Celia Garth: A Novel (41 page)

“He’s one of us,” Celia said to herself. As she closed the window she said it again. “He’s one of us.”

One of us. Where had she heard that phrase before?

In the letter written to her by Mrs. Rand, about her own engagement to Jimmy. Celia remembered how warm and friendly the words had made her feel.

But she had lost all that. In these past months she had felt so unwanted and alone. Now she did not feel that way. She had heard the same phrase again somewhere, not long ago. After a moment she remembered.

Luke. The other evening, when he told her good night in the curtained room, he had said, “So now you’re one of us.” She was not alone any more.

A
S THE NEXT DAY
was Sunday and Celia had no excuse to put her workbasket in the window, after breakfast she walked over to Godfrey’s. She did not need to ask permission, for on Sundays the girls were allowed to do about as they pleased, so long as they did nothing improper for the Sabbath quiet. It was still so early that there were not many people out. One or two redcoats spoke to her, but she hurried on and they bothered her no more.

As she reached Tradd Street she heard a peal from the bells of St. Michael’s. She walked on to Godfrey’s house, and from the doorstep she looked across the roofs to the steeple, black on the sky. “Lighten our darkness,” she whispered as she knocked on the door.

The maid showed her into the reception room, and summoned Godfrey. He was surprised to see her. “Don’t tell me why you’ve come,” he said in a barely audible voice, and added clearly, “Glad you dropped in. I’ll take you up to see Ida, lazy girl’s not dressed yet.” He led her upstairs to Ida’s sitting room, which opened from their bedroom. Looking pretty and frail in a boudoir robe of misty blue, Ida was finishing her breakfast egg.

In her low voice Ida explained to Celia that in these two rooms she and Godfrey could be sure of privacy—something not easy to achieve with two redcoats billeted in the house. Major Brace and Captain Woodley were courteous guests, but they were loyal to the king and it would not do to have them suspect what their host and hostess were up to.

Glancing from Ida to Godfrey, and keeping her own voice as low as possible, Celia asked, “Shall I tell you why I’ve come?”

They shook their heads. Godfrey cupped his hands around his mouth, bent close to her ear, and said, “I’ll send you to Luke.”

Celia smiled involuntarily. Before she thought what she was saying she asked, “Where is he?”

Ida looked at Godfrey. He nodded. Whispering into Celia’s ear as he had done, Ida said, “Mr. Westcott’s tea-shop on Cumberland Street.”

Celia started. The new tea-shop—a fine place to hear the talk of redcoats, but for Luke, how terribly dangerous. Yet where in town would it not be dangerous for one of Marion’s men? Godfrey had drawn a chair close to hers and was telling her something else.

“I’ll send for Darren and he’ll go with you. When a girl goes walking with a bachelor nobody pays any attention. But I’m a married man and somebody always notices that. Besides, we go to church on Sunday mornings.”

“I think it’s sacrilegious,” Celia said shortly, “for us to go to a church where they pray for the king.”

“So do I,” said Godfrey, “but we’re pretending to be Tories now, and we figure the Lord will understand.” He went out, saying he would send a servant to bring Darren from the inn where he lived. Ida said to Celia that while they waited she would send for a pot of tea.

“Tea?” Celia repeated. “I—I don’t like tea any more, Ida.”

Ida smiled wisely. “If you’re one of us,” she said in her sweet soft voice, “you’ll
like
tea.”

Celia burst out laughing. The maid brought the tea, and they sipped like any other Tories until Darren arrived. He and Celia strolled uptown, Darren’s cane tapping on the sidewalk.

The tea-shop occupied a building near the powder magazine from which Darren and Miles had helped move the gunpowder that night during the siege. Next door to the shop was a warehouse, and between them an alley—Celia could see now how she had been brought here in the dark. The place was well chosen.

This time, in the bright light of mid-morning, they paid no attention to the alley. They went up the front steps and into the shop by the main door. The air was rich with the smell of baking.

They were in an entrance hall, which had a door at each side and another door at the back. Through the side doors Celia saw a large room on either side. In one of these rooms, Darren told her, Mr. and Mrs. Westcott served gentlemen only; in the other, gentlemen accompanied by ladies. In the first room several men were having late Sunday breakfasts of buns and tea. But since it was mostly single men who took breakfast out, there were no customers in the other room.

A boy about twelve years old came into the hall carrying a plate of butter. Darren spoke to him. “Morning, Ricky. Tell your mother I’ve brought a young lady to try her nut-bread.”

Ricky grinned alertly. “Yes
sir
,” he said. He carried the butter into the bachelors’ room, and Darren led Celia into the room where ladies were served. A pleasant room it was, with fresh cloths on the tables, and at one end a counter, draped with a white net to keep off flies, where Celia saw and smelt a fascinating array of tarts and buns and fancy breads. Beyond this counter, leading toward the back rooms, was another door.

This door opened and a woman came in, a nice little woman with a dumpy figure, wearing a blue dress with a white cap and kerchief—plainly the woman who had carried the lantern the other night. Darren introduced her as Mrs. Westcott.

Mrs. Westcott spoke cordially. “I’ve got a fresh batch of nut-bread that ought to be coming out of the oven about now. Want to see it?” She stood aside for them to go through the doorway toward the back.

Darren glanced around to make sure nobody was observing them. Quickly he led Celia through this doorway. Mrs. Westcott did not follow. She closed the door behind them, and Darren led Celia along a dim hallway to another door, which he unlocked with a key from his pocket. Ahead of them a staircase led down to the cellar. Darren murmured, “I’ll go first, I know the way.”

The staircase was dark and steep. With one hand Celia gathered her skirt around her, keeping the other hand on the rail. Reaching the foot of the stairs they crossed the brick floor of the cellar to another door, barely visible by the glimmer from a sidewalk grating. Darren opened this door, beyond which she saw a homespun curtain, and they went into the same muffled room where she had seen Luke before.

Though the sun outside was bright, the curtains covering the sidewalk gratings made this room nearly dark. Drawing a bench out from the table Darren said, “Sit down. She’ll send Luke.” He rested his cane across the table and began to rub his knee.

Celia sat down. A strange business this, but how proud she was to be part of it. Today was the first of October. She thought of Marion’s men, creeping silently through the silver-green light of the swamps this very day, to attack the wagons carrying clothes to Camden. They knew where to lie in wait because she had sent word when the redcoats would leave Charleston and where they were going.

Luke came in, carrying a candle. With what looked like a single movement he strode across the room and set the candle on the table and grabbed both Celia’s hands in his.

“The gallant dressmaker!” he greeted her. “More news?”

Luke’s vitality had a grandness about it, like a forest wind. Celia said, “Yes, I heard something in the shop yesterday.”

Luke sat on the edge of the table and swung his legs. “Tell us.”

Celia recounted what she had heard Mrs. Baxter say about Captain Cole and the troop for Lenud’s Ferry. Luke listened intently.

“Good,” he said. “Good.” He leaned nearer, his elbow on his knee. “Now tell us again.”

Celia repeated her story. Luke asked several questions. At length he turned to Darren.

“Got it, Darren?”

“Yes.”

“Start it out now.”

“Right.” Darren picked up his cane and left them. From his perch on the table Luke grinned down at Celia.

“You’re doing a good job, Sassyface.”

“Oh, and I’m so happy doing it!” she exclaimed. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt that I was doing something really important.”

Luke smiled gravely. “It
is
important, Celia.”

Their eyes met. More than Darren, more than Godfrey or anybody else, Luke made her understand that their task had greatness; they were not merely getting rid of the redcoats, they were making a nation. Celia said eagerly, “Luke, when Marion’s men act on a message I’ve sent—how do I know?”

Luke shook his head. “Sassyface,” he said quietly, “you don’t know.”

“What! You mean I’ll just have to—to
hope
that I’m doing some good?”

“That’s it. You won’t know if they get your message at all. Some letters don’t get through, some arrive too late. Even if you should hear definitely that a troop on its way to Lenud’s Ferry has been attacked, you won’t know if it was because of you. Six other people may have heard the same thing and sent it out.”

Celia tried not to show her chagrin. “Well, if that’s the way it is, I’ll have to get used to it.” She smiled up at him and shrugged. “Not knowing—I suppose that’s the hardest part of this job.”

“No it isn’t,” said Luke. He spoke grimly. “Harder than that, is knowing—knowing, and not being able to do anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes we get a message like yours. We come close to the track they’ll have to take. We send scouts ahead. They climb trees and look. They bring back the word. We’re outnumbered six to one. And the redcoats are all armed, and a lot of our men are not. We don’t dare attack. We have to sit, and let them go by. Wagons loaded with barrels of gunpowder, barrels of beef, crates of guns and shoes, letters telling about their plans.”

“I should think,” said Celia, “when that happens—you could practically
hear
your heart breaking.”

“It does seem like that.”

“I’m glad you told me,” she said thoughtfully. “Still, it is sort of disappointing, not to know if I’m doing any good.”

Luke put his big hand on her shoulder. “What you do know, Celia,” he said, “is that it’s folks like us, all together, who are keeping Cornwallis and Clinton apart. So long as the job gets done, it doesn’t matter who does it. Right?”

Celia nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Now can I ask you something else?”

“Go ahead.”

“The Westcotts. What they’re doing—isn’t it very dangerous?”

“Sure it is,” said Luke. “But they’ve got three sons in the swamp with Marion.”

“What sort of place is this?” she asked.

Luke chuckled merrily. “This is a profitable tea-shop, my girl. Mrs. Westcott makes the best pastries in town, Mr. Westcott is a shrewd manager, and they’re doing fine. They used to run a shop like this in Georgetown. When I was on the wagon track two of their boys were in my outfit. You must try Mrs. Westcott’s nut-bread, Celia, it’s great.”

“Nut-bread,” said Celia, remembering the grin of Ricky Westcott. “That word is a signal, isn’t it?”

“It is this week. Next week we’ll choose another.”

“Like your fancy stockings.”

Luke laughed as she told him about recognizing Hugo’s stockings yesterday. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Sassyface,” he said. “With your habit of noticing things, I’d hate to have you working against us. You nearly knocked the breath out of me that evening. I did make the stockings on the track just as I told you, and after my first trip it occurred to me they could be used as a signal to my friends. But do you know, you were the first person who had ever asked me about them?”

Celia crossed her arms on the table before her, laughing too. “Who taught you to knit?” she asked.

“My father. His folks were Scots, and in Scotland men don’t think of knitting as a strictly feminine art, any more than tailoring. A lot of Scotsmen knit their own waistcoats and stockings. He taught me once when I fell out of a tree and was laid up with a bad leg.”

“Were you very fond of him?” Celia asked.

Luke nodded. “He was grand.”

He spoke so warmly that for a moment she felt the old chilly sense of lonesomeness. She wished she could remember her parents. Hurriedly she brought herself back to present concerns. “What did the stockings mean when you wore them?” she asked.

“That I had supplies coming in, needed help to get them to my hiding-places, things like that.”

“And how does Hugo use them now?”

“To say he has something to report. Like your basket in the window.” Luke brought one knee up under his chin and wrapped his arms about it. “Not many rebel women can afford Hugo these days. Nearly all his customers are friends of the king. You know how long it takes to give a lady a stylish coiffure. So they like to have their friends in, to drink tea and chat while he works, and the ladies aren’t always careful what they say. Like your Mrs. Kirby.”

Celia nodded. Luke added humorously,

“Also, some of Hugo’s customers are not ladies in your sense of the word. They’re the girl friends of men like Tarleton and Balfour, and when they have other girls in they don’t pour tea. They pour firewater.” Luke shrugged. “Those beauties sometimes drink quite a lot during a hairdressing session. And while they drink, they talk. Hugo listens.”

Celia spoke contritely. “I guess I’ve misjudged Hugo too. I never thought he was a real patriot.”

Luke’s bright sapphire eyes flashed reproachfully toward her. “Sassyface, Hugo is no ‘real patriot.’ I don’t mean he’s a Tory—he’d like to see us win the war. But Hugo never did any work in his life that he didn’t get paid for.”

Celia remembered the gold doubloons with which Darren had induced Hugo to take care of Jimmy. But she did not want to think about that. Again she brought herself back to the present. “Who pays him?”

“We have our friends,” said Luke. “Men like Godfrey.” He added with a short laugh, “And we do need them. Hugo isn’t the only one who won’t work for anything but money. What pretty hair you’ve got. Blond hair and brown eyes, I like that. We’d better figure out a few more signals for you. Mustn’t use the basket in the window too often. Can you think of any?”