Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Yes,” said Lizbeth.

“So we can count on your attendance?”

“We’ll be there,” said Lizbeth finally. “Ford won’t like it, but I’ll think of something.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Theodosia hung up the phone. That hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought it might be. But, then again, Lizbeth Cantrell was one tough lady, made of fairly stern stuff.

It would all play out tonight, Theodosia decided, once her plan was set into motion. Of course, her plan also hinged on a number of critical pieces: all the right people showing up and Timothy Neville’s supreme cooperation. Was that too much to ask? She surely hoped not.

Gazing at the wall of photos across from her desk, Theodosia’s eyes were drawn to an old black and white picture of her dad rigging one of his old sailboats, a Stone Horse. And her thoughts turned to Billy Manolo, the surly part-time handyman at the yacht club.

It would be perfect if she could somehow get Billy Manolo to show up tonight as well. Then they’d have all the players....

Yes, it would be perfect, she decided. It was certainly worth a try. But how exactly would she...?

Theodosia punched in the phone number for the yacht club. A crazy idea had popped into her head that, on closer inspection, might not be so crazy after all.

“Yacht club,” answered a youthful male voice.

“Is Billy Manolo there?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s...I think he’s out working on one of the boats. I saw him on one of the piers an hour or so ago, but I couldn’t say where he is now. I just stopped by the clubhouse to grab a drink of water, and the phone rang. I can’t really help—”

“Could you take a message?” asked Theodosia. “A message. Yeah, I suppose so. Hang on a minute. Gotta get a pencil and paper.” There was a fumble and a clunk as the phone was set down, then the young man came on the line again.

“Okay, go ahead,” he said.

“This is for Billy Manolo,” said Theodosia . “The note should say, please be at Timothy Neville’s home tonight at eight. Address is 413 Archdale.”

Theodosia could hear the man softly repeating the message to himself as he wrote it down. “Anything else?” asked the young man.

“Add that it’s urgent Billy show up and make a note that it’s at the request of Booth Crowley.”

“How do you spell that? I got the Booth part, I’m just not sure on Crowley.”

“C-R-O-W-L-E-Y,” said Theodosia.

“Okay,” said the young man. “And who is this?”

Theodosia ransacked her brain for the name of the woman she’d spoken with the day she phoned Booth Crowley’s office. Marilyn, the woman’s name had been Marilyn.

“This is Marilyn from Booth Crowley’s office.”

“Gotcha,” said the young man. “I’ll leave the note in his mailbox.”

“Yes, that’s perfect,” said Theodosia, remembering a line of four of five wooden mail slots that were used by employees, handymen, yacht club commodores, and other folks who spent time there.

Timothy Neville adored giving parties. Holiday parties, charity galas, music recitals. And his enormous Georgian mansion, a glittering showpiece perched on Archdale Street, was, for many guests, a peek into the kind of gilded luxury that hadn’t been witnessed in Charleston since earlier times.

Although not an official Garden Fest event, Timothy had been staging his Garden Fest kickoff party for more years than anyone could count. It was a way to bring all the Garden Fest participants together in one place, and it served as a kind of unofficial marker that heralded the arrival of spring. Days were becoming warmer, deep purple evenings held the promise of fluttering luna moths and night-blooming nicotiana. And, once again, everyone in Charleston was more than ready to treat their gardens as an extended room of their house. For Charlestonians adored their gardens, whether they be tiny, secluded brick patios surrounded by slender columns of oleander or one of the enormous enclosed backyards in the historic district, lavishly embellished with vine-covered brick walls, fountains adorned with statuary, and well-tended beds of verdant plant life.

Poised on his broad piazza, dressed in impeccable white, Timothy Neville greeted each of his guests with a welcoming word. Flickering gaslights threw a warm scrim and lent an alabaster glow that served to enhance the complexions of his female guests.

Just inside, Henry Marchand, Timothy’s valet of almost forty years, stood in the dazzling foyer. Attired in red topcoat and white breeches, Henry solemnly directed newly arrived ladies to the powder room and gentlemen toward the bar with the grace and surety of a majordomo secure in his position.

“Even though it’s not entirely black tie, it’s certainly creative attire,” exclaimed Drayton as he and Theodosia surveyed the chattering crowd. Most of Timothy’s guests were also residents of the historic district and, thus, nodding acquaintances to the two of them. Many were descended from Charleston’s old families and had lived in the surrounding neighborhood for years. Others had been drawn to the historic district by their love of history, tradition, and old-world charm and had scrimped and saved to buy their historic houses with an eye toward full restoration. For in the historic district, restoration was always big business. And a major boon to the plasterers, wallpaperers, chimney sweeps, gardeners, designers, and various other tradespeople and craftsmen who were so often called upon to keep these grande dame homes in working order.

Earlier, Drayton and Theodosia had helped Haley get her tea service set up outside in Timothy’s lush garden. Ten of Drayton’s bonsai had been arranged on simple wooden Parsons tables, creating an elegant, Zen-like atmosphere. Haley was now busily pouring Japanese tea into small, blue-glazed tea bowls and passing them out to those guests who’d come outside to admire Timothy’s elegant garden and Drayton’s finely crafted bonsai.

“I do love this house,” declared Theodosia, as she gazed in awe at the Hepplewhite furnishings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and carved walnut mantelpiece signed by Italian master Luigi Frullini. She’d only given a cursory glance to the oil paintings that lined the walls but had already recognized a Horace Bundy and a Franklin Whiting Rogers. She also knew that the china Timothy displayed in illuminated cases in one of the two front parlors was genuine Spode.

“Timothy’s got taste, all right,” said Drayton, “and the man has demonstrated a remarkable amount of class. I couldn’t believe how willing he was to take part in our little plan.”

“I’m relieved that he’s agreed to help,” said Theodosia. “But I must admit I’m a little nervous about the whole thing.”

“Me, too,” said Drayton. “But if we stick to our plan . . . Oh, talk about perfect,” said Drayton under his breath.

“You bought the jacket!” Delaine Dish’s strident voice rose above the buzz of conversation in the solarium where Theodosia and Drayton had wandered in to visit the bar and get flutes of vintage champagne. Clutching an oversized goblet of white wine and wearing a frothy wrapped dress of pink silk, Delaine pushed her way through the crowd to join them.

“When?” she asked Theodosia, her eyes all aglow. “Today?” Her dark hair was done up in a fetching swirl and held in place by a pink barrette. Her shellacked pink toes peeped out of matching pink sandals.

“About two hours ago,” said Theodosia. “Suddenly, the jacket seemed like the absolute perfect thing to wear to this party. So I phoned your shop and talked with Janine and, lo and behold, I was in luck. You still had the green.”