The Bracelet (4 page)

“Listen to this.” Celia set down her pen and held her sheet of writing paper to the gray light coming through the parlor window. A thick layer of fog had come in with the tide, painting the city a somber shade of gray and bringing with it a steady rain that thwarted her plans to deliver clothing and linens to the Female Asylum.

Ivy set down the scarf she was knitting. “I’m all ears.”

Celia read aloud:

The dark Peruvian and the Naples maid
Fly through the waltz or down the gallopade.
Spain’s haughty grandee seeks the gypsy girl,
And Greek and Frenchman join the airy whirl.

Ivy nodded. “Very clever.”

“I’m thinking of putting it on the cover of our invitation to the ball. I know Mrs. Naughton will be pleased. Remember the year she came to Mrs. Sorrel’s party dressed as a gypsy girl?”

“Vaguely.” Ivy resumed her knitting.

Celia let out a sigh. “You might be a little more enthusiastic.”

“Yes, I might be, but this blowout has little to do with me.” Ivy’s needles made a faint clicking sound in the large room. “I know it’s important to you, but I’ve never been one for dances and such.”

Celia regarded her cousin with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. Though Papa saw to Ivy’s every creature comfort, she had grown up knowing little of the carefree gaiety most young
women of her social class enjoyed. “You’d like them more if you’d learn to waltz. Papa would teach you or hire an instructor.”

“I know, and I’m grateful. But really, I’d rather stay home with a good book and a cozy fire than spend an evening pretending to like people I can barely tolerate.”

Celia set down her pen and paper. “You’ve been like this ever since we learned of Sutton’s return. What’s the matter? Our friends are the nicest people in Savannah. I should think you’d be pleased at the prospect of an evening with them.”

“Some of them are all right. But Fanny Ward sets my teeth on edge.” Ivy finished off a row of stitches and unwound more scarlet-colored yarn from the basket at her feet. “She doesn’t do anything except spend her father’s money and gossip. And Rose Shaw is too clever by half, if you ask me.”

“Rose is brilliant. Mrs. Mackay says Rose is to have her poetry book published next summer.”

“Nobody likes a woman who is too clever. And Rose simply tries too hard.”

“Well, I think she’s remarkable. I wouldn’t mind publishing a book someday.”

“Sutton Mackay might have other ideas about that.”

“Sutton will want whatever makes me happy. That’s one reason he’s so wonderful.”

Ivy frowned. “May we please speak of something else? It seems he’s the only topic of conversation in this house these days. I find it tiresome.”

Celia stared. “I thought you adored Sutton. Besides, you’re the one who brought him up.”

“I do like him. Very much. But too much talk of any one subject is like having pudding three times a day. Eventually one becomes sated.”

“Then how about helping me with the guest list. I must finish
it soon and get the invitations to the printer’s.” Celia read off a list of names that included the Stileses and the Mackays, plus the Frasers, Butlers, Greens, and Wards. “Too bad the Lows have left for England. I’ll miss having Mary here. Have I forgotten anyone?”

“What about the Sorrels?”

The Sorrels were their neighbors on Madison Square, having built a magnificent home that rivaled her own. The dapper and engaging Mr. Sorrel, who was said to be half Haitian and half French, was the third richest man in Savannah and excellent company. But his poor wife, Matilda, was plagued by fits of melancholy and wildness that made her an unpredictable guest.

Celia scribbled their name and added a question mark beside it before glancing at her cousin. “I’m inviting Alicia Thayer.”

“I assumed you would. Despite my feelings about it.”

“How can I not? She’s my dearest friend. And she never meant to embarrass you by inquiring about an engagement that never happened. She thought you were quite serious in your intentions toward Mr. Carlisle. We all thought so.”

“I can’t help it. I’m still mortified every time I think of it.”

“Heavens, Ivy. That was more than a year ago. And Alicia has apologized more than once.”

Ivy kept her eyes on her knitting. “If you loved me as a cousin ought, you would never invite her.”

Celia doodled on her notepaper. Allowances must be made, Mrs. Maguire always said, because Ivy had no parents. Celia knew being an orphan was difficult. She had grown up without her mother after all, and she knew how lonely it could be. But all their lives, Ivy had wanted whatever was Celia’s, whether it was a doll or a hat or a new dress, and Celia had acquiesced rather than disappoint Papa. Now that they were adults, she had grown weary of being the one who was always expected to give in.

“What about the Gordons?” Ivy said. “You know how everyone in Savannah has taken to Nellie Gordon.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought that with all the lovely girls right here in Savannah, William Gordon would up and marry someone from Chicago?” Ivy laughed. “They say Mrs. Gordon has a habit of sliding down stairway banisters. Do you suppose it’s true?”

“I haven’t any idea. But I’m sure she isn’t sliding down banisters these days, and she won’t be here for the masquerade. Mrs. Mackay says Nellie’s baby is due any day now.”

Downstairs the doorbell chimed, and a moment later Mrs. Maguire appeared in the doorway. “Miss Celia, you have a caller.”

“At this hour? In this disagreeable weather?” Celia patted her hair and smoothed her blue gabardine day dress. “I’m not prepared for callers, Mrs. Maguire. Please ask whoever it is to leave her card.”

“’Tis no lady, my girl, but a gentleman. From the newspaper, he says.”

“The newspaper? You mean the one bent upon stirring up trouble for us?”

“I can’t say. Here’s his card.”

Celia glanced at the name printed on flimsy paper rather than engraved on heavy stock as a proper gentleman’s card should be. “Tell Mr. Channing I am not at home.”

“Ah, but you are.” The man strode into the entry hall and peered into the parlor.

Celia whirled and scowled at him, taking in his cheap wool suit, the jacket patched at the elbows and brown boots desperately in need of a proper polishing. “Mr. Channing, it is highly impolite to barge into a home when you have not been invited.”

Hat in hand, he sauntered into the room. “I realize that, and I do apologize for my lack of propriety, but I don’t imagine you would have invited me inside under any circumstances.”

“You are correct. Mrs. Maguire will show you out.”

His eyes caught hers and held. “You won’t grant me even a single question, Miss Browning? After coming all the way across town in this messy weather?”

“I’m not responsible for the weather, nor for your poor judgment.”

Ivy set down her knitting. “What is it you wish to know, sir?”

Celia glared at her cousin. “Surely you are not thinking of—”

“I saw the newspaper yesterday.” Ivy looked up at the interloper, who stood just inside the door, his hat tucked beneath his arm. “I am Ivy Lorens. It’s my parents’ story that has captured your imagination, I believe.”

“So I understand. But the, um, tragic events occurred here. Or, more precisely, in the carriage house.” He shrugged. “One of them did anyway.”

Celia waved one hand. “None of which is in dispute. I cannot see the point of this conversation at all.”

“Doesn’t it seem odd that two such terrible events, occurring within weeks of each other in the same house, should both be attributed to bad luck?”

It was not the first time Celia had heard the question, but it was the first time it had been spoken so boldly in her presence. “Everything that happened here was thoroughly investigated. My father saw to it personally.”

“And through his friendships at the newspaper, he controlled the reportage.” Mr. Channing surveyed the spacious room. Celia watched him taking in the fine carpets, the mahogany tables and silk draperies, the Egyptian marble fireplace anchoring the far wall. “I haven’t been in Savannah too long, but long enough to know that David Browning is a man of means. And men of means in this city can do as they please.”

“That is quite enough, Mr. Channing. I won’t stand here and listen to you accuse my father of covering up the facts.”

His lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“What possible reason is there for bringing up such unpleasantness now and reminding my family of such terrible twists of fate?”

The reporter raised a brow. “How can I resist? Such intrigue will make quite an interesting book. And I intend to write one because, my dear Miss—”

“I am not your dear anything. Now please, leave us in peace.”

“Because,” he repeated, leaning languidly against the door frame, “I don’t believe it was accidental at all.”

2

“H
ONESTLY
,” C
ELIA FUMED AS THEIR CARRIAGE ROCKED ALONG
toward the asylum the following morning, “I have never met a more unpleasant character than Leo Channing.”

Beside her on the tufted red leather seat, Ivy shrugged. “True, his manners could use some refinement. But beneath those rough clothes he’s really quite handsome.”

Celia laughed. “You’re joking. I thought he looked rather like a Methodist parson.”

“Only because he didn’t smile very much. But you must admit it took courage to barge his way into the house.”

“Courage? By that measure any common burglar might be elevated to the status of a hero.”

“I don’t know why you’re letting his visit upset you so. If I was not offended, I can’t see why you should be.”

Celia kept her eyes on the passing scene. Behind banks of palmetto, Spanish dagger, and pride-of-India trees stood fine houses of pink stucco, gray brick, and brownstone, all of them graced with marble steps, copper finials, and cast-iron balconies. “You should be offended by anyone who calls our family liars.”

“He never said that.”

“Not in so many words, but everyone in Savannah knows
that what happened was an accident. To imply otherwise is to impugn our veracity and our good name. I should think you’d be insulted for Papa’s sake, if not for your own. After everything he’s done for you.”

The carriage drew up at the imposing building that housed the orphaned girls. Joseph, the freedman who had worked for the Brownings all of Celia’s life, opened the door and handed her out of the carriage. “Want me to wait for you, Miss Celia?”

“Yes, please. We won’t be long.” Celia gathered the parcel of linens and shirtwaists for donation and looped her reticule over her arm. “Ready, Ivy?”

“I’m coming.” Ivy retrieved another parcel and straightened her ostrich-plumed hat.

They walked through the wrought-iron gate and up the steps to the front door. Ivy rang the bell. Faces appeared briefly in the second-floor windows before Annie Wilcox, the red-haired would-be milliner, opened the door. “Miss Browning and Miss Lorens. Please come in. I’ll fetch Mrs. Clayton for you.”

“Hello, Annie.” Celia smiled at the girl. “No need to disturb her if she’s busy. We only wanted to drop off these things for you girls.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” The girl took the parcels. “Some of the other ladies have been by this week. Mrs. Fondren and Mrs. Sorrel were here just yesterday. Brought some new bed linens and not a moment too soon either.” The girl frowned. “’Course, what we need most is a sewing machine and a piano for Iris, and—”

“Annie?” The asylum director hurried into the foyer, patting her silver curls into place. She adjusted her spectacles and squinted at Celia. “Who . . . oh, Miss Lorens. And Miss Browning.”

Celia inclined her head. “Good morning, Mrs. Clayton.”

The woman smiled and dismissed Annie with a curt nod. “May I offer you some tea? I’d like to discuss something with you if you have a moment.”

Celia hid her surprise. Though she was in charge of fund-raising, the older ladies in her circle—Mrs. Mackay, Mrs. Low, Mrs. Green, and Mrs. Lawton—were equally devoted to the aims of the asylum: to ensure that orphaned or abandoned girls grew up to lead moral, disciplined, and productive lives. Mrs. Mackay and Mrs. Lawton were usually the ones to whom Mrs. Clayton turned for advice.