Celia Garth: A Novel (3 page)

“But you wouldn’t sell those!” he exclaimed. A sentimental fellow, Darren spoke with dismay.

“Oh yes I would,” Celia retorted. “I’m not going back to the country and be bored to death. I’m staying here. And I
can
sew.”

Behind her, from the doorway, she heard a man’s voice.

“Can you make a dress that
really
fits?”

Celia spun around; Darren, who had been watching her and not the door, jerked up his head; then as they recognized a friend they both relaxed. The newcomer, Captain Jimmy Rand of the state militia, stood leaning his shoulder on the side of the doorway. As Celia turned he took off his hat, and the sun glistened on his black hair. With a lazy stretch as though he had nothing on earth to do, Jimmy strolled in. He gave a casual salute to Darren—who did a shift of militia duty once a week—and resting his elbow on the counter he turned to Celia. His mouth had a quiver of mischief.

J
IMMY’S FULL NAME WAS
Captain James de Courcey Rand. Tall and lean and dark, he looked leaner and darker than ever in his smart blue uniform. He had an ugly, engaging face, scooped at the temples, bony at the jaw, with a wide mouth and a look of being amused by life in general.

Jimmy lived in town with his widowed mother. His father had been a rice planter, and Jimmy was the younger of two sons. Being the younger son he had not inherited much when his father died, and he had his own way to make in the world. But unlike Darren, Jimmy was ambitious: he had studied law in England, and was now working in an office on Broad Street, where it was said he had a future bright enough to make up for his misfortune in having been born after his brother.

His brother was Miles Rand of Bellwood Plantation. Though they had shared the family fortune like the lion and the mouse, Miles and Jimmy were good friends. Miles was married and was soon to have an heir—Celia knew this because Mrs. Miles Rand had sent an order for baby-clothes to Mrs. Thorley’s. This was another reason Celia liked working there, you knew what was going on.

Darren had known Jimmy all his life; Celia had known him since one day about a month ago when Jimmy came into the shop to order some shirts, and lingered to look at samples of linen in one of the parlor cabinets. It was a rainy day and there were no other visitors, so in a little while Celia and Jimmy found themselves talking to each other. Jimmy seemed quite unaware that a sewing-girl was not usually considered the social equal of a planter’s son, and before long they were having a fine time. Since that day he had dropped in often.

Now as he leaned on the counter beside her, Jimmy did not immediately go on with the question he had asked from the doorway. Instead, with his usual lazy manner, he said,

“You look mighty pretty this morning, my brown-eyed blonde. Mighty agreeable picture for a man who’s been on guard duty all night.” Glancing at her empty cup he added, “Darren, I’ve just come from Fort Moultrie, and I dropped in because you always have something hot on the fire.”

Darren said he would brew a fresh pot of tea. He went to get it, and Jimmy turned back to Celia, his sunburnt cheeks creasing in a grin. Jimmy needed a shave, but otherwise he showed no ill effect of his vigil.

“Tell me something,” he began. “You were saying that you’d sell your mother’s necklace before you’d go home.”

He was speaking soberly now. During their brief acquaintance Jimmy and Celia had met only in the shop or in some public place such as this. They liked each other, but they had never discussed their personal affairs. Celia looked at him directly. “Did that shock you, Jimmy? It shocked Darren.”

Jimmy had a keen sense of family, she knew. But he smiled and shook his head. “No, it didn’t shock me. I figured you had a reason.”

“Of course I’ve got a reason,” she returned. She reflected that Darren was sweet and a darling, but Jimmy had sense.

There was a pause. Celia noticed Jimmy’s hand as it lay on the counter, very brown against his blue sleeve. He was not drumming his fingers nor fiddling with anything. His hand looked strong and relaxed. Jimmy said, “Do you want to tell us about it?”

“I’d like to,” said Celia.

Darren brought the tea and filled cups for them all. While they drank it, Celia told him and Jimmy about her uncle and aunt and her cousin Roy.

Celia’s uncle, William Garth, owned a rice plantation which he had inherited from his father. The plantation—called Kensaw for an Indian tribe that used to hunt there—was pleasantly situated on a little stream that ran into the Ashley River. Though not large, it was well organized and prosperous. But under William’s management it did not stay that way.

Poor William went through life in a state of gentle bewilderment. His head was full of cobwebby learning; he knew Greek and Latin, and he could tell you all about the kings of ancient history, but he did not know how to raise and market a crop. He did not know how, and he could not learn. Kensaw Plantation slackened, got out of order; William bumbled along. He married and had two children, and his life turned into a struggle to make his slipshod property give them the advantages his wife thought they ought to have.

William’s younger brother Edward, Celia’s father, was more enterprising. Since he had no land, Edward became an accountant in the office of a rice broker in Charleston. He married an orphan girl who brought him a good dowry, and when Celia was born her future looked promising.

But when Celia was a year old, about the time that George the Third was crowned king, there was an epidemic in Charleston and both her parents died. Celia’s only relative was her Uncle William, who now came to town to look after her affairs.

He did so with a good deal of dismay. William had been fond of his brother, but he expected his brother’s child to be a burden on him, and if there was one thing William did not want, it was any more burdens. But when he reached Charleston William found out what a good businessman Celia’s father had been. Not only was her mother’s dowry intact, but Edward had added to it from his earnings. William took Celia to Kensaw, and told his wife Louisa that Celia would be no expense to them. Louisa drew a breath of relief.

Celia grew up with her cousins. The elder cousin was Roy, four years older than she was and the pride of Louisa’s heart. Though Roy was both clever and handsome Celia did not like him, because he was also a spoilt brat who thought that wherever he was standing, there was the middle of the world.

But she did not have to put up with him much. When Roy was eight years old he went to live with Louisa’s brother in Georgetown so he could go to the excellent school established there by the indigo planters, and he was at home only on his vacations. Several years later Roy was sent to school in England. William could not afford this, but people expected a planter to send his son to school in England, and here as elsewhere William tried to do what was expected of him. Nobody could ever say of William that he did not try.

The other cousin was a girl, Harriet, a shy little thing who had no distinction at all. She and Celia got along well enough, for Celia felt sorry for her, and treated her gently.

Between the two girls Louisa showed no favoritism. They had the same toys, the same number of new dresses, the same holiday visits to their friends; and Louisa gave them the same training in housewifery and good manners. If she did not give them much tenderness, it was because she did not have much to give. Louisa was fond of her husband in a protective sort of way, and she adored Roy, but this used up her stock of affection. She did her duty by the girls. Louisa always did her duty.

Since William was not practical, Louisa thought this made it important that she should be. She managed her affairs with grim competence. Her house was so neat you would hardly have thought anybody lived there. Meals were served on time. The food was wholesome and they used all leftovers. And in spite of William’s haziness in money matters, by her own stern scrimping Louisa managed to send Roy a generous allowance and put aside something every year toward a dowry for Harriet.

Louisa taught the girls to read and write, to spin and sew. Then, when Celia was ten years old and Harriet nine, Louisa sent them to school in Charleston. Here they had lessons in dancing, fine needlework, and other accomplishments expected of gentlewomen. After three years they came home. Now they had nothing to do but grow up and get married.

The war began when Celia was sixteen. Roy had finished his English school and was making a tour of France, but the outbreak of war caused a financial panic in the Colonies and Louisa could no longer keep up his allowance. Roy had to come home. Handsome, well dressed, with polished manners and expensive tastes, he arrived at Kensaw Plantation.

He was appalled at the rundown state of the place. Roy had always thought of himself as a rich young man. But unlike his father, Roy was not vague. He determined to repair his fortunes, and he decided that an important step in this direction would be to get the girls well married.

He set out to make himself agreeable to every girl in the neighborhood who had an eligible brother. He filled the house with well-to-do unmarried men. Before long Harriet was engaged to a young man named Ogden. Young Mr. Ogden had pale eyes, a hawk nose, and a receding chin, and in profile he looked like a fish, but he was the eldest son of a family who had a broad plantation farther up the Ashley River. Roy had his mother’s talent for getting things done.

But though Roy did everything he could for Celia, she turned down two good offers. She said both men were perfectly impossible. The first was named Mr. Hawkins. He was rich, but he was also a tightwad. Mr. Hawkins made some fumbling attempts to be romantic, but Celia was pretty sure he had observed that besides her dowry she had rare ability to spin and sew, and he figured her skill would save him more than the cost of her keep. She said no.

Her other admirer, Mr. McArdle, was a widower with three small children. Again Celia declined. She was not fond of babies, and she thought minding her own would be bother enough without minding somebody else’s too.

Celia was in no hurry to get married. She knew that a girl whose parents had left her well off would always have beaus on the porch.

She worked hard on Harriet’s trousseau. She did not mind, for she liked to sew and she expected to have an equally elaborate pile of clothes when she got married. The wedding was beautiful. It was not until afterward, when the bills came, that William or Roy, or even Louisa, realized how much this happy event had cost.

Finally, Roy told his parents that Celia simply had to hear the facts. So one afternoon a maid came to Celia’s room to say that her uncle and aunt wanted to see her in William’s study downstairs.

In the study Louisa and William sat side by side. Louisa had an account-book on her knee; William was tying knots in his handkerchief. Louisa looked grim, William looked miserable. Louisa did the talking.

She said the worthy widower, Mr. McArdle, had been distressed when Celia refused him. Louisa thought Mr. McArdle would renew his offer if Celia’s guardians should hint that she had changed her mind.

Astonished, Celia said she certainly had not changed her mind. All Mr. McArdle wanted was a nursemaid, and it would be mighty convenient to get a nursemaid who would bring him a dowry.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Aunt Louisa said Roy was right. It was their duty to tell her.

When she got this far in her narrative, Celia paused. She took a sip of tea, set the cup in the saucer, and looked thoughtfully at Darren and Jimmy.

“I didn’t have any dowry,” she said.

Jimmy nodded sagely, as if he had expected this. But Darren demanded, “You mean they had taken it?”

“Oh no. It was just used up. Aunt Louisa had the accounts. She had spent it on my clothes, books, school fees, things like that. She said she had hoped she wouldn’t have to tell me. She had hoped I would get married to some man who would love me for myself alone. Because they couldn’t afford to give me anything.”

Celia paused again. The men were listening with interest, and she went on.

“Well, I knew I wasn’t going to marry Mr. McArdle. So I decided to get a job. They didn’t like that idea at all. Especially Roy didn’t like it. He knew people would smile, and say it seemed the Garths weren’t as well off as they’d been pretending. But I said if they didn’t let me get a job now I’d get one as soon as I came of age. And the bills for the wedding kept on coming. So finally Roy said they might as well give in. I think he figured I was going to be an old maid, and dressmaking is genteel work and it keeps an old maid from being dependent on her kinfolks. So Uncle William brought me to town and apprenticed me to Mrs. Thorley.”

Celia shrugged, laughing a little.

“Poor Uncle William, he did hate it so. I think he was ashamed of them all. Before we left home he asked me to walk with him down by the river. He gave me the jewelry and told me to take care of it, especially the necklace. That’s an heirloom. He wasn’t sure how old it was, but the first Garths who came from England about a hundred years ago brought it with them. Uncle William said it had come to my father by my grandfather’s will, so now it was mine.

“I’d hate to sell the necklace. But I’m not going back there. Understand?”

“Yes I do,” said Darren, and Jimmy remarked,

“You’re not of age yet, are you?”

“Not for another seven months—next April.”

“Then you couldn’t sell the necklace before April,” said Jimmy, “even if you wanted to. But you needn’t worry about that. Remember what I asked you when I came in?”

Celia nodded. “You asked if I could make a dress that would
really
fit.” She said emphatically. “Yes I can.”

Jimmy reached for the teapot. “Couple of days ago,” he said in his lazy drawl, “I heard a lady say there wasn’t a dressmaker in Charleston who could do that.”

“I can!” Celia insisted.

Jimmy raised his hard brown hand in a gesture of caution. Again she saw that quirk of mischief at the corner of his mouth. “The lady I have in mind,” he warned, “is not easy to please.”