The Bracelet (39 page)

Darkness fell, and the sound of Christmas revelry on the streets outside filtered into the house. Policemen on horseback patrolled the noisy crowd. Carolers sang. Fireworks popped and whined, sending Maxwell into an excited frenzy at the door. Mrs. Maguire let him in, and he made straight for Celia, his little body trembling with excitement. Celia picked him up and nuzzled his face, oblivious to his dirty paws.

Mrs. Maguire produced a towel and laid it over Celia’s gown. “You’ll be wanting that dress for your own daughter someday, and it won’t do to have it ruined.”

Celia set Maxwell at her feet. “Stay there.”

The pup obeyed, but he kept one eye trained on her as if he knew something extremely important had happened while he was in the garden.

An hour later, after a second round of coffee and pie, Mr.
Mackay rose. “Cornelia, Caroline, we ought to go home and let David rest. I’m sure the newlyweds are tired too.”

“I’m not tired.” Sutton winked at Celia, and her face heated.

Mrs. Manigault rose and pinned Sutton with her flinty gaze. “You’ve married the finest girl in Savannah. I expect you to remember that.”

“It isn’t likely I’ll forget, Grandmother. But you’re here to remind me, should I ever be remiss.”

“Nobody lives forever,” she said tartly, “not even us Manigaults. Now, fetch my wrap please, dear boy. And find my cane. I seem to have misplaced it.”

When the Mackays’ carriage disappeared into the crowded square, Mrs. Maguire took charge. “Miss Celia and Mr. Mackay, you head on down to the hotel whenever you’ve a mind to. I’ll look after Mr. Browning, see he gets his medicines and such.”

“Yes, Celia,” Papa said, his expression tender. “You two go on along. I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow, Papa.”

“I’ll look forward to it. For now, though, I am worn to a nub. Sutton, could you help me with the stairs? Suddenly I’m weak as water. Too much happy excitement, I expect.”

Sutton helped him up the stairs and retrieved Celia’s valise from her room. They made the short drive to the Pulaski Hotel, the carriage following slowly behind groups of raucous sailors, excited children, and pink-cheeked carolers.

Sutton lifted Celia from the carriage and escorted her inside. The hotel lobby was dressed for Christmas with crystal bowls of greenery, masses of candles on the fireplace mantel, and a beribboned nosegay of mistletoe suspended above the deserted reception desk.

Sutton rang the little silver bell. Presently the sleepy-eyed night clerk appeared, one suspender falling off his shoulder.

“Oh, yes. Mr. and Mrs . . . Mackay.” The clerk nodded. “I have your reservation right here. Oh dear, where did I put that key?”

Sutton let out a long sigh. “Is there a bellman about?”

“Sorry, sir. We’re a bit shorthanded tonight. Most of the staff has gone home to celebrate Christmas—what’s left of it. Now just a minute. I know I have that key around here somewhere.”

Sutton turned to Celia. “I’ll bring the bags in. I won’t be long.”

“All right.” Suddenly she was exhausted. She took a chair by the window and watched the noisy celebration, the crowds pulsing along Bryan Street. It was a wonder any of the hotel guests could sleep with the incessant popping of fireworks, the shrieking of policemen’s whistles, and the rumbling of carriages.

“Here it is.” The desk clerk held up the room key. “I knew I’d find it. Now where is your mister?”

“Getting our bags.” Celia went to the door. What was taking Sutton so long? Cupping her hands, she peered into the darkness. The carriage had disappeared. And so had Sutton.

25

“M
A
’
AM
? M
A
’
AM
,
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT
?”

Celia blinked, surprised to find herself in a half-sitting position on the hotel settee, a small wooden stool beneath her feet. “What happened?”

“You fainted, I reckon.” The night clerk pressed a glass of sherry into her hands. “This will revive you.”

She took one sip and handed it back. “Has my husband returned?”

“Not yet, but I imagine he’ll be back in a minute. Most likely he’s having a hard time finding someone to look after his horse and carriage. Livery closed up at six o’clock, tight as a clam.”

She sat up. “But if that were the case, why wouldn’t he have brought our bags in first?”

The clerk shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

The door opened and a gray-haired man came in, accompanied by a much younger woman in a tight crimson dress and a feathered hat.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the clerk said. “I need to tend to these customers, but I can give you the key to your room if you want to go on up. It’s getting awfully late.”

“I’d rather wait here if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.” He returned to the desk.

While the clerk spoke to the man, the woman crossed the lobby and plopped down in a chair next to Celia, sending the scents of whisky, tobacco, and perfume wafting into the air. She smiled at Celia. “Mercy, there’s a commotion in the street. People yelling and running ever’ which away. Carriages are backed up all the way from here to the waterfront.”

Celia looked up. Sutton had been gone a long time, but perhaps the clerk was right and Sutton had merely been delayed by the crowd.

“Policemen are everywhere,” the woman went on. “One of the brutes almost ran me down. But lucky for me, that nice gentleman over there came to my rescue.”

Undoubtedly, the woman was quite capable of looking after herself, but Celia nodded.

“If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, that’s some fancy dress you’re wearing.”

Celia was not in the mood for conversation. But she couldn’t remain mute either. “Thank you.”

“Some special occasion?” the woman asked. “Besides Christmas, I mean.”

“My wedding dress. I was married this afternoon.”

“Well now, that was not the smartest decision you could have made. From here on out, you’ll get one cheap present meant for both Christmas and your anniversary.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

The woman stood. “Looks like Romeo has finally got us a room. I’ll be seein’ you.”

Celia watched the pair ascend the staircase, the woman’s hips swaying beneath her tight gown.

Tamping down her impatience, she got to her feet and went outside. The crowd had thinned, but several conveyances still lined the street. There was no sign of Sutton.

She had turned to go back in when someone slammed into her so hard she nearly fell. Before she could catch her breath, strong arms lifted her off her feet. She caught a whiff of spirits, tobacco, and ashes.

“Who are you? What do you want? Let me go!”

Celia squirmed in the viselike grasp as the kidnapper unceremoniously dumped her into a cramped carriage. Wedged between his dark-clad, hulking form and the door, she couldn’t move. The carriage gathered speed as it turned up one street and down the other, bouncing as it hit bumps and holes in the unpaved road.

Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. Who was this man, and what did he want with her? She had heard of a wedding-night prank called a shivaree. But shivarees were mostly a custom of country people. If this was meant to be a joke, it was not in the least amusing.

Through the small window, Celia caught a glimpse of moonlight lying on the river. They must be near the wharf then. She could find her way back to the hotel from here.

She elbowed the man. “Stop this carriage at once.”

He didn’t answer.

A moment later the carriage slowed, and the smell of burning timber filled her nose. Now they were surrounded by policemen on horseback and groups of men shouting and running back and forth in the street, dodging carriages and buggies that seemed to be going in all directions. A faint orange glow illuminated the darkness, casting the shapes of the buildings along Commerce Row into sharp relief.

The carriage jerked to a halt. The door opened. The kidnapper jumped out, then reached for her and set her on her feet. “This way.”

There was no mistaking that rough voice. In the midst of the surrounding chaos, Celia went still. “Mr. Channing?”

“I’ll explain later.” He took her arm and made a path through the crowd of men standing on the waterfront. Now she saw flames leaping from one roof to the next and men fighting to control the blaze.

At the far end of the row where a building had partially collapsed, a group of men bent over the still form of someone lying on the ground.

Celia felt her knees give way. “No!”

Shaking off Mr. Channing’s arm, she pushed her way to Sutton’s side and knelt on the muddy ground. “Someone call a doctor!”

“Celia.” Sutton stirred and reached for her hand. “Thank God. I was afraid I wouldn’t—”

She was too frightened to cry. “Darling, what happened?”

Mr. Channing reached them and dropped to the ground on Sutton’s other side.

“Your husband here tried to rescue one of the men on the bucket brigade, who got trapped beneath a burning timber. Apparently he went in through a busted-out window and then got trapped himself trying to find a way out. The doors were padlocked, and we feared they were doomed. When we finally broke the lock and got them out, he was half conscious and calling for you. He was threatening to walk all the way back to the hotel, so I thought I’d better fetch you.”

Celia felt faint. “I’m grateful, but it wasn’t necessary to frighten me to death. You might have explained the situation instead of snatching me off the street like that.”

Another water wagon rumbled past. Shouts filled the air.

“I apologize. But given the nature of our relationship, I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.” Leo Channing looked down at Sutton. “How are you, Mackay?”

“My lungs feel like they’re on fire.”

“You breathed in a lot of smoke.” Channing rose. “You need a doctor.”

Sutton licked his lips and struggled into a sitting position. “How . . . how is the other fellow?”

Mr. Channing slowly shook his head. “You did everything you could. Stay put. I’ll get the carriage.”

Moments later the reporter returned and helped them inside. “I’ve sent for Dr. Dearing. He’ll meet us at the hotel.”

Sutton leaned heavily against Celia as the carriage rocked along the street. From what Celia could tell, the fire was finally out. The water wagons were lined up along the darkened road, and the policemen were dispersing the last of the crowd.

Celia cradled Sutton’s head and let the tears come. Wordlessly, Mr. Channing proffered his handkerchief. When the carriage drew up at the hotel entrance, he ran inside and soon returned with the night clerk and another man. The three of them helped Sutton out of the carriage and carried him inside.

“Let’s put him over there,” the clerk said. They half carried Sutton across the room and lowered him onto the settee nearest the fireplace.

The crisis transformed the sleepy night clerk into a model of efficiency. He was everywhere at once, summoning a chambermaid to bring a pillow and blanket, fetching a pitcher of water and fresh linens. He turned up the lights in the gas chandelier and stoked the fire in the fireplace.

Dr. Dearing arrived clutching his medical bag, his hat askew and his shirttail hanging out, his expression the very picture of disapproval. “Miss Browning? Is it your father? I specifically told him not to—”

“Over there, Doc.” Mr. Channing pointed. “It’s Mr. Mackay. The younger Mr. Mackay, that is.”

Celia started to follow, but the doctor held up his hand. “Please. I need room.”

“But he’s my husband.”

“I don’t care if he’s the emperor of China. I still need space to conduct a proper examination.” Dr. Dearing gentled his voice. “I know you’re worried, but the sooner I can assess his condition, the better for him.”

The clerk appeared at her side with a tea tray. “Come along. You can wait in my office.” He motioned to Mr. Channing. “You look like you could use a spot of something yourself.”

Mr. Channing rubbed his eyes. “You got anything stronger than tea?”

“Go on in with the lady. I’ll bring you a whiskey.”

Celia was uncomfortable at having to sit with Channing, but she was near collapse, and besides, he had looked after Sutton.