The Bracelet (21 page)

“Have you chosen a fabric yet?” she asked. “Perhaps you should tell me when the wedding is to be and I can offer some recommendations.”

Sutton’s grandmother sent the dressmaker a rueful smile. “That’s just it. My grandson is waiting for the perfect time, and I have told that boy a million times there is no such thing. If war comes, it comes. If the business improves or not, there’s nothing Celia can do about it.” She leaned forward and patted Celia’s hand. “Sutton is my grandson, and I love him more than my own life, but he’s being silly not to set a date to make this girl his own.”

“I’m hoping for early spring,” Celia told the modiste. “April perhaps. May at the latest.”

The dressmaker nodded. “May is the perfect time for a Savannah wedding. In that case, I’d suggest this white satin.” She cocked her
head and studied Celia. “A beautiful girl like you can get away with anything, but I think an off-the-shoulder style with pagoda sleeves might be especially becoming. A full skirt, of course. And then a train attached at the waist, something simple, with a single appliqué surrounded by pearls.”

Celia chewed her bottom lip. “You don’t think such a style would be too immodest for a bride?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Foyle took out a pad and sketched the gown she had in mind.

Celia studied it. “Mrs. Manigault, what do you think?”

“It sounds perfectly lovely.”

Mrs. Foyle seemed relieved at having the decision made without too much haggling. “You’ll need a veil, too, Miss Browning. I could—”

“I have my mother’s veil,” Celia said.

The modiste frowned. “Oh, dear.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Sometimes sentiment can ruin a perfect creation. A veil should complement the overall style of the dress. If it’s the wrong fabric or the wrong length . . .” Mrs. Foyle sighed and shrugged.

“It’s made of needlepoint lace,” Celia said. “My grandfather got it for her in Paris.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s very nice, but I don’t know whether it will work with what you’ve chosen.”

“Can’t you use a similar lace for the undersleeves?” Mrs. Manigault asked.

Another sigh from the dressmaker. “It would not be my first choice, but if you are determined—”

“We are,” Mrs. Manigault said firmly. “Celia and I are most determined.”

“Very well.” The dressmaker gathered her fabrics and her sketchpad and carefully folded the pieces of the muslin pattern
she’d made. “Bring the veil to me, and I’ll see what I can do. And come by next week for your first fitting, Miss Browning. I should have the lining basted together by then.”

Together Celia and Mrs. Manigault left the dressmaker’s shop. Both their carriages waited near the door.

“Will you come back to the house for tea?” Mrs. Manigault clapped a hand on her white-plumed hat as a wind gust blew between the buildings. “Despite her headache, Cornelia would enjoy seeing you and hearing about the dress you’ve chosen.”

Celia would have loved spending more time with the Mackay women, but this might be her only chance to visit the newspaper offices without having to dodge Mr. Thompson. She laid a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I’m afraid I can’t today. But I promise to visit early next week, and we can tell her all about it then.”

“All right. I suppose I should be getting on home then. Cornelia worries if I’m out later than she thinks I ought to be.” Mrs. Manigault waved to her driver, and he ran around to help her into the carriage. Once settled, she leaned out the open window and caught Celia’s eye. “The next time you see my grandson, you tell him what I told the dressmaker today. He’s foolish for putting off such an important thing. We have no guarantees in this life, and I personally detest the thought of you two unnecessarily spending even one day apart.”

“So do I.” Celia couldn’t hold back her smile. “I’ll tell him.”

Mrs. Manigault waved as the carriage rolled away.

Joseph jogged over from the bench across the street, where he had apparently been enjoying a slice of caramel cake from the bakery. Sugar crystals clung to his gray beard. “Where to now, Miss Celia?”

“The newspaper office, please. I may be there for quite some time.”

“Yes’m.” He dusted off his hands and wrenched open the
carriage door. “Don’t make no difference to me. I got my instructions from your daddy to carry you wherever you decide to go. You go ahead and take your time.”

Minutes later the carriage drew up at the newspaper office, and Celia hurried inside. The room smelled of ink and hot lead. The building hummed as the press churned out tomorrow’s edition. A copy boy scurried among several desks carrying pages of newsprint. A bald man in an ink-stained apron sat at a desk near the dusty windows, marking up copy with his pencil. Celia approached his desk and waited until he lifted his head, pencil poised, a question in his eyes.

“Begging your pardon.”

He waved one pudgy, ink-stained hand. “The advertising department is up the stairs. To your left.”

“I’m not here to place a notice. I’d like to see your archives, please.”

He tossed his pencil onto the desk. “Come again?”

“Back issues of the newspaper.”

“I know what archives are, girl. What I don’t know is what you want with them.”

“I’m in charge of raising funds for the Female Orphan Asylum, and I want to compile a list of charitable activities benefiting the various organizations here in town.”

“So’s you can figure out who’s got the deepest pockets.”

She laughed. “And the softest hearts.”

He picked up his pencil again, rolling it between his fingers as he squinted up at her. “From what I hear, the director out at the asylum’s not too popular with the board of managers these days. They say there’s no point in encouraging those girls to ambitions above their station.”

“There are some who think that the girls should be trained only for domestic service and that reading, writing, and arithmetic
are a waste of time. But I agree with Mrs. Clayton that each girl should be literate and encouraged to employ whatever gifts she possesses—whether for music or teaching or needlework.” Celia fussed with the ribbons on her hat. “Not everyone is cut out for household tasks.”

“I thought there was already an organization that supported women who can sew.”

Celia nodded. “The Needle Woman’s Friend Society. But I hope some of the girls can establish their own enterprises some day, and for that they need more than a basic education. My aim is to see that their ambitions are not hampered by a lack of funds. Now, if you could show me where the archives are . . .”

The man shrugged and pushed back from his chair. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of female progress. Follow me.”

He wove among the desks, stacks of newsprint, and buckets of broken type waiting to be melted and recast and led her toward a cramped, airless room in the back. A desk and a single cane-backed chair were the only furnishings. Tall shelves were stacked with newspapers organized by month and year. Autumn light filtered into the room from a single window above the desk. Celia tensed and looked around for an exit—as she always did when entering a confined space. She relaxed when she saw another door on the outside wall.

The man pulled a stack of papers from a high shelf and plopped them onto the desk, sending up a puff of gray dust. “We put out a special edition back in ’55, when the Union Society reopened that orphanage for boys. I remember the year because it was around the time my wife died.”

He flipped more pages. “Here’s a story about the Female Seamen’s Friend Society keeping the drunk sailors off the streets. And one we published last spring about Mrs. Lawton’s appeal for donations for the Poor House and Hospital.” He scratched his head.
“Savannah’s got so many charities and societies I can’t keep track of ’em all. But I reckon the muckety-mucks in this town always have more money to devote to a good cause. I’m sure they’ll support your project at the Female Asylum, despite the complaints from the managers.”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Just leave the papers there when you’re finished, and I’ll put ’em back.” He headed for the door. “Mr. Thompson is particular ’bout the way we keep things here.”

Celia pulled off her gloves and sat at the desk, glancing at the stories he’d mentioned though there was little about the ladies’ charity work that she didn’t already know. When the door closed behind him, she stood and shuffled through the stacks until she found the papers dated 1843—the year of the accidents that had so interested Leo Channing.

Movement outside the window caught Celia’s attention. Two young girls, their arms wound around each other’s waists, made their way along the street. Celia thought of her years at school, when the other girls had formed tight little groups that did not include her. She hadn’t been an outcast exactly, but not having a mother had set her apart. She’d been respected for her high marks and tolerated on field trips and outings. But she had never been included in their intimate little circles, never been privy to their shared secrets. Perhaps they’d feared her misfortune was contagious.

Whatever the reason, the memory of being on the outside looking in still stung. And it made her more determined than ever to quell Leo Channing’s threat to her family’s reputation and her future happiness.

She flipped through the issues for March, April, and May of 1843, her eyes moving quickly down each column of smudged and faded print. The big stories on May 29 were the departure of John C. Fremont’s second expedition to Oregon and an announcement
that Mr. Thompson’s sketches of daily life in Georgia were to be compiled into a book. A rowing team had been established at Harvard, and someone named Albert Brisbane was forming a Utopian community in New Jersey.

She thumbed through several more papers, expecting to find some mention of Aunt Eugenia’s death and funeral. But every issue from August and September was missing. The next paper in the stack was dated October 25, 1843.

Obviously Leo Channing had taken the August and September papers. It seemed that he had thought of everything and would stop at nothing. But she couldn’t report the newspapers missing and still keep her investigation a secret.

She heard the front door of the office open and close, then voices. The bald man’s and then another, deeper voice. Mr. Thompson.

Celia scrambled to return the 1843 papers to the shelves, leaving the others on the desk. She grabbed her reticule and gloves and hurried to the outside door. She yanked on the metal doorknob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Her heart sped up. She would have to go back through the newsroom and risk running into Mr. Thompson. At least she had the story about the charities as her reason for being here and the bald man to corroborate it.

“Who left this door unlocked?” Thompson’s voice reverberated in the adjacent hallway, just outside the door where she stood. “I thought I told you to keep the archives locked up.”

She heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock and then a faint click as the lock engaged. She bit her hand to keep from screaming.

“Hello?” She knocked on the door. “Hello, Mr. Thompson.” But her voice was swallowed by the incessant clacking of the typesetter’s composing sticks and the muted street noises coming through the windows at the front of the building.

She looked around the room wildly, beads of perspiration popping onto her forehead as the old childhood panic overtook her. She leaned over the desk to open the window, but it was stuck. Painted shut. She returned to the outside door, grasped the knob with both hands, and pulled. At last it yielded.

Weak with relief, Celia leaned for a moment against the doorjamb and then stepped onto an unfamiliar street, weaving her way around loaded drays, horse droppings, a vendor’s cart. The squeak and clang of an iron gate slamming shut behind her sent a prickle of fear through her bones. She had the feeling that someone was watching her from the shadows of the buildings, but when she turned to look, no one was there.

She hurried past a row of shops and emerged at last onto the street where Joseph waited with the carriage. He jumped off the driver’s seat at her approach, a frown creasing his face. “Something the matter, Miss Celia? You pale as rain.”

“What? Oh, no—nothing.” She forced a smile and took a shaky breath. “I’ve a lot on my mind these days.”

“Yes’m, reckon that’s so. You ready to go home?”

“I had hoped to stop by Mr. Loyer’s jewelry store.”

He pulled his watch from his pocket. “You got time, I reckon.”

The jewelry store was just down the street, sandwiched between the bakery and a milliner’s shop.

“Wait here, please. I won’t be long.”

“That’s what you said this morning.”

She couldn’t help smiling. Joseph was the soul of patience, and she had sorely tried it today. “This time I mean it. I only need to speak to Mr. Loyer for a moment.”

He heaved a sigh. “Moment mos’ likely be a hour, but you the boss, Miss.”

“Oh, Joseph, I know it’s a nuisance having to escort me everywhere, but you know how Papa is these days.”

“Yes’m, I surely do. You go on now. The sooner you get your business done, the sooner we’ll both get home.”

Celia hurried along the sidewalk to the jewelry store and ducked inside. Mr. Loyer sat behind a row of glass cases displaying jeweled necklaces, pins and gold watches, ropes of pearls, and rings sparkling with sapphires and diamonds. He looked up from his work as the door closed behind her.

“Good afternoon. It’s Miss Browning, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Good afternoon.”

He swept a hand above the display cases. “What may I show you today?”

She opened her bag, took out the bracelet, and laid it on the counter. “I received this recently but I don’t know who sent it. I’m hoping you can tell me who purchased it.”

He shook his head. “I can tell you right now it didn’t come from my shop.”

Another dead end. She swallowed. “You’re sure.”

“Positive.” He picked it up and turned it over. “The settings are”—he paused, obviously deciding how to frame his comments without causing offense—“not as well-made as mine. See here? The underside is still a bit rough. I always smooth mine out so they are equally finished on both sides.”