Celia Garth: A Novel (36 page)

“Garth?” repeated Mrs. Torrance, and Celia thought her face showed a flicker of displeasure. But Mrs. Torrance said politely, “How do you do, Miss Garth,” and Celia curtsied and said, “How do you do, Mrs. Torrance.” She went to the staircase door and opened it, and they went through, Mrs. Kirby still rattling on.

“—have it made with a skirt of gray and green stripes and a plain green overskirt looped rather high—”

Celia returned to her table and took out the ruffle she was hemming. She was glad the British soldiers were suffering in their woolens. The temperature this afternoon was about eighty, not too hot if you wore summer clothes. But it must be awful in those heavy red coats and tight belts. She hoped the shipment destined for Camden would get lost, so the men there would have to go on suffering.

Oh, how she hated everybody. She hated Mrs. Kirby and Mrs. Torrance. She hated Mrs. Baxter, who came in and ordered some kerchiefs embroidered with her initial. C for Charlotte, said Mrs. Baxter, and Celia wondered if she thought they had forgotten how she used to dislike being called by the name of the British queen. Or maybe, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, Mrs. Baxter just did not care.

She hated her old schoolmate Rena Fairbanks, who came in with three handsome young Britishers, red coats and high shiny boots and hair glistening white with powder. Rena said she wouldn’t be a minute, so the men sat down in front of the balustrade to wait for her. Celia opened the gate. At the ball New Year’s Eve Rena had been cordial, but today she acknowledged Celia’s service with a cool smile. She did not want to be too friendly with a sewing-girl before these elegant aristocrats. All the British officers were aristocrats. They had to be. Even the most broadminded of them were astonished at the American army, where tailors and ironworkers held commissions and gave orders to the sons of gentlemen.

Celia returned to her sewing. She heard one of the redcoats saying the rebel soldiers on the prison-ship in the harbor were deserting by scores to join the Tory troops. Celia wondered if this was true. She knew the British were offering them all sorts of inducements to do so. Well, if it was true she wouldn’t be surprised. Why expect the prisoners to be any better than their friends on shore?

The door opened again and three persons came in, a middle-aged couple and a young girl. The man and woman were stout and red-faced and elaborately dressed; the girl, about seventeen years old, was rather pretty, or would have been if she too had not been so overdressed in ruffles and silk flowers and gilt-buckled shoes. At sight of the British officers she giggled, her mother inclined her head as though in awe, and her father slapped the counter loudly, like a man in a tavern summoning the barmaid.

Celia set aside her workbasket and came in answer. The man announced that his name was Hendrix and he came from down Beaufort way. He said this was his wife Mrs. Hendrix and this was his daughter Miss Dolly, and the ladyfolks wanted to see some of them imported silks.

Celia said she would go upstairs and report their wants. Mr. Hendrix told her to step lively. And remember, he called after her, they wanted to see only the best. Don’t waste their time showing them nothing but the best.

Celia went upstairs and told Miss Perry. Miss Perry exclaimed, “Dear dear, we do get such astonishing people in here nowadays,” and asked Ruth Elbert to wait on the Hendrixes. Ruth went into the big display room, where the walls were lined with shelves piled with bolts of material. Putting several bolts of silk on the table she said acidly to Celia, “All right, bring them in here.” Celia went down and told Mrs. Hendrix and Miss Dolly that the silks could be seen now.

Pulling out a fat purse Mr. Hendrix gave his wife a handful of money—“these working women always want at least half on account, you know.” He went to the door, saying he had some business on Queen Street and he’d meet them later.

Miss Dolly had been trying to flirt with the British officers, who did not want to flirt with her and were making a desperate show of interest in the
Royal Gazette.
Celia opened the gate. Out of the corner of her eye she observed the men’s relief as Miss Dolly and her mother went through.

At another time she might have been amused. Today she was not. The Hendrixes were the sort of people she hated worse than redcoats. She had seen these newly rich Tories before, and she knew how they made their money. Mr. Hendrix had said he had business on Queen Street, which meant the British military office on Queen Street. And it made her sick.

It had come about because the more level-headed of the king’s men had been trying to stop the looting of barns and smokehouses. They knew the king’s soldiers could not eat unless the people of the country raised food, and people would not raise food unless they had a fair chance to profit from their efforts. So officers in the country districts had received commands that when their men took supplies, they must pay for what they took.

To encourage food-growing, they paid rebels as well as Tories. But the payment was made by promissory notes, which could be exchanged for money only at the army office on Queen Street in Charleston.

This was all right for Tory planters. But hundreds of these notes were given to people who could not come to town to cash them. There were women whose husbands were dead or prisoners of war, who could not travel alone through a war-riddled country; there were men who had served with the rebel troops and could not get passes to travel at all. So their Tory neighbors, who did have passes, bought the notes for a fraction of their value, came to town, and redeemed them in full. Then they came into Mrs. Thorley’s shop demanding nothing but the best. As Celia led the Hendrix women upstairs she wished she could push them back down the staircase and break their necks.

But she could not. She led them into the display room, curtsied respectfully, and went back to the parlor.

All afternoon she smiled and answered questions and went upstairs on errands. At last it was time for people to go home to supper. Mrs. Hendrix and Miss Dolly came down; Celia opened the gate, and curtsied as they swept grandly past her and away. Gradually the other customers left. Celia began to lock up.

She walked over to the side window and looked out. Oh, what a stately town it used to be, and how ugly it was now. She closed the window and locked it, and as she drew the curtain she heard the front door open.

She turned with annoyance. Nobody had any business coming in so late. But the caller was Darren, saying he had purposely called at the last minute because he had hoped to find her alone.

Still limping, he met her at the balustrade. “How are you?” he asked.

“All right,” said Celia.

Darren looked at her keenly. Except for his limp he seemed like his old self: happy-faced, well dressed in brown linen coat and breeches, his hair brushed smooth and tied behind. As he looked her over he shook his head. “You don’t look all right,” he said.

“I’m tired,” she returned, “and cross.”

“Any special trouble?” he asked in his pleasant sympathetic way.

“No. Just everything.”

“Maybe this will cheer you up,” said Darren. “I’ve come to bring you an invitation. Godfrey and Ida want you to come to dinner Sunday. They’re also having the Penfields, and me, if you’re interested—”

“And Major Brace,” she asked, “and Captain Woodley?” These were the two Britishers billeted in Godfrey’s home. “And a few more redcoats? No I won’t.”

The room was getting dark, but she could see Darren frown with surprise. “Brace and Woodley are good fellows, Celia,” he said. “You’ll like them.”

“No!” Celia said harshly. She had been keeping her feelings inside too long; now she let herself go. “I took their miserable oath. I’ll be polite to the British and Tories who come into this shop because I’ve got to hold my job. But I won’t sit at table with them when I don’t have to, and I won’t walk or ride or dance with them. I know everybody else has given in but I’m sick of everybody else.”

Darren’s face was grave now. As she paused he said in a low voice, “We didn’t want to take that oath either, Celia. We had to.”

Celia rested her elbows on the ledge that topped the balustrade. She dropped her forehead on her hands and pushed her fingers up through her hair. Without looking up she said,

“Oh, I know that. And I know we have to put up with the king’s men. But we don’t have to do what everybody’s doing! Bowing and smirking—you’d think the king did us a favor by sending them over here to put us back in our place. Oh, I hate every man in a red coat or a green coat—but even worse I hate all these people who are groveling in front of them.” She raised her head. “I feel so helpless, Darren! Like a worm being stepped on.”

Darren picked up his cane, which he had leaned against the balustrade. Looking down, he moved the point of the cane on the floor as if drawing imaginary pictures. After a moment he looked up and spoke briskly.

“Look. I don’t really want to go to Godfrey’s Sunday. I’d rather be with you. Suppose I pick up some dinner somewhere, then come by here for you and we take a walk.”

She smiled. It was her first genuine smile of the day. “Oh Darren, you’re so nice! But your leg—won’t that be hard on you?”

“We can rest in the corner park on Broad Street. Will you?”

“I’d love to.”

“Good. And we can drop in for tea at that new place on Cumberland Street. They serve luscious buns with the tea. I’ll call for you about three—right?”

She nodded and thanked him again, and Darren limped away. Celia went around to the front of the counter and locked the door. She felt better. But she was not sure she wanted to go to that new place on Cumberland Street. It would be full of redcoats drinking their everlasting tea, and Americans who had been patriots last year but who were now swilling tea by the quart to prove how much they loved the king. She did not want to drink tea with them. In fact, now that she thought of it, she did not want to drink tea at all.

Sunday was a gleaming day, a day for flowers and pretty clothes. Again Celia did not go to church. She washed her hair, and while it was drying she took out her prayer book and read the Bible lesson for the day.

Darren called for her, and they walked out among the other Sunday strollers. Darren had very little to say. Celia spoke of what nice weather it was, and how delicious the sweet-olive blooms smelt across the garden walls. But though Darren answered, he seemed to be thinking of something else. She was surprised. It was not like him to take a girl out and then not pay attention to her.

On Broad Street, at the corner in front of the great market, stood some fine old trees with benches under them, a favorite spot for people to rest and chat on pleasant days. Because of his stiff leg, Celia expected Darren to want to rest on the first empty bench they came to. But he did not; they roamed under the trees for several minutes before he suggested that they sit down.

He had chosen a bench under an oak heavily hung with moss. The tree cast a deep shadow, and the ground before them was slightly damp. When they sat down Darren still had almost nothing to say. He began drawing designs on the ground with the point of his cane, as if he had purposely chosen a seat where the ground was soft enough for this.

Celia tried to make conversation. “I wonder how Vivian’s flowers are doing. If I were at Sea Garden now, I’d be planting stock and carnations.”

“I don’t know much about gardening,” Darren said. “Is this the time to plant those?”

“Yes. September. You start in the week of the new moon.”

“Why the new moon?”

“I don’t know. Probably silly, but that’s when it’s done.”

There was another pause. With his cane Darren made more curlicues on the ground, and then rubbed them out with his foot. Another couple on a bench near them got up and walked on. With a glance around him Darren stood up, saying, “Stay where you are, I just want to stretch my bad leg.” He walked all the way around the tree, and as she turned to watch him she observed that nobody was sitting near them now.

Evidently this was what he had been waiting for. As he sat down again he said in a low voice, “Celia, I’ve got something to tell you.”

She answered eagerly. “Yes, Darren?”

Again he was scratching absently on the ground. Watching his cane, he said in a careful undertone, “Keep your voice down—just loud enough for me to hear you.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. “All right.”

Still watching the nonsense design he was drawing, Darren nodded. “That’s it. And don’t act surprised. Understand?”

Celia felt excited. She had no idea what she was about to hear, but it sounded important—in fact, Darren made it sound almost creepy. “I understand,” she said.

“I’ve got a message for you,” said Darren. He was still watching the ground.

“A message,” she repeated breathlessly. “You mean a letter?”

“No, no, not a letter. A message.”

“Who sent it?”

“Friend of yours. And
please
,” Darren said through his teeth, “don’t ask me who. Don’t mention any names at all.”

“All right,” she said, just above a whisper. She added, “I’m listening.”

With his foot, again Darren began smoothing out the curlicues on the ground. He asked, “You’ve got a Bible, haven’t you?”

Celia caught her breath. This sounded like Luke. Darren was a dear, but he was no deep student of Scripture or anything else. No wonder he did not want her to speak Luke’s name. Luke had been a fugitive with Marion, and if the British had not captured Marion after their victory at Camden they were certainly looking for him. If they should hear that Darren had been in touch with a friend of Marion’s, they might throw him into jail and say he would stay there until he told them what he knew. Remembering that he had warned her not to show surprise, Celia smiled and said as quietly as she could, “Why yes, of course I’ve got a Bible.”

Darren had leveled the ground in front of him till it was as smooth as a sheet of paper. “This friend of yours,” he said, “told me to tell you to read a verse in the Bible. Look here, on the ground.”

Again he began to make marks with his cane. But this time the marks were not squiggles; they were letters, firm and clear. He wrote, “I Kings.” Celia understood. He wanted her to read something in the First Book of the Kings.