A Respectable Actress (9 page)
“But surely for a lady so beloved as you, someone would rise to your defense.”
“The manager of the hotel where Father and I lived for a time, Mr. Page, thought
quite highly of my father. They often played
chess in the evenings when the theater
was dark. He enjoyed hearing me sing.” She paused, considering. “In New York I knew
Napoleon Sarony. He owns a photography studio on Broadway that caters to the theater
trade. I posed in his studio for a couple of carte de visites. Father and I often
dined with him when we were in town.”
“Give me their addresses, and I'll write to them.” Philip stepped into the hallway
and turned toward her, one hand on the doorknob. “While I'm away, try to remember
anyone else who might vouch for you. And please try not to worry.”
The door closed behind him. His footsteps faded into the silence. India sat for another
half hour in the quiet of the study, watching as the rainstorm weakened to a slow
drizzle that dripped from the eaves and soaked the brown winter grass. Through the
murky window she caught a glimpse of wood smoke rising from the chimneys of the former
slave cabins, and in the distance, the gray, wind-tossed sea.
How could she not worry? After all, she was the one holding her own weapon when
Mr. Sterling fell, though the actual event was a blur in her mind. She remembered
her panic when she couldn't find the weapon, then the weight of the gun in her hand,
the sound of gunfire. But she could not remember crossing to stand next to the wounded
actor, though the blood on her costume meant that surely she had.
When the burned logs in the fireplace collapsed with a soft sigh, she left the study
and went upstairs to her room to make her list of potential character witnesses.
Finding no paper or pencil, she opened her door and peered into the dimly lit hallway.
A series of doors opened off the gallery. Outside a door at the far
end of the hall
stood a pair of men's riding boots. Clearly, that room was Philip's. Which room was
Amelia's? Philip's sister was rarely without pen and paper, endlessly composing long
missives to her far-flung relatives. Perhaps Amelia would lend her a pen and ink
and a few sheets of paper.
India stopped before a closed door on the back side of the gallery and knocked softly.
“Amelia?”
Hearing no reply, she turned the knob. The door swung open. India sucked in a breath.
A tester bed made up with a pale blue coverlet and six lacy pillows sat beneath one
long window. Across the coverlet was draped a cranberry-red ball gown several years
out of fashion. A pair of white kid shoes sat at the foot of the bed as if waiting
for their owner to step into them. On the dressing table was a forest of cut-glass
perfume bottles and a black lacquered jewel case coated with a fine film of dust.
India stepped into the room and closed the door. The dull winter light illuminated
a massive portrait of a young woman mounted above a black marble fireplace that had
been laid with logs and kindling. The air around her seemed to thicken, stealing
her breath.
India felt cold, as if she'd stumbled upon a grave.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. India whirled around just as the doorknob turned.
Too late to make her escape, she darted behind the curtains framing the window and
held her breath. Fabric rustled as someone moved about the room. In the next moment,
India heard the striking of a match. The room filled with the smell of sulfur and
something else. Beeswax?
With her every muscle tensed, India remained frozen in
place, taking shallow breaths
through her mouth. Minutes passed before footsteps sounded on the bare plank floor.
India waited, not daring to breathe until she heard the solid click of the latch
as the door closed.
Her heart hammering, she stepped from her hiding place. In the light cast by a brace
of flickering candles, she saw what her eyes had missed before: a table covered
with half a dozen smaller candles, each in its own red glass vase. And on the table,
a Bible and a silver reliquary necklace. Clearly this room was a shrine to the woman
in the portrait.
Who was she? And who was the keeper of the flame?
D
ECEMBER
29
T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I
NDIA WOKE TO THE SOUND
of voices raised in song. She threw back the quilt and padded to the window. Drawing aside the curtain, she peered out. Sunshine had supplanted yesterday's wind and rain, and now the sky was a perfect bowl of blue. Binah and Almarene were singing as they pegged the wash. Bed linens, tablecloths, and half a dozen petticoats fluttered in the breeze.
India hurried through her morning ablutions and went downstairs.
“There you are.” Amelia looked up from her letter writing. “Mrs. Catchpole told me
to wake you an hour ago, but I thought you needed your sleep.”
“Oh?”
Amelia poured coffee into India's cup. “You seem to have had a restless night.”
India frowned. It had taken her a long while to fall asleep last night. But at last
she had slept soundly. Or so she thought.
“I heard you prowling the upstairs gallery after midnight,”
Amelia said. “I'm sorry
you were unable to sleep. Is there anything I can do to help?”
India shivered at the memory of the candlelit room she'd discovered yesterday. She
didn't believe in ghosts or evil spirits. She hadn't been the one walking the halls
in the darkness. And she had not heard anything unusual in the night. But something
had disturbed Amelia's sleep.
“Thank you, but I'm all right.”
India wanted to know about the woman in the portrait and why the room was kept as
if awaiting the return of its occupant. But she had been at Indigo Point for only
a week. As accommodating as Amelia had been, Philip's sister might not take kindly
to such inquiries. India sipped her coffee and cast about for a safe topic of conversation.
“The weather seems fine this morning.”
“Yes. Quite mild for this time of year. Almarene and Binah are doing the wash. Mrs.
Catchpole is in the kitchen house, figuring out what to make for supper this evening.
I'll ask her to bring you some breakfast.”
“Please don't disturb her preparations. I'm not really very hungry.” India smiled.
“When I'm working, I rarely eat anything before eleven in the morning.”
Amelia pushed aside her paper and pen. “If you want to talk about why you are here,
I'm ready to listen. I know you are in terrible trouble.”
“Your brother says it's a circumstantial case, but he has made no secret of the difficulties
we face in proving my innocence.”
Amelia nodded. “I saw the newspapers Mrs. Garrison mentioned. But you don't seem
like the kind of person who would take a life. Not unless your own was threatened.”
India finished her coffee. “You're very kind. But I don't think I can bear to speak
of it today.”
“Then we shan't,” Amelia said with a determined lift of her chin. “Fan Butler invited
me over to Butler's Island this afternoon. Why don't you come too? Her mother is
the
Fanny Kemble of London stage fame. I'm sure you have much in common.”
“I know of Mrs. Kemble's work. Some critics have compared us one to the other. And
you're kind to offer, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company.”
“All the more reason you ought to come. You are in need of a diversion, and word
has it that Fan has agreed to become engaged to Reverend Leigh. She says he calls
her âa fair princess who entertains with royal grace.'” Amelia smiled. “I would not
have expected such romantic words from a man of the cloth. But by all accounts they
are equally smitten. I'm sure today's conversation will consist of even more romantic
details. It could be quite exciting.”
Amelia paused to help herself to more coffee. “I met the good reverend when he visited
Butler's Island last winter. He preached to Fan's Negro workers, and they seemed
quite taken with him too.” She stirred in some sugar. “It's too bad he has returned
to England. From what Fan says, the man she left in charge on Butler's has made a
mess of the accounts, and now she needs to find someone to straighten it all out.”
India could feel her hairpins slipping, and she impatiently shoved them back into
place. She would never be good at dressing her hair, even if she lived to be 110.
“An engagement is always an occasion for happy conversation. And I am grateful for
your invitation. But I promised your brother I would compose a
list of witnesses
who might speak on my behalf when the time comes. If you can provide paper and pen.”
“Of course.” Amelia slid the items across the table. “I suppose that is more important
than making a social call. I won't be back until suppertime, but you can ask Mrs.
Catchpole for something whenever you get hungry.”
Almarene came inside with her empty laundry basket and acknowledged India with a
slight nod. “You need something to eat, miss?”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
The older woman bobbed her head again and tightened her knobby hands around her basket
before hobbling toward the kitchen house. Half an hour later, Amelia set off for
Butler's Island in her rig, the feathers on her velvet hat quivering in the breeze.
India ate the food Almarene brought, finished a second cup of coffee, and returned
to her room. Last night she had been too unnerved to think clearly, but now she sat
at the rickety escritoire in the corner of her room and wrote out more of the names
she remembered, praying these witnesses would be persuasive enough to win her case.
When the sound of hoofbeats drew her to the window sometime later, India was surprised
to see that the morning had flown. She looked down and saw Philip riding into the
yard. She blew on the pages to dry the ink and went downstairs just as he entered
the foyer carrying a small white box tied with a gold ribbon.
His face lit up when he saw her. “Ah, Miss Hartley. Just the one I was hoping to
see.” He handed her the beribboned box. “For you. A few days late for Christmas,
but better late than
never.” He pulled off his riding gloves and tossed them onto
a chair. “Go on. Open it.”
India untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, releasing the tantalizing scent of raisins
and spices. “A plum pudding!”
He laughed. “Probably not the kind you're accustomed to, but Mrs. Hammond at the
bakery in Savannah did her best on short notice.”
“I . . . I don't know what to say.”
“How about, âWhere's a spoon?'”
She grinned. “Only if you join me. I've just realized that I haven't eaten since
this morning.”
“No argument there. I'm famished too.”
Together they entered the dining room. Philip motioned her to a chair. “Wait here.
I'll get plates and spoons.” He eyed the silver coffeepot sitting on the sideboard.
“And more coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
India plopped into the chair, overcome with gratitude. She could not remember the
last time anyone had brought her a present. She brushed her fingers over the box
lid and thought again of the day he had rescued her from the water snake. What she
wouldn't give to have a man like Philip Sinclair by her side. But he seemed not to
remember their shared embrace or the way their eyes had connected as he calmed her
fright.
In a moment he returned with Mrs. Catchpole. The housekeeper eyed India, one brow
raised. “Ruining your stomach for my supper, are you?”
India was too delighted with her unexpected gift to let the housekeeper's disapproval
upset her. “I'll still be plenty hungry by the time Amelia returns from Butler's
Island.”
Philip poured the coffee. “She's gone over to see Miss Butler?”
“Yes. She invited me, but I wanted to finish the list I promised you.”
“You probably got the best of that bargain,” he said. “Miss Butler is toying with
the notion of importing Chinese workers to farm her land, and aside from her approaching
marriage, it's her only topic of conversation these days.”
Mrs. Catchpole set down plates, forks, a serving spoon, and linen napkins, rattling
the china more than India thought necessary. “Will that be all, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Catchpole,” he said without looking up. He picked up the serving
spoon and dug into the pudding. “This smells good.”
“Well, if you need me, sir, you just call.”
“I will.” Philip took a bite of the pudding and closed his eyes, and India noticed
for the first time how long and thick his lashes were. Unfair, really, when her own
were so much less luxuriant.
Mrs. Catchpole clumped out to the kitchen. India took a bite of the pudding. Of course
it hadn't been aged in the traditional way, but the flavors of dried fruits and
spices were perfectly balanced, and the buttery concoction practically melted on
her tongue. She sighed. Pure ecstasy.
“Well?” Philip smiled and lifted his cup.
“Perfection. I don't know how to thank you.”
“Seeing you enjoy it is thanks enough. Heaven knows you've had little happiness in
your life lately.” He sipped his coffee. “Last evening I went by the theater to see
Mr. Philbrick. While
I was waiting for him, I discovered the theater has a trap room
beneath the stage.”
“Yes. Though it wasn't needed for
Suspicion
.” India scooped another bit of pudding
onto her plate. “I was down there once or twice. There wasn't room at my hotel for
all Father's things. Mr. Philbrick allowed me to store my trunk there.”
Philip nodded. “When I asked you to tell me about the gun, you said it must have
been stolen just before the curtain rose that night.”
