Celia Garth: A Novel (16 page)

There was a tap at the front door.

“That’s Hugo,” said Vivian. “Let him in, Luke.”

Plainly glad to have the conversation interrupted, Luke opened the door. Hugo was a dapper little white-wigged Frenchman about fifty years old, with a turned-up nose and darting black eyes. He spent his days in the dressing-rooms of great ladies, and people said of him that he knew more scandals than anybody else in town. Vivian enjoyed his visits. Now as Hugo came in, carrying the leather case that held the tools of his trade, Vivian smiled upon him, let him kiss her hand, and said,

“Go right in, Hugo. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Hugo bowed to her and to Celia, murmured an obsequious greeting to Captain Ansell, and went high-stepping down the hall. Vivian looked up at Luke again. She spoke tersely.

“Your neck is unbroken, Luke, but it’s not unbreakable.”

Luke did not answer. There was nothing he could answer, and no argument she could give him, and they both knew it. Vivian went after Hugo toward her dressing-room.

Luke threw his hat toward the hall table. The hat struck the basket Celia was holding, and fell to the floor. “Sorry,” Luke murmured, and bent to pick it up. As he put the hat on the table Celia asked abruptly,

“Why don’t you stay with the troops in Charleston?”

Luke stuck his thumbs into his pockets. His blue eyes stroked her as he returned, with a note of patient exasperation, “Why don’t you mind your own business, Sassyface?”

“Are you trying to prove that you’re braver than other men?” she insisted.

Luke smiled faintly. “Celia, I’m not braver than other men, or less brave. I’m just me. I can’t sit out a siege. If I tried, I’d be no good to my country or myself. Understand?”

Celia bit her lip. Almost against her will she said, “Yes—and I think Vivian understands. She enjoys taking risks as much as you do. A woman wouldn’t marry five times if she didn’t. If you’re like your father then your father was like Vivian—maybe that’s why she was so crazy about him.”

Luke’s smile had widened as she talked. He nodded slowly. “You make good sense, Sassyface,” he said, and he too started toward the back. “I’m going out to the kitchen to get something to eat. See you tonight—dance with me?”

“Why yes,” she said, “I’d like to.”

He thanked her and went off down the hall. Celia looked after him. Funny, she thought. Since he came home this time he was not avoiding her any more.

A
S GODFREY LIVED JUST
around the corner on Tradd Street, that night they walked to his party. The house was full of lights and music. Godfrey loved to entertain and he did it well. His wife Ida stood with him to receive the guests: a quiet sort of woman in a quiet gray dress. Celia wondered what a gay fellow like Godfrey had ever seen in her.

As for herself, she looked well and knew she did, and she danced until she was breathless. Except that so many of the men were in uniform she might almost have forgotten the war.

But once she was forcibly reminded, when Godfrey paused between dances to pour wine—his oldest Madeira, for like his stepfather Godfrey had said, “We might as well drink it now.” Jimmy went to bring her a glass. While she waited Celia drew back a window-curtain and looked out. In spite of the lanterns over the house-doors the street seemed dark, for she was used to seeing it lit by the beacon in the steeple of St. Michael’s. But now the steeple stood dark against the stars. In the very top, a watchman was keeping a lookout.

Hearing a footstep Celia turned and saw Luke, carrying wine to his partner. Luke paused a moment beside her and he too looked out of the window. “Lighten our darkness, oh Lord,” he said softly. For an instant their eyes met, and Luke gave her a smile before going on. But Celia felt a chill, as though the dark steeple loomed above them with a menace of wrath. She was glad to see Jimmy returning, and his merry, intimate smile that she loved.

The dancing began again. As on the night of New Year’s Eve Celia felt like dancing till the sun came up, but the party ended shortly after midnight because the men in uniform had to get back to quarters. Vivian and Herbert lingered for a last word with Godfrey, and Jimmy walked with Celia around the corner. They stood on the front steps of the Lacys’ house, glad to have a few minutes alone. The air was fragrant around them, the west wind soft on their cheeks. From Vivian’s garden two mockingbirds called to each other. A carriage clattered by, full of people going home from another party. A moment later came two uniformed men on horseback, military patrols.

As the hoofbeats dwindled off, a commotion burst out from Tradd Street. They heard sudden loud voices; somebody screamed, several men began shouting orders.

“What on earth—” Celia began, and Jimmy said, “Let’s go see.” They started down the steps but as they reached the sidewalk they saw Vivian hurrying toward them, followed by Miles.

“Oh you silly creatures!” Vivian was calling. “Running off—you’re missing the excitement!”

“What’s happened?” they demanded, and Miles started to tell them, but Vivian was already telling them.

“My darlings, we were standing in front of Godfrey’s house, saying good night, when a fellow came running down the street—just a boy and scared out of his wits—he was jabbering and pointing toward a house all lit up for a party, and he said there was a man about to jump out of the window—”

They listened breathlessly. Vivian chattered on.

“Well, we’d never seen a man jump out of a window, so we were charmed. We ran as fast as we could, wondering if there really was a man and hoping he wouldn’t jump till we got there—and we came to the house and the boy pointed up to the second story, and my dears, there
was
a man about to jump out of the window, and just in that instant while we looked up at him—he
jumped
!”

“Was he killed?” Celia demanded.

Vivian shook her head, and now at last Miles got in a few words.

“Not killed,” said Miles, “but hurt—we heard him groan after he fell.” Miles was more serious than Vivian about the whole matter. “That’s why I came for you,” he said to Jimmy. “We need help to keep the sidewalk clear till we can get a stretcher.”

Jimmy said he would be glad to help. They all started back toward the corner, and he asked, “Does anybody know why the man jumped?”

Miles shrugged. “Drunk, I suppose. They were having a bachelor party.”

“I see,” Jimmy said good-naturedly. “He tippled, and he toppled. Could happen to anybody. Know who he is?”

Miles said he had not waited to find out. There was a lot of confusion, he said—the injured man’s fellow-tipplers had rushed out, eager to aid him but so hazy-headed that they were merely in the way; and also in the way was a bunch of gawkers, the sort who seemed to spring up from the ground whenever an accident took place.

“Like you and me,” Vivian whispered to Celia, and they both giggled. They had reached the corner, and a little way along Tradd Street they saw the, crowd. Light streamed out of the open doorway of the house from which the man had fallen, so the people were clearly visible: several of Godfrey’s guests, the gawking strangers Miles had spoken of, and members of the bachelor party. The last-named gentlemen had been having a fine time. Their noses were red and their wigs crooked, and they toddled like children just learning to walk.

Celia heard Luke’s voice shouting to them to stand back and not try to lift the injured man—let the stretcher-bearers take him up when they get here. Herbert, catching sight of her and Vivian, came to meet them, and Jimmy went with Miles. Vivian asked Herbert, “Is he much hurt?”

“They say he’s broken his ankle,” Herbert told her. “Luke sent those two mounted patrolmen to bring a surgeon.”

“Really?” said Vivian. “I didn’t know military patrols could go on errands for ordinary folks.”

“Ordinary folks?” Herbert repeated. “Didn’t anybody tell you who he was?”

“Why? Somebody we know?”

Herbert said, “It’s Colonel Francis Marion.”

Celia gave a start. No wonder they were all in such a flurry. She looked again toward the group in the shaft of light. Marion lay on the pavement, while Jimmy, Luke, and several other men in uniform had constituted themselves a military guard. Nearer at hand, Burton was exclaiming that this was the worst, the very worst thing that could have happened, and Godfrey was saying, “Marion, of the whole Continental Army! Why couldn’t it have been somebody else?”

Then, just beside her, Celia heard a funny little sound. Turning, she saw Vivian biting her handkerchief in an effort to keep quiet. Vivian was choking with laughter.

As her eye caught Celia’s, Vivian beckoned her a step nearer. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered. “That speckless hero!”

At this, Celia began to laugh too. She laughed and laughed. She thought she knew just how Vivian felt.

Vivian was exulting. “He’s not perfect. He got a fuzz on. He doesn’t know how happy he’s made me.”

Two soldiers came up carrying a stretcher, followed by a surgeon with a bagful of instruments. At Luke’s command the group parted to let them through. They picked up Marion and carried him back into the house.

As they disappeared through the doorway Vivian kissed her hand and waved.

“Francis Marion,” she murmured, “for that sinful skinful, I almost like you.”

The next morning the schooner left for Sea Garden. Elise sobbed loudly at parting with her boys; she made considerably more noise about sending them to stay with her brother than either Madge or Vivian made about leaving their sons to face British bullets.

When Burton had gone out to consult with Godfrey about storing meat for the garrison, and Elise had retired to her room with smelling salts, Celia roamed about the house. The rooms looked cold and empty. The essential furniture was still here, but with the loss of Vivian and Vivian’s pretty trifles the place had lost its charm. Celia had a frightening sense of being alone.

To keep from brooding she set to work on the cravat she was making for Jimmy. This calmed her nerves and she went down to dinner in a better mood. As only Burton, Elise, and herself were at table, she expected a tiresome meal; but having been out for some hours Burton had plenty to tell them.

He said everybody was talking about Marion’s accident. The break in his ankle was a bad one and he would be helpless for weeks to come. He was being moved to his own home, a plantation near Eutaw Springs in the parish of St. John’s Berkeley. And, Burton told them solemnly, the tale that Marion had been tipsy last night was nothing but gossip. Wicked, malicious gossip, no doubt started by Tories.

He said he would give them the facts.

Certainly there had been a party, and some of the guests had had too much to drink. But not Marion. Marion was a temperate man, a very temperate man. When the party got too gay, Marion decided to leave.

He slipped away unobserved and went to the front door, but found it locked. The host had locked it to make sure the company continued to drink until they were all under the table—that was some men’s idea of hospitality. So Marion went upstairs and opened a window, intending to climb out and leave the party that way. But he slipped and fell. Simplest thing in the world, said Burton.

“Why of course,” said Elise. She usually echoed Burton’s opinions, not because she really considered him a fount of wisdom but because it saved her the trouble of doing any thinking of her own.

Celia said nothing. As she was going to be their guest for the next six weeks she had no wish to start an argument. But she had her own thoughts and they were sassy thoughts. She thought this was the silliest yarn she had ever heard.

That afternoon Miles dropped in. Last night Miles had taken it for granted that the man on the pavement was there because he had been too merry, but now that he had learned the man’s name he had changed his mind. Tory talk, Miles said indignantly.

With an effort, Celia kept her mouth shut.

The next day Elise had guests to dinner. This was not like the dinners Vivian gave, where the people were gay and the talk was light and everything had an air of frivolity. Elise and Burton’s friends were solid folk, serious about life.

Celia thought the food was good. But Elise apologized for each dish as it was passed, explaining either that this was a substitute for something she would rather have served, or that this was not made as she would have liked because she could not get the proper ingredients. Both Elise and Burton said they did not know how people in town were going to live, with the army taking all the food that came in. The company sighed and said they did not know either. They talked darkly about their future meals; you would have thought they expected to be reduced to such a state that they would be glad to eat the cheese out of a mousetrap.

Celia watched the waitress pass a dish of chicken stewed with little sausage balls. She did not know what these others might have, but she did know that Vivian had left the storerooms of this household stocked with hams and spiced beef and sides of bacon, grits and cornmeal, syrup and sugar and rice. Also they had vegetables coming up in the garden. She wondered if these people ever laughed at anything.

The talk turned to Francis Marion, and they certainly did no laughing here. Everybody agreed that Marion had tried to leave the party because he did not care to get drunk. But this was not all. No longer was it enough to say that Marion was a temperate man. Now they were saying he had never had a drink in his life. He had never taken an eggnog on Christmas Day. He would not touch a pudding flavored with brandy. If you doubted this you were a disloyal American, a friend of the king, you might even be a spy who ought to be locked up in the dungeon under the Exchange.

That evening after the company had left, Jimmy dropped by. He and Celia went into the little reception parlor. It was the first time she had seen Jimmy since the night of Marion’s accident, so she asked him to tell her: was the great man drunk that night or wasn’t he?

Jimmy groaned. “Oh, my grandpa’s Sunday wig! You too, Celia?”

“I just thought you might know!” she retorted. “You were there, guarding him.”