Celia Garth: A Novel (40 page)

Mrs. Baxter came in, accompanied by her sister from out of town, Mrs. Sloan. As they had an appointment Celia opened the gate in the balustrade, and when they had gone upstairs she returned to the Duffs. She told them that one of the senior seamstresses, Mrs. Woods, was in charge of making men’s shirts, and it would be better to discuss further details with her. Mr. and Mrs. Duff agreed, but they lingered awhile longer over the button-box. At last, however, they said they would like to speak to Mrs. Woods; and Celia, trembling with impatience, went to summon her. As men were not allowed upstairs where the ladies’ fitting-rooms were, Mrs. Woods led the Duffs into a side room off the parlor so Mr. Duff could take off his coat and wig, and be measured.

At last, Celia was alone. Going to the table she opened her workbasket. She took out the frill, placed her chair by the window, and set the basket on the sill.

Her heart bounced like a ball rolling down a staircase. She was as conscious of the wad of paper in her pocket as if it had been a coal of fire. Desperately, grimly, she went on sewing.

The Duffs finally finished their business and went home. More customers came and went. The sun moved westward over the Ashley River. Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan came downstairs, and lingered in front of the balustrade to look at the fashion dolls. A few minutes later the front door opened again, and Celia looked up to see Godfrey Bernard.

Hat in hand, Godfrey paused an instant and gave a quick glance around. This was long enough for Mrs. Baxter to catch sight of him, greet him effusively, present him to her sister, and ask about Ida. Courteous as always, Godfrey said he was happy to meet Mrs. Sloan, and Ida was well, thank you. They exchanged more pleasantries, but at length the ladies returned to the fashion dolls and Godfrey came to the balustrade.

Celia was sure he had come for her message, and she was scared. She had thought working for Marion would be exhilarating; she had not expected these stiff lips and shaking knees, nor the squeaky little voice in which she said, “How do you do, sir.”

When she had been Vivian’s guest she and Godfrey had called each other by their first names, but she thought this was hardly proper for the shop. Evidently he agreed, for he said, “How do you do, Miss Garth. Remember my wife said she wanted to order some kerchiefs? She asked me to make an appointment for her. Friday or Saturday, preferably before noon.”

Celia wondered if he too was quaking within. He did not look like it. Godfrey’s hair—he still had enough of his own not to need a wig—was neatly tied behind with a silk ribbon. He wore a dark blue linen coat and tan breeches, and a white lawn cravat. Godfrey looked like himself, a man who had the habit of success; he showed none of the slack discouragement she had seen when the weather ruined the meat supply last spring. No, right now Godfrey knew what he was doing and he had no doubt that he could do it well.

Behind him, Mrs. Baxter was saying the cap worn by one of the dolls was too elaborate for the dress she had on. The thought came to Celia that Godfrey’s confidence now meant that he also trusted her to do her part of the job. She said, “Certainly, Mr. Bernard. I’ll go up and speak to Miss Loring.”

“Thank you,” said Godfrey. “And Miss Garth—” he looked at her directly—“will you ask her to give me a written reminder of the time? I have a wretched memory for these things.” For the barest instant his eyes flashed to the basket on the windowsill.

“Certainly,” Celia said again. She turned and opened the door to the staircase. As she put her hand on the banister she asked herself what on earth she was scared of. She was sure Mrs. Baxter had not come to the shop to look for rebel spies.

In the sewing room, Miss Loring said Mrs. Bernard could come in Friday morning at ten. She noted the day and time in her book, and at Celia’s request she clipped a corner from a page and repeated the note for Mr. Bernard.

Celia started downstairs. Halfway down she paused. Taking her little wad of paper from her pocket she put it under Miss Loring’s note and held it there. The last of her quakes had left her; she felt strong and sure of herself. She went on down and with her free hand she opened the parlor door.

Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan were still talking about the displays in the cabinets. Godfrey stood by the balustrade. But also standing by the balustrade, his elbow on the counter and his hat beside him, was a good-looking young British lieutenant.

For an instant Celia felt paralyzed. Ideas rushed through her head. She must not show fear, she had to speak and act normally, redcoats came into the shop often and he was just another one. Godfrey was waiting; this showed that he expected her to give him her message somehow. She would attend to the redcoat first—that was it, ask what he wanted and get rid of him. Smiling pleasantly, she went to the counter and spoke to him. “May I help you, sir?”

The redcoat smiled back. “This gentleman,” he said, politely indicating Godfrey, “was here before me.”

Again Celia’s thoughts buzzed. Maybe she should give Godfrey only Miss Loring’s note, and let him come back later for hers. But how could she know that there would not be redcoats here again, next time he came in? And Luke had told her speed was vital. She must get her message out now, not later. She noticed how well tailored were the young Britisher’s red coat and white doeskin breeches, how shiny his boots, how properly powdered his hair; and she thought of what Luke had told her, that many of Marion’s men were half naked. They needed those wagon-loads of clothes. She had to give Godfrey her message and if she kept her wits about her she could do it. She remembered what Vivian had said long ago: “You can do anything you
have
to do.”

Godfrey had acknowledged the soldier’s courtesy with a slight inclination of his head. Following this lead, Celia said, “Very well, sir.” Turning to Godfrey she held out Miss Loring’s three-cornered slip of paper, her thumb on top, her fingers hiding her own little note underneath. “Here you are, Mr. Bernard.”

Godfrey closed his hand so that her wad was hidden but Miss Loring’s note was held between his thumb and forefinger. He read as though to himself, “Friday morning at ten—good. Thank you, Miss Garth.” He dropped his hand into his pocket, and with his other hand he picked up his hat. “Good evening, Mrs. Baxter, Mrs. Sloan,” he said, and went out. Speaking as calmly as possible, Celia asked the lieutenant how she could serve him.

In his smooth British accent, he told her his name was Meadows. He had brought a note for Miss Becky Duren, about a change in their plans for Sunday, and he asked Celia if she would be kind enough to deliver it. Celia felt so happy that she gave him a smile more friendly than she had ever thought she would give a redcoat, and told him she would be glad to deliver his note. Lieutenant Meadows bowed, thanked her, and took his leave.

Mrs. Sloan called Mrs. Baxter’s attention to a pair of gloves in one of the cabinets. Celia returned to the chair by the window. She took her basket from the sill, opened it and took out her scissors, and put the basket on the table beside her. Her thoughts were singing. I did it, I did it, I sent a message to Marion!

Becky exclaimed joyfully when Celia gave her Lieutenant Meadows’ note that evening. She said she had promised to take a walk Sunday with Meadows and another officer named Captain Cole, but the note said Captain Cole had sprained his knee and could not go out. Meadows said if it was agreeable with Becky, the two of them would join a party who had engaged a carriage for Sunday. They would all go for a drive, and stop for refreshments at the new tea-shop on Cumberland Street.

Becky had not been to the new tea-shop and she was delighted at the prospect of going there Sunday with a party of elegant people. She said she was sorry about Captain Cole, but his injury was not serious. And anyway, he was billeted at the Baxters’ and they had a lovely home.

Friday morning Ida came to choose the material for her kerchiefs. Miss Loring said it was all right for Celia to make them, and Celia felt elated. This would give Ida an excuse to come in often, and receive a message if she had one to give.

However, by Friday night Celia had begun to feel discouraged. For though she had listened as hard as she could, she had heard nothing more that could be of use to Marion’s men. She told herself the best spy on earth could not hear what people did not say. But the fact remained, it had been more than a week since she had caught that remark of Mrs. Kirby’s, and it did seem that she should have picked up something else.

On Saturday, though the shop was full and the parlor was chatty and gay, she had hardly any chance to listen. Everybody wanted something. Celia went upstairs so many times that by afternoon she ached all over. And finally, just as she was wearily thanking heaven that it was almost time to close, Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan dropped in. Just looking, they said. They began to admire the displays, many of which had been changed since the last time they were here.

They stayed, and stayed, and stayed. They were still there after everybody else had gone. Celia got tireder and tireder, but the two ladies, sitting by a table with samples spread out before them, were too much interested to leave. The supervisors were supposed to notice the time, and when customers forgot to go home Miss Loring or Miss Perry would come in and tell them the shop was closing, but Celia could not do this herself. She had to wait.

So she waited, and the end was worth it.

Too tired to sew, she sat with her hands in her lap, thinking about how her legs ached from all that stair-climbing. Mrs. Sloan said this gray-and-yellow striped silk was beautiful, but she simply could not wear any shade of yellow. This plain gray, though, it would be lovely combined with this dark green. She asked if Mrs. Baxter remembered the dark green dress Emily Torrance had worn to church last Sunday. Mrs. Sloan said she had noticed it particularly when Mr. and Mrs. Torrance were standing outside the church after services, chatting with Captain Cole. It was too bad, said Mrs. Sloan, about Captain Cole’s accident.

“I don’t think,” said Mrs. Baxter, “that he minds it too much.” She sounded amused.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Sloan.

Mrs. Baxter laughed softly. “He had been ordered out of town on outpost duty, and you know how they all dread that. Now he can’t go, at least not for a while.”

Mrs. Sloan laughed too. “How do you know? Did he tell you?”

“Not exactly—I mean—” Mrs. Baxter gave a half-embarrassed giggle. “Oh, I can say it to you, you’ll understand. Lieutenant Meadows came by this morning to see him, and while they were both in Captain Cole’s room I happened to pass and I noticed that the door was open. Of course I don’t make a habit of listening at doors, but I do like to hear if Captain Cole has any complaints. If your billets like you they can do you so many favors. It doesn’t hurt to hear what they say.”

“Of course, I understand,” said Mrs. Sloan. “He wasn’t complaining, was he?”

“Oh no, they were laughing and talking, and Captain Cole was saying that now he couldn’t go up to Lenud’s Ferry next week. It seems he was to lead a troop there to guard the crossing. But they’re to leave Tuesday, and he won’t even be able to stand up by then. Another officer will have to take his place. And I must say I was glad to hear what Captain Cole said about it—he said duty was duty, but he was so comfortable with us, he wasn’t sorry to stay longer. I didn’t know he’d been ordered out. I suppose they aren’t allowed to talk about their orders.”

In her dim corner, Celia sat with every nerve strained lest she miss a word. Lenud’s Ferry was on the Santee River about twenty miles from Sea Garden, close to the church of St. James Santee. It was an important crossing, which would be used for men and supplies going from Charleston into the country back of Georgetown. And a troop was leaving for Lenud’s Ferry next Tuesday.

The ladies had gone back to their discussion of the samples. Mrs. Sloan was saying, “It’s a beautiful shade in this light, but I’m not sure how it would be in bright sunshine.”

The door from the staircase opened and Miss Perry came bouncing in. She told the ladies she was oh so sorry to disturb them, but really the shop had to close. The ladies were oh so welcome here, their patronage was an honor, but Mrs. Thorley made the rules and she was quite strict and wouldn’t they come back Monday?

Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Sloan said they had had no idea how late it was, and they did not know what
became
of the time. At last they left, and Miss Perry bounced out again, and Celia began to lock up. Tired as she was, she heard herself humming a tune. She had no way to get a message out tonight, but she could do it tomorrow.

Pushing back the curtains of a front window she looked out at Lamboll Street. The sun was going down, and the street was striped with shadows and sunlight. Not far off she saw the little hairdresser Hugo, carrying his bag of pomades and curling-tongs. It was the first time she had seen Hugo since the day he had taken the bullet from Jimmy’s leg, and the sight of him sent a painful memory shooting through her. As he came nearer she watched him, her eyes held to him by the memory. Hugo looked very spruce with his cocked hat atop his curly white wig, his fine purple coat, and the last rays of the sun flashing on the buckles of his shoes. As he passed he caught sight of her in the window, and doffed his hat in an elegant gesture of greeting. Apparently the day she remembered with such pain had been for him only another day. Celia managed a stiff little smile in return, and Hugo pranced along. He walked into another ray of sunlight, and Celia caught her breath.

Her hands on the sill, she leaned farther out, her eyes following Hugo. No doubt about it. Hugo had on fancy lacework stockings just like those that Luke had been wearing the first time she saw him.

Celia drew back from the window. It had been here in this very room that she had noticed those stockings of Luke’s. She remembered herself asking, “Mr. Ansell, who made your stockings?” She remembered how startled he had been, and how he had recovered his poise so quickly that she almost thought she had imagined it.

But she had not imagined it. Engaged in dangerous business on the wagon track, Luke had had many secrets to keep from the king’s spies in Charleston. Those stockings had been a signal, like the basket on the windowsill. And they still were. Hugo, doing ladies’ hair, heard the talk of the town. Like herself, he was in a perfect situation to hear what Marion wanted to know.