A Respectable Actress (8 page)

“There you are, Sinclair.” A thin, pale-eyed gentleman in a full beard and a hunting
jacket that had seen better days strode into the hallway and peered down at them.
He nodded to India
before turning his attention to Philip. “Please forgive me for
injecting a business discussion into the middle of a Yule celebration, but I wonder
if I might have a quick word with you.”

“All right.” Philip got to his feet as the quartet launched into an enthusiastic
rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.”

“Miss Hartley? May I return you to the ladies?”

“Everyone seems to be enjoying the concert. I don't want to interrupt. Would you
mind if I retired to the study?”

“Not at all.” He enveloped her hand in his and drew her to her feet.

India took her cup and escaped to the study, where a fire had been laid and the curtains
drawn against the afternoon chill. She took the worn wingback chair closest to the
fire and watched a flock of small birds flitting in and out of the bushes beneath
the window.

“I hate crowds too.”

India jumped at the sound of a man's voice.

He emerged from the far corner, his green cravat askew. He gestured with a glass
of amber-colored spirits. “Welcome to Indigo Point. What's left of it.”

“You startled me.” She set her cup on the scarred wooden side table.

“I'm sorry.” He held his glass aloft. “Want one?”

“No thank you, Mr.—?”

“Cuyler Lockwood. I was the last overseer here before the war. Replaced Garrison
when he went 'round the bend.”

“I see.”

Mr. Lockwood leaned against the fireplace. “Do you? Growin' sea island cotton isn't
a task for the faint of heart. Some
people couldn't take the heat, the snakes and
gators, or the mosquitoes. To say nothing of dealin' with the Negroes day in and
day out. Garrison was one of 'em. He was a mean son of a—that is, he was too hard
on the slaves, and they revolted in '61. Nearly killed him. He never was the same
after that.”

“I suppose not.”

Mr. Lockwood scratched at his arm, and India noticed that his fingernails were long
and ragged and caked with dirt. He regarded her through half-closed eyes. “You're
the famous India Hartley.”

“Yes.”

“I saw you in a play once, in Philadelphia. The Walnut Street Theater.”

She nodded, surprised that a man like him would appreciate theater. “My father managed
it for a while. He died last spring.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Mr. Lockwood finished his drink and with a less than steady
hand poured another from a crystal decanter sitting on the side table. “It's Christmas.
You're sure you don't want something stronger than tea?”

“I'm sure.”

“Suit yourself.” He took another long sip and studied her over the rim of his glass.
“Word has it that Sinclair is defending you on a murder charge.”

India rose. “Excuse me.”

“Certainly.” He paused. “You want some advice?”

She waited, hands clasped at her waist.

“Cottonmouths and alligators are not necessarily the most dangerous creatures you'll
run across in these parts.” He drained his glass. “Be careful who you trust.”

C
HAPTER
7

D
ECEMBER
28

P
HILIP BENT TO LIGHT THE LOGS
A
LMARENE HAD LAID
in the fireplace. The kindling flickered and caught, sending orange sparks flying up the chimney. The faint smell of wood smoke perfumed the study as the logs caught fire and the flames chased the morning chill from the room. Outside, a bitter wind soughed in the trees, and a steady rain lashed the windows.

As Philip collected his pad and pencil and took his chair opposite India, she poured
tea and settled into her chair, both hands wrapped around the delicate china cup.
In the three days since the unpleasant Christmas Day encounter with his neighbors,
she had seen little of him. Now she noticed faint worry lines creasing his forehead
and the slightly rumpled shirt he wore beneath his woolen jacket. She couldn't help
noticing everything about him: his strong jawline still slightly pink from the morning's
shave; the clean, masculine scent of bay rum on his skin; the expression in his extraordinary
amber-colored eyes that revealed sympathy and concern. And something else. An old
sadness perhaps. An unspoken grief. His imposing physical presence and his determination
and confidence made him all the
more appealing. India understood his worries for
the future of Indigo Point and for the entire island. It pained her to know that
her situation only added to his burdens.

“Is anything wrong?”

He tapped his pencil against the paper. “I had a letter from Judge Russell yesterday.
We have a trial date.”

Her insides roiled. For a time, despite the island gossip, she had been able to pretend
that her troubles weren't real, that she was onstage in full costume and makeup,
merely an actor in a play that soon would reach its final curtain. She licked her
lips. “When?”

“Last week of January. We'll need to make a trip to Savannah ahead of the trial date.
I'll need to meet with the prosecutor. And I want you to walk me through that night
in the theater. Moment by moment. Can you manage that, India?”

She closed her eyes as images rose in her mind—bright white limelight reflecting
from the mirrors onto the shadowed stage. Arthur Sterling's look of astonishment
as the unintended bullet found its mark. His blood spreading in a deep purple stain
across the wooden stage floor. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper in the room.
“Yes.”

“All right. Tell me more about your childhood.”

When she hesitated, he offered a quiet prompt. “You've said your mother died when
you were born.”

“Yes.”

“And your father brought you up by himself?”

“For the most part. Father and I spent several years in London, working in various
theaters. He had a sister in Boston—my aunt Anna. I told you about her.”

“Yes. The eccentric mandolin-playing tea-party hostess. Go on.”

“I've already told you what I remember about her. She died when I was ten.”

“When it was announced that you were coming to Savannah to appear at the Southern
Palace, the newspapers printed a story that said you began performing at age twelve.
Is that true?”

“Yes. I debuted at the Theater Royal in Drury Lane. I performed at the Adelphi.
Occasionally at the Queens Theater Longacre. Shakespeare mostly. Though my father
and I once played opposite each other in
The Soldier's Daughter
.”

“He was an actor too?”

“Many actors manage theaters and give acting lessons and lectures. Anything to earn
money between engagements.” She sipped the tea, grateful for its warmth and its steadying
effect upon her nerves. “A life in the theater is fraught with uncertainty.”

“Especially a woman's life.”

She nodded, deeply pleased that he understood. “And it isn't only a matter of financial
difficulties. Society thinks women are fragile and expects them to be dependent upon
men, but the theater requires a different sort of woman entirely.”

Philip made a few notes. “According to the papers from Philadelphia, your father
was in dire straits when he died.”

“Yes. But he was trying to earn more money. He was experimenting with formulations
for greasepaint, hoping to standardize the various shades and sell them commercially.
And he formed his own theater company in an effort to better our circumstances.”

“How so?”

“Until a few years ago, so much of theater was bawdy. The plays were mostly farces
that were inappropriate for families and for those with more refined sensibilities.
We hoped to elevate the theater arts and broaden the audience by performing plays
of beauty and substance. Plays easier to understand than Shakespeare's works. Plays
that speak more closely to modern lives.”

“I see. And?”

India leaned forward in her chair, her old enthusiasm returning despite her circumstances.
“We were quite encouraged, because last year Mrs. Keen remodeled the Chestnut Theater
to great success. She installed better seats and viewing boxes, complete with decorative
hangings and baskets of flowers everywhere. Father noticed that the quality of
the audience improved right alongside the quality of the venue. The Chestnut was
just the sort of place where an acting company such as ours could thrive. But he
had a long patch of bad luck.”

“During which time he was dependent upon you for his support.”

Her face went hot. Though she had often resented her grueling schedule, giving eight
performances a week to support her father, living in cheap, flea-infested hotels,
eating bad food, and fending off the unwanted attentions of men of ill repute, and
even though she silently railed at having to be the parent instead of the child,
she loved her father desperately. It hurt to admit to anyone that he had so often
failed her, and himself. “He did his best.”

Philip consulted his notes. “But he sold his theater company to a rival.”

“He knew he was dying, and he thought he was protecting my interests. After he died
I discovered he had been cheated, and the promises made to him regarding my welfare
were broken.”

“You were left destitute. And—”

“Enough!” Her cup rattled in her saucer. She set it aside, then rose and walked to
the rain-streaked window. “Must we dwell on this? I don't see that my father's troubles
have any bearing on what happened to Mr. Sterling.”

“India.” He came to stand beside her at the window. “I don't want to cause you any
unhappiness. But you must realize that a trial, especially one of this nature, is
its own kind of theater. Lawyers, witnesses, judge, and jury all have a part to play.
The outcome often hinges upon who tells the most compelling story. My job is to
paint as complete a picture of your life as I can. To let the jury get to know you
as an individual. Not simply as the accused.”

India watched rivulets of rain sliding down the window pane.

“The other side will try to paint you as a spoiled, impulsive, self-centered woman
who was willing to commit murder for her own selfish purposes.”

“What selfish purposes? I didn't like Mr. Sterling. I thought him vain and arrogant,
but I didn't intend him any harm.”

“We must prove that to the gentlemen of the jury,” Philip said gently.

She looked into his eyes. They were kind eyes, the color of warm honey. “I want to
testify. Please, Philip. I'm not afraid to tell the truth in court.”

“That won't be possible. The interested-party rule expressly
prohibits criminal defendants
from testifying. It will be up to me, and to whomever we can find as witnesses, to
prove that you had no motivation to murder a man you hardly knew.”

“Several people knew he had upstaged me on opening night and that we quarreled over
it. Suppose they think I killed him for that reason?”

“Did you?”

She gaped at him. “If that's what you think, then you have no business defending
me.”

“It's my job to ask. Even if you did intend harm, there are mitigating circumstances
a jury might consider. Heat of passion, momentary loss of reason, mistaken—”

“I've told you what happened. Someone must have substituted my gun for the prop.
I picked it up and aimed it, as Mr. Philbrick had commanded me to do, under threat
of losing my job, and it went off.”

He sighed and consulted his pocket watch. “All right. Enough for today. I'm due at
the lumber mill at ten. Mr. Dodge has some preliminary drawings of our proposed resort
to show me.”

She let out a long breath, grateful for the change of subject. “Is it worth going
out in this rain?”

He relaxed then. “It's nearly stopped, and it isn't far to the bluff.”

“Amelia says the lumber operation is off to a good start.”

“I hope so, for the sake of everyone on the island.” He started for the door. “I'm
taking the steamer to Savannah this afternoon to consult with another of my clients.
I'll be back late tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll need a list of anyone you can think
of who might make a good witness for your defense.”

“I'm at a disadvantage,” she said. “I don't know anyone in Savannah, except Fabienne
and Mr. Philbrick. And I'm not so sure he thinks I'm innocent.”

“What about others in the cast? The stage crew?”

“I'm afraid I don't know any of them very well. People think that being famous assures
one of countless friends. But I have found the opposite to be true. Whether because
of envy or shyness or some other reason, people like me are often given a wide berth.
And I'd been in town for only a couple of weeks for rehearsals. There wasn't time
to form strong bonds with anyone.”

“What about those outside Savannah? Is there anyone from your days in Philadelphia
or Boston?”

India shook her head. “When Father sold our theater company, many of the actors
left.”

“Did they say why?”

“The new owners intend to organize a tour of the West, and most of the company think
it has little chance of success. Mr. Forrest, an actor of some repute, toured California
a few years ago and lost quite a bit of money. Naturally, people are hesitant to
embark upon so arduous a journey with so little prospect of reward.”

“I see.”

“And some of those in our old company blamed me for my father's string of failures.”
India shrugged. “Even if we could find them, I'm not certain I could count on their
support.”