A Respectable Actress (6 page)
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, followed by a knock at the door. “Miss Hartley?”
“Come in.”
Mr. Sinclair stepped into the room and set down her trunk. “I'll be right back with
the other one.”
Moments later he returned with the second trunk and her two pink-striped hatboxes.
He glanced around the room. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I can't think of a thing. Thank you.”
He nodded. “Sleep as late as you need to. Mrs. Catchpole will give you breakfast
whenever you appear. I'm going up to Gascoigne Bluff in the morning to meet with
Mr. Dodge at the lumber mill. I'll be back by noon.”
“All right.” India eyed the fluffy bed with longing.
“Well,” Amelia said, “Good night.”
“Good night. Thank you both.”
They left. India shucked off her clothes and rummaged through her trunk for her nightdress.
She gave her hair a few licks with the brush, washed her hands and face, and slid
beneath sheets that smelled faintly of mildew and lavender.
A clatter below startled India awake. She sat up, blinking in momentary confusion,
then remembered everything. The inquest, the journey aboard the
Neptune
. Mr. Sinclair.
How kind and handsome he was. How cultured and well spoken. She let her thoughts
linger on him much longer than was prudent. Even though they had arrived too late
for her to see very much of the plantation, she understood how much it meant to him.
The land and the sea surrounding it were in his blood.
She admired his courage and his kindness. True, he was counting on winning her case
to bolster his own career, but she didn't fault him for fighting to keep what was
his. Last night in the glow of the lamplight, he had looked even more attractive
than he had in Judge Russell's courtroom.
The fire had gone out. India threw back the covers and padded barefoot across the
floor. She tended to hygiene and pulled her oldest day dress from the trunk and
dressed, her fingers stiff at the buttons. How she missed Fabienne's skill in hairstyling,
and her nimble fingers, which made short work of corset stays and buttons. India
arranged her hair as best she could and went downstairs.
Following the tantalizing smells of bacon and coffee, she crossed the empty parlor
and stood hesitantly at the door to the dining room. Amelia was seated alone at the
head of a plain pine table, a writing desk and a cup of coffee before her.
“Miss Hartley.” Amelia set down her pen. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Amelia picked up a silver bell and rang it. Soon a young Negro woman in a bright
green dress came in.
“Binah,” Amelia said. “Please fix a plate for our guest, and bring the coffeepot
back with you.”
“Yes, miss.” Binah eyed India, her expression a mix of curiosity and disapproval.
India folded her hands and sighed inwardly. Perhaps Mrs. Catchpole had already prejudiced
the servants against her too.
Binah left and came back moments later with an empty cup and saucer and a plate of
bacon, eggs, and biscuits, which she set in front of India before filling both the
women's cups. She stood to Amelia's right, hands on her hips. “Is there anything
else you be needing, miss?”
“I don't think so, Binah. But you might remind your mother that we've a guest. Miss
Hartley's room needs making up.”
“That isn't necessary,” India said. “I don't want to be a burden.”
“Oh, you're no burden,” Amelia said. “These days, Binah and Almarene are paid to
look after us.” She waved a hand to dismiss Binah and said to India, “Eat your eggs
before they get cold.”
Binah retreated. India buttered a biscuit and took a bite of the eggs, which were
lukewarm and too salty for her taste, but she managed to finish them, thanks to two
cups of excellent coffee doctored with cream.
“Philip has left for the bluff,” Amelia said. “He and Mr. Dodge are cooking up another
scheme to bring prosperity back to the island. Heaven knows we need something.” She
poured more cream into her coffee. “The lumber mill is a start, but it will take
much more, I'm afraid, to make up for everything we lost during the war.”
Until this moment India hadn't known Mr. Sinclair's given name. She liked it. Philip
Sinclair was a strong name. A
confident name that would command respect in the courtroom.
She was counting on that. “Yes, he told me last night he intended to see Mr. Dodge
this morning.”
Amelia cocked her head and regarded India over the top of her cup. “I've been a lawyer's
sister long enough to know I'm not supposed to ask questions about his clients. But
I do hope your difficulties, whatever they are, will soon be sorted out.”
“Thank you. I hope so too.” Soon enough, the Savannah papers would arrive on the
island, and her troubles would be laid bare. Until then, India saw no point in discussing
them. The room seemed to be closing in. She got to her feet. “I'm feeling the need
for some fresh air. Would you mind if I took a walk around the grounds?”
“Of course not. I'd go with you, except I promised to finish writing these letters
in time to send them back with the
Neptune
this afternoon. My cousins in Charleston
are thoroughly convinced that I'm wasting away out here with so few people for company.
They worry if they don't hear from me each and every week.”
India hurried upstairs to get her hat and coat, and when she returned to the parlor,
Amelia opened the front door. “Just turn right past the old rose garden and follow
the footpath. It winds through most of the property and comes out on the other side
of the house, by where the slave hospital used to be. Stay on the path and you won't
lose your way.”
India set off. The morning had dawned sunny and clear, with a stiff wind blowing
in from the Atlantic. She passed the abandoned rose garden and found the footpath,
a narrow track bordered on both sides by overgrown hedges, blighted orange
trees,
and the remains of several outbuildings. Here was what appeared to be a chicken coop
on brick pillars, the front still covered with rusting wire; ahead stood the remains
of a large carriage house. The doors had been torn away, revealing an old leather-topped
conveyance missing one wheel. Everything spoke of loss and ruin. The very air seemed
tinged with sadness.
She paused to pick a small yellow bloom pushing through a patch of dead grass, then
continued on her way. The path led deeper into the thick woods and across a narrow
stream choked with weeds and blackened tree limbs. Mockingbirds called from a thicket
draped in wild jasmine and carpeted with red and green mosses. The pale winter sun
filtered through the trees, dappling the water. She crossed a crumbling causeway
that led across a salt marsh and stopped to watch tall brown grasses that moved in
the wind like a living sea.
A smooth red pebble at the bottom of the stream caught her eye. As India bent to
retrieve it, she was grabbed roughly from behind and yanked off her feet.
A scream escaped her lips and echoed through the deserted woods.
I
NDIA WRENCHED FREE AND SPUN AROUND
, H
ER HEART
thudding against her ribs. “Mr. Sinclair! You frightened me.”
“I'm sorry. But you were in danger.” He picked up a stick lying beside the footpath
and stirred the water. A long black snake thicker than a man's wrist roiled and twisted
in the water before slithering away.
India's knees buckled, and his arms came around her. “I thought it was a rotted limb,”
she said, her cheek against the rough wool of his coat.
“It's a cottonmouth. Some folks call them water moccasins. It's highly poisonous
by any name.”
She drew back and looked up at him. “Why . . . why didn't you kill it?”
“These waters are rife with them. One snake more or less won't make any difference.
You must be careful of them, and the alligators, when you're out here.”
He released her and studied her with such an intense and odd expression in his eyes
that India felt an unaccustomed shyness. “Is something wrong? Do I have dirt on
my nose?”
He laughed. “Nothing of the sort. I'm afraid I've set your hat askew. Your hat pin
is coming out.”
India reached for it at the same moment he did, and her fingers brushed his, sending
an unexpected wave of longing rushing through her.
“Here,” he said. “Let me.” He secured her hat pin and retied the satin bow under
her chin. “Good as new.”
The look in his eyes, a mixture of wonder and surprise, mirrored her own emotions.
She strove to school her voice. “Thank you.”
He offered his arm as they continued along the footpath. “I wonder. Is it too soon
to ask if I may call you India?”
She shook her head, inordinately pleased with his request and with the sound of her
name on his lips.
“Good. And you ought to call me Philip.”
“All right.” She was still trembling, still shaken by the intensity of his unintended
embrace. To cover her confusion she plucked another wild bloom. “How did you know
I was here?”
“I got back from the bluff earlier than expected, and Amelia told me you'd gone for
a walk. I thought I'd better find you.” She nodded, her attention drawn to the remnants
of a burned-out building barely visible through the stands of oaks. Only the foundation,
a portion of one wall, and the chimney remained. Mounds of shattered glass, hardened
ash, and blackened rubble protruded spire-like into the bright December sky.
Mr. SinclairâPhilipâpressed her arm more closely to his and hurried her along the
path. “That was our chapel,” he said. “My grandfather built it in 1800. It survived
the war virtually intact, only to burn down four years ago.”
She glanced over her shoulder as they moved into the sunlight again. “It looks dangerous.
As if it might collapse at any moment.”
“I've been meaning to have it torn down. Maybe I'll get to it after Christmas. In
the meantime, I don't want you anywhere near it.”
They emerged into a clearing where a few slave cabinsâalso made of tabbyâstill stood.
Chickens pecked at the dirt, scattering at the approach of a small black dog. A Negro
girl pegging clothes to the line raised her eyes to them as they passed. From inside
her cabin came the thin, reedy wail of an infant.
They crested a small rise that afforded a view of the old slave hospital, and beyond
it, the marshes and the line of cobalt blue marking the beginnings of the sea. Despite
the ruin around her, India was drawn to the island's rugged beauty. Light shimmered
on the blue water. Winter had turned the wind-stirred marsh grasses to a deep amber.
An osprey circled lazily above the water before disappearing into the twisted limb
of an old oak draped with Spanish moss. She could imagine how beautiful Indigo Point
must have looked before the war destroyed everything.
She followed Philip along a narrow strip of sandy beach, listening to the whisper
of the incoming tide and the sharp cries of gulls wheeling overhead. Remembering
a long-ago walk on a beach with her father, India took a deep breath, willing herself
to let go of the persistent emptiness of bereavement. Philip walked beside her in
companionable silence, as if he understood how vast and inhospitable the world seemed
to her now.
“This was my favorite spot when I was a boy,” he said after a time. “When my grandmother
came to take care of the servants in the hospital, I'd bring my books out here and
read for hours, waiting for the steamboats to pass. Usually she'd find me fast asleep
by the time she was ready to start home.”
“You spoke of her last evening,” India said. “You must have loved her a great deal.”
“Grandmama Timmons was the only mother I really knew. She looked after me from the
time I was ten. She was everything to me.”
“You were lucky to have her. After my mother died, it was mostly just Father and
me,” India said. “He did his best, but sometimes I felt more like his parent than
the other way around.” “How did your mother die?” He took her hand to help her over
a patch of nettles in the path.
“Childbed fever. When I was three days old.”
India wondered what had happened to his mother, but he became quiet and withdrawn
and she didn't want to pry. To lighten the mood she asked more questions about his
boyhood. He seemed grateful for the change of subject and regaled her with elaborate
tales of fishing expeditions, failed pirating adventures, and the broken arm he'd
suffered in a rough-and-tumble fight with his cousins. “It still pains me some when
the weather turns.”
He told a silly joke, and the sound of her own laughter startled her. It made no
sense that she should feel so lighthearted when her freedom was at stake, but perhaps
it was sometimes necessary to surrender to happiness, no matter how fleeting.
