A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “Who else knew where you kept the gun?” Philip took another bite of pudding.

  “Fabienne knew. Mr. Philbrick, perhaps. I can’t be certain. It was never a subject of conversation.”

  “I noticed there is no lock on the door to the trap room.”

  “According to Mr. Philbrick, there once was a lock. But my understudy, Miss Bryson, was terrified of being trapped in a small space and asked that it be removed.”

  “Even though she would have no cause to be in the room during this particular play? That’s curious.”

  “As I said, the trapdoor was not needed.”

  He smiled. “I like it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This gives us the chance to present the jury with a different scenario. Your weapon was stored in a trunk in an unlocked room. Anyone could have taken it—either by mistake, thinking it was a prop, or on purpose—and placed it on the stage, where you picked it up, as you were directed to do, and it went off.”

  “Do you think they’ll believe it?”

  “It’s always a mistake to try to guess what a jury will do. But if they like you, if they want to believe in your innocence, then all they need is another plausible explanation for what happened. A pathway to reasonable doubt.”

  India felt lighter than she had since the whole episode began. Perhaps there was reason to hope.

  He finished his coffee and sat back in his chair. “That was delicious.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “We’ll have another one when the trial is over and you are declared innocent.” He got to his feet. “I was thinking of riding over to King’s Retreat tomorrow. Or to what used to be King’s Retreat, anyway. Mr. Dodge thinks it might make a good location for our tourist resort. I’d love you to come along, if you don’t mind braving the outdoors again.”

  “I don’t mind.” In fact, it sounded perfectly lovely.

  The following afternoon Amelia returned to Miss Butler’s, having hatched a plan with her friend to reestablish the island boat races in the new year. It was a fine day, and India joined Philip at the stables. Because Amelia had taken the rig, India mounted his fine chestnut mare, arranging her skirts over the saddle. Philip swung up behind her. His arms encircled her as he adjusted the reins. He spoke to the horse, and they set off down the long oak-lined allée, winter sunlight falling across their shoulders.

  He gave her a running commentary as they turned toward King’s Retreat, describing Mrs. King’s efforts to keep her expansive gardens—and her ten children—thriving during her husband’s long absences. India struggled to concentrate on the story. With Philip so close, keeping her mind on the late Mrs. King and her troubles was difficult.

  “After the war, the Freedmen’s Bureau took it over,” Philip said. “Mrs. King had passed on by then, and her children decamped to Ware County. A sad thing if you ask me.”

  They passed the ruins of a lighthouse. “More of the Yankees’ work?” India turned her head to look at him and found the close proximity more than a little unnerving. She forced her gaze elsewhere.

  “Actually our side destroyed it to keep the Yanks from using it to signal their ships.” Philip shifted in the saddle. “Mr. Dodge thinks the wreckage is an affront to the eye and wants to finish the job, but I’d like to see it restored. It’s a part of our island’s history that our Yankee visitors ought to appreciate.”

  They rode past the former cotton fields, the remnants of outbuildings, and the skeleton of a rowboat rotting in the marshes. Brown marsh grasses had grown up between the cracks in the weathered gray planks, partially obscuring a coil of frayed rope near the bow. India frowned. The boat seemed out of place so far from the beach. But perhaps years of tidal flow had changed the contours of the marshes. The constant movement of wind and tides here altered everything in due time.

  Moments later Philip reined in. They dismounted and walked the fields while he pointed out possible sites for a resort hotel, complete with a boathouse and riding stables. “That is, if we can get the Kings to sell.”

  “It sounds like an enormous undertaking,” India said.

  “It is. But the land is too worn out to continue cultivation of large crops, even if we had the labor to work them. We must find some other means of support if the island is to remain habitable.”

  India fell into step beside him. “St. Simons means a great deal to you. More, perhaps, than the practice of law.”

  “Practicing law is a means to an end. This island is my life. Or where I hoped my life would be, anyway.” His face clouded, and once again India caught a fleeting glimpse of something haunted behind his eyes. “But hopes and dreams can be dashed in the blink of an eye.”

  “I suppose the only thing anyone can do is find a new dream to hold onto.” India paused to pluck a burr from her sleeve. “I’ve pondered that a great deal these past few days. Even if we win my case, I won’t be able to resume my stage career.”

  “Why not? You’ll be even more famous for having survived the ordeal.”

  “Yes. And the last thing I want is to be famous because of my misfortune. But that’s all people will see when I step onto the stage. They won’t be able to imagine me as Juliet, or Portia, or any other character. Oh, they might flock to the theaters, but for all the wrong reasons. And all they will see is India Hartley, accused of murder.”

  “People will be curious. But perhaps after some time has passed, you can work again. Would it help if you went abroad until the furor subsides? Perhaps I could arrange for you to visit Mrs. Kemble in England. Miss Butler’s mother might welcome a visit from someone like you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Philip!” A man on horseback tore along the deserted road, his black coat flapping in the wind. When he reined in next to them, India recognized the man she’d met in the parlor at Christmas.

  “Miss Butler is asking for you,” Cuyler Lockwood said. “Amelia has taken ill. Miss Butler said everything was fine one minute and the next your sister was burning up with fever.”

  “I’ll get her. Can you see Miss Hartley back to Indigo Point?”

  “Of course.”

  Philip turned to India. “Miss Hartley, this is Mr. Lockwood.”

  “We’ve met,” the man said, with a slight nod to India.

  “Mr. Lockwood was kind enough to keep me company for a while during the Christmas reception,” India said.

  Philip nodded. “When you get to Indigo Point, please apprise Mrs. Catchpole of the situation. I’ll be back from Butler’s as soon as I can.”

  He strode across the fallow field, swung into his saddle, and wheeled the horse.

  “Well, shall I give you a boost into the saddle, ma’am?” Cuyler Lockwood appraised her a bit too closely. She wondered whether he’d been drinking again.

  Though riding with Philip had been very pleasant indeed, India had no desire to be in such close contact with this roughened character. “I don’t mind walking.”

  He grasped the reins and fell into step beside her. “Suit yourself.”

  CHAPTER 9

  WITH MR. LOCKWOOD, INDIA RETRACED THE ROUTE she ha
d taken with Philip. A breeze gusted off the water, stirring the dust in the barren cotton fields and bringing with it the fecund smells of pluff mud and salt.

  “Appreciate that you didn’t spill the beans to Sinclair about my condition during Christmas,” Mr. Lockwood said after a time.

  “I’ve seen worse, Mr. Lockwood.”

  “I bet you have.” He raked a hand over his chin. “That’s one thing I never figured out. Why a fine lady such as yourself wound up in a business known for its undesirables.”

  “Not everyone in the theater is an undesirable.”

  “No, ma’am, I reckon not. No offense meant.”

  She slowed her steps to secure her hat, which had blown askew in the wind. “To answer your question, I was born into the theater. It’s all I know.”

  When they reached the turnoff to Indigo Point, Mr. Lockwood swung into the saddle. “I ought to get back to Miss Butler’s. Got me a new job there looking after her accounts. I was just getting started when word came that Miss Amelia is ill.”

  “I see.”

  “I wish Miss Butler hadn’t left the Negroes in charge of managin’ things though.” He spat onto the ground and wiped his chin on the sleeve of his coat. “She’s got some fool idea that if she puts them in charge, they’ll rise to the occasion.”

  “Perhaps she’s right.”

  “Not hardly. Not based on what I’ve seen the last thirty years. But it’s her land. She can do as she sees fit.” He turned his horse and spoke to India over his shoulder. “I sure hope Miss Amelia gets along all right. She’s a fine woman, is Miss Amelia.”

  India hurried along the allée to the house and ran inside. “Mrs. Catchpole?”

  No answer.

  India checked the backyard and the kitchen house. Also deserted. She went upstairs.

  The doors along the corridor were closed, but a faint seam of light shone beneath the door of the shrine room. India knocked and called for the housekeeper. But the only reply was a sharp click as the key turned in the lock.

  India sped down the stairs and out to the kitchen. What medicines were available for Amelia? The application of cool compresses was the only remedy that had soothed her father when he was ill. Perhaps Mrs. Catchpole had more efficacious treatments at her disposal. India pumped water into the basin and rummaged in the cupboard for clean towels. She took them up to Amelia’s room and nearly collided with Binah.

  “Mercy, you startled me!” India entered Amelia’s room and set down the basin and towels. “Where is Mrs. Catchpole?”

  The girl shrugged. “Out to the henhouse, gathering up eggs.”

  India frowned. So Binah was the one who had locked her out of the room just now? India fluffed the pillows on Amelia’s bed and turned back the coverlet. “Miss Amelia has taken ill, and Mr. Sinclair has gone to bring her back from Miss Butler’s. Please find Mrs. Catchpole. She’ll be needed when they arrive.”

  Binah cocked her hip and regarded India with sharp and spiteful eyes. “I don’t got to take orders from you.”

  India spoke through clenched teeth. “Think of it not as an order but as a request. For Miss Amelia’s sake. Not for mine. We need whatever medicines are available to help fight a fever.”

  Binah didn’t move. “Won’t do no good. Miss Amelia might die anyway.”

  “She won’t die. She can’t be all that sick. She was fine this morning.”

  Another shrug. “Me and Mama heard the hooty owl last night right outside this window. Hooty owl screech like that, means somebody goin’ to die. Unless somebody takes the spell off. But sometimes, the spell is too strong.”

  “That’s just a superstition, Binah. Owls don’t cast spells on people.”

  “That’s all you know. Hooty owl screeched outside my grand-mama’s window last spring, and she was dead ’fore sundown.”

  “It was a sad coincidence, that’s all.” India parted the curtain and looked out. She didn’t believe in Binah’s nonsense, and yet the girl’s talk of owls and death and spells was making her nervous.

  “’Course, Miss Amelia might have a chance,” Binah went on, “if I put the pokers in the fires.” Binah indicated the fireplace. “Pokers make the owl stop screechin’, and then Death don’t know where to look for you.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort,” India muttered.

  Downstairs the door opened, and Mrs. Catchpole called “Almarene!”

  Binah raced from the room and sprinted down the stairs. India followed.

  “Mama is feelin’ real poorly today,” Binah told the housekeeper. “She’s too stove up to move.”

  “Well, somebody’s got to finish turning Mr. Sinclair’s collars. And there are socks to be mended too.” Mrs. Catchpole handed Binah the egg basket and glared at India. “I thought you’d gone off with Mr. Sinclair.”

  India briefly explained the situation. “Mr. Sinclair is bringing Amelia home from Miss Butler’s.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Why are you just standing there?”

  “I have taken water and towels up to her room and prepared her bed. I asked Binah about medications, but she seems disinclined to help me.”

  “You’ll find a medicine chest in the storeroom out back. Get it while I put some water on for tea.”

  India went out the back door and down the steps to the storage room. Inside were barrels of flour and sugar, two sacks of coffee, a hogshead of rice. On a shelf were boxes of candles, assorted vats, and blackened pots. India found a wooden chest and opened it. Inside were paper packets labeled valerian, chamomile, ginger, milk thistle, feverfew, huckleberries.

  She returned to the house just as Philip arrived in the rig, his bay mare trotting behind. Amelia slumped in the seat, her head on her brother’s shoulder.

  He reined in, exited the rig, and turned to lift Amelia.

  “Her room is ready.” India peered into Amelia’s pale face. “How is she?”

  “Burning up. Miss Butler was already treating her with cold compresses when I got there, but we must try to get her fever down.”

  He lifted his sister and carried her up the front steps, then up the staircase to her room. Mrs. Catchpole followed, huffing and puffing beneath the weight of the laden tray in her hands.

  Philip laid Amelia on her bed and removed her shoes.

  “I’ve made some huckleberry and molasses tea for when she comes to.” Mrs. Catchpole set down the tray and drew a chair close to the bed. She motioned for the basin and towels. “I’ll sit with her a while, Mr. Sinclair. You look plumb done in.”

  “Thank you. I could use something to drink.”

  “I left you a pot of tea in the dining room.” Mrs. Catchpole caught India’s eye. “I’m sure Miss Hartley will be happy to pour and to keep you company.”

  The housekeeper’s words were meant to sting, but India refused to take offense. Nothing was as important as Amelia’s recovery.

  India followed Philip down to the dining room and poured their tea.

  “Will Amelia be all right?” She took a chair that afforded a view of the yard and the beach in the distance. The lowering sun cast rectangles of gossame
r light on the brown grasses. A solitary osprey winged over the glittering sea.

  Philip rubbed at his eyes. “I hope so. She’s a strong woman. But fevers are unpredictable.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Catchpole’s huckleberry tea will do the trick.”

  “We must pray so.” He sipped his tea. “My father refused all manner of herbal remedies until the day he died. He was of the opinion that more people die of their medicines than of their diseases.”

  “I don’t know much about medicines, I’m afraid,” India said. “My father often brewed a tea of valerian and whiskey to help him sleep. But I can’t be sure the spirits wouldn’t have worked just as well on their own.”

  He managed a tired smile. “Whiskey is often the medicine of choice around here. And too many use it to excess.”

  “Of course, Binah tells me that putting the poker in the fire wards off death.” India refilled her cup. Despite her concern for Amelia’s condition, she felt a certain peace come over her as she sat with Philip in the pleasant room, watching the winter twilight descend.

  “Yes, Binah and her mother hold onto the old beliefs.”

  “I could like Binah if she gave me half a chance,” India said. “She isn’t stupid by any measure. She simply lacks an education.”

  “She’s not alone on that score. I tried to establish a school here last year, but the whites refused to sit alongside the Negroes. Fights broke out every other day, and finally the teacher gave up and left.” He stared out the window. “The day my father died and Indigo Point came to me, I manumitted every slave on the place. Some of them went with the Yankees, but most of them wanted to remain here. St. Simons is the only home they know. But right now there isn’t much of a future here for any of us.”

  “Well, I wish I could do something for Binah and the rest too. But I have a feeling she wouldn’t take any help from me.”

  “So many of these people are held back by superstitions that date back to the time this island was first settled.”