Celia Garth: A Novel (53 page)

After a day or two the rest of the men left for other missions. Luke stayed until Herbert and Vivian came home, but then Celia had to face the fact that the war was not over and he had to leave her again.

Cornwallis and Tarleton had seemed so important that it was hard to realize they commanded only part of the king’s troops. But the northern army under Clinton still held New York; while the troops Cornwallis had left behind him, along with the new troops who had arrived last summer, held Charleston and Savannah and several smaller posts. Luke told Celia that after Yorktown, Washington had begged the Frenchmen to stay and help him capture Charleston, but they refused and went back to the West Indies.

“This means we’ve got to take care of ourselves,” said Luke. “But the king’s men in South Carolina hold only one place that we can’t force them out of. That’s Charleston. So our plan is, force them all
into
Charleston. Squeeze ’em there, till they’ll
want
to leave.”

Celia ached with disappointment. She dreaded the long lonesomeness ahead, the days and nights when she would want Luke so much and he would still not be there. She was so tired of all that.

But they had Sea Garden again, and her nausea and dizzy spells had disappeared. She could not make the beautiful baby-clothes she had dreamed of, for they had no fine muslins and no way to get any, but Vivian gave her an armful of old sheets and towels, soft from many launderings. “Baby won’t know the difference,” Vivian said laughing. Celia laughed too. Everybody was making her feel so important. Herbert and Vivian, the colored folk, Luke and the men he brought with him on his visits—they all made much of her. After seven months as Roy’s poor relation, the change was like wine after swamp-water.

Vivian was very busy this winter. She said she had never seen such a jumble as Sophie had made of her household. Watching how smoothly Vivian got things organized again, Celia looked ahead, and quaked. Vivian was certainly going to expect her to help with the housekeeping, and she dreaded it. Aunt Louisa had taught her about household affairs, but Kensaw had been no such establishment as Sea Garden, and Vivian’s habits of perfection were terrifying.

However, she did not expect to be given anything to do until after the baby was born. She was astonished one morning when Vivian came to the sewing room and interrupted the cutting of diapers.

Vivian was about to make her regular morning round of the household. Her keys, a great important-looking bunch of them, hung by a chain from her waist, and she carried one of her record-books. She told Celia to come with her.

“Oh dear,” said Celia. “Now?” She glanced down at her figure. That was as good an excuse as any for putting it off.

“You’re perfectly well,” said Vivian. She sat on the arm of a chair. “I’d have taken you with me before this, but I did want to clear up after Sophie.”

Celia laid down her scissors. Her fingers began to fidget with the ends of her kerchief. Vivian’s dark eyes looked her over.

“Are you still scared of me, Celia?”

“Yes!” Celia answered. She knew she would feel better if she told the truth.

“You’ve learned one trade well,” Vivian said quietly. “You can learn another.”

She sat on the arm of the chair, one hand on the back, the other lying in her lap. Will I ever, Celia wondered, be so calm, so sure of myself. She said, “If you’ll teach me, I’ll try to do things the way you like them. I do want to help you.”

Vivian glanced down at the bunch of keys. After a moment she raised her eyes. “I’m not teaching you to help me, Celia,” she said. “I’m teaching you to get along without me.”

Celia started. “You mean—what
do
you mean?”

Vivian laughed a little. “Celia, my health is good. I’ve probably got many years ahead of me. You don’t want me to spend those years bossing you around.”

“But you wouldn’t do that!”

“Oh yes I would,” Vivian returned coolly. “I’m not capable of living in the house with another woman and
not
bossing her around.” She paused a moment. Then, with an odd intentness, she said, “Celia, the day you came here to get married, you were afraid I wouldn’t like it.”

Celia had forgotten that moment of doubt. It was so long ago, and Vivian had been such a dear. But now, under Vivian’s steady gaze, she had to remember. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. She did not know what else to say.

“You were quite right,” said Vivian. With a smile she added, “I told you I was not ‘that kind of mother-in-law.’ I’m not, but I could be—oh, so easily. Celia my dear, about Luke I’m a fool. You know that. Long ago I made up my mind that when Luke brought a wife to Sea Garden, I would leave. I only prayed he’d choose a girl who would love Sea Garden and take care of it, and I think he did.”

Celia felt a lump of pain in her throat. She did not want to cry, but these days it was hard not to cry when things touched her. She could not speak. While she fought for control Vivian went on.

“Herbert and I have been talking this over. We’ll stay until Luke can take charge, then we’ll go to town. I understand that ever since Burton and Elise were sent to Philadelphia a pack of Tories have been living in our town house—I hope they don’t wreck it before they have to leave.”

Still fighting back her tears, Celia felt such a rush of gratitude as she had never known before. Vivian was smiling, her voice was steady, her manner was calm. But Celia knew that this was a moment of great renunciation. Right now, Vivian was holding out her two greatest treasures, Luke and Sea Garden. She was saying, They are yours now. Take them.

Aloud Vivian went on, “I’m assuming that if I behave myself like a nice person I’ll be welcome here when I want some country air, as you’ll certainly be welcome in my house when you come to town. But this will be your home and that will be mine, and we won’t interfere with each other. Oh, cry if you feel like it, Celia—don’t be ashamed. I’ve been in your state several times and I know how the tears rush out at the most awkward moments.”

Celia had a feeling that she could not have put into words. It was not knowledge, it was a deep instinctive grasp of the fact that she did not know yet how much Vivian was giving her. She would not know until she had been mistress of her own home and her own life, until after she and Luke had been let alone to work out their own marriage in their own way. Maybe she would not really appreciate Vivian’s gift for years to come, not until she herself gave up a son of her own to another woman. She felt this, and she did not know how to say it. She turned her head, and put her hands over her burning eyes, and stood there feeling young and clumsy, until at last she pulled out her handkerchief and scrubbed at her tears and managed to say, “You’ll never know how much I love you for this.”

Vivian stood up. Celia stumbled into her arms and sobbed on her bosom, and Vivian held her gently until she was quiet again. At last Celia raised her head. Vivian smiled at her, and Celia smiled back.

“Now,” said Vivian, “go to your room, and wash your face, and get a wrap—it’s chilly in the halls. I’ll wait for you.”

Celia’s baby was born on an afternoon in May. When the time came, Vivian summoned the Negro midwife from the quarters. The midwife was old and wise, and knew her business, but Vivian promised that she too would stand by. Celia had expected this to be a hard day, though she had not dreamed it would be as hard as it was, nor that any day could be so long. But at last it was over and she heard Vivian say, “You have a beautiful little girl,” and through Celia’s head went a confused vision of lace and ribbons and fine lawn. The colored woman brought her the baby, wrapped in garments made of an old sheet. Celia drew a happy breath and her eyes fell shut.

Her little girl was a week old when they heard a horse’s hoofs clattering up the driveway. Celia, lying in bed planning a baby-dress of white silk with pink shirring, raised herself on her elbow and said “Luke!” But the rider was Burton Dale, back from exile in Philadelphia.

Though she was disappointed, Celia was glad Burton had come safely home. Vivian brought him in to see her. Celia had not seen Burton since Balfour shipped him to St. Augustine eighteen months ago, and to her astonishment he seemed all the better for his experience. His clothes had been mended and re-mended, but he no longer looked as if he had been stuffed into them. Not only was he leaner, he was tanned and muscular (she did not wonder at this, when she found that he had alternately walked and ridden horseback all the way from Philadelphia). Also, he had an air of jaunty confidence, which for the first time made Celia notice that he looked rather like his half-brothers Luke and Godfrey.

Herbert joined them in Celia’s room, and Burton sipped a glass of wine and told them about his adventures. As Luke had surmised, Godfrey had given Elise money to help her get along in Philadelphia, but it was not enough to support the family indefinitely and they had had no idea how long they would have to stay there. So they rented rooms in a boarding-house, and Burton went out and got a job.

Vivian said, “Heaven help us, doing what?”—for Burton had never done any work in his life except supervise his rice crop. Burton chuckled, rather proudly, and replied, “I taught school.”

Vivian and Herbert together flashed him a look of startled admiration. Burton continued.

At first, he said, the situation had scared him. Besides day-today living expenses, the boys were growing out of their clothes; also winter was coming, a northern winter, and nobody among the Charleston exiles had clothes warm enough. Burton thought over his accomplishments. These, he readily admitted, were few. But he recalled that he had kept careful plantation accounts, which meant that he had years of practice in arithmetic.

“I went to the headmaster of a boys’ school,” said Burton, “and told him I’d like to teach the fellows to do sums. He put me to work. And do you know,” Burton said with a grin, “I enjoyed it.”

He went on to say that on the whole they had managed very well. “The boys ran errands, held horses, did all sorts of odd jobs. And Elise worked hard. The churches collected second-hand winter clothes for us—imagine!—and Elise patched them and made them over. A real helpmeet she was.”

“The grace of the Lord,” murmured Vivian, “can do wonders. How did you get home?”

Now that, said Burton, had been a problem. They had been free to leave as soon as the exchange of prisoners was officially accomplished, but the snows were deep, and the country through which they would have to travel was demoralized by years of war. He had waited till spring, when he had joined several other families to buy horses, and two wagons for their scanty belongings. By slow stages they had traveled south. They had spent the nights at inns, when they could find any; but oftener they had slept in deserted barns or farmhouses whose owners had fled the redcoats, or sometimes they slept in the wagons outdoors.

As they neared home the party scattered. Burton headed for the plantation of Elise’s brother Gilbert Arvin, north of the Santee and easy to reach. As they rode through the desolation, Burton and Elise prayed with every mile that Mr. Arvin’s home would still be there.

What they found was bad, though not the worst possible. The property had been confiscated for some good Tory; but the new owner had not cared to live on the place. All he wanted was fast money. He had stripped the plantation of everything that could be sold. As redcoats and Tories fled into Charleston, Mr. Arvin had brought his family home. Their dwelling and the other buildings were empty, but they were still there.

The Arvin family had returned shortly before the Dales arrived, and the house gave shelter to Elise and the boys. They had to sleep on the floor, but by this time they did not mind. Burton was now on his way toward Goose Creek, to see what was left of his own plantation. He spent a night at Sea Garden, and went on.

It was another two weeks before Luke appeared. Celia was up now, and sat on the piazza with the baby beside her in a little cart made long ago for Vivian’s babies. Leaning back in a big chair, she was lazily enjoying the summer day when she heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. Again she started eagerly, and again she said “Luke!”—and this time it
was
Luke. He had brought Amos with him, and the two of them rode up the driveway.

Before his horse had halted, Luke was off, tossing the bridle to Amos and bounding up the steps in what looked like a single leap. He grabbed her in his arms with a force that took the breath right out of her, and to her own disgust, Celia found that she was crying again.

Later, when they were alone in their room, she told him she wanted to name the baby but had been waiting for his approval. “I want to name her Vivian,” said Celia.

Luke smiled as he glanced at the crib. He still marveled that the baby could be so small, and yet be human, and his. “I like that,” he said. “And Mother will be mighty pleased.”

“Then it’s all right?”

“Of course. I’m glad you want to. What gave you the idea?”

“I’ll tell you sometime. But I don’t think you’ll understand.”

“Why not?” Luke exclaimed in surprise. He was not used to being told there were things he could not understand.

“Because you’re a man,” said Celia.

“Oh, good Lord,” said Luke.

Celia gave a shrug. “All right,” she said, and told him about Vivian’s plan to leave Sea Garden.

Luke smiled broadly. “Mother’s a grand person, isn’t she? But Celia, what made you think I wouldn’t understand that?”

“I meant,” said Celia, “the way she loves Sea Garden, and loves you—” She paused. It was no use to try to explain.

Luke began to laugh. “Celia, I know some women want to baby their sons, and hate their sons’ wives. But Mother isn’t that sort. Anyway, now that they’re getting older, I think she and the governor will be happier in Charleston. They like people and parties, and town life in general. But I do think it’s fine that you want to name the baby for Mother. I’ll go right now and tell her.”

He gave Celia a kiss. Leaving her to take the afternoon rest that Vivian said she must have now, he went off. Celia heard the clump of his great boots in the hall.