The Bracelet (6 page)

“Doesn’t that prove we could survive here, too, if the slaves are freed?”

“I doubt it. Most of the Jamaican farms are much smaller than ours, and their crops require much less labor than our rice and cotton plantations. The end of slavery here will mean the end of life as we know it.”

“Some people think war is inevitable. Especially if that man from Illinois is elected president.”

“Yes. My father thinks so, too, as do most of our friends at the club.”

“I pray they’re wrong, Sutton.” The mere possibility of sending him off to fight with the Chatham Artillery was too much to bear.

Sutton tipped her face to his and smiled into her eyes. “Let’s not think about that now. The election is still two years away. Anything might happen before then.”

“Such as?”

“Some kind of compromise.”

“That seems unlikely now that the court has declared a slave to be a slave wherever he goes. From what I’ve read in the papers, it seems people’s attitudes are more unbending than ever.”

Sutton was still smiling at her.

“You’re amused?”

“No, enchanted. Delighted that you’ve grown into a woman who is not only beautiful and gracious, but smart too. And not afraid to express an opinion.”

“Papa thinks I should be more circumspect.” Celia sighed. “I
know he’s right, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to observe so many rules.”

“Well, you can break all the rules you want with me.” He clasped her hand. “Celia?”

She caught her breath. Was this the moment she had been waiting for?

“Yes, Sutton?”

“I’ve been thinking it’s time we—”

“Sutton!”

Celia looked up to see her father hurrying across the square, his coattail flapping behind him, his face pink with exertion.

She and Sutton rose.

“What is it, Papa?”

Papa kissed her cheek. “Hello, my dear. I’m sorry for this interruption, but I’m afraid a crisis has arisen. We’re meeting at the club in half an hour.” He glanced at Sutton. “Your presence is required, my boy.”

“What’s happened, sir?” Sutton retrieved his hat from the bench and buttoned his jacket.

“My driver is waiting. I’ll explain on the way.”

3

M
IDNIGHT
. T
HE LITTLE
F
RENCH CHIME CLOCK ON THE FIREPLACE
mantel in her bedroom marked the hour. Wide awake, Celia slipped from the bed and parted the curtains. Flickering gaslights illuminated the empty street and the dark shapes of the houses on the square, the globes of orange light suspended in the inky darkness. A stray cat crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows.

What could possibly be taking Papa so long? A thousand imagined horrors crossed her mind. Some problem with his business. More political unrest. A killer on the loose.

After her father came for Sutton, she and Ivy had returned to the house, Ivy to resume her knitting, Celia to choose the books she would take to the Female Asylum for Louisa’s first reading session tomorrow. Mrs. Maguire had served supper in the parlor before retiring to her own room. Much later the Mackays’ driver had arrived to retrieve Sutton’s horse and buggy. And still Papa had not returned.

The sound of a horse and carriage echoed in the empty street, and the Brownings’ carriage halted at the gate below. Finally! Celia grabbed her dressing gown and hurried barefoot down the darkened staircase just as the door opened.

“Papa?”

“Heavens, girl, you startled me.”

Celia folded her arms across her chest. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been awake half the night, imagining all sorts of dire calamities.”

“Forgive me, my dear. I intended to send word that the meeting would run late but nobody wanted to leave the proceedings.” He headed for his study.

She followed and waited while he lit the lamp. “Is Sutton all right?”

Papa fell into his chair and managed a tired smile. “Yes, but perturbed at me for taking him away from you so soon.”

“I should be perturbed too. I think he was about to propose just when you arrived.”

“Oh, my dear, I do apologize. But you can be sure he won’t let this interruption derail his intentions. If I know Sutton, he will declare himself soon enough.”

She settled into the chair across from his. “What was so important that it took all night?”

He sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes. When he looked up again, his expression was grave. “I’d rather you didn’t repeat this to anyone. The situation is volatile enough without the weight of too much discussion.”

“Of course.” There had been only the two of them since her mother had died at sea. In the seventeen years since, whether the topic was business or politics, her father had treated her as an equal. He was the only person besides Sutton in whom she had complete faith and trust. “What’s happened?”

“I barely know where to begin. You know about the articles William Thompson published in his newspaper this summer, calling for a reopening of the slave trade.”

“Yes, Sutton mentioned it in his last letters from Jamaica. He
says Mr. Thompson isn’t the only one. Some of the planters feel that way too.”

“Charlie Lamar is in the middle of it. Apparently he spent this year up in New York state secretly building a new slave ship. He’s already made a trial run to New Orleans, and he’s outfitted the ship with enough water for a long voyage. It seems he intends to defy federal restrictions and bring more slaves into Georgia.”

“Won’t the authorities stop him?”

“They will try.”

“But, Papa, who would purchase his cargo and risk having federal marshals at their doors?”

“That’s what tonight’s meeting was about. We hoped to band together to convince Lamar not to pursue such an undertaking, but it appears we’re too late. We think the
Wanderer
has already sailed for Africa.”

A wave of revulsion washed over her. Just last spring, on an outing with the Mackays to Isle of Hope, Sutton’s father had spoken at length about the early days of the African trade and the unspeakable cruelties that had taken place aboard the British slaver ships. It was unlikely that conditions had improved much since then. Celia balled her fists in her lap. “I cannot abide Mr. Thompson and his newspaper. It seems he’s always stirring up trouble. First the slave trade and now that disgusting Leo Channing prying into our family’s past.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door opened and Mrs. Maguire, in a blue dressing gown, her iron-gray hair in a thick plait, came in carrying a supper tray. “I heard your voices and thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you,” Papa said. “I am a bit peckish, but you should not have disturbed your rest on my account.”

“’Tis no trouble.” The housekeeper set down the tray and poured coffee. “I was awake anyway. I don’t sleep well until all
my chickens are safely under the roof. And that includes you, Mr. Browning.”

He laughed, blue eyes twinkling, and picked up his cup. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Mrs. Maguire.”

Mrs. Maguire pointed a finger at Celia. “You’d best be gettin’ your sleep, my girl.”

“In a minute.” Celia helped herself to a sandwich. “I want to say good night to Papa.”

“Then don’t be blaming me when you wake up tomorra all out o’ sorts and with circles under your eyes.”

Mrs. Maguire left, the hem of her dressing gown whispering on the carpet. Celia bit into her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “So, Papa, if Mr. Lamar has already left for Africa, what is to be done?”

“Nothing. As nearly as we can calculate, he should be returning sometime in November.” He drained his cup and set it on the tray. “Until then, the less said about it the better.”

“Was Mr. Thompson at the meeting tonight?”

“He was—to try to convince us we’re wrong about Charlie Lamar.”

“Did you ask him about Leo Channing?”

“I stated my objections to Mr. Channing’s intentions in the strongest possible terms.”

“And?”

“He has assured me that Channing will stay away from this house and from you and Ivy.”

“But he won’t order Channing not to write about us?”

“He made no promises beyond assuring me that anything that is printed in the paper will be fair. But of course if Channing decides to write a book, Thompson can’t stop him.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Thompson’s articles have been fairly evenhanded, though I
don’t always agree with his point of view.” Papa leaned forward to pat her shoulder. “I know you’re worried about Channing stirring up all those old stories again, especially now that Sutton is home. But Sutton knows us, Celia. He knows your heart. Nothing Channing can write will change that.”

“It won’t change the truth either, but you know how people love to gossip.” Celia finished her sandwich and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “I didn’t care much for Uncle Magnus, but I hated the things that were said about him after Aunt Eugenia died. And now Mr. Channing has said he doesn’t believe her death was an accident.”

She folded her napkin and placed it carefully on her plate. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, Papa?”

Papa rose and briefly embraced her. “It’s late, Celia. Go to bed.”

Celia followed Mrs. Clayton down the quiet hallway of the Female Asylum. The girls had gathered in the spacious parlor on the first floor with Miss Ransom, leaving their bedrooms empty, the narrow beds neatly made, curtains fluttering in the languid September breeze. Through an open window Celia spotted three young women hurrying across the lawn, the hems of their skirts flipping up behind them to revealing glimpses of white petticoats.

Mrs. Clayton stopped before a closed door near the end of the hallway, knocked once, and motioned Celia to follow her inside.

“Louisa,” she said softly. “I’ve brought Miss Browning to read with you.”

The girl was a study in contrasts: coffee-colored skin, bright-blue eyes, a penumbra of curly hair that was neither blond nor brown. She was older than Celia had imagined, though it was hard to guess her true age. She might have been as young as twelve, as
old as seventeen. Certainly she was as tall as Celia herself, whipthin and all sharp angles.

The girl set aside her needlework and folded her hands, waiting.

“Hello, Louisa.” Celia crossed the narrow room and held out both hands. “Mrs. Clayton has told me about your—about how you came to Savannah. I must say I admire your bravery.”

Ignoring Celia’s outstretched hands, the girl shrugged.

“Well,” Mrs. Clayton said, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” She left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Celia perched on the edge of the bed and opened the small travel satchel she’d used for transporting the books. “I wasn’t sure what kind of stories you might like. I brought—”

“Don’t matter.”

“But surely you’d like to catch up to the others so you can study with Miss Ransom. I understand she plans to—”

“Listen. You’re trying to do a good thing. It’s what rich ladies are supposed to do—got nothing else to occupy their time. But I have my own plans, and they don’t include staying at a place like this any longer than I’ve got to. It’s a waste of time, teaching me to read better than I already do.”