Celia Garth: A Novel (7 page)

It was Vivian’s left hand that touched the chair-back, and Celia noticed a wedding ring. She wondered if Vivian got a new ring with each husband and what she did with the old ones.

Marietta moved the candle-stand and stepped aside. Vivian sat down. The candlelight glimmered over her soft fine skin and her jeweled hair. The chair she had chosen was upholstered in sea-green damask, a perfect background for her pink dress. She leaned back gracefully, one hand on the arm of the chair and the other in her lap holding the lorgnette by its long silver handle. “Will you come closer, Miss Garth,” she asked, “into the light?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.

She moved into the full glow of the candles and stood there, her right hand at her side and the left in her pocket. She expected that now Vivian would start asking questions. How old are you? Where did you go to school? Who taught you to sew? What sort of clothes have you made? Can you do drawnwork? Quilting? Embroidery?

But Vivian merely looked. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they moved quickly, like young eyes. She looked up and down Celia’s figure, along her shoulders, across her waistline. She looked until Celia felt like something put up for auction.

At last Vivian spoke. “Hold up your arms. No, not out from your shoulders, just away from your skirt—understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.

She stood like a doll, her arms held stiffly, her hands about six inches from her skirt at each side.

“Turn around,” said Vivian. “Slowly. Keep your arms out.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.

She thought she had never felt so foolish. When she had turned around twice Vivian said,

“That will do, you can put your arms down now. Come nearer.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Celia.

She came and stood by Vivian’s knee. Holding the lorgnette to her eyes Vivian examined the stitching of Celia’s dress; she ran her fingers along the seams, and took a pinch of cloth between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you make this dress?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Now I suppose you can see all these little stitches without glasses.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I can’t. This is homespun linen from Kingstree, isn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of saying yes ma’am?”

“Yes
ma’am
!” Celia exclaimed, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh I’m sorry, Mrs. Lacy! I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not rude,” Vivian said. “You’re scared. Now I’m going to ask you some questions and I want some intelligent answers. Marietta, bring Miss Garth a chair.”

Marietta obeyed, and again Vivian leaned back. The questions were still not what Celia had expected—not about her, but about her dress. “How did you bleach the linen to that sand-color?” Vivian asked. “How did you measure those darts in the back?”

Celia answered as clearly as she could. After what seemed like a thousand questions Vivian raised her lorgnette once more, as if to make sure there was no stitch they had not discussed. Then she spoke.

“Your dress,” she said, “is beautiful.”

Celia gave a happy start. Vivian continued,

“That linen is good honest stuff, it’s fine for men’s hunting shirts and for children to climb trees in. But this is the first garment I ever saw made of it that had any more grace than a rice-barrel. My dear, if you started with a bolt of raw homespun and produced this, you’re an artist.”

For a moment Celia thought she was about to cry, which would have embarrassed her frightfully. Nobody had seen her cry since she was a little girl, and anyway she felt that Vivian would not like such goings-on. Vivian was saying,

“Miss Garth, you know your trade. You can begin here Monday. You’ll come over every morning and work in my sewing room. I don’t like going out for fittings. And now, please, what have you got in your pocket?”

With a blush, Celia drew out the rabbit’s foot on its silver chain. Vivian took it, and began to laugh.

Celia thought how different Vivian was from Mrs. Thorley. This dress, for instance—she had worn it often in the shop, yet Mrs. Thorley had never noticed it. And yesterday during their interview she had rubbed the rabbit’s foot many times, but Mrs. Thorley had not noticed that either. Such alertness undoubtedly made Vivian an exciting personality, but Celia saw that it would also make her a frightening one.

“Is this the rabbit’s foot Jimmy Rand carries around?” asked Vivian. “First time I ever knew him to part with it.” She gave it back, asking dryly, “I suppose you brought it because everybody told you I was an old crank?”

“Oh no, Mrs. Lacy!”

Vivian crossed her ankles. “You’ll have to be a better liar than that,” she said, “if you want to amount to anything in this world. I know I’m hard to work for. I want things done right, and mighty few people want to take the trouble to do things right.”

Celia decided to be frank. “That’s not the only reason I was nervous, Mrs. Lacy. You see, it was a week ago that Jimmy told me you were going to send for me. The waiting made me shaky.”

“I did intend to send for you sooner,” Vivian said smiling. “But a son of mine came home—he’s been up the wagon track with supplies for General Washington. I’ve not done much this week but listen to his yarns.”

Celia had never met any of the gentlemen adventurers of the wagon track. “Is that the one I wrote a letter to just now?” she asked eagerly.

“Oh no,” said Vivian. “You wrote to Burton Dale—he’s a rice planter. No lover of derring-do. The one on the track is Luke Ansell.”

She examined the silver handle of her lorgnette. There was a pause. Somehow, it was a tense pause. Celia noticed that Vivian was turning the lorgnette over and over, her fingers working up and down the design on the handle. It was the first time during their conversation that Vivian had made a nervous gesture. Celia had heard of the perils of the wagon track, and the idea came to her now that Vivian knew all about these perils and was terribly afraid for her reckless son.

Celia began to feel awkward. It was time for her to go, but she could not properly do so until Vivian dismissed her. Since Vivian had spoken last, Celia decided it was her turn to say something and perhaps ease the atmosphere. She asked,

“Your son—is he planning to stay at home now?”

Vivian looked up. There was a bitter little smile on her lips. “Luke? No, he’ll start back,” she replied tersely, “as soon as he can load his wagons.”

She shrugged, and twirled her lorgnette again. She was not going to shed any tears—Celia wondered if she ever did—but it was plain that Luke Ansell was going to take another bloodcurdling journey in spite of all his mother could do to stop him. Celia could almost hear the clash of battle.

Jimmy had said Vivian always got her own way. But it seemed Jimmy was wrong. Evidently there was one person who could talk back to her. Celia thought Luke ought to stay home a while for his mother’s sake, and she would have liked to tell him so; but she could not help feeling some respect for the fellow all the same.

Marietta stepped out from the shadow where she had been waiting.

“Miss Vivian, the sand has run out.”

“Thank you,” said Vivian. During the moment of silence she had recovered her poise, and when she spoke to Celia her voice was cool and clear again. “Then this is all, Miss Garth. I’m having some guests this evening and it’s time I went to the parlor.”

Celia stood up and curtsied. “Good night, Mrs. Lacy. I’ll do my best.”

“Please do,” Vivian said crisply, but she added with a note of approval, “You have a good start. You like your work.” She smiled a little. “Keep your weight down and your chin up—you’ll get along. Good night.”

M
ARIETTA LET CELIA OUT
by a side door into the garden. The dark was gathering, cool and full of fragrance. Celia went along a brick walk through the flowerbeds, and pushing open the gate she stepped out on the sidewalk.

A block away the beacon shone in the spire of St. Michael’s, and along both sides of the street the colored house-boys were lighting the lanterns over the front doors. In the better parts of town every house had its own light, and these streets were as safe by night as by day. Celia was used to doing her errands without being bothered, so now she was astonished to hear a man’s voice exclaim,

“Good evening! I’m just in time to see you home.”

With a start she looked around. In the glow of the nearest lantern she saw a big fellow who looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing a wine-colored coat, and he had pulled off his hat, showing his brown hair brushed back in thick ripples and tied behind. As he was facing the lantern she could see that he had a ruddy sunburnt face and bright blue eyes, the brightest and bluest she thought she had ever seen. With those brown cheeks and jewel-blue eyes, and his look of vigor and gay humor, without being handsome he was certainly attractive. And mighty sure of himself, thought Celia, who was not just now in a mood to flirt.

She replied coolly, “No, thank you. I know my way.”

“Please don’t be like that!” begged the fashionable stranger. He spoke with a boyish urgency. “You’ve no idea how your hair shines with that lantern behind you—it’s a real moonlight gold. Even prettier than by daylight. Though it was mighty pretty when I saw you before, couple of hours back—remember?”

As he spoke she did remember—the brown young man who had doffed his hat to her when she was on her way here this afternoon. She had enjoyed his attention then, but now she thought of how Mrs. Lacy might react if somebody reported that her new dressmaker was hardly out of the house before she let herself be picked up by a strange man.

He was saying, “I saw you coming across the garden, so I waited for you; How do you happen to be here?”

“I was asked to call,” Celia returned stiffly, “to discuss some dressmaking. And I don’t—”

“Oh, then you must be Celia Garth.”

Celia finished her sentence. “—and I don’t walk on the street with just anybody!”

“But I’m not just anybody!” protested the unblushing cavalier. “I’m me. Me. Luke Ansell.”

“Luke—?” Celia repeated. She was taken aback, and she had forgotten the surname of Vivian’s hot-headed son. He took quick advantage of her hesitation.

“Ansell,” he repeated firmly. He began to spell, counting off the letters on his fingers. “Not just anybody, Ansell. A for anybody, N for nobody, S for somebody, E for everybody, two L’s for—” This time he was the one who hesitated.

Celia was laughing. “Yes?” she teased him. “Two L’s for what?”

“Two L’s for—” he pointed his finger at her and ended triumphantly—“for like-a-body, twice! I’ve seen you twice, I’ve liked you both times. So now won’t you like me and let me walk with you to Mrs. Thorley’s?”

He waited with enticing eagerness. A young man, with a look of rugged strength, evidently he was a son of one of Vivian’s more recent marriages. “All right,” agreed Celia.

“Good!” Luke exclaimed, and they fell into step. As they walked along he said, “Are you going to sew for my mother?”

“Yes—I mean, she’s going to let me try.”

Luke chuckled softly. “Scared of her?”

“Yes!” Celia said, and felt better for saying it.

They were passing a house which had its driveway gate deeply recessed into the garden wall. Over the gate was a lantern. “Let’s stop here,” Luke suggested. “Maybe I can find a good sign for you.”

While she watched him, puzzled, he drew a small thick book from his coat pocket. “What’s that?” she asked.

“A Bible,” said Luke, and began to turn the pages, evidently looking for some passage he had in mind. Celia was surprised. From what she had heard of the swashbucklers of the wagon track, a Bible seemed an unlikely piece of equipment. Luke was saying, “Fine print, but I’ve got good eyes and when you drive supply wagons you don’t have much room for your own gear. What’s your birthday?”

Still puzzled, she told him, “I was born the thirteenth of April, 1759.”

“I didn’t ask the year. I can see it wasn’t very long ago.” Luke was running his finger down the page. “Ah, here it is.” By the light of the lantern above him he read, “‘She seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.’” He looked up, and his blue eyes flashed on her through the dark. “There. That’s your Bible verse. Sounds as if the Lord meant you to be a dressmaker.”

“Where is that?” Celia asked eagerly. “And why is it mine?” Maybe it was the verse, or Luke’s debonair ways, but she felt a springing confidence replacing the tremors of her day.

“It’s the thirteenth verse of the last chapter of Proverbs,” said Luke. “This chapter describes a woman. There are thirty-one verses, one for each day of the month, and the verse numbered to match your birthday is yours.”

“Oh, I like that! Is there a man’s chapter too?”

“Yes, the twenty-first chapter is for men. And my verse—” Turning back a few leaves he read it to her. “‘Who so keepeth his mouth and his tongue, keepeth his soul from troubles.’”

The idea of Luke’s being warned to keep his mouth shut struck Celia as so impossible that she could not help laughing. He asked,

“You think I don’t pay enough attention to my verse?”

“Well—you don’t seem like the quiet type.”

Luke shook his head mournfully. “My mother says I talk too much. But on the wagon track I have to be so inhumanly silent, it’s a relief to gabble when I’m at home.” He put the book back into his pocket and they started walking again.

“It’s very dangerous on the track, isn’t it?” Celia asked.

“Why yes, it is,” said Luke. He spoke in a matter-of-fact way.

But she wanted to know more, so he explained. For many years there had been a regular trade between Charleston and Philadelphia. The trading road went from Charleston to Camden, across the North Carolina line and through the towns of Charlotte and Salisbury, then across Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware, and into Pennsylvania. Today of course, though you followed the same route in general, you did not dare keep to the regular track. You never went the same way twice.

But any way you went, it was risky. The British attacked every wagon train they could catch up with. And besides the British, there were thieves in the woods looking for a chance to shoot the drivers, for the loads could be sold at enormous prices. But when Celia exclaimed at his courage, Luke shook his head.