A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  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.

  CHAPTER 4

  NIGHT WAS FALLING AS THE Neptune ROUNDED 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 p
resenting 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.”

  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 bri
ng 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.”