The Bracelet (42 page)

Celia went numb. “He killed her?”

“I can’t be sure. Maybe it was the other woman that caused Miss Eugenia to lose her balance. Maybe Mr. Lorens meant to take hold of her and pull her to safety. Of course he said it was an accident, and that was the story that appeared in the papers. That woman—Septima—was never named, and that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come back to the carriage house. But she couldn’t stay away from your uncle.”

“And you never told Papa what you saw?”

“I wasn’t certain what I saw. All during the funeral for Miss Eugenia, I prayed about what to do. I didn’t want to send an innocent man to jail, even if he was the worst sort o’ human being. But if he had pushed Miss Eugenia off that balcony, he needed to pay for his crime.” Mrs. Maguire paused and stared out the window. “I spoke to Father O’Brien about it. And I’d made up my mind to tell Mr. Browning what I’d seen and let him decide what was to be done. But then Septima died and Magnus Lorens vanished.”

“Ivy thinks he left to protect her.”

Mrs. Maguire snorted. “By the time Miss Eugenia died, he had sold off her land and gambled away most o’ the proceeds. Your da got wind of it and that’s why that rat ran back to where he came from. Good riddance, I say.”

Celia let out a low whistle. “No wonder Mr. Channing was intrigued.”

“It was the talk of Savannah for a while, but eventually people went back to their own lives and the whole sad thing was forgotten.”

“Until Leo Channing showed up.” Celia felt as if she’d been gut-punched. How had Papa lived with the violence, the rumors of miscegenation, the multiple tragedies? With the burdensome secrets?

Mrs. Maguire sighed and wiped her eyes, seemingly exhausted
by her tale. “Maybe I should have told you all this when that reporter showed up.”

“I wish you had, but I understand why you didn’t.” Celia paused. “Mr. Channing stirred up all this trouble, and yet he tried to warn me about Ivy.”

Mrs. Maguire looked up, a question in her eyes.

“He left a note at the door. ‘An oak is often split by a wedge from its own branch.’ I didn’t understand what it meant then. But he explained everything the night of the fire.”

A carriage stopped at the gate. Mrs. Maguire went to the window and lifted the curtain. “There’s Miss Thayer.”

“Stay put,” Celia said. “I’ll let her in.”

Celia went downstairs, Maxwell at her heels, and opened the door.

“Celia.” Alicia came into the foyer, her brown eyes wet with tears. “I’m so sorry I missed the funeral. Mother and I were in Cassville for Grandmother’s birthday. We just got home night before last. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Packing for England. We leave tomorrow. But I need a rest. How about some tea? You can catch me up on all your news.”

“I’d love some tea, but I can’t stay. I have a dress fitting at Mrs. Foyle’s. Mrs. Mackay”—Alicia broke off and laughed—“the
other
Mrs. Mackay told Mother you and Sutton were leaving soon. I wanted to see you before you left, to wish you all the happiness in the world.”

Alicia drew a small package from her bag. “I brought you a present.”

Celia unwrapped a soft leather case that opened to reveal a miniature sketchbook and a set of pencils.

“In case you want to make some sketches of your travels,” Alicia said. “You always were the best artist in our class at school. Madame LeFleur said so, and she was never one for false praise.”

Celia embraced her friend. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Alicia clasped Celia’s hand. “Mother and I went out to the asylum yesterday and spoke with Mrs. Clayton. While you’re gone, we’re going to take charge of raising money for the building fund. You’ve worked too hard to have the plans stalled now.”

“That’s wonderful news. I called on Mrs. Clayton last week to discuss it, but she was ill. I left a note for her with Annie Wilcox but haven’t had a reply.”

“Poor Mrs. Clayton had a bad cough for several days, but she seems quite recovered. I told her I was coming by here today. She says to tell you not to worry about the girls, and there will be plenty of work to do when you get home to Savannah.” Alicia peered through the window. “I should go. You know how cross Mrs. Foyle gets when you’re even a tiny bit late. You will write to me, Celia?”

“Every chance I get. Though the post can be woefully slow across the Atlantic.”

“And you will be home by spring?”

“If all goes according to plan. Why?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Celia sent her friend a wry smile. “With the best of them.”

“Porter Quarterman intends to propose marriage on my birthday next month. He has already spoken to my father, though I’m not supposed to know. That’s why I’m off to the modiste’s for a new dress.” Alicia laughed. “Can you believe I’m to be a sister to Mary?” She squeezed Celia’s arm. “You simply must be home in time for my wedding.”

“Set the date for June. We’re sure to be home by then.”

“Done!” Alicia paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Well, good-bye, Mrs. Mackay.”

“Good-bye. Mrs. Quarterman.”

The sound of Alicia’s laughter followed Celia all the way back
up the stairs. Mrs. Maguire had left the room, leaving trunks half packed and Maxwell still curled into a golden ball on the pillow.

Celia opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out half a dozen new handkerchiefs, a new jar of lip pomade, and several pairs of earbobs to add to the trunk. Her fingers curled around the small box containing the bracelet that had turned her world upside down. She opened the box and held the trinket in her palm, the fake jewels and the two small diamonds glittering in the light.

Would she have been better off not to have discovered her family’s secrets? Would knowing them make her different somehow?

You can’t unring the bell.

Celia walked to the small basket she kept for disposing of old letters, broken pencils, and faded ribbons and dropped the bracelet inside.

27

Wednesday, January 26, 1859

T
HE TIDE WAS IN
. T
HE RIVER, DRESSED IN AZURE, MIRRORED
a crystalline winter sky. The wharf teemed with dock workers loading the
Celia B
for the journey to England.

Yesterday afternoon Celia’s trunks—and Sutton’s—had been delivered to the dock and put aboard. All that had remained this morning was the packing of last-minute items—her toiletries and handkerchiefs, pens and writing paper, the new sketchbook, and the travel journal Papa had given her for Christmas.

Now she stood on the pier, one hand shading her eyes, watching Sutton talking with their captain. Sutton had said that if the weather cooperated they might reach Liverpool in six weeks’ time. He planned to spend the second week of March visiting the shipbuilders and making financial arrangements with the London bankers for the construction of his blockade-runner. After that she and Sutton would be off on their honeymoon to Paris, Rome, and Venice. They would return to Savannah in late May, in time to attend Alicia’s wedding before leaving for a summer in Saratoga.

Celia reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, and her
fingers brushed the envelope that had arrived this morning. She tore it open.

Celia,

We are safely arrived in Havana. Louisa was ill for a good part of the journey but seems recovered now that we are once again on dry land. At present we are at a small hotel near the waterfront, but it is not an acceptable accommodation for the long term. I hesitate to bring this up, but our situation demands that I have whatever funds might be coming to me from Uncle David’s estate after he has passed on. Is he still alive? Or sleeping now with the saints? You can send money in care of the Hotel Tropicale.

On the voyage here I had time to read some of my old books. Remember when we were at the academy and struggling to make sense of the plays of Jean Racine? We laughed at his tragic heroines so blinded by love they couldn’t see that their affections were not returned, and we wondered how any modern girl could be so lacking in discernment. And yet that is precisely what happened to me. Of course you’re right that nobody can make another person love them, but I stood to lose everyone who mattered to me. I had to try.

I see now that it was hopeless. Sutton was never mine to lose.

Halfway through our voyage, our progress was halted for a day when the
Percival
was becalmed. I found myself with even more time than usual on my hands. Louisa was too ill to accompany me onto the deck, so I spent the day alone with my book of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays, skipping from comedy to tragedy to sonnets hoping to read something that would soothe my restless spirit. Don’t you find, Celia, that he was a genius in
his ability to express so perfectly the yearnings of the human heart? . . .

“Celia?” Sutton strode across the wharf and linked her arm through his. “We’re almost ready to sail. Shall we go aboard?”

Celia tucked the letter away to finish later and smiled up at her husband. “I’m ready.”

Once they were underway, she would write to Ivy and tell her everything. It was just like Ivy to be scheming, planning ahead for her own benefit with little consideration for Celia’s own feelings. Still, Ivy was in for a shock. And despite it all, she deserved the truth. Perhaps learning about her parents and about Michael Gleason, who certainly must have seemed like Ivy’s last chance at love, would make a difference.

They went up the creaking gangplank, and Sutton showed her the accommodation he’d expanded just for the two of them. Situated amidships to maximize comfort in high seas, the cabin still smelled of new varnish. It was not overly spacious, but it was large enough for a feather bed, a small table and chairs, and a chest of drawers. Rectangular windows brought in the clear January light and framed her view of the wharf and the city beyond.

“This isn’t exactly Madison Square, but it will be home until we reach Liverpool,” Sutton said. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.”

He smiled. “I hope you’ll still think so when the heavy weather hits. Shall we go up on deck?”

They joined several crew members at the stern of the ship. Standing beside Sutton watching the lacy whitecaps, the lengthening afternoon shadows, the winter light luminous above the river, everything suddenly quiet except for the lapping of water against the wooden pilings, Celia thought again of everything that had happened to her family, of the questions that would never be fully answered.

At times she felt as if the Brownings had been singled out for trouble. But the truth was that sooner or later misfortune visited every house. Grief and loss were the price one paid for being alive. Spending her days wary and afraid would only rob her of the good things life had to offer, of the thousand small pleasures just waiting to be discovered. Her imagination glowed with anticipation of all she and Sutton would share.

The breeze came up, chilling her face. And she felt new again, ready to let go of old worries and resentments and to embrace whatever came next. She didn’t want to wake up some morning fifty years from now and realize she’d mired herself in the past and missed out on everything that made life worthwhile.

The sails unfurled and filled. The ship rocked on the gentle pulse of the river, settling between the wind and the tide. In the company of a Danish brig bound for Copenhagen, the
Celia B
moved slowly toward the sea.

Turning, Celia saw that the balconies of the stores and countinghouses along Commerce Row were crowded with people waving hats and handkerchiefs in farewell.

Sutton drew her to his side. “Take one last look, darling. One last look at home.”

Celia wrapped both arms around her husband. “As long as I’m with you, Sutton Mackay, I am home.”