Celia Garth: A Novel (35 page)

She remembered with wonder, almost with disbelief, how she used to enjoy working in the shop. She remembered how she had sent up prayers that Mrs. Thorley would keep her here, how she had schemed to prove that she was worth keeping. How she had dreamed of the day when they would give her the fine sewing she could do so well. And now she did not care. Embroidery or bastings, it did not matter. She remembered a proverb. “When you get what you want, you don’t want it.”

Mrs. Thorley was still talking.

However, she said, last year Miss Garth had been very good at minding the parlor. Not every young lady could receive the visitors with just the right manner, gracious and yet distant. And at present, circumstances were perhaps more difficult than usual. Of course, in the parlor, with its frequent interruptions, Miss Garth would not be able to do the sort of work that required close attention. Mrs. Thorley asked Celia which she preferred.

Celia did not hesitate. In the parlor something was happening all day long. She would have no time to sit and remember. She chose the parlor.

Mrs. Thorley nodded gravely. She said Celia’s trunk had been brought over by a servant of Mr. Dale’s, and had been put into her old room. Miss Todd and Miss Duren were there, and Miss Kennedy was expected back. Mrs. Thorley made a note in a ledger. “Then this is all, Miss Garth.”

Celia stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorley.” She curtsied and went to the door. As she reached her hand toward the doorknob Mrs. Thorley said, “Miss Garth.”

Celia turned toward her again. “Yes ma’am?”

Mrs. Thorley’s face was large and calm like the rest of her. She said, “You have my sympathy, Miss Garth.”

“Thank you ma’am,” said Celia. She supposed people felt they had to say something, yet she wished they would not; every word of commiseration was like a finger touching the wound. Mrs. Thorley’s deep voice was speaking again.

“It is hard to lose the person one loves.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Celia. She thought, Oh hush! You’ll make me cry and I don’t want to cry any more.

Mrs. Thorley said, “I remember well.” Her voice had softened strangely. “So many years, and sometimes it still seems like yesterday.”

Celia’s eyes had stretched wide, but there were no tears in them; she was gazing at Mrs. Thorley in astonishment. The woman meant what she said. Mrs. Thorley had been kissed often, and with love.

Mrs. Thorley said, “I wish I could make it easier for you, Miss Garth. But I cannot. I can only say again, you have my sympathy.”

In a low voice Celia answered, “Thank you, Mrs. Thorley.” Somehow she knew those words had been hard for Mrs. Thorley to speak. Mrs. Thorley never showed any weakness. She could not afford to. For the first time it occurred to Celia that maybe Mrs. Thorley was not naturally made like a man-of-war, she had had to make herself that way. Celia spoke again. She said, “You have my sympathy too, Mrs. Thorley. I think you’re mighty brave.”

Mrs. Thorley ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. Her hands moved a trifle. It struck Celia that Mrs. Thorley was embarrassed and did not like the feeling. Celia thought she had better get out of here. She curtsied again, and Mrs. Thorley gave her a nod of dismissal.

Celia went out, closing the door softly. She felt certain that they were not going to talk about this subject again.

After this, she half expected Miss Loring to make some confidence, and maybe Miss Perry too. But they did not. They spoke brief words of sympathy and no more, and Celia never found out if either of them had ever had a lover. She reflected that they probably felt it was none of her business, and they were right.

And so in those bright blue days of September, 1780, Celia went back to her job of minding the parlor.

It was not quite the same job nor the same parlor. Charleston was a town held by troops. They were a conquering army, they were a long way from home, and many of them considered that they were privileged to do exactly as they pleased. Mrs. Thorley had changed the parlor accordingly.

Across the room from wall to wall there was now a balustrade nearly as high as Celia’s chest, standing between the front door and the doors that led into the rest of the building. In front of the balustrade—so as not to dismay her legitimate customers—Mrs. Thorley had placed attractive furniture: comfortable chairs, a table with a bowl of flowers, the cabinets with their tempting displays. But the balustrade itself was broad and sturdy, and to get past it you had to go through a gate that could be opened only from inside. Across this barrier, Celia greeted all visitors with a smile. But within call was always Miss Loring or one of the older seamstresses, who could provide, when necessary, an atmosphere of ice and vinegar.

Celia never went to the front side of the gate during business hours. If someone wanted a closer look at a sample in one of the cabinets, she took a duplicate from a case on her side of the rail and handed it across. This custom had been in effect since a day when a couple of smart-alecky British lieutenants had asked Miss Loring to show them samples of linen shirting. Miss Loring went around to open the cabinet indicated, and when she bent over the lock one of the smarties thought it a fine joke to pinch her skinny bottom.

But there was not much of this sort of thing. Most of the redcoats who came in were escorts of Tory ladies, and behaved well enough. They sat in front of the balustrade swapping stories, or they mopped their foreheads and complained about the weather, or asked Celia for the
Gazette
to pass the time. The newspaper these days was edited by a Tory, and he had changed its name to
The Royal South Carolina Gazette.
He printed official announcements, news of parties attended by British officers, and reports of great British victories in parts of the country where the king’s men were still fighting the troops of “Mr.” Washington.

In the shop itself, life had not changed much. Mrs. Thorley still served milk. She still forbade discussion of the war. Several of the girls had not returned since the siege and new ones had replaced them, but this could have happened any time. The longer Agnes Kennedy stayed away the better Celia liked it. She was in no mood to put up with Agnes Kennedy’s sweet disposition, not now when she herself felt nothing but a black helpless hate.

She hated Charleston and everybody in it.

The city commandant, Lieutenant-Colonel Nisbet Balfour, was a fattish offensive man with a nasty reputation. People said of him that he had won his laurels while the British occupied Philadelphia. At that time Balfour had served as procurer of women for his commander, Sir William Howe, as well as for other leaders of the king’s troops. He did this duty so well that they promised him he would not be forgotten when the plums were passed around. So now Balfour was lord of Charleston.

Under such a ruler, the town had lost its old decency. The streets were dirty. There were more taverns than ever before. Near the southeastern docks there had been a bad fire two years ago, and because of wartime shortage of materials much of the burnt area had not been rebuilt; now this was a community of shacks where women both white and colored received the soldiers. Even the better parts of town swarmed with trollops.

From her window on the third floor, Celia could look over Charleston and see what was going on. The Lutheran Church on Archdale Street, and the lovely little Unitarian Church next door, were both being used as stables. The White Meeting House, for which Meeting Street had been named, was now a storehouse for army supplies. Horses were trampling on the graves in the churchyards. They kicked at the tombstones, and cracked them or knocked them over, and the stones lay broken among the weeds. Celia heard that the British army chaplains had protested to Balfour about this desecration, but if they had, he paid no attention.

St. Philip’s and St. Michael’s, as representing the established Church of England, had not been disturbed, but services were now conducted by clergymen who favored the king. People who did not want to join in prayer for the king’s army, stayed home.

Celia stayed home. Looking out of her high window on Sunday mornings, she was disgusted at how many people she saw going into the churches. She knew, she just knew, there had not been that many Tories in Charleston before the British marched in.

But this sight was not the only one that disgusted her. Day after day she felt nauseated as she watched people in Charleston, in spite of all that was being done to them, toadying to their conquerors.

Of course there were some who had been on the king’s side all the time. The Kirbys, the Torrances—if they welcomed the British now you could not be surprised. But the Baxters were inviting redcoat officers to dinner, and so were dozens of other families who used to be patriots. Even Godfrey Bernard was meeting the British with smiles, Ida was dancing at their balls—when she thought of it, and remembered Bellwood, Celia could almost feel her heart shrivel.

It seemed to her that nobody had any self-respect any more. Except maybe those men who had been sent to St. Augustine.

There were others who had tried to hold out. But a messenger brought a proclamation from the headquarters of Cornwallis at Camden. Cornwallis said that certain wealthy persons in South Carolina were persisting in their treasonable efforts. He therefore ordered that if you had not sworn allegiance to the king, and still refused to do so, your property would be confiscated and turned over to somebody who deserved it. A loyal subject of the king named John Cruden was put in charge of the confiscation, with the title Commissioner of Sequestrated Estates.

On the twenty-first of September, the
Royal Gazette
proudly published the names of one hundred and sixty-three men who had held to their principles as long as they could, but now had given in and taken the oath to save their property. The paper came while Celia was at dinner. When she returned to the parlor that afternoon she saw the announcement and the list. She did not read the names. She could not. She threw the paper on her worktable and walked over to a side window, where she stood pretending to adjust the curtain.

There were no customers in the parlor just now. Through the open window Celia could see redcoats walking and driving with well-dressed women whose husbands and fathers had taken the oath so they would not have to be poor. She heard a street-peddler calling that he had fine fresh grapes to sell.

Everybody, she thought, has something to sell. And the British and Tories and bootlickers have money to buy it. So we’ve quit. And I’m no better than anybody else. I’m working in a fashionable shop, smiling at the people who have money to spend, forgetting that I ever believed in anything.

She felt sick with contempt, contempt for herself and for her country.

Americans, she thought, are no good. We don’t deserve to be free.

S
HE HEARD THE FRONT
door open. As she turned she saw Mrs. Kirby, crisp and pretty in flowered muslin, followed by a nursemaid carrying baby Freddie. Celia put on her pleasant professional smile and went to the balustrade. “How do you do, Mrs. Kirby.”

Mrs. Kirby said how do you do, and didn’t Celia think it was remarkable how Freddie had grown since they came to town, really he was so advanced that most people wouldn’t believe he was only four months old, and today’s
Gazette
had carried an announcement by Mrs. Thorley that a shipment of striped and printed silks had arrived and she would like to see them only she didn’t have much time because they were going to have supper tonight with Mr. Kirby’s parents and she had to get there early and arrange the flowers because Major Brace and Captain Woodley were going to be there and her mother-in-law wanted everything especially nice and she did hope the silks were ready to be seen because if they weren’t ready she just couldn’t wait.

Smiling graciously, Celia said the silks were ready. Before she had finished her sentence Mrs. Kirby’s words were tumbling out again, this time addressed to the nurse.

“Then you can take Freddie on over to his grandma’s. Mamma’s ’ittle precious wanna go to danma’s? Mamma’s ’ittle precious be good? Mamma’s ’ittle—” The door opened again and she broke off, “Why Emily,
darling
!”

The lady addressed as Emily was Mrs. Leon Torrance, wife of Sophie’s brother. The Torrances had just come to town from their plantation, and Celia had seen Mrs. Torrance only once before, last week when she came in to order a dress. A pretty brunette, wearing white lawn with red stitching and a hat with a red plume, today Mrs. Torrance was accompanied by two British officers.

She introduced the officers to Mrs. Kirby, who showed off her baby while they murmured polite admiration. At length Mrs. Torrance said she simply must get upstairs for her fitting. The two officers, fanning themselves with their hats, said they would go over to that new tea-shop on Cumberland Street. It was so near the waterfront, maybe they would find a sea-breeze there to cool them off. This weather was murderous. They bowed themselves out, promising to call for Mrs. Torrance in an hour.

As the door closed, Mrs. Kirby looked after them petulantly. “They make me tired, always carrying on about the weather. Everybody knows
any
weather is better than what they get in England!”

“It’s not the weather,” said Mrs. Torrance, “it’s those heavy woolen uniforms. They say the men at Camden are miserable, with all the outdoor patrolling they—”

“Oh for pity’s sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Kirby. “The supply officers are doing the best they can! They’ve got a shipment of lightweight clothes ready for Camden right now—I know because my husband arranged the purchase—the wagons were held up because they had to wait for some shoes but they’re leaving here for Camden the first of October and that’s
definite.
Shall we go up, darling? You know I’m in a
tearing
hurry—”

Celia opened the gate. Mrs. Kirby went through, then Mrs. Torrance, who smiled and said, “Thank you, Miss—why, I don’t believe I know your name.”

Before Celia could say anything Mrs. Kirby was saying it for her. “Why this is Celia Garth, she came to work here after you went to the country last year—”