Celia Garth: A Novel (48 page)

But after a little while the tunnel was no longer absolutely dark. What she perceived was not really light, but it was a lessening of black. A few steps more, and the black continued to lessen; looking down, Celia could make out the ends of her white kerchief. The black turned to gray, and now she could see her own hand on the rail. She turned her head and saw Vivian, walking as easily as a lady going to call on a friend.

Looking ahead, she saw a grating just under the ceiling. The light from this grating showed them another flight of steps, this time leading up.

At the top of the steps they came to another landing, and another wall, and another pair of levers. Vivian turned a lever. A panel slid back, and there was a rush of air and light.

They were in a boathouse. Not the big boathouse where Herbert kept his schooner, but a smaller one, solidly built and opening on a wharf. Celia saw several small rowboats ready for use. But as her mind went back over the distance they had come, she was sure this boathouse was nearer the main dwelling than the other. “Where are we?” she asked. “This can’t be the river.”

Vivian smiled at her acuteness. No, this was not the main stream that flowed past Sea Garden. This was a little creek, too shallow for anything but the smallest boats, one of countless little creeks that laced the countryside and flowed into the larger streams. Unlocking the door of the boathouse she told Celia to step outside, and see how it was hidden by the forest growth.

The morning was sunny and the temperature by now was well into the sixties, but here under the trees they stood in a chilly shade. The boathouse was well hidden. But Vivian said that just in case somebody did see it, and wondered what it was here for, she had taken care to build several other boathouses like it on other little creeks like this one. All the houses held rowboats, which now and then were taken out for fishing or errands.

As they went back inside, Vivian said these boathouses were exactly alike even to a panel in the wall of each one like the panel that had moved to let them in, but in the other houses this panel was merely a fixed part of the wall. And the other houses had stout brick corners like this, but only in this one could a certain brick be turned—she showed Celia which brick it was—to reveal the levers that moved the panel.

So this was how Luke came and went. “It’s wonderful!” Celia said with awe.

“It’s mighty convenient,” Vivian agreed. With a smile she added, “And now that I’m telling you all our secrets, here’s one more. In all the boathouses there are wall compartments for tools. In one of them—we’ll walk over there one day and I’ll show you which one—we use a certain compartment as a letter box. We put messages there for Marion’s men, and they leave notes for us. Now if you’ve had enough fresh air, we’ll start back.”

They walked through the passage again. On the way, Vivian told Celia that the windows of her bedroom had been set high, so that if by chance the curtains had not quite been drawn together when the panel was open or the screws were being oiled, nobody outside could look in and see that there was anything unusual about the room. As they came near the steps leading up to the bedroom, Vivian pointed toward a side passage, dimly visible here by the glimmer from the wall-gratings.

“That leads to the ballroom,” she said. “I had it built because the ballroom is used only on special occasions, so it’s ideal for a secret door.”

“Can we go out that way?” Celia asked eagerly. She wanted to see everything.

“Why yes,” said Vivian, and they turned into the side passage, where they felt their way along the wall and up another series of steps. At the top Vivian said, “Maybe you can’t see it, but I know it all by heart—here’s the recess with the levers. Put your hand on this one—that’s it—turn the lever to the right, and we’ll go through into the ballroom.”

Celia felt a thrill. This was the opening where she had seen Francis Marion and his servant leave the house. She put her hand on the lever. Vivian stepped behind her to make room, and Celia gave the lever a turn.

Silently, the panel moved. Ahead of them was light—dim, for the ballroom curtains were closely drawn. Turning her head, Celia gave Vivian a questioning look. Vivian smiled and gestured for her to go in first. Celia stepped through the opening into the ballroom, and stopped short.

She was standing at one side of the fireplace. Opposite her, between two of the long windows, was a sofa. On the sofa, serene as a baby, Luke was lying asleep.

This was her wedding day. Luke told her he had slipped into the house about three o’clock this morning. He had ridden day and night to get here, for he could stay such a little time. When he came into the ballroom he was so sleepy that he had tumbled down on the sofa, and this was all he remembered.

They were married that afternoon in the parlor. Mr. Warren read the ceremony, and the witnesses were Herbert and Vivian, and the house-folk. The sunset streamed through the parlor and fell on them like a blessing as Luke put on Celia’s finger the ring his father had given Vivian when they were married.

It was so quiet, so simple, so beautiful, that they could almost forget how closely the house was locked and barred, so Luke could escape by the secret passage in case some Tory informer had found out he was here and had told the king’s troops.

But nothing happened to disturb them. After the ceremony they all gathered for a wedding supper, and Herbert poured wine he had been saving for some grand occasion. After supper, Herbert and Vivian and Mr. Warren moved into one of the guest-houses, and left the big house for Luke and Celia.

In ordinary times Luke and Celia would have been given one of the guest-houses for their honeymoon. These were charming little hideaways, designed with Vivian’s distinctive skill. But the times were not ordinary. Day and night, Luke had to be near the secret passage.

He had three days to spend here. It seemed to Celia that the time went by like a flash, though when it was over she could remember so much that it did not seem possible for them to have crowded all this into so short a space. They had said so much, had loved so much, had given each other so much joy.

In the daytime they walked outdoors under the ancient moss-hung trees. The nights they spent in their odd little room with the secret door. As she lay with Luke’s arms around her, Celia said to herself and to him, over and over, with a happiness so great that she could hardly believe it, “I am not alone any more. I am never going to be alone again.”

At night Luke kept his weapons on the bedside table. All day he wore his pistol, and when they went outdoors they stayed in sight of the house. It was the last week of February. The jonquils and violets had begun to bloom; in the fields the Negroes were cutting mustard greens, and the mustard plants were brilliant with golden flowers. Luke and Celia talked and talked, and Celia was astonished at how much she had to say, now that she had a listener who understood her so well.

She told Luke she had found out something. It used to be that she had clung to the future as so many old people clung to the past. Now she had learned that one was as foolish as the other. She had made up her mind to live in the present. She was interested in the future, of course, but she was not going to lean on it. She was going to count her happiness in terms of here and now.

“Does that make sense?” she asked him.

“Of course it does,” said Luke. “The here and now—that’s all we’ve got.” They sat on a bench under one of the great oaks. He looked at the beauty around him, and back at her. “And as far as I’m concerned,” he said, “it’s plenty.”

But there was something about the future that he wanted to tell her. It had been arranged long ago that he was to have Sea Garden. Vivian’s other children had been amply provided for by their fathers. But Luke’s father, though a prosperous rice broker, had not owned land.

Luke had been born at Sea Garden and he loved every stick on the place. The Lacy raised only what they used, but the plan had been that he should turn Sea Garden into a working plantation. The war had interrupted him, but this was still what he meant to do.

“And this will be my home,” Celia said in a half-whisper, “as long as I live. Oh Luke, why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was so much else to tell you!” he answered. “Fact is, I hadn’t thought of it until you said you didn’t know what I had done before the war or what I meant to do afterwards.”

But all this lay ahead. For the present, Luke said he did not know when he could be with her again. But he would be able to send her an occasional note, placed by some other scout of Marion’s in the boathouse compartment Vivian had told her about.

He said General Greene, with the main body of his troops, was now in North Carolina. Cornwallis was there too. Cornwallis had been in North Carolina before, Luke reminded her with a chuckle, but had had to come back southward when he heard of the defeat at Kings Mountain. Now he and Greene would probably meet any day for another battle. “And in the meantime,” said Luke, “have we been busy in the Lowcountry!”

He grinned proudly as he talked.

“There are more of us now, so we don’t just attack the supply roads. The whole Santee country is overrun with Tory bands who live by plunder. Marion’s scouts bring him word of where the Tories are, and we ride. Many a time we’ve caught them in the middle of a raid. How many homes Marion has saved from looting, how many women he has saved from being raped, nobody knows.” Luke smiled as he added, “Nobody knows either how many grateful parents have named their little boys ‘Francis Marion.’ Must be hundreds. Those people on the Santee nearly worship him.”

Celia felt the same way. It was because of Marion that none of those Tory bands had been able to come as far as Sea Garden. It was Marion who had made it possible for her and Luke to be married. She thought it likely that one of these days she too would have a little boy named Francis Marion.

Luke told her good-by in the black hours between midnight and dawn. They stood by the open panel in the bedroom, Luke’s arms around her. He said, “I love you and I’ll think of you every minute. And don’t worry about me.”

“I won’t,” Celia promised. “I’m not going to be licked by anything that hasn’t happened.”

Luke kissed her again. “You’ve got gumption, my darling.”

Then he was gone. The panel slid into place behind him.

Celia sat down on the bed. She took Luke’s pillow between her fists and put her face down into it and let go the sobs she had kept back while he was here. But even in this minute she did not feel utterly desolate. She had Luke. He loved her and belonged to her. And maybe she was going to have somebody else. A little girl with eyes like Luke’s, or a little boy to be named Francis Marion.

S
HE FOUND THAT SHE
was not going to have a baby. She was disappointed, but perhaps it was just as well, for she had so much to do.

Vivian told her Luke needed clothes. He had worn out most of his hunting-shirts and had little left now but parlor finery, which would not last a day in the swamps. Vivian said she had plenty of cotton on hand—they raised it at Sea Garden to make work-clothes—and one of the colored men was a good weaver, but it took several spinners to keep one weaver supplied with yarn.

“I can spin almost without looking,” said Celia. “I’ll do that in the evenings, and in the daytime I’ll make a shirt for Luke.”

Vivian gave her a piece of thick homespun made by the Sea Garden weaver. Celia made the shirt with a collar that could be brought up close around his neck to keep off mosquitoes, and cloth ties that would keep it on without need for buttons. Next she planned to make him a pair of breeches. She had never made men’s breeches—Mrs. Thorley would not have considered this a genteel occupation—but she could learn.

Before she could make the breeches she had a visit from Luke. When she went to her room one night two weeks after he had left her, she found him sitting on the bed. With a cry of delight she tumbled into his arms and asked how long he had been here and how long he could stay.

Luke said he had been here about fifteen minutes. He could stay tonight and tomorrow, but as soon as the dark came down tomorrow night he would have to go on. “What a way to be married!” said Luke.

“I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Celia told him.

She gave him the new shirt. Delighted, Luke gave her the one he was wearing, to be washed and mended before he came here again. When would that be? Luke had no idea.

He brought news. Not about the war—he had had no word of Greene and Cornwallis, and he was forbidden to say where Marion was headed now. But he said Herbert’s grandson Tom Lacy, captive on a prison-ship since the fall of Charleston, was now with Marion’s men. Along with some other prisoners, Tom had pretended to yield to the blandishments of the guards, and joined the Tory troops. Then at their first skirmish these fellows let themselves be taken by the rebels, and were now fighting for their own country again. Luke said so many men had used this trick that now the British would not accept a deserting prisoner unless he would join a regiment bound for the West Indies. No more would be turned loose on their home ground.

Later, Celia asked him about Miles Rand. Luke said Miles was still with Marion. He fought like a demon. If he lived through the war, Miles had said he would never rebuild Bellwood. He would go west, into the mountains or even beyond.

Celia thought how fortunate she was. Her despair had been so hopeless, and now she had so much. She hoped it would be the same for Miles. She could understand his not wanting to go back to Bellwood, but the world was wide.

Luke had to leave the next evening. But this time, when the panel closed behind him, Celia shed no tears. He had shown her how easily he could come and go. Any time, he might be back.

She started the breeches. Eager to be useful, she would have liked to sew all day and spin all evening, but Vivian insisted that she must spend part of her time outdoors. So Celia tended the flowers, and with Herbert and Vivian she took turns walking to the boathouse in which was the compartment they called their letter box. One of them went there every day, to see if a scout of Marion’s had left a letter. If they found one, they knew they could expect another scout soon, to carry it on.