by Dorothy Love
“My understudy, Victoria Bryson, was there. She and Mr. Sterling were quite enamored with one another.”
Philip made a note. “Good. We’ll talk to her.”
India remembered the strange woman who had lingered outside her dressing room door before disappearing like an apparition into the darkened hallway.
“There was someone else.”
Philip sat up, instantly alert. “Someone else backstage?”
“Yes. In the hallway outside my dressing room. She was watching Mr. Sterling. But I didn’t think anything of it. I’ve never worked in a theater in which admirers didn’t try to sneak inside to get a glimpse of the actors. I assumed she was waiting to speak to him.”
“And did she speak to him?”
“Not in my presence. Miss Bryson was with him. They left my dressing room together.”
“Can you describe this woman?”
India frowned. “Not really. She was wearing a dark-colored cloak with a hood that hid her hair. The hallway is not well lit, so I couldn’t see her face clearly. I got the impression she was rather brown-skinned.”
“A Negro woman then? Or a mulatto?”
“I can’t be sure. I remember only her piercing eyes. She seemed nervous, and very intent upon Mr. Sterling, but if she was an admirer of his, I would expect nothing else.”
“And you didn’t see her after that?”
“No. Fabienne finished helping me dress, and I went upstairs to the wings and waited for my cue.”
He sighed. “Well, it’s a slim lead, but worth pursuing. When we get to Savannah, I’ll see what I can find out. In the meantime, I’m going back to King’s Retreat this afternoon to take some measurements of the old gardens for Mr. Dodge. I’d love some company.”
“I’d love that too.”
He put away his files, his papers and pen. “I’ll be back at noon. That should give us plenty of time before the light goes.”
“All right.” She rose and together they went to the door of the study.
He collected his hat, cloak, and gloves, and a few minutes later India heard the pounding of his horse’s hooves on the dirt road. She wandered out to the dining room, hoping to find Amelia still at breakfast, but the room was deserted, the table bare. The smell of baking bread filled the air, and she followed the scent to the kitchen house.
Mrs. Catchpole was just taking a loaf from the oven. She banged the pan onto the wooden table and frowned at India. “Something you wanted?”
“The bread smelled so good, it made me hungry. Is there any chance I can have some?”
Wordlessly, the housekeeper took down a plate, sliced the steaming loaf, and fetched butter from the pantry. “I suppose you want some jam too.”
Not if you are going to begrudge me every bite. India shook her head. “This will be just fine.”
She buttered a piece and took a bite. “This is very good, Mrs. Catchpole. Mr. Sinclair tells me you are the best cook on the island. I have to say I agree.”
“Mr. Sinclair is a peach of man. He gives me more credit than I deserve.” The older woman wiped the knife clean and returned it to the drawer. “I owe him a great deal. I never forget it.”
India looked up, surprised that the woman had managed to string together four sentences, and none of them accusatory. Surely a record since India’s arrival. She took another bite of the warm bread and looked around the kitchen. Everything was spotless. Everything was in its proper place. Pots and pans hung from hooks above a deep sink. To the side was a shiny red-handled water pump. Wood waited in a basket beside the stove. Jars of spices covered the top of a pie safe in the corner. A wooden mixing bowl and a rolling pin still covered in flour sat on the counter.
“Mrs. Catchpole? Would you mind if I borrowed your kitchen for a while?”
“What? Whatever for?”
“At the boat races on Tuesday, Mr. Sinclair mentioned that he is fond of chess pie. I haven’t had the chance to master many dishes, but I do know how to make a chess pie, and I’d like to bake one for him. As a kind of thank-you gift.”
“I’m sure he knows you’re grateful, the way you stick to him like a cocklebur every chance you get.”
India frowned. Was this woman jealous? Of Philip? She was old enough to be his mother. Maybe that was how she saw herself. As his protector. “I wasn’t aware that I was clinging to him. But I’d still love to make that pie.”
“He may have mentioned chess pie, but vinegar pie is his favorite. He likes the meringue on top.”
India frowned. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“The filling is easy enough. Sugar, egg yolks, butter, and a dash of vinegar, of course. It’s the meringue that’s tricky.”
India rolled up her sleeves. “I’m willing to try. Would you teach me? My father always said one should never pass up an opportunity to learn something new.”
The housekeeper shrugged. “I suppose I could show you how. You’ll need some eggs from the springhouse.”
“I know where it is. Amelia showed me.”
“Flour and lard are in the bin. Don’t let the fire get too hot. It’ll burn the crust.”
India went out the back door to the springhouse, gathered the eggs and butter, and returned to the kitchen. She measured out flour and lard for the pie crust and rolled it out. Following Mrs. Catchpole’s directions, she broke the eggs into a mixing bowl, separating the yolks from the whites before adding sugar, butter, and vinegar.
India poured the filling into the pie crust. Mrs. Catchpole opened the oven door and stood aside while India slid the pan onto the rack.
“Half an hour oughta do it,” the housekeeper said. “There’s coffee if you want some.”
She filled a couple of cups and handed one to India.
India sat at the table and took in the particular sights and smells of the kitchen—rectangles of winter sunlight falling across wide cypress planks permeated with years of wood smoke and coffee, the freshly baked bread still cooling on the wooden table. The mellow scent of custard as the pie began to bake.
Mrs. Catchpole sipped her coffee, her pale gray eyes watchful as a cat’s. “I heard you and Miss Amelia talking an’ carrying on last night. Something sure seemed to amuse the two o’ you.”
“I was telling her about the time I was in King Lear in London opposite Thomas Abbott. In the middle of a very serious scene, his wig came unglued, and every time he turned his head, his wig would spin around and cover up his eyes. Finally he reached up and tore it off his head and stomped it as if it were a rat. The theater manager was outraged, but the audience loved it.”
Mrs. Catchpole reared back and let go a belly laugh so unexpected that India jumped. “I ain’t much of a theatergoer, but I woulda paid money to see that.”
For the first time since arriving at Indigo Point, India found herself relaxing in the woman’s presence. “It was funny. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing along with the audience. And then a few weeks later, Father and I were acting in a comedy. At the end of the first act, he was supposed to exit through a door at the rear of the stage. He delivered his
line, which was very dramatic: ‘I’m leaving, and nobody can stop me!’ Then he went to the door to make his exit. And it was locked.”
Mrs. Catchpole listened, spellbound. “Mercy. What did he do?”
India laughed at the memory. “I was struck with panic, but Father whirled around, came back downstage, and said, ‘But before I go, there’s one more thing!’”
“That was clever.” Mrs. Catchpole chuckled and poured more coffee.
“It was very clever. Since the play was a comedy, the audience assumed the locked door was part of the act. But of course Father complained mightily to the stage manager, who was most apologetic. After he stopped laughing.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “I reckon it must be a strange kind o’ life, bein’ in the theater, travelin’ around from pillar to post. Must feel kinda like a boat tossing around in the sea without any moorings.”
“It doesn’t seem strange to me, but I can see how it might seem so to others.” India finished her coffee. “In the old days Father and I traveled with the Morettis, an acting troupe from Italy. They fought and teased one another and played jokes, but there was never any doubt of their love for each other. For a while, they shared that love with Father and me. They were the only family we knew. I miss them still. I miss having a family around me. I miss not having friends.”
“Huh. What will happen when you get old?” Mrs. Catchpole crossed her arms. “Who will look after you then?”
India looked away. Even before Father died she’d worried about the day when some new young actress would supplant her in the public’s affections. When her beauty faded and the applause stopped. But she couldn’t worry about that. She was too consumed by the very real possibility that she might not have a future at all.
“I should check on the pie.” India opened the oven door, releasing the rich smells of custard and warm crust. She grabbed a thick towel to protect her hand while she gave the pan a gentle shake. She turned to the housekeeper. “I think it’s done.”
“Let me take it out. You don’t want to burn yourself.” Armed with two towels, Mrs. Catchpole lifted the pie and set it on the window sill. “There now. We’ll let it cool just a bit before we make the meringue. By the time suppertime gets here, it ought to be just right.” She smiled at India. “The perfect surprise for Mr. Sinclair. Just like you wanted.”
“I hope he will enjoy it.” India headed for the door. “Could you possibly make the meringue? I didn’t realize it was so late. I must get ready. We’re riding over to King’s Retreat this afternoon.”
“Huh. Just the two o’ you?”
“Yes. I believe so.” India rolled her sleeves down and buttoned her cuffs. “He invited me this morning as we were going over my case.”
“You might be kind enough to ask Miss Amelia to go with you. She—”
“Oh, there you are.” Amelia swept into the kitchen house carrying her cloak and hat. She dropped them onto a chair and helped herself to bread and butter. “Ask me what?”
“Your brother and I are going out to take some measurements of the gardens at King’s Retreat for Mr. Dodge,” India said. “Mrs. Catchpole thought you might like to come along.”
Amelia arched her brow. “And be a third wheel? I wouldn’t dream of crashing your outing. Besides, I promised to return some books I borrowed from Mrs. Wheeler.” Ignoring the housekeeper’s dour expression, Amelia smiled at India. “It’s going to be a beautiful afternoon. You two ought to get out and enjoy it.”
A short time later, India sat next to Philip as the rig rolled along toward King’s Retreat. Amelia’s weather prediction had come true; a cool breeze gusted off the water, which today reflected the clear blue sky. A flock of blackbirds rustled in the sedges beside the road, and in the tangled undergrowth there appeared an occasional patch of violets. On such days it was hard to remember it was still January. Back in Philadelphia people picked their way along snowy streets to homes warmed by roaring fires, where they sat thawing their hands and feet, waiting for the first days of spring.
Philip seemed content with the warmth and the silence and did not speak until they arrived at the old plantation. He halted the rig, helped her out, then turned to get his paper and pencil. For half an hour they walked the old gardens while he made notes regarding the size and placement of olive and orange groves, rose gardens, and vegetable patches.
In the middle of a concentric brick rose bed, India noticed a faint patch of green and knelt to examine it.
“What is it?” Philip wandered over to stand beside her.
“I think this rose bush is trying to come back. After all this time.”
He knelt beside her, so close their shoulders touched. So close she caught a faint whiff of soap and bay rum that sent her senses—and her imagination—reeling. What must it be like to belong—body and soul—to someone as fine as Philip Sinclair?
The sun pressed onto her head like a benediction. Something about being with Philip felt right. She watched him from the corner of her eye. Was this what falling in love was like? This strange, weightless sensation, this heightened awareness of his every movement? Or were these feelings the result of her need for protection and reassurance?
He took off his glove and gently probed the tender plant. “This must have been one of the first roses Mrs. King ever planted. I remember her telling my grandmother about some new specimens she planned for her paved garden.”
“If it does come back, perhaps Mr. Dodge will give it a place of honor in the new gardens. A tribute to Mrs. King.”
“What a lovely thought.” He held out his hand and drew her to her feet.
India’s breath caught, and a tremble went through her. Yes, she was definitely falling. She just hoped for a soft landing.
Philip inclined his head. “I want to walk back to the rear of the property to check on the old dependencies. Some were made of cypress, and the wood may still be useable.”
“Is it far?”
“Too far for you in those shoes, I’m afraid.”
He had noticed her shoes?
“Will you be all right here for a little while?” he asked. “I won’t be gone more than half an hour. Then we’ll start for home.”
She was disappointed at being apart from him even for a moment, but of course she couldn’t say so. “I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll find some more roses.”
She watched him stride through the tangled vines and brambles until he was lost from view. For a few minutes she wandered among the overgrown garden plots, but nothing else was alive. King’s Retreat seemed a place of lost dreams, and the thought depressed her. Father often said that misfortune subdued small minds, while great minds rose above it. But some misfortunes were beyond overcoming.
The horse whinnied, and she retraced her steps, skirting patches of brambles until she reached the road. Shading her eyes, she searched for Philip, but he was nowhere in sight. She patted the horse and was rewarded with a warm snuffle that made her laugh. “Oh, you are a dear. Too bad I don’t have an apple for you.”
Minutes passed. Bees buzzed in the undergrowth. An osprey wheeled overhead. India sighed, wishing Philip would hurry. A few minutes more and she set off along the narrow path they had ridden on the
ir first visit. If she remembered correctly, it led to the rear of the house, then past the remains of the outbuildings before angling toward the tidal creek. She would wait for him there.
The path curved and soon was nearly obscured by tall stands of marsh grass. Here the ground turned damp and spongy, and India realized too late that her shoes were probably ruined.
A patch of gray in the marsh grasses caught her eye. Moving closer she saw that it was the abandoned rowboat she had seen on their earlier trip. The oarlocks were rusted and broken. A coil of rotted rope lay in the stern. She was about to turn away when a gleam of metal beneath the coil of rope caught her eye. She lifted her hem and stepped into the boat. The rotted wood gave beneath her weight, and she felt the scrape of the jagged edge on her ankle and the trickle of blood in her stocking. She lifted the rope. A rusty metal box was wedged into the stern next to what seemed to be the remains of a woolen garment. She pried open the box. Inside, wrapped in an oilcloth, was a small leather book.
“India?” Philip’s voice came to her on a gust of wind.
Startled, she tucked the book into her pocket and returned to the path in time to see him just rounding the house.
She hurried to meet him, the raw scrape on her ankle pulsing painfully with every step.
“I looked for you in the garden,” he said.
“I’m sorry. There wasn’t much else to see, so I took a walk.”
“We ought to get back. I want to organize these notes for Mr. Dodge before supper.”
She almost told him then about the book she’d just found, but he seemed intent on his work. And it probably wasn’t a very interesting book anyway. Otherwise whoever owned the boat wouldn’t have left it behind. She looked up to see that Philip had stilled and was watching her intently. Everything seemed magnified—the determined song of a cardinal in the trees, the play of sunlight across his shoulders, the faint jingle of the horse’s harness. The void in her soul waiting to be filled.
