The Bracelet (32 page)

“Life’s a scary proposition. Best learn to deal with it.”

Then Mrs. Maguire, her ample figure bathed in sharp-angled sunlight, appeared in the open doorway. Celia was too far away to
hear the conversation, but not too far away to see her aunt’s shoulders stiffen before she followed the housekeeper inside.

Minutes later, Mrs. Maguire had summoned Celia and Ivy from the garden and given them sandwiches and cake in the kitchen.

Now Celia tried to recall what had happened next. Perhaps she had been sent to her room for a nap. Or perhaps she had blocked out a memory too painful to retain. The next thing she remembered was the sound of voices—Aunt Eugenia’s and that of another woman. Had her aunt summoned Septima in order to deliver an ultimatum as the diary suggested? Had the laundress arrived with Uncle Magnus in hopes of effecting the compromise he wanted?

She remembered only the sounds of voices raised in anger and the sounds of running feet along the gallery.

A thud. A piercing scream. And then silence.

Shekinah.
From the Hebrew word meaning “to dwell.” The manifestation of the presence of God. Divine presence.

Celia returned the dictionary to the shelf and stared out the window. Rain had fallen all night and now a wet, gray mantle blanketed the city. Even if Sutton’s boat from Charleston arrived on time, the Ten Broeck track was now too wet to exercise the horses. Zeus and Poseidon would have to wait for fairer weather.

Though she was glad of any opportunity to spend time with Sutton, perhaps it was just as well the weather had not cooperated. Today she was too unsettled to enjoy anything. Her thoughts turned again to her Aunt Eugenia’s death and its aftermath.

What did she know for certain about that day? Only that Aunt Eugenia had fallen from her bedroom balcony and died. But what had caused the fall in the first place? Had Aunt Eugenia, crazed
with jealous grief, and burdened by the weight of her unnamed dark secret, climbed onto the railing and deliberately jumped to her death, or had she meant only to frighten her husband with the threat of suicide?

Had she been pushed off the railing? And if so, who had done it? The laundress? Or Uncle Magnus, wishing to be free of his wife? Some people in Savannah certainly thought Magnus had killed Eugenia. The fact that he had left town so abruptly, disappearing without a trace, gave added credence to this view.

And then two weeks later, Septima had been found dead. Celia shivered at the memory of the remnants of the noose she’d seen in the boarded-up carriage house. Clearly, the woman had not succumbed to some sudden malady as Papa and Mrs. Maguire claimed.

Celia stoked the fire in the study, orange sparks popping and flying up. She couldn’t imagine Uncle Magnus killing his own wife. And Septima had just as strong a reason for murder. With Aunt Eugenia out of the picture, Uncle Magnus would have been free to install the laundress as mistress of the plantation and name her child as his heir.

Celia felt a rush of rage at that thought. The Butler land belonged to her family, not to a black-hearted foreigner who had come to Savannah with little more than the clothes on his back and charmed his way into a young woman’s tender affections, only to betray her in the most egregious manner—at a time when Aunt Eugenia was in the throes of some private grief.

“Miss Celia?” Mrs. Maguire stepped into the room. “Your father is awake and wishes a word with you.”

“Thank you. I’ll go right up.”

She climbed the stairs and went first to change out of her dressing gown and tidy her hair. In the hallway she nearly collided with Ivy, who had emerged from Papa’s room carrying a towel-draped
tray that gave off scents of sausage, warm bread, and cinnamon.

“Celia,” Ivy said. “There you are. Uncle David just finished his breakfast and wants you.”

“Yes, so Mrs. Maguire said.” Celia indicated the silver tray. “She would have taken care of that.”

“Oh, I know, but I wanted to speak to Uncle David anyway, and I thought I’d save Mrs. Maguire another trip up the stairs.” Ivy grinned. “She’s not as young as she used to be, you know.”

Ivy headed down the stairs. Celia went along the gallery to Papa’s room and knocked on the door.

“Come in.” He was propped on his pillows, hands folded over the pale-blue counterpane. The curtains were open to the watery light and the rain dribbling down the glass. A fire crackled in the grate.

“Good morning, Papa.” She bent to kiss his forehead. “You sent for me?”

“Yes, darling.” He motioned with one hand. “Pull up that chair.”

She settled herself on the small needlepoint chair, noting with dismay how pale and fragile he looked. Perhaps he’d spent part of last night prowling in the kitchen again. “Did you sleep well, Papa?”

“I’m afraid not. Here lately it seems the laudanum isn’t working very well.” He frowned. “Might as well be drinking sarsaparilla for all the good it’s doing.”

“You should ask Dr. Dearing whether there’s something else you could try.”

“Tincture of opium is the remedy of last resort. If it won’t help me, nothing can.” Papa rolled onto his side to lift a water glass from the side table and drank deeply.

When he finished, she took the glass from him, set it on the table, and fluffed his pillows. “What did you want to see me about, Papa?”

“I’ve been thinking about your mother and about dear Eugenia. One good marriage, one bad one. Even women of means are at the mercy of the men they marry. I don’t wish that to happen to you, my dear. I couldn’t bear it.”

She gaped at him. “Sutton loves me, Papa. I would trust him with my life. Besides, he has money of his own. He isn’t anything like Uncle—”

“I want you to have this.” Papa opened the drawer in the side table and withdrew a large envelope.

She opened it. “Ten thousand dollars?”

“Don’t put it in the bank. Put it away in some secret place. If trouble comes and things shouldn’t work out the way you hoped—”

“Thank you, Papa, but you mustn’t worry. It isn’t good for you. Sutton and I will look out for each other, no matter what.”

He nodded. “He’s a good man. A noble man. I’ve no cause to doubt his intentions or his affection for you. But circumstances can change us, darling.” He waved one hand. “Should Georgia secede, should war come—”

“It won’t.”

“If war comes, both of you will be sorely tested. Such a crisis can strain even the strongest of marital ties.” He took another sip of water. “Don’t invest that money in government bonds. If the South loses the war, the bonds won’t be worth anything. You’d be penniless, and I cannot bear the thought of my only child living in dire poverty. Ten thousand isn’t a fortune, but it’s enough for you to start over if necessary.” His eyes held hers. “Promise me you will set this money aside and tend it carefully.”

“All right, I promise, but you’re worrying needlessly. Sutton and I are going to have the most beautiful wedding Savannah has ever seen, and when we get back from England, we’ll settle down right here. The politics will get sorted out, and we will go on just as before. You’ll see.”

Celia’s rosy prediction seemed to set his mind at ease. He smiled then, and the light came back into his eyes. “Speaking of weddings, how are the preparations coming?”

“Mrs. Maguire and Mrs. Hemphill are planning the most elaborate wedding cake you ever saw,” Celia said, relieved at the change of subject. “My gown is almost finished, and oh, Papa, it’s delicious.” She went on to describe the billowing satin skirt, the pagoda sleeves, the delicate lace. “And Mrs. Foyle shortened Mama’s veil for me. I picked it up just last week.”

“What a vision your mother was in that veil.” He sat up straighter in the bed. “Try it on for me. Let me see how it looks on you.”

“Now?”

“Certainly. Why not?” He glanced out the window. “The rain is letting up and I must leave soon to get to Commerce Row. I’ve a meeting this afternoon with a new cotton factor who wants to do some business before the season ends. And Burke Mackay is sending over a young man to replace Mr. Shaw.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it, Papa? Perhaps you should stay home today and try to sleep.”

“I’ll feel better taking charge of business than lying here worrying about a future I can’t control.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

She tucked the envelope under her arm and returned to her room for the veil, but the unexpected gift and Papa’s reasons for giving it had cast a pall over her happiness. She didn’t want to believe that anything could change the way she and Sutton felt about each other. Or that war—if it came—could so radically alter her world.

She shook the veil from its muslin nest and draped it over her head, arranging the delicate lace across her shoulders, and returned to Papa’s room.

A tender smile erased the years from his face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Francesca standing there. She would be so proud of you, darling.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, Papa. I hope so.”

“The one regret of my life is that she was taken from us before you had a chance to know her well. To appreciate her many virtues.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I haven’t taught you very much about being a woman.”

“But you have taught me everything about being human.”

“Well.” He wiped his eyes. “I’d better get to work. Now that Mr. Shaw has left us, I seem always to be behind.”

She fingered her veil. “I looked over our ledgers last week as you asked. We’re doing well.”

“We’ve been lucky this season. Good cotton crops, no bad storms at sea. Everyone on Commerce Row will make money this year—even the Mackays, thank God.” He threw back the covers. “Enough dawdling. You must excuse me now. Time’s a-wasting.”

Celia returned to her room and put the veil away. The door to Ivy’s room across the hall stood ajar, revealing a jumble of dresses, shawls, and hatboxes on the unmade bed. In the middle of it all sat Maxwell calmly demolishing one of Ivy’s delicate kid gloves.

“Maxwell, no!” Celia chased him down and took the mangled glove from his mouth. “Now look what you’ve done!”

He sat on his haunches and cocked his head, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Now we shall have to buy Ivy a new pair. Come on, you little thief. Let’s go outside.”

She patted her thigh, and he raced ahead of her down the stairs. She let him into the garden, then peered into the parlor, expecting to find Ivy. But the room was deserted, the morning fire nearly out.

A moment later the puppy scratched on the door, and she went to let him in. Celia took his towel from its peg beside the kitchen
door and dried him off before giving him a bite of bacon left from breakfast. He gobbled it and waited for more.

“Sorry, sweet boy. That’s all.” She held up both hands, palms out, and Maxwell headed for his favorite napping spot next to the warm kitchen hearth.

Mrs. Maguire came in with an armload of wood for the cook-stove and dumped it into the wood box. She dusted off her hands and filled the teapot. “Is your da up and about?”

“Yes, but I wish he’d stay home. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and the weather today is so disagreeable.”

“So ’tis.” Mrs. Maguire took two cups from the cupboard and set them on a tray. “I thought I heard him prowling around down here last night, and not for the first time, either.”

Celia avoided the housekeeper’s steely expression. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Maguire to suspect her, even though the diary had already given up all the information it was going to. The missing pages nagged at her, begged to be found, but Celia’s search had turned up nothing. “Papa told me the laudanum isn’t working very well. He won’t talk to the doctor, but somebody should.”

Mrs. Maguire measured tea leaves into the pot. “’Tis surely a worrisome situation, but your da is a grown man, and capable of looking after himself. He won’t take kindly to your interfering.”

“But I can’t bear to think he’s suffering if there might be another medicine—”

“Laudanum’s the most powerful tonic there is, as far as I can tell. And the truth is, the longer a person takes it, the more the body gets used to it. Eventually Mr. Browning will have to take larger doses to ease his pains.” Mrs. Maguire paused to pour hot water onto the tea leaves. “Leastways that’s how it was with me poor sister back in the Waterford days.”

“I never knew you had a sister.”

“’Twas a very long time ago now, but I miss her to this day.
Talkin’ about her still makes me weep, so I try not to.” The housekeeper turned away. “Now where on earth did I leave my sugar tongs?”

The doorbell sounded, rousing Maxwell from his nap. Mrs. Maguire patted her hair and retied her apron. “You sit tight, Miss Celia. I’ll see who it is.”

But Celia followed the housekeeper along the long, narrow hallway, stopping just inside the parlor door.

A moment later, Mrs. Maguire returned. “A visitor for Miss Ivy, shy about givin’ me her name. I told her Miss Ivy’s gone out for the day. So now she wants to see you.”

“I can’t imagine who would venture out on a day like this.”

Mrs Maguire nodded. “Looks like a drowned rat, she does. I’d best bring the tea in. And some cake too—from the looks of her she hasn’t eaten for a while.”