The Bracelet: A Novel Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR DOROTHY LOVE

  “Dorothy Love writes with such rhythm and grace. Her attention to historical detail creates the perfect setting for characters we swiftly grow to love and cheer for. The Bracelet is a jewel of a story.”

  —TAMERA ALEXANDER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF TO WHISPER HER NAME AND A LASTING IMPRESSION

  “The Bracelet by Dorothy Love was a fascinating and exciting antebellum novel that kept me flipping pages way into the night. I loved the insight into events that triggered the war, and Love’s writing is beautiful and evocative. Highly recommended!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, AUTHOR OF SEAGRASS PIER AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “The Bracelet is the perfect blend of mystery, history, and the quest for love and truth. A great read for not only lovers of period fiction, but for anyone who hungers for a well-told story.”

  —SUSAN MEISSNER, AUTHOR OF A FALL OF MARIGOLDS

  “With a country on the brink of war and her own future uncertain, Celia Browning’s faith will be tested and her very life put in jeopardy by the mystery of the bracelet. In a novel inspired by actual events, Dorothy Love artfully recreates the lavish world of power and prestige in 1850s Savannah with unforgettable characters and the attention to historical detail her readers have come to expect. Vivid and entrancing . . . I was swept away!”

  —KRISTY CAMBRON, AUTHOR OF THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN AND A SPARROW IN TEREZIN

  “Subtle and suspenseful with exquisite descriptions of antebellum Savannah, Georgia, and a tender love-story to boot, Dorothy Love’s The Bracelet takes the reader on a chilling journey into the mysteries surrounding one of Savannah’s most prominent families during the days before the Civil War. Love’s careful research and poignant prose provide a story that will delight fans of historical fiction.”

  —ELIZABETH MUSSER, NOVELIST, THE SWAN HOUSE, THE SWEETEST THING, THE SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY

  “Vivid and romantic . . . recommended for fans of Gone With the Wind.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “Beautifully portrays an independent Southern woman . . . Pitch perfect . . . A memorable book.”

  —HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “A beautifully written Southern historical that should appeal equally to Christian and secular readers alike.”

  —READING THE PAST ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “Every Perfect Gift is certainly a gift to readers.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Romance and a strong sense of place recommend Love’s delightful Southern-flavored historical.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT

  “Romance, mystery, and intrigue . . . Love gives readers even more than they expect . . .”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEWS ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT

  “Love’s amazing historical has all the elements readers expect . . . Romance, mystery, and characters who want more out of their lives.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEWS ON BEAUTY FOR ASHES

  “With well-drawn characters and just enough suspense to keep the pages turning, this winning debut will be a hit . . .”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW FOR BEYOND ALL MEASURE

  OTHER BOOKS BY DOROTHY LOVE

  A Proper Marriage (e-novella only)

  Carolina Gold

  THE HICKORY RIDGE NOVELS

  Beyond All Measure

  Beauty for Ashes

  Every Perfect Gift

  © 2014 by Dorothy Love

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8763-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Love, Dorothy, 1949–

  The bracelet / Dorothy Love.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8760-1 (softcover)

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. Savannah (Ga.)—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.O8387B73 2014

  813'.54—dc23

  2014024002

  14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR DAISY HUTTON

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  27

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “There are no secrets that time does not reveal.”

  JEAN-BAPTISTE RACINE

  PROLOGUE

  September 27, 1843

  INSIDE THE CARRIAGE HOUSE THE AIR WAS DAMP AND STILL, thick with the smell of leather and horses. She shook the rain from her hair and eased the door closed. In the dim light coming through the high windows she could discern the shapes of two carriages, one an open surrey with three rows of seats, the other closed and more commodious—and beaded with rain. Beneath the window: two metal buckets, a buggy whip, a squat wooden table with peeling paint and coated with dust.

  She had not seen him since the accident, but she had waited for him in the garden behind the house, just as he’d asked, until the storm broke. Maybe he loved her as he claimed. But in his world, love was easily won and just as easily tossed aside.

  For months she had known this day was coming, and she’d waited for her heart to be free. But longing was a sickness that wouldn’t leave her. She couldn’t explain even to herself why such feelings bound her to him despite the torment of parting, the fear of discovery, and the price they now would have to pay.

  She sank to the floor, the brick pavers rough against her bare feet, and her foot hit a coil of rope lying in the corner. She looked up to the cobwebbed rafters, and something broke inside her. Who would miss her if she were gone? Certainly not the child, too young to know its mother. Maybe Phoebe from the kitchen would shed a tear. Maybe Primus and Fanny, who had covered for her when he sent word and she slipped away. Otherwise she would be forgotten. Erased. A stone beneath rushing water.

  She uncoiled the rope, and the weight of it gave her courage. It would be easy enough to form a knot. Climb onto the table, toss the rope over the rafters. Slip the noose over her head and kick the table away. A simple end to a complicated life.

  She dragged the table to the center of the room and with trembling fingers fashioned the noose. She swung it over the rafters. On the third try, it caught. She slipped the noose over her head, the scratchy rope pressing heavily against her throat.

  She closed her eyes, the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears, tears scal
ding her cheeks. Phoebe said it was a sin to die by one’s own hand and such an end would lock the gates of heaven against the sinner. But maybe she deserved whatever fate waited for her on the other side. She could see no other way for this story to end. Desperation had overtaken her and now exerted its own logic.

  The storm intensified, jagged lightning cracking open the sky, the roll of thunder swallowing the sound of her sobs. She longed for a swift end to her suffering. But still she hesitated. What of the child? Who would care for her little one with the same affection its own mother would? A mental image of the helpless babe sent another wave of guilt washing over her, weakening her resolve. If she stayed in this world, a life of longing and regret would be her penance. But if she died here, and in this way, the child would have an even heavier cross to bear. Grief upon grief.

  The table beneath her feet cracked and abruptly tilted, one leg splaying out at a precarious angle. The rope tightened, and black spots danced before her eyes. She teetered, both arms outstretched, and regained her balance, then stood motionless—afraid to move, afraid not to move, every muscle aching with the strain.

  The carriage house door slid open. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated a dark figure silhouetted against the rain-swollen sky. In the garden beyond, the gazebo stood out in sharp relief, the roses and jessamine bent and sodden.

  “Please.” Her throat felt raw. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Please help me.”

  1

  Savannah, Georgia, September 15, 1858

  AT THE SOUND OF MALE VOICES IN THE ENTRY HALL BELOW, Celia Browning left her window overlooking the garden and the redbrick carriage house. She set aside her book and opened her bedroom door just wide enough to afford a view of the door to her father’s study down below. The house was quiet, the entry hall now empty. Dust motes swirled like snowflakes in the late afternoon sunshine, pouring through the fanlight above the front door and reflecting in the ornate gilt mirror on the wall. She cocked an ear to listen, but the conversation taking place behind the massive mahogany doors was lost in the vast space.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks!” Frowning, she leaned against the polished mahogany banister and wondered what she was missing.

  Papa often included her in discussions of the shipping company that had made him the fourth richest man in Savannah, behind Mr. Low, Mr. Green, and their neighbor on the square, Mr. Sorrel. She relished the lively discussions regarding Browning Shipping Company’s fleet of snows and schooners that transported cargo to ports around the world. She liked keeping up with the prices of timber, cotton, and turpentine and the news of markets that might soon admit ships from Savannah. Most of all she loved that her father treated her as an equal, allowing her the occasional visit to his counting house on Commerce Row, overlooking the river.

  “Eavesdropping, Cousin?”

  Celia jumped at the sound of Ivy’s voice. Ivy grinned, one brow raised.

  “I’m not eavesdropping. Even if I wanted to, I can’t hear a thing.”

  Ivy eyed Celia’s bare toes peeking from beneath the pink bell of her skirt. “You’d better not let Mrs. Maguire catch you running about without your shoes.”

  Celia waved one hand. “She won’t care. She secretly likes looking after us.”

  “She likes looking after you and Uncle David. I’m only the poor relation who causes more trouble than she’s worth.”

  Celia studied her tall, sharp-faced cousin. Ivy had come to live with the Brownings when Celia was eight and Ivy ten. After fifteen years it was hard to remember a time when Ivy had not occupied the bedroom across the hall from Celia’s in the terra-cotta-colored mansion on Madison Square. Papa had done everything possible to make Ivy feel welcome, but lately Ivy’s usual determined cheerfulness had been replaced by periods of dark abstraction that lacked an apparent cause. It seemed she looked for opportunities to remind the Brownings that she didn’t really belong to them. Or to Savannah, a city Celia and her father loved almost as much as they loved each other.

  “What’s the matter?” Celia placed a hand on her cousin’s arm. “It isn’t like you to feel sorry for yourself.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” Ivy lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I’m out of sorts today. I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I don’t want anyone else to, either.” She tucked the book she’d been reading beneath her arm. “I’ve been an orphan for so long that I actually find it quite liberating.”

  “You’re certainly in an odd mood today.”

  A burst of laughter escaped from below. Celia peeked down and saw that the door to Papa’s study had opened. Now he stood in the foyer with his clerk. Elliott Shaw was a slight, thin-shouldered man of uncertain years whose generous mouth and thick eyelashes gave an almost feminine cast to his pale features. Celia had met him a few times at Papa’s office. Mr. Shaw was always courtly, if a bit shy, but his movements, so awkward and constrained, made her feel ill at ease. Still, nobody knew accountancy and maritime law better than he.

  Mr. Shaw retrieved his hat and took his leave. Papa returned to his study. Celia padded silently along the upper hallway, passing portraits of generations of Brownings and Butlers, and ran lightly down the carpeted stairs, one hand trailing along the polished banister that gave off the pleasant scent of lemons and beeswax.

  “Papa? Do you have a moment?”

  He looked up from the stack of papers on his desk, a smile creasing his handsome face. “Always have time for you, darling. Give me a moment to finish signing these.”

  Celia plopped into her chair and tucked her bare feet under her. A sultry breeze stirred the curtains at the open windows and carried with it the sounds of horses’ hooves plodding along the unpaved street, the voices of children playing in the tree-shaded square. The rustle of Papa’s papers mingled with the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Celia watched a woman and a small boy hurrying along the street, the child clinging like a barnacle to her voluminous skirts. A flock of sparrows rose and fell along the rooftops.

  Celia released a contented sigh. She loved every room of this house—the drawing room where she entertained her friends, the spacious dining room with its massive mahogany table and a marble-topped sideboard that held the family silver. The library, bursting with books and filled with warm Georgia sunlight that poured through the tall windows facing the street. But Papa’s study was her favorite. Dark-green walls were adorned with paintings depicting ships at sea. Books on maritime law sat side by side with novels by Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Scott, and Mr. Dickens. A glass-fronted secretary held her father’s cherished mementoes: medals for his service to the army, a framed drawing of Celia’s that had won a prize at school, a pair of silver-handled antique dueling pistols purchased on a trip to France, and a miniature portrait of her mother, painted shortly before she was lost in the Pulaski steamship disaster.

  Papa set down his pen and pushed his papers aside. “Now then, Celia. What’s on your mind? I hope you aren’t cross at having missed my talk with Mr. Shaw just now.”

  “Well, I am disappointed. But I can never stay cross with you, Papa.”

  He smiled. “You didn’t miss a thing. Shaw only wanted to bring by these papers before he leaves for Cassville to spend a few days with his sister. She hasn’t been well these past months. We discussed nothing of consequence.” Papa removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and folded them carefully. “How is your work for the asylum coming along?”

  “Very well. Mother’s friends are happy I’ve decided to finish the work she started all those years ago. I only wish I could have taken up the cause much sooner.”

  “Your schooling had to come first.”

  Papa had paid two hundred dollars a year for her and Ivy to attend the female academy in Atlanta. They had spent six years learning French and astronomy, science and mathematics, needlework and music. Celia loved science especially, but marriage, motherhood, and charity work were the only permitted aspirations for a woman of her station. In the five years since graduatio
n, she’d devoted herself to various causes, including improving the lives of the girls at the Savannah’s Female Orphan Asylum.

  “I wish Mother could know how much progress we’ve made with the girls. But there’s still so much to be done, and all of it takes a good deal of money.”

  Papa nodded. “I saw Alexander Lawton at the club last week. He said Mrs. Lawton intends to make a generous contribution.”

  “I thought she might. She’s working hard to gather more support for the indigents at the hospital too. She feels as I do, that improving the lives of the least fortunate will benefit all of Savannah.” A thick dark curl escaped its pins, and Celia tucked it behind her ear. “I wish you could see how much progress Annie Wilcox has made. She has been at the asylum less than a year and already she reads as well as I do. And she’s a genius at trimming hats. Mrs. Clayton thinks Annie might one day find a position at Miss Garrett’s.”

  Her father’s brows rose in a silent question.

  “Miss Garrett owns one of the finest millinery shops in Charleston. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Annie could work there and one day open a shop of her own?”

  His expression grew tender. “Seeing those girls succeed is terribly important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and not only for the sake of Mother’s memory. Most of the girls are working so hard to learn something that will allow them to live a respectable life. I can’t help hoping they will succeed. But we need more books and perhaps one of those new sewing machines everybody is talking about for those who want to learn dressmaking. And a piano for Iris Welborn. She’s a musical genius who plays much better than I do, even though she has never had a lesson in her life. If she learns to read music, she might one day earn a good living as a music teacher.”

  “Savannahians are generous people. I can’t imagine that you won’t raise enough for those things.”

  “Oh, I think we will. Several of the ladies have already pledged their support. But we need to expand the building too. Just last week three new girls arrived. That place is bursting at the seams.”