A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  India shook her head. “It’s my first one since my father died. He loved Christmas and always made a fuss about it.”

  “Oh, so did my papa. He always went with Philip and me to decorate the church at Fredericka for Christmas services.” Amelia’s eyes clouded. “But of course that’s a ruin now, too, thanks to the Yankees.”

  She looped her arm through India’s. “Philip and Mr. Dodge have gone out with the gentlemen, but you must come and meet the ladies.”

  India followed Amelia into the parlor, where a Christmas tree decorated with bits of ribbon and strings of popcorn had been set up in front of the window. On the dining table were platters of sandwiches and assorted sweets. A dozen or so women stood in groups of twos and threes chatting quietly. When they saw India, all conversation stopped.

  “Everyone, this is Miss India Hartley.” Amelia drew India into the center of the room. “She’s staying with us for a while. I’ll let you introduce yourselves.”

  India accepted the cup of tea Amelia offered and smiled at the women. “Hello.”

  A tall woman in a plain blue dress and a faded velvet hat cocked her head, her arms folded across her chest. “I heard about you just yesterday. My husband come back here from Savannah with the newspaper. It says you killed a man and Mr. Sinclair is trying to get you off.”

  Amelia blanched but quickly recovered and said smoothly, “The newspapers always exaggerate everything. If indeed there was a story about Miss Hartley, I’m certain the facts are wrong.”

  “The papers don’t lie.”

  “That’s right.” Another woman bobbed her head. “They aren’t allowed to print lies.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Philip said from behind India.

  She turned away, her face flaming, tears welling in her eyes. Philip shouldn’t have made her come. These people hated her on sight. A white-hot fury seized her. But beneath her anger was a sorrow so deep it stole her breath.

  Philip moved to India’s side. “Ladies. You were invited to Indigo Point to celebrate the holiday, and I’m delighted to welcome you. Heaven knows there are far too few causes for celebration in these parts of late. But if you insist upon insulting my guest, then I must ask you to take your leave.”

  A pall of surprise and suspicion fell across the room. India struggled to maintain her composure. Nobody in this house—except for Amelia—trusted her. At times during her meetings with Philip she wondered whether even he completely believed her version of events.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Sinclair.” The woman who had spoken first gave India a grudging nod. “How do? I’m Mrs. Garrison. My husband was an overseer here back before the war.”

  All India could manage was a stiff smile. She wanted to march back upstairs and wait until they had gone. But Philip was looking at her, encouraging her, so she stood where she was, her back to the fragrant Christmas tree, as the other women introduced themselves.

  Yesterday at breakfast Philip had mentioned that many families had been reduced to scratching out a living on worn-out land, forced into sharecropping with their former slaves. Others had found work at Mr. Dodge’s lumber mill. India could understand their bitterness at finding themselves in such reduced circumstances. Even so, she chafed at the unfairness of their judgmental expressions. They didn’t realize that her own future—even if Philip won her case—was just as uncertain and as fraught with potential hardship as their own.

  The sound of footsteps on the wooden porch announced the return of several of the men who had seized the holiday as a chance to go hunting. They left their guns on the porch along with the few rabbits they’d shot, then came inside.

  Philip made quick introductions. Mrs. Catchpole, her round, pasty face a mask of harried disapproval, came in with more food, and the reception went on. Four of the women formed an impromptu quartet around the piano, and soon the sound of carols filled the parlor.

  Philip filled two plates and motioned India into the hallway. “It seems the chairs are all taken. Do you mind sitting on the stairs?”

  “Not at all.” She recognized this as his way of protecting her from further embarrassment, and her heart expanded with gratitude. Oh, what a man was this Philip Sinclair! She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so sheltered. So safe. She took her seat beside him on the uncarpeted stair, watched him polish off a frosted petit four and wondered, not for the first time, why such an attractive and accomplished gentleman had not taken a wife.

  He chose a sandwich from his plate and eyed it. “What do you suppose is in there?”

  “Ham, perhaps? Or sausage and cheese?”

  He sniffed and returned it to his plate. “Sausage. Too far removed from the roast turkey we enjoyed at Christmases of old.” He sighed. “A turkey dinner with all the trimmings is one of the things I miss the most. Do you know that Mr. Couper’s chef up at Cannon’s Point could debone a turkey with such skill that it retained its shape?”

  She grinned. “That must have been quite something.”

  “It was the talk of the island. I miss coconut cake, too, and a good pot of low-country rice and . . . tell me, India, what do you miss? What would you eat today, if you could?”

  India didn’t have to think twice. “Plum pudding. I haven’t had one since Father and I left England. I think he looked forward to it as much as I did. Once, when we were in—”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 7

  DECEMBER 28

  PHILIP BENT TO LIGHT THE LOGS ALMARENE 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 k
new 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?”