that way—”