A Respectable Actress (26 page)

“Who's there?” A man's voice.

Her heart pounding, India crouched in the road and held her breath as he moved around
the cottage, his lantern held high, passing so close that she caught a whiff of tobacco
and spirits.

Her legs cramped. Something furry moved across her arm. She stifled a scream.

The caretaker went back inside. She got to her feet and quickened her steps.

The Sterling house was dark. Moonlight silvered a row of white-painted porch columns
and illuminated manicured gardens on either side of a paved walkway. Twin chimneys
pierced the night sky. India moved closer and rounded the porch to the side of the
house. She jiggled the knob of the side door, but it held fast. She tried three windows
before she found one unlocked. Hiking her skirts, she climbed inside. The room smelled
of dust
and mold. In the dark it was hard to know exactly where she was. She ran
her fingers along the walls, her knees bumping into furniture. She touched a wall
of books. A library, then.

A shard of moonlight fell across the room, revealing a small table upon which sat
a lantern and a silver matchbox. India took this as a gift from Providence. Did she
dare light the lamp? What if someone saw the flame and came to investigate? On the
other hand, she had come this far.

She struck a match and lit the wick, turning down the flame as low as it would go.
The faint light sent shadows dancing against the walls as she slid open the desk
drawer. It contained nothing of interest—only a stack of receipts from the men's
haberdashery, a pen with a broken tip, a folder containing old contracts, a deck
of cards.

She closed the drawer and examined the rest of the room. On the shelves were bound
copies of plays and poems, a few biographies. Last year's most popular novel. A couple
of tintypes of Mr. Sterling in costume looking just as he had in life. Too handsome
and too arrogant for his own good.

She tiptoed to the library door and opened it. A narrow hall hung with seascapes
and a couple of portraits led to the front parlor. Lamplight played over the polished
mahogany staircase opposite the marble-floored entry hall. India raised the lantern
and took in the furnishings—two sofas flanking the fireplace, a leather chair positioned
nearest the tall, heavily curtained windows. A hall tree draped with a man's woolen
cloak and a battered felt hat.

India crossed the room to the hall tree and peered beneath the woolen cloak.

Behind her, the wooden stair creaked. India startled and gave an involuntary cry.
Footsteps sounded on the bare floor.

India doused the light and whirled around, feeling her way down the corridor and
back into the library. There, she dropped the lantern and climbed out the window.

She found the road and raced for the fishing cabin, not stopping until she reached
safety. She flung herself onto her makeshift bed and gasped for breath, heedless
of the army of brown, roach-like bugs marching across the floor just inches from
her nose.

Later, she heard the shriek of a steamer coming up the river.

C
HAPTER
21

O
N THE THIRD MORNING IN THE DESERTED CABIN
, India woke from a dreamless sleep. She rose stiffly from her blankets on the floor, brushed at the dust on a chair, and dragged it closer to the window. The sun came up, staining the sky a rusty red and waking the sparrows that had taken shelter beneath the crumbling eaves. She pressed her fingers against the bandage on her head and winced when they found the deep gash. The dressing covering her knife wound was stiff with blood and dirt, but there was nothing she could do about that.

Her stomach rumbled, and she made a rudimentary breakfast from the contents of Mr.
Lockwood's box: bread, a hunk of cheese, a few slices of cured ham, a jar of dried
apples. She was desperate for tea, but there was none, and besides, she was too afraid
of discovery to risk making a fire to boil water. She ate a few bites and carefully
wrapped the rest, uncertain of how long these provisions would have to last.

As the morning wore on, she watched a squirrel darting among the tree branches, a
lonely gull circling above the river. Would Philip come for her today? She couldn't
wait to tell him what she had discovered at the Sterling house. He would
admonish
her for taking such a risk, but it had been worth the fright and the badly sprained
wrist she'd gotten when she leapt from the library window.

When it became necessary, she found her way to the outhouse and returned quickly.
She curled into a ball beneath the blankets and slept until the distant whistle of
a steamboat wakened her. Then she amused herself by reciting every line of every
play that she could remember, acting out the various parts in different voices.
Every line reminded her of the best of her father. Even in this desolate place, her
bright memories hovered like hummingbirds in the crisp winter air.

If only he had lived. If only her theater company had not been wrested from her.
If only she had stood her ground with Mr. Philbrick and refused his order to change
the play, her whole life would be different.

But during the long hours of another sleepless night, she realized that somehow she
must resign herself to whatever fate had in store. A flash of color outside the
cabin drew her attention. She stepped away from the window and into the shadows and
took Mr. Lockwood's revolver from the bottom of the box. The undergrowth rustled,
and she darted behind the door, holding the revolver close to her chest. Footsteps
sounded on the porch. The door swung wide. She drew in a long choking breath, her
face pressed to the rough wood. Her heart hammered in her chest.

“India?”

Her knees went weak. The gun clattered to the floor.

Philip held out his arm to steady her, and then she was in his arms. His lips pressed
against her temple and moved to claim
hers. She clung to him with all of the suppressed
desire that had been building since their time together at Indigo Point. No matter
what the future held, she would never forget this moment, this feeling of being protected.
Safe.

He drew back to look at her. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” Now that the moment had passed, she felt awkward in his presence.
Would he think her too bold to have pressed herself into his arms with such fervor?
“I'm . . . glad to see you.”

He seemed eager to put the conversation on a more neutral footing too. “I'm sorry
that I had you kidnapped,” he said. “But I couldn't think of any other plan.”

“Mr. Lockwood said you were looking for another witness.”

“Yes. During the colonel's testimony, I remembered something that made me believe
you might have been right about my wife. And so I went looking. And I found her.”
He looked away.

“What?”

“When I first brought Laura to Indigo Point, she was terrified of alligators and
snakes. She bought a revolver and insisted that I teach her how to shoot.”

“But that doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“Not in and of itself. But the notes you found prove that she was in love with someone
else. And she knew how to fire a gun.”

India nodded. “Listen, Philip, I have something to tell you. Night before last I
searched Sterling's house here on the island, and I found—”

A shout echoed among the trees. Philip grabbed India, and they hid behind the cabin
door, their bodies pressed into the dank, shadowed space. India could feel her heart
pounding and Philip's warm breath on her ear.

The door creaked open. Footsteps sounded on the rotten planks.

“Somebody's campin' here.” The voice was that of a young boy.

“They's food.” Another voice. “They's some cheese and some—”

“Who cares? They's a gun. That oughta sell for some real money in town.”

Through a crack in the door, India watched as one of the boys held up the nun's habit
and shook it out, setting the wooden rosary beads to clattering. “Maybe we ought
not to steal from a sister. God's liable to strike us dead in our tracks if we do.”

“What's a nun doin' with a revolver?”

“Shootin' at snakes, I reckon.”

“Well, I say we take it. Ain't nothin' else worth stealin'.”

Philip released India and stepped from behind the door. Both boys yelped.

“Afternoon, fellows,” Philip said. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothin'. We was just lookin' around. We didn't know you was stayin' here.”

Philip held out his hand for the gun. “Well, now that you do, it's time to move on.
Though you're welcome to the food if you want it.”

“Nah, that's all right. We don't care much for cheese.”

“Suit yourself.”

The taller of the two frowned. “How come you got a nun's robes?”

“It's top secret,” Philip said.

“You some kind of a spy! And that's your disguise.”

India stifled a laugh at the mental picture of Philip dressed in holy garments.

He shooed them out the door.

“Let's get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Savannah. We've got a date with Judge Bartlett.”

India gaped at him, a dozen questions crowding her mind. But Philip was already moving
about the cabin, folding her blankets and the discarded nun's habit and placing them
in the wooden crate with the remnants of her food.

“I've a steamer waiting downriver to take us back to the city,” he said. “Are you
ready?”

“I suppose, but Philip, what's going to happen when we get there?”

“I spoke with the judge yesterday. He's agreed to hear Laura's testimony in chambers.
With Mr. McLendon in attendance, of course.” He paused in his preparations and studied
her, his expression calm and wise. “Word of your absence has spread. You must be
prepared for a large and noisy crowd, I'm afraid.”

“It won't be the first time.”

“No, but I hope it will be the last.” He picked up the Remington, checked the chamber,
and set it into the box.

C
HAPTER
22

I
NDIA HURRIED TO KEEP UP AS
P
HILIP LED HER THROUGH
the dense forest. A small steamer churned its way up the river and nudged the pier. Wordlessly, Philip helped her board, tossed the wooden box inside, and settled onto the seat beside her.

The captain, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, turned the craft upriver just
as the two boys emerged from the trees and raced onto the pier. If Philip noticed
them, he didn't mention it. He sat with his head down, his hands clasped loosely
between his knees, as if the effort of rescuing her had completely exhausted him.

India felt a rush of tenderness mixed with confusion and a simmering anger at the
woman who had betrayed him. She was dying to tell him what she had discovered in
Sterling's house, but he was in no shape just now to make sense of it. And she was
exhausted, too, after three nights of hiding. The knife wound burned. The gash on
her head throbbed painfully. She was covered in dust and sweat. And terrified at
the prospect of facing the judge. He would not look kindly upon her disappearance,
even if it hadn't been her idea.

The steamer quickly covered the eight miles to the city. India raked at her hair
as the boat nudged the pier. The wharf was abuzz with the usual workday activity—workers
loading cargo schooners, cotton factors rushing to and fro, passengers waiting to
board steamers bound for Boston or New York.

Philip steadied her as they stepped off the steamer. “With any luck, we will pass
unnoticed, but whatever happens, stay close to me. Keep moving, and keep your head
up.”

India was overcome with weariness and fear and with the effort of trying to staunch
her tears. She felt her eyes welling up again as they climbed the stairs to the street,
passed through the crowd, and entered a waiting carriage. “I must look like a derelict.”

“You've been through an ordeal. But you'll have time to make yourself presentable
before we meet the judge,” Philip said. “Mrs. Mackay is expecting us.”

“I'm grateful, but I don't want to get her into trouble for harboring a fugitive.”

He managed a tired smile. “Leave me to worry about that. While you're getting cleaned
up, I have business at the jail. I'll fetch you from the Mackays' at two then we'll
go see the judge.”

The carriage drew up at the terra cotta mansion on Madison Square.

“Philip, what's all this about? I don't understand how—”

“There isn't time to explain it just now.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “You
have trusted me with your life. Trust me for just a bit longer.”

He helped her out of the carriage and hurried up to the Mackays' door.

Mrs. Mackay herself answered the bell. “Oh, my dear. Please come in.”

Philip touched the brim of his hat and returned to the carriage.

Mrs. Mackay ushered India inside. “Come on upstairs. I've had the maid draw a bath
for you, and she's pressed the clothes Philip sent. There won't be much time to dress
your hair, but perhaps a simple braid will do.”

“Mrs. Mackay, I don't know how to thank you. I'm—”

“Call me Celia, please. Now come along.”

Alone in the spacious bathing room, India shed her clothes and sank into the warm,
fragrant water. She washed her hair and scrubbed the dirt from beneath her nails,
acutely aware that this might be the last time she would be afforded such luxury,
such freedom.

When the water cooled she rose from the tub, toweled off, dressed carefully, and
braided her damp hair.

A knock sounded at the door, and Frannie Mackay stuck her head into the room. “Mama
wants to know if you're hungry.”