A Respectable Actress (5 page)

Opening her writing box, she took out paper and ink and sat at the small escritoire
beneath the window to pen a note to Fabienne. She couldn't simply disappear without
a word, though surely Fabienne would learn soon enough what had happened.

Pen in hand, India tried to express her affection and gratitude to her young dresser.
But in the end all she could manage were a couple of sentences and a fervent wish
for a speedy trial that would set everything to rights. Though she could hardly afford
to do so, India tucked a ten-dollar note inside the letter, sealed the envelope,
and addressed it to Fabienne in care of the Southern Palace.

She poured water into the blue porcelain washbasin, bathed her face and hands, and
tidied her hair. She brushed the skirt of her heavy costume clean, though traces
of the blood were still visible along the hem. She wanted nothing more than to burn
the dress, but travel by steamboat would be a long and dirty affair, and she needed
to save her best clothes for the day when she must appear in court.

She made one last sweep of the room, then pulled the little velvet cord beside the
bed to summon the bellman. When he appeared, she followed him silently down to the
lobby, where she avoided meeting the manager's eyes as she quickly settled her bill.

Moments later, Mr. Sinclair returned and saw to the loading of her trunks onto a
hired carriage. He helped her enter, closed the curtains, and called to the driver.

“Word has reached the street,” he said when the carriage turned toward the waterfront.
“Crowds are forming outside the theater and in front of Mr. Sterling's house. I thought
it best to travel unobserved. An event like this can whip normally sedate folks into
a frenzy.”

India's face flamed. She lowered her head.

Mr. Sinclair reached out a gloved hand and tilted her chin
up. “The first rule of
winning a case. Keep your head up. Don't look guilty.”

“I'm
not
guilty! I told the judge what happened. He didn't believe me.”

“I'm not so sure he didn't. But a man has died, accidentally or not, and—”

“So you, too, think I'm a murderer.”

“I don't know what I think yet. We need to talk about it. That's the whole point
of retiring to Indigo Point. Here in the city there will be too many sensational
newspaper stories, too many gawkers, too many rumors.” His eyes sought and held hers.
“I'm inclined to believe your story, just as you told it to Judge Russell. But I
won't deny we have a difficult case. People may naturally suspect an actor accustomed
to hiding her true self on the stage.”

India pressed a palm to her throbbing head. Perhaps he had a point, but she couldn't
think about that just now.

“The better I know you and the more I can learn about your life and work, the better
I can defend you,” he said. “It will be easier to do that away from curiosity seekers
and gossip mongers.”

It had never been easy for her to share her innermost thoughts with others, not even
with her own father. For one thing, Father's emotions were fragile as a girl's. Bad
news upset him to such an extent that India tried to shelter him from anything that
might prove distressing. For another, a life of travel from theater to theater, from
city to city, didn't lend itself to forming the kind of deep and lasting friendships
that made it easier to pour out her heart. And there were the inevitable disagreements
and petty jealousies that often arose among cast
members, making it hard to know
who could be trusted and who was best avoided.

The carriage rocked to a stop.

“Here we are.” Mr. Sinclair helped her out of the carriage and saw to the loading
of her trunks.

Aboard the
Neptune
, he settled her into a cramped, dingy cabin then went to stand
with the captain as the steamer left the pier and started down the Savannah River.

Buffeted by a gust of wind, the small craft rose on a swell that sent spray splashing
over the rail. Shivering in the damp cold of the December morning, India watched
from her window as Savannah grew smaller and smaller, wondering whether she would
return to be declared a free woman or punished for a crime she didn't commit.

C
HAPTER
4

N
IGHT WAS FALLING AS THE
Neptune
R
OUNDED THE
southern end of St. Simons and nudged a pier. India rose, stiff from hours of sitting alone in her cabin, and picked up her reticule.

Mr. Sinclair tapped on the door and called softly, “Miss Hartley?”

She opened the door and glanced past his shoulder to the two men who had come aboard
to offload supplies.

Following her gaze, Mr. Sinclair said, “They'll bring your things on up to the house.
Come. I want you to meet Amelia and Mrs. Catchpole. We're not exactly expected for
dinner, but I'm sure Mrs. Catchpole will rise to the occasion.”

He offered her his arm. Overcome with worry and exhaustion, she leaned heavily against
him. Beneath a frail winter moon, they walked up the creaking gangway to the pier
and then passed beneath a thick canopy of towering moss-bearded oaks that formed
a long allée to the house.

“My grandmother planted these oaks more than seventy years ago, when she came to
Indigo Point as a new bride.” Mr. Sinclair raised his voice a bit to be heard above
the gentle thunder of the sea. “I climbed them often when I was a boy.”

Despite her fatigue, India smiled at the mental picture of him shinnying up the thick,
knobby branches, the Spanish moss stirring ghostlike in his wake.

“Grandmother Sinclair was quite the gardener,” he went on. “She planted all kinds
of flowering plants. Back in those days, sailors rounding the point said they could
smell the flowers before they spotted land. Of course, there isn't much left now.
But one day I'll replant. I owe it to her memory. And to the next generation of Sinclairs.”

In the growing dusk, India could see the abandoned gardens, dark and blossomless
in the winter gloom. Beyond the gardens lay several outbuildings, and farther into
the forest, half a dozen slave cabins, the windows aglow with lamplight. Smoke from
the chimneys threaded into the black tree branches overhead.

“Here we are,” Mr. Sinclair said. “Home at last. Such as it is.” The house was of
the West Indies style, built above a tabby basement, with wide, covered verandas
and tall windows framed by shutters. He led her up a flight of steps and across
the veranda to the front door. Before he could open it, India saw a quick movement
at one of the tall windows, and then the door opened.

“You're home!” A thin-faced woman with eyes the color of robins' eggs launched herself
into Mr. Sinclair's arms, her unbound hair a brown shawl falling across her shoulders.
“Mrs. Catchpole told me not to—oh!”

Noticing India at last, she stepped back.

“Amelia,” Mr. Sinclair said. “This is Miss Hartley. She's going to be staying here
while we sort out a legal matter.”

Amelia blinked. “Hartley? India Hartley?”

India summoned a smile. “Hello. I'm so sorry to impose on
you with no warning. I
hope my presence here won't be too much of an inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience? Heavens, no. It's an honor, Miss Hartley. I've been reading all
about your theater tour. And you can't imagine how dull life can be here. I'm grateful
for the company. How long will be you be staying?”

“That's hard to say,” Mr. Sinclair said. “But it's getting cold out here. Do you
think we might come inside?”

“Of course. Heavenly days, where are my manners?” Amelia stood aside to let them
in. “I didn't hear your rig on the road.”

“I asked Captain Mooreland to drop us off here instead of going all the way up to
the bluff.” Mr. Sinclair removed his hat and coat and hung them on the hall tree
beside the door.

“I don't imagine he has begun dining service on the
Neptune
,” Amelia said.

“Not yet.”

Amelia led them into a spacious parlor furnished with a jumble of couches, chairs,
and tables that had all seen better days. A piano sat in one corner. Dark rectangles
on the faded wallpaper spoke of paintings lately removed, and a large pot in the
corner hinted at a leaky roof. Heavy curtains were drawn against the evening chill.
A fire crackled and popped in the grate.

Amelia went in search of the housekeeper. India threw off her cloak and sank into
a wingback chair near the fire, realizing how close she was to total collapse. Hunger
gnawed at her insides, but all she wanted was a bed and the sweet oblivion of sleep.

The men arrived with her trunks. Mr. Sinclair went outside to speak to them and returned
just as Amelia came in with an older woman, whom India supposed was Mrs. Catchpole.

“You see?” Amelia said to the older woman, setting down a tray laden with soup bowls,
a basket of bread, and a teapot. “It's Miss Hartley. In the flesh.”

Ignoring India, the housekeeper nodded to Mr. Sinclair. “I didn't expect you until
Friday.”

“Change of plans,” he said, taking the chair next to India's. “Mrs. Catchpole, I
have the honor of presenting Miss India Hartley.”

Arms akimbo, the housekeeper studied India through narrowed eyes. “Amelia tells
me you're an actress.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Sinclair poured tea and handed India the cup. To his housekeeper he said, “Many
critics say she's the new Fanny Kemble.”

“If that's so, then it was a mistake bringin' her here, seein' as how that woman
hated Butler's Island and made no bones about sayin' so.”

“That was a long time ago,” Mr. Sinclair said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Indigo
Point is not the same as Butler's. And I'm no Pierce Butler.”

“Saints be praised.” The housekeeper stared at India so intently that India wondered
whether she had soot on her nose.

The older woman's disapproval came off her in waves. To cover her discomfort, India
spooned sugar into her tea. She was grateful to Mr. Sinclair for offering her sanctuary,
but she was all too familiar with feelings of not being acceptable to polite society.
Maybe
she ought to have stayed in Savannah. Scorn was scorn regardless of where one
encountered it.

Mrs. Catchpole waved one hand. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“I don't think so. And if we do, I know my way to the kitchen.”

The housekeeper's lips formed a thin straight line, as if she were struggling to
hold back her words. “I'll make up a room for Miss Hartley before I turn in. Come,
Amelia. I need your help.”

She spun on her heel and stomped up the stairs, Amelia trailing behind her. Soon
India heard footsteps overhead, the creak of wooden floors, the opening and closing
of doors.

Mr. Sinclair gestured with his spoon. “Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

Obediently, India dug in. The soup was rich with bits of ham and potatoes, carrots
and turnips, and the bread was yeasty and soft.

“You mustn't take offense at Mrs. Catchpole's behavior,” Mr. Sinclair said. “She's
from the older generation that still thinks of theater performers as belonging to
a lower class.”

His careful attention to her feelings warmed her more than the soup. “It isn't anything
I haven't encountered before. It hasn't been that long since anyone in my line of
work was considered less than respectable. Thankfully things are changing.”

“Just be patient with old Starch and Vinegar. She'll come around.” Mr. Sinclair finished
his tea and poured himself another cup. “Tomorrow, I'll show you around the Point,
and then we'll get to work on your case.”

India nodded. Now that she was warm and her hunger satisfied, she was half asleep
and too tired to think of anything.

Amelia ran lightly down the stairs. “Miss Hartley? Your room is all ready. I can
show you, if you'll come up.”

“I am tired.” India rose.

“Go on,” Mr. Sinclair said. “I'll bring your trunks up in a moment.”

He went out to the porch, and Amelia led India up the stairs, their footsteps echoing
on the bare planks.

“I'm very glad for your unexpected company,” Amelia said as they started down the
hall. “I've never been outside Georgia. I've always thought it would be exciting
to travel to so many great cities. I know you'll be busy working on your legal matters,
but I do hope you'll have time to talk to me. Even though more families have settled
here this year, I'm afraid we don't entertain very much. Mrs. Catchpole hasn't been
quite herself since my brother . . . well, in a very long time. Here we are.”

Amelia opened the door to a room overlooking the back of the house. Like the parlor,
it was furnished with a jumble of old and mismatched pieces—a single wingback chair
with a rip in the upholstery, a tester bed, and a battered chest atop which sat a
chipped wash basin and matching water pitcher, a stack of towels, and a sliver of
soap. A single oil lamp gave off a faint wavering light. A small fire flickered
in the fireplace grate.

“I apologize for the shabby accommodations,” Amelia said. “Since the war we've had
to make do with the odds and ends the Yankees left behind. They stole everything
of value. Except our piano and our resolve.”

India felt an instant kinship with the younger woman. Amelia's kindness and open,
guileless expression was a balm for India's troubled spirit. She set down her reticule
and unpinned her hat. “No need to apologize. I've stayed in many a hotel that was
not nearly so well appointed. Nor so welcoming.”

Amelia smiled. “I made some room in the clothespress for your things. The chamber
pot is under the bed.”