The Bracelet (31 page)

She opened the door and followed Maxwell into the garden. He raced around, sniffing at every bush and blade of grass on his way to the back gate. While he explored, Celia pushed through the rosebushes and jessamine and rounded the corner to the small kitchen window. She cupped her hands to the glass and peered into the kitchen just in time to see the housekeeper remove the burlap bundle from the cupboard behind the stove.

She spun away from the window, her heart hammering. What was Mrs. Maguire hiding?

“Maxwell!” She clapped her hands, and the puppy bounded toward her. She picked him up and returned to the kitchen as Mrs. Maguire emerged with the tea tray. Celia followed the older woman to the parlor and waited while the tea was poured. Mrs. Maguire returned to the kitchen with a comment about checking on the bread, but Celia scarcely heard her. She settled Maxwell at her feet and spooned sugar into her tea, her mind whirling.

The more she tried to unravel the mysteries of her own house, the more tangled it all became.

20

C
ELIA LAY AWAKE
,
LISTENING FOR THE CLICK OF THE KITCHEN
door latch, the signal that Mrs. Maguire had finished her work and retired to her room by way of the servants’ staircase.

Papa and Ivy had gone to their rooms early. Surely by now they were deeply asleep. Leaving Maxwell to his puppy dreams, Celia rose and drew on a dressing gown. She lit the lamp, and, when the flame steadied, opened her bedroom door.

The house was quiet. Pale light from the gas lamps along the street filtered through the fanlight, illuminating the entry hall. She closed the door to her bedroom and hurried along the gallery, her bare toes sinking into the thick carpets covering the wooden floors. She descended the staircase, crossed the cold marble floor of the entry hall, headed past the parlor where the last orange embers from the evening’s fire still glowed faintly in the darkness.

In the kitchen, she set her lamp on the counter and crossed to the wooden cupboard behind the stove where Mrs. Maguire kept tins of coffee and tea, assorted spices, and bins of flour.

Outside a dog barked and she froze, hoping the sound wouldn’t wake Maxwell. He was still a puppy, but his sharp bark was loud enough to wake half of Savannah. The barking ceased, and she
eased open a drawer that held an assortment of knives and serving spoons, then another drawer filled with dish towels. At last, beneath the stack of linens, she felt the solid object beneath the rough burlap.

The writing box was rectangular in shape, the rosewood highly polished as if the box were new. Celia carried it to the table and turned up the wick in the lamp. She lifted the small brass latch of the box and opened the lid. Inside were several velvet-lined compartments meant to hold nibs and pencils, bottles of ink, and writing paper. Tucked away in the back was a small book bound in red leather. She drew it out and held it up to the light.

Celia’s ears rang. She had never believed a single word Leo Channing said, but somehow he had known about this diary. Perhaps he had told the truth when he said people in Savannah knew things they would never divulge, at least to her.

“Find the diary, and you’ll find the name.”
Even now the memory of his words was like a cold hand gripping her heart.

Celia perched on the stool and opened the journal. The first few pages had been ripped out, leaving a ragged edge. Some of the remaining pages were puckered, and the ink was splotched and faded as if the diary had been left in the rain—or dampened by tears.

May 23.
Eleven years ago, on this date in the year 1832, I joined my fortunes to those of Magnus Lorens, and for ten of those eleven I lived in as perfect a bliss as was possible, given my terrible loss and the secret I am forced to bear. But of late laughter and affection have been replaced by silence and indifference, and he will not say the cause. He insists that my emotions are those of an overwrought woman, and that his ardent feelings have not changed. I do not believe him. Minty and Octavia sick today. Picked six quarts of strawberries.

July 21.
Visitors arrived this evening. I was nearly ready to retire, as there is little to do in the country in the evenings, but just before twilight a carriage turned off the main road and came up the avenue to the house. And oh, what a joy to see my friends the Reids from Atherton Hall. Isabella brought squash, beans, and cucumbers from her garden as well as new trimmings for my summer hat, which I had requested she purchase for me on her next trip to town. I sent Octavia down to the slave street to fetch Molly, who is far and away the best cook on St. Simons, and asked her to prepare a late supper for us. Afterwards I took the ladies into the parlor, and we stayed up until midnight playing endless hands of smoot and catching up on all the news. I felt terrible for Mr. Reid, who as the lone gentleman in our party had to content himself with a quick walk around the house and a cheroot on the porch, as my husband did not appear until long after I had settled my guests into their rooms and they were fast asleep.

Footsteps on the servants’ staircase set Celia’s heart to racing. She extinguished the lamp and crouched behind the stove, scarcely daring to breathe, praying Mrs. Maguire would not find her here. Someone moved across the room, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw Papa rummaging in the bread box. A few moments later he left the kitchen and padded down the hallway, his footfalls growing softer, then louder, as he moved from the carpeted hallway to the marble foyer and up the curving staircase to his bedroom.

Celia was glad he was hungry enough to want to eat at midnight, but worried that the laudanum had confused him so that he had used the servants’ staircase. And in the dark. She held her breath until she heard his door close, then waited a moment longer before relighting the lamp and returning to the diary.

July 22.
Rain. Ivy is restless and refuses to stand still to be measured for a new dress. Bought ten yards of barish delaine and the same of pink calico in Savannah. All the talk in town was of Joseph Smith and his assertion that divine revelation has sanctioned the practice of polygamy. It is very convenient for him and his male followers, but what of the women? Molly made an excellent roasted turnip soup for dinner, but my husband did not appear at table to partake of it.

July 23
. During Morning Prayer today I made my own private petition, praying mightily for Mr. Lorens, and was quite overcome with shekinah. Perhaps God has heard my pleading, and these present troubles will soon resolve themselves.

Shekinah.
Celia puzzled over the unfamiliar word and made a note to look it up later. The diary contained only a few more entries, and she intended to finish reading before Mrs. Maguire appeared to start the fire for making breakfast.

August 3.
Mr. Lorens came in today in an exceedingly jovial mood. He returned from a week in Savannah bringing gifts of a breast pin and a length of purple lace for me and new books for Ivy. She does not seem very much overjoyed with them but of course is glad of any attention from her absentee father. It is so rare these days. Sometimes I fear he suspects what I cannot say.

August 8.
Isabella Reid and Tessie Wright called here this morning, Mrs. W still in mourning dress for the child lost to the fever last summer, a boy just a year old. Mrs. Reid brought an article clipped from the
Southern Woman’s Magazine
which asserts that it is the duty of all Southern women to support the
continuation of our system of free whites and black slaves. I pretended to agree, for to disagree would be social suicide. But I have become a silent abolitionist. Slavery degrades the white man as surely as it degrades the Negro.

Molly served brandied peaches for dessert tonight. Mr. Lorens was much pleased.

August 11.
Men demand their wives’ fidelity as their due but feel free to indulge their own passions without restraint.

August 12
. Ivy was sick all night. The news spread quickly through the slave street. This morning Scipio, Quash, and Liddy appeared on the front porch, expressions grave, and inquiring after the health of the little miss. Liddy and Scipio are especially concerned that our lands remain in our family’s hands. Scipio fears if I have no heirs, this place will be sold and them along with it, and he and Liddy do not wish to be separated. He was much relieved when I told him Ivy has improved. I saw no reason to tell him that my husband has wrested my lands from my control, sold off parcels without my consent, and I am powerless to stop him.

August 14
. My suspicions are confirmed. I am betrayed beneath my own roof, and by someone I knew and trusted. Tessie Wright called here this morning only too eager to share the news. Septima is about to give birth and has quit the island. This is a small blessing, for had she remained, I would have had to remove her myself. I cannot bear Tessie’s righteous hypocrisy. She knows very well who fathered every mulatto child on this island but pretends that those beneath her own roof are the product of some conjurer’s spell. As for the mulattoes themselves, they are quite proud of their mixed parentage, seeing
it as an advantage to their own prospects. Oh, what a hateful thing slavery is.

August 15
. What a liar my husband has become. He has cleaved my heart in two, and yet he acts as if he is the very soul of virtue, worthy of my respect. What a reprobate! How is it possible that I still love him?

August 17
. When I think of my husband as I first knew him, a handsome young Swede newly arrived aboard a Danish brig from Copenhagen by way of Havana, so full of fun and charm, so attentive to my thoughts and feelings and eager to assuage my unrelenting grief, I can scarcely credit that he is the same man who has taken no note of his marriage vows and looks upon me now with such indifference.

September 3
. Septima has returned to St. Simons without her misbegotten child. My husband is heedless of my humiliation and anger, my outrage that he should consider her my equal. I refuse to pretend that his slave wife does not exist. I cannot bear another moment in this house. Ivy and I leave immediately for Savannah. I know not what will happen after that.

September 9
. Arrived three nights ago at the house of my late sister’s husband in Savannah, only to discover that Mr. Lorens had somehow discovered my plan and followed me here. He seeks some compromise by which I will return to St. Simons to resume my duties as plantation mistress and allow him to keep his harlot. Even if I could countenance such an outrage, I cannot allow my daughter to be exposed to such an arrangement. I sent my husband away. I do not wish to see his face ever again.

September 12
. This morning as I sat on the sunny little balcony off my bedroom, contemplating the garden and my own future, I spotted a carriage carrying my husband and his concubine, heading down Bull Street. I will admit to her singular beauty. Her hair is long and straight, her skin is somewhere between olive and cream, her eyes a mossy green. It is clear she has won his heart, but Savannah is my city. My home. I will not cede it to the likes of her. One of us must go.

One of us must go.

Outside, a milk wagon clattered down the darkened street. Celia set the diary aside as a memory of that September morning surfaced. Celia and Ivy were in the garden pretending to be ballerinas. Celia remembered the feel of the warm sun on her bare head, the scent of jessamine and roses, the whisper of her skirts in the late summer grass as she turned. Then the sound of applause. She looked up to see Aunt Eugenia on the balcony, her auburn hair in a messy plait over her shoulder, her writing box lying on her chair.

Aunt Eugenia gathered the hem of her dressing gown and climbed onto the balcony’s narrow wooden rail.

“Mama!” Ivy yelled. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, sugar, your mama’s as nimble as a cat.” Aunt Eugenia smiled down at the two girls. “Do you know that from up here you can see nearly all of Madison Square? I never realized that before.”

“Mama, please get down before you fall and break your neck.” Ivy crossed the garden and stood directly below the balcony, staring up at her mother. “Please. You’re scaring me.”