The Bracelet (37 page)

“I do hope our young newlyweds will have returned from their travels by then.” Mrs. Lawton fingered her jeweled necklace and smiled at Celia. “Our little excursions won’t be the same without you, my dear.”

Suddenly Celia found it hard to breathe. She pushed away from the table and got to her feet. The gentlemen rose with her.

“Celia, are you all right?” Papa asked.

“I’m fine. I need a breath of air is all.”

“It is rather warm in here, Cornelia,” Mrs. Manigault said. “Since everyone has finished, why don’t we adjourn to the library and leave the men to their cigars?”

Sutton rounded the table, and took Celia’s arm. “Come on. I’ll walk you out for a moment.”

Celia let him lead her out of the dining room and through the entry foyer to the door. On the way out, Sutton snagged her cloak from the hall tree, and when they reached the front steps he helped her into it. “Take some deep breaths, darling.”

She filled her lungs and stared at the flickering gaslights lining the street, the row of waiting carriages, the elegant houses dressed in their holiday finery. Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy
and celebration, but all she felt was the beginning of grief. “Papa is dying.”

They sat down on the steps. Sutton drew her close and released a gusty sigh. “I know it. I’ve watched him weaken over these past weeks down on the Row, struggling to pretend nothing is wrong. I hate that there is nothing I can do for him. For you.”

“Oh, Sutton, I waited so long for you to come home so we could begin our life together. But I can’t marry and sail for England—not with him in this condition. I can’t leave him to die without me.”

“Of course not.”

“Then you agree we’ll have to postpone everything until . . .”

“I’m willing to wait, but I think we should ask your father what he wants.”

She shook her head. “He will tell me to go to England. He will put my happiness ahead of his own. He always has.”

“That’s what the best of fathers do.”

Tears ran down her face. “How can I possibly live without him? For most of my life he has been both mother and father to me.”

Sutton fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Maybe Leo Channing is right. Maybe our house is cursed.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“After everything that happened with Ivy, I don’t know what to believe anymore. About anything.”

“Believe this.” Taking her face in his hands, he planted a reverent kiss on her lips. She clung to him, a swell of feeling—powerful and bittersweet—stopping further words.

“Whatever comes, we’ll get through it together,” he said. “However long it takes, one day you will be my wife. The beautiful, young Mrs. Mackay.”

His voice cracked, and in the lambent light she saw the shine
of tears in his eyes. Then he smiled and touched the tip of his finger to her nose. “You must marry me now. There is no turning back since you accepted my proposal in front of dozens of witnesses. And since I’ve already named my best ship after you.”

The front door opened, and Mr. Mackay stepped onto the porch. “Is everything all right, son?”

“We’re fine, Father,” Sutton said. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

Sutton drew her to her feet and they returned to the party.

Celia prepared a breakfast tray and took it into the library, where Papa had spent the night asleep on the settee. Though he had enjoyed the Mackays’ party, the effort had tired him so thoroughly that he couldn’t mount the stairs to his own bed nor attend this morning’s Christmas service at St. John’s. Mrs. Maguire had offered to stay, but Celia insisted she keep her plans to join her friends for church and a late luncheon afterward. Sutton would call in the afternoon. For now, she was alone with her father.

Papa sat up and threw off the coverlet. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “I must look worse than a stevedore after a three-day bender.”

“Not quite that bad.” Celia grinned and set the tray on the small table next to the settee. She added wood to the fire in the fireplace, then poured his tea. “Mrs. Maguire is off to meet her friends for church, but she made grits this morning. I made toast and eggs and brought the orange marmalade you like.”

He frowned. “No ham or bacon? Not even on Christmas Day?”

“You know what Dr. Dearing said. No salt.”

“Bah.” He picked up his spoon and ate a bite of grits. “Might as well be eating paper.”

He glanced up at her. “Aren’t you having breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry. I ate too much at the Mackays’ last night.”

“Nice try, but I’m your father. I can see when something is worrying you.”

“Of course I’m worried, Papa. I hate seeing you so tired and pale.”

He sipped his tea, his hand trembling as he set down his cup. “Worrying won’t change a thing, darling. Nobody lives forever, and honestly, I’d rather know my days are at an end, so I can make the most of each one.”

She nodded and swallowed the painful lump in her throat.

“At least have some tea with me.” He gestured toward the china pot. “I hate to eat alone.”

“All right.” She started toward the kitchen for a cup, just as Maxwell scampered down the stairs. He made a quick detour into the parlor to greet Papa, then followed Celia to the kitchen door, his golden tail fanning the air. She let him out and joined Papa in the library.

Papa spread marmalade on his toast. “Maxwell is certainly a charming little fellow.”

She smiled and poured tea into her cup. “Yes. A worthy successor to Jack. When he died, I thought I could never love another dog in the same way, but Maxwell has won my heart.”

“What will you do with the dog when you and Sutton leave for England next month?”

“That won’t pose a problem because we’re postponing our wedding.”

“On my account?” Papa shook his head. “That won’t do at all, Celia. I appreciate the sentiment, but I can’t permit you to postpone your plans because you’re waiting for my demise. Sutton has the right idea about building a ship capable of avoiding a Yankee blockade. The sooner he gets started, the better.”

“But we don’t know for certain that we’ll have to fight. And I’d
never forgive myself if I left Savannah and came back to find that you had . . . that you were . . .”

“It’s a necessary end. It will come when it will come.” His expression softened. “As much as I love Savannah, I’ve always wanted to see the high country. One of these days I reckon I will.”

Celia could stop her tears no longer.

Papa set aside his tray and drew her onto the settee. When her sobs finally subsided, he released her and patted her hair. “Enough weeping. It’s Christmas.”

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

“Well, that’s too bad because I do. Your presents are in my room, beneath the extra blankets in the clothespress. Go get them, please. And no peeking.”

Just then Maxwell barked. Celia let him in and went up to her room to get the gifts she’d bought for Papa and Sutton. In his room she found two packages addressed to her—one heavy, the other light. She carried everything into the parlor.

Papa had moved to his favorite chair by the fire. He smiled when she and Maxwell came in.

She handed him a wrapped package. “You go first.”

He tore away the paper to reveal Mr. Wood’s book about gold fever in California. “I’ve been meaning to read this ever since it was published. It will afford many happy hours before the fire this winter.”

Her other gift to him was a new muffler made of the finest wool in a blue that matched his eyes. He set it aside and watched as she unwrapped a travel journal bound in dark-blue leather, her initials stamped in gold on the cover. “It’s beautiful, Papa. Thank you. Wherever did you find it?”

He smiled. “I ordered it from a store in Charleston. I expect you to fill every page with the details of your trip. It will be something
to pass along to your grandchildren one day. Now open the other one.”

She unwrapped the heavier package and gave a little gasp of pleasure at the sight of four of her mother’s small paintings mounted in matching gilt frames. “These are the pictures I found in the attic.”

“Yes. I wanted you to have them for the home you’ll share with Sutton. A little piece of this house to take along with you.”

She felt a sudden stab of sorrow at the thought of leaving her childhood home. What would happen to this house when Papa was no longer alive?

“I’m leaving the house in trust for you,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, “so it will stay in the Browning family. Ivy will need a home when she’s done with her grand adventures. But your place will be with Sutton, wherever that turns out to be.”

She embraced him and planted a kiss on his head. “I do love you, Papa.”

“I suspected as much.” He got to his feet. “Could you help me up the stairs? I want to make myself presentable before Sutton arrives.”

She wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him up to his room. She brought hot water and towels and his shaving things. While he cleaned up, she took his breakfast tray to the kitchen, tidied the library, and rekindled the fire.

In all of the chaos surrounding Ivy’s hurried departure, there had been little time for decorating the house for Christmas, not that she felt like celebrating. But remembering Dr. Dearing’s words, she took half a dozen candles and the silver candlesticks from the dining room and arranged them on the mantel in the library. She filled a crystal bowl with cinnamon sticks and oranges, ordered weeks ago for Christmas, and set it on the side table near Papa’s chair, then carefully unwrapped her mother’s collection of porcelain angels kept in a special box in the parlor.
She arranged the angels on the mahogany side table that had been her mother’s.

“It’s lovely, Celia. Very festive.” Papa came in looking as if he were dressed for a day on Commerce Row and plopped into his chair. The French mantel clock chimed the hour. “What time is Sutton due?”

“Early afternoon—after church and luncheon with his parents.” She passed a hand over her hair. “I should go up and get ready. Do you need anything?”

“Not a thing. I’m going to sit here with my new book and enjoy the fire.” Maxwell trotted in and sat down beside Papa’s chair, his tail thumping the floor. “You go ahead. Take your time. Maxwell will keep me company.”

Upstairs Celia bathed and stepped into a forest-green velvet dress trimmed in white lace. What a strange Christmas this was without the big parties her father always hosted, without Ivy running in and out, as excited and expectant as a child. One year the Brownings had spent the holiday on a Waccamaw River rice plantation belonging to Papa’s friend Mr. Fraser. The celebration had continued for days with card games, candy pulling, and fireworks. While Celia and Ivy played the piano and sang with the other ladies, Papa and the men had gone hunting. The following year, Papa had hosted the Frasers in Savannah with Christmas dinner for a hundred guests.

Now the house was silent. Celia brushed her hair and thought of Ivy. She imagined her cousin stepping off the
Percival
in Havana, surrounded by strangers speaking a strange tongue. At least Ivy had Louisa for company. Would they make a life in Cuba or undertake a voyage to Sweden to look for Uncle Magnus? Who knew whether he was even alive?

Celia fastened her shoes and, with a final glance in the mirror, went back downstairs. Papa had fallen asleep, his new book open
on his lap. Maxwell was curled up before the fire, one paw covering his nose.

She took a chair opposite her father and in the flickering candlelight watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, trying to memorize the sound of his breath, the shape of his hands, the contours of his face.

24