by Dorothy Love
“Hello, Myrtilda,” India said. “What a beautiful name. How old are you?”
The girl shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Yes, you do,” Binah prompted. “You be eleven come June.”
“Miss Hartley?” Claire said. “I have the whole first half of Little Women in my room at home. I got it for Christmas last year. I can bring it tomorrow if you wish.”
“That would certainly save time,” India said. “Otherwise I’d have to send to Savannah and hope to find a copy in the bookstore there.”
Claire twirled around, belling her pink skirt. “I’m so excited I could just spit!”
“Well don’t spit on me.” Flora headed for the open doorway. “I got to go.”
“Me too,” Binah said. “Mama will switch me good if I stay away too long.”
Elizabeth drew a small notebook from her pocket. “What time do we come tomorrow, miss? I must write it in my calendar.”
“Oh, of course!” her sister said. “Because you have so many things to do you can’t possibly remember them all.”
“You’re only jealous because Papa gave me the calendar for Christmas and not you.”
“Jealous of a silly old notebook?”
India placed a hand on each girl’s shoulder. “No quarreling. That’s my first rule. Break the rules and you won’t be allowed to try on the greasepaint. Understood?”
“Yes, miss,” Elizabeth said. “But what time?”
“Can you all be here at ten?”
The girls nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Shall we keep this a secret, so we can surprise everyone at the boat races?”
Margaret, the quiet one in the patched calico, beamed at India and whispered, “I love secrets.”
“Me too,” India whispered back.
India watched as they hurried from the old hospital and disappeared along the footpath. She set off in the opposite direction, skirting the old slave cemetery and the sharecroppers’ cabins. She reached the wooden footbridge spanning the shallow river and hurried across, one eye out for snakes and alligators. Today the water ran fast and so clear that she could see the rocky bottom and patches of brown fern undulating in the current.
The path grew more narrow, the trees more dense and overgrown as she approached the charred remains of the chapel that Philip’s grandfather had built. Though it was not yet noon, a deepening gloom blotted out the sky. Beneath her feet the dead leaves and brittle vines seemed to whisper a warning. Gazing at the blackened bricks and crooked chimney, India shivered. She couldn’t give it a name, but she could feel something dark and foreboding gathering there, waiting in the shifting shadows.
CHAPTER 11
JANUARY 17
THE ENTIRE HOUSEHOLD WAS UP EARLY, PREPARING FOR the boat races. Even before first light, India heard the faint squeak of the kitchen door as Mrs. Catchpole went to gather eggs, then the voices of Almarene and Binah as they arrived for their morning chores. Soon Philip’s footsteps sounded below, followed by Amelia’s. The smells of bacon and coffee wafted up the stairs.
India rose, washed her face in the frigid water, and managed to fashion her hair into an approximation of her famous coiffure. Into the large drawstring bag she often carried to theaters, she put her hand mirror and her precious stores of greasepaint and lip pomade, and added a few things for embellishing the girls’ Little Women costumes—a ruffled shirtwaist, a prim lace collar, a set of jet hair combs.
She was almost as excited as her young charges, who had spent the past two weeks arguing over lines, worrying about their costumes, and finally, settling down to memorize passages from Louisa May Alcott’s beloved book. In the end, Flora had proved too shy to actually take part, but she had come every day to the old hospital to listen to her friends learn their lines.
The girls had blossomed under India’s direction, growing more confident each day. During one practice, Claire had declared her desire to become a stage actress. Elizabeth, who wore her velvet plumed hat every day, wanted to live in Savannah and own a hat shop. Binah’s cousin Myrtilda wanted to raise horses.
India finished packing her bag and released a contented sigh. Even if none of their dreams came true, for this one day, the girls would experience a small taste of adventure and possibility. For India, being able to provide a glimpse of a different kind of life was the highest calling of her art. Whatever happened when her trial opened in two weeks’ time—if she was to be denied her freedom, perhaps even her life—at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing that she had had some small, positive influence on these young girls.
With a final glance into the cheval mirror, she picked up her bag and cloak and went downstairs.
“There you are.” Amelia met India at the bottom of the stairs, as if she had been awaiting her arrival. “Just leave your things in the hallway, and Philip will pack them into the rig. If he can find room.”
Amelia laughed, and India smiled, too, relieved to see her friend looking more like her old self, the last vestiges of the fever finally gone.
“I hope you won’t be afraid of my driving,” Amelia said, motioning India toward the table where breakfast waited. “You’ll be with me and Mrs. Catchpole in the rig. Philip will take his horse.”
They took their places at the table. Binah appeared and poured coffee. India winked at her, and the girl ducked her head and smiled. India hadn’t really expected the girls to be able to keep a secret for two solid weeks, but if anyone had broken the code of silence, India had no inkling of it. Binah looked as if she would burst if she had to keep quiet much longer.
Philip arrived, having seen to the horses. “Good morning, India. Amelia.”
His smile made her heart turn over. This morning, in brown woolen trousers and a matching jacket, his dark hair curling over his collar, he looked boyish and excited about the day ahead. She searched his face, longing for the closeness of that moment by the river, but he seemed bent on keeping her at a polite, professional distance.
He plopped into the chair opposite hers and motioned to Binah. “Some of that excellent coffee, if you please, Binah.”
“Yessir.”
“Where’s your mother this morning?” Philip buttered a biscuit.
“Back at the house, gettin’ ready for the boat races. Packing up our dinner.” Binah filled his cup and set the coffeepot down.
“You be sure and remind your mama to bring along her warmest coat, Binah. It’s chilly this morning. The cold isn’t good for her rheumatism.”
“Yessir, I know it. Mama walked over here this mornin’ to help Miz Catchpole fix your dinner.”
He grinned. “Is that so? Care to tell me what we’re having? I hope it’s fatback and cornpone.”
Binah giggled. “I ain’t tellin’, Mister Philip. You just got to come on and be surprised.”
Mrs. Catchpole loomed in the doorway. “Binah, if you have so much time on your hands that you can stand there laughing like a complete lunatic, come on out to the kitchen and help me pack up the beef stew and biscuits.”
“Uh-oh,” Philip said to the girl, “Binah, your secret is out.”
“That’s
all you know!” With a saucy grin, Binah turned and followed the housekeeper out to the kitchen house.
Philip regarded India with a raised brow. “What has put that child in such an agreeable mood?”
“She’s excited about the boat races and the picnic.” India polished off a bite of biscuit slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “And I’ve been working with her and a few of the island girls on a special event for today. It’s to be a surprise.”
“Ah. I see.”
Amelia nibbled on a slice of bacon. “I thought you were up to something, India. I’ve hardly seen you at all these past couple of weeks. I was beginning to think you had tired of Indigo Point and of my scintillating company.”
“Not at all. The whole thing was spontaneous, but I won’t deny it has given me a sense of purpose, and it has taken my mind off the trial.”
Philip regarded her from across the table, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve had letters from your friends in Philadelphia and New York. They vouch for your character absolutely and are distressed by your troubles. The photographer in particular is outraged that such an accusation should be lodged against you.”
“Mr. Sarony was very kind to both my father and me. He always told me I was a pleasure to photograph. And I enjoyed posing for him. Somehow, he was able to help me relax before the camera. The pictures are better for it, I think.”
“But not as beautiful as India in person,” Amelia said.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Philip smiled at India as he lifted his cup.
His words sent a frisson of pleasure through her. She smiled and refilled her own cup.
Philip finished his eggs and got to his feet. “Please excuse me. I should see if Mrs. Catchpole is ready for me to pack the rig.”
As if on cue, the mantel clock in the parlor chimed. Amelia reached across the table and patted India’s hand. “We ought to get going too. We don’t want to be late for your surprise.”
Half an hour later, they set off along the road, Amelia at the reins of the smart little rig, India and Mrs. Catchpole wedged in beside her. At their feet were blankets, dinner baskets, and India’s drawstring bag. The morning wind was sharp off the ocean. India burrowed into her cloak, her eyes on the thick forest lining the road. Now and then through the trees she glimpsed patches of blue sky and brown river, abandoned slave cabins, stands of amber-colored marsh grasses, and fallow fields.
As they neared Butler’s Island, others joined them on the road. Philip, riding ahead on a chestnut mount, called out greetings to the lumber mill workers, sharecroppers both Negro and white. It seemed to India that he knew everyone on the island, and they knew him.
They reached a large clearing, and Amelia pulled up next to a line of wagons, rigs, and carts. Women in cloaks and warm hats gathered near the place where logs had been placed for the bonfire. Children raced among the trees, their voices rising on the wind. Men in heavy coats and gloves tended to half a dozen boats bobbing in the wide Altahama River. Good-natured teasing filled the air. Philip dismounted and went to join the men.
A couple of young men brought out a fiddle and a banjo, and the music began. A group of young boys found a stick, drew a circle in the dirt, and began a game of marbles.
Claire and Elizabeth raced over to India. “Miss Hartley?” Claire’s blue eyes fairly danced with excitement. “When can we have our play? Can we be first, before the races? Because I don’t think I can keep our secret for another minute!”
“Where are Susan and Margaret?” India asked. “And has anyone seen Myrtilda? We can’t start without her.” India glanced around the clearing. She recognized Mrs. Garrison, Mrs. Taylor, and several of the others who had attended the Christmas reception at Indigo Point. The women seemed as disapproving and distant as ever. But there was nothing India could do about it. “I don’t think Binah is here yet either.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find them,” Elizabeth said. “Come on, Claire.”
The girls moved off as Amelia arrived to spread a heavy blanket on the cold ground near the newly ignited bonfire. Logs sizzled and popped as the flame caught and rose into the chilly air.
Amelia let out a long sigh. “Mr. Lockwood isn’t here.”
“Maybe he’ll be along later.” India indicated the group of men standing at the river’s edge near the tethered boats. “He’s probably seeing to the last-minute details.”
“Maybe.” Amelia patted her hair. “I’d hate to think I went to the trouble of doing up my hair just to impress old Mr. Hornbuckle.” She indicated a wizened man in tattered denim pants and a flannel work shirt who stood warming his backside before the fire. “He had the temerity to wink at me when I walked by just now.”
India smiled. “You have an ardent admirer then.”
“Oh, you can laugh,” Amelia said. “You have thousands of admirers. For us mere mortals, attracting the attention of a suitable gentleman is much more difficult.”
India stared into the fire. “Admirers, yes, but in the same way one might admire a painting or a piece of sculpture. No one wants to claim me for his own.”
Amelia patted India’s gloved hand. “Don’t worry. When we are as old as Almarene, we’ll live together in a falling-down house with a passel of cats. Children will tell fanciful tales of our haunted house. On Halloween we’ll be the most popular ladies in town.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Amelia grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
India looked up to see her young actresses coming across the clearing, Claire and Susan in the lead, Binah and Myrtilda bringing up the rear.
“Miss Hartley,” Susan said, “we’re all here now. And we can’t keep the secret one minute longer.” The girl punched her sister’s shoulder. “Elizabeth nearly spilled the beans to Mr. Sinclair just now. And that would have spoiled everything!”
“All right. Let me get my things, and we’ll meet behind that row of wagons over there.”
“So nobody can see us putting on the greasepaint,” Margaret said.
India followed the girls across the clearing, which had grown crowded as more of the island residents gathered for the boat races. She retrieved her drawstring bag from the Sinclairs’ rig and began helping the girls with their makeup.
Claire, who was already blond and fair, needed only a bit of rose-colored greasepaint on her cheeks to transform her into pretty and ladylike Amy March. Tall, thin, and brown Myrtilda became the tomboy Jo. Elizabeth and Binah, who had decided greasepaint was not so bad after all, were to take turns as Meg, while Susan and Margaret shared the role of Beth. India completed their transformations and let them take turns looking at the results in her hand mirror.
“I look just like myself, only prettier,” Claire said. “I wonder where I can get some greasepaint of my own.”
Myrtilda frowned at her image. “I don’t look like myself at all.”
“That’s the point, when one is in a play,” India said. “I think you make a spectacular Jo. Do you remember your first line?”
“‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,’” Myrtilda quoted.
India studied her little group and felt her heart expanding. They were so full of excitement and
high hopes. So innocent of the many ways life could cut them down. She looked away before they could see her sudden tears, then said a silent prayer for their protection.
“Very good. Now you all wait here while I introduce our play. I’ll wave to you when it’s time to make your grand entrance.”
India returned to the clearing and spoke to the two young musicians, who nodded and launched into a version of a fanfare that ended with a piercing squeak of the fiddle. She looked around for Philip, wanting him to share in the surprise. But he and most of the other men were still downriver, discussing the boat race.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” India said. “Introducing the Indigo Point Theater Company in their debut performance of readings from Miss Alcott’s popular children’s novel, Little Women.”
She motioned to the girls, who raced across the clearing and took their places.
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.” Myrtilda heaved a long, Jo-like sigh.
“It’s so dreadful to be poor.” Binah recited Meg March’s line, and with a dramatic sweep of her arm indicated her worn dress.
Claire stepped forward. “I don’t think it’s fair that—”
“Stop! Stop this instant!” A woman in a worn woolen cloak and an old bonnet pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed Claire by the arm. India froze. It was Mrs. Garrison. “What in the name of heaven are you doing?”
Claire looked stunned. “We’re giving a play, Mama. Just like Miss Hartley.”
Mrs. Garrison strode over to where India had stationed herself, close enough to prompt the girls if they forgot a line but not so close as to impinge upon their space. “What is the meaning of this? Painting up these children to look like hussies. Encouraging immoral behavior. Have you no sense of propriety?”
India opened her mouth to reply, but old Mr. Hornbuckle spoke up. “Oh, pipe down, why dontcha? Ain’t no harm in what they’re doing. Let them girls go on with their play actin’.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the fire. “I’m kind of enjoyin’ it myself.”
