A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  She turned toward the rig. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and a single word. “India.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her, a warm, slow meeting of lips that stole her breath. When they drew apart he regarded her with an expression she couldn’t quite fathom. Was he sorry for her? Embarrassed that he had let the moment overwhelm them both?

  “Philip?”

  He made a small noise in his throat. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Regret then. She bit her lip.

  He smiled. “But I can’t say I’m sorry. Are you?”

  “No.” She slipped her hand into his, and they returned to the rig. “Though I never can tell just what you are thinking.”

  He grinned as he handed her into the rig. “I was thinking about how pretty you look in that hat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And about something my father used to say: ‘Where there is ruin, there’s hope for treasure.’” He settled himself beside her and picked up the reins.

  She glanced at him. “Are you referring to me, or to Indigo Point?”

  “You’re far from a ruin.” He flicked the reins.

  Unsure of how to respond, she changed the subject. “King’s Retreat is still beautiful. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “A few old buildings that might yield a bit of useable material.” He turned to smile down at her. “How about you? Any more roses?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She sighed. “I hope the one we found today survives.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on it and hope a freeze doesn’t get to it before spring.” He guided the rig around a deep rut in the road. “In the meantime, I need a good meal. I wonder what Mrs. Catchpole has made for dinner.”

  CHAPTER 13

  PHILIP LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND DABBED HIS lips with his napkin. “That stew was good.”

  Amelia chewed and swallowed the last of her biscuit. “Nobody makes a better stew than Mrs. Catchpole. Don’t you agree, India?”

  “I do. It’s particularly comforting on a chilly evening.”

  Throughout the meal India had watched Philip from beneath lowered lashes, hoping he would send her a look, a gesture, some private sign that he remembered their kiss. That they were beginning to belong to each other. But he hadn’t.

  She turned her eyes to the fading light glimmering through the trees, casting a golden glow across the beach, the end of as perfect a day as she had known since arriving here. There wasn’t much that excited her these days, so fraught as they were with worry, but as they waited for Mrs. Catchpole to bring in the vinegar pie, India felt her anticipation rising. She could do so little to repay Philip for everything he was doing for her. To see him enjoying food that she had made for him—well, all but the meringue—would bring her a rare sense of pleasure and well-being.

  The door to the dining room swung open and Mrs. Catchpole came in, Binah walking behind her. Binah set down a stack of plates before lighting the lamp and turning up the wick.

  Mrs. Catchpole glanced at India before serving wedges of the pie. “Here’s dessert, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “It looks good. You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Catchpole.”

  “Oh, I can’t take credit. It was Miss Hartley made the pie, just for you.” Mrs. Catchpole motioned to Binah, and they left the dining room.

  Philip’s smile warmed India like a thousand suns. “How thoughtful of you.”

  “I had help with the meringue.” India picked up her fork, anxious for Philip’s first taste of her creation.

  He took a huge forkful. Chewed and swallowed. A look of disbelief came over his face. “This is vinegar pie.”

  “Yes. Is something wrong?” India’s heart beat hard. She was aware of Amelia’s intent gaze. “Too much vinegar? It’s my first attempt so perhaps I—”

  “No. It’s all right. I’m just surprised.”

  “I hope you like it. I wanted to make chess, but Mrs. Catchpole said vinegar was your favorite.”

  Amelia pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m suddenly not feeling very well. Will you excuse me?”

  Philip rose from his chair as his sister fled the room.

  India frowned, bewildered. Clearly she had made a mistake. She had let her guard down with the housekeeper. In the warm intimacy of the kitchen she had felt safe. Be careful who you trust.

  Why had Mrs. Catchpole deliberately steered her wrong? She looked up at Philip. “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you, and I don’t even know why. I thought the housekeeper said vinegar pie was your favorite. Obviously I misunderstood.”

  He rang the small silver bell beside his plate, summoning Binah, who arrived, eyes wide, to clear the table.

  “I’m going to read for a while in the parlor,” he said when Binah had gone. “Care to join me?”

  But her happy anticipation had given way to confusion and embarrassment. “Thank you, but I’m tired. And perhaps I ought to check on Amelia.”

  He caught her hand as she started for the stairs. “India. Please don’t be embarrassed. It isn’t your fault. Vinegar pie was my favorite . . . a long time ago.”

  “Then why did Mrs. Catchpole say—”

  “She’s getting older. Her memory is fading. And she’s like a lot of people around here, wishing things were the way they used to be.”

  It was like him to defend the older woman. To give her the benefit of the doubt. But India had no doubt Mrs. Catchpole knew full well what she was doing. Trying to turn Philip against her.

  Philip squeezed her hand. “I enjoyed our outing this afternoon.”

  “So did I.”

  “Perhaps we’ll go back again before we leave for Savannah. See how our rose is getting on.”

  “I’d like that. Good night.”

  India went upstairs, arriving just in time to see Amelia hurrying from the unoccupied room near the end of the hall. What a strange household this was.

  India pulled off her ruined stocking and bathed the deep scrape on her ankle, pressing the cool compress to her bloodied skin. When the stinging eased, she readied herself for bed. Binah knocked and entered with an armload of firewood.

  “Mr. Philip says it’s gone be cold tonight. Said you might want a fire.”

  The girl knelt before the fireplace, added a couple of logs, touched a match to the kindling. The room glowed with a soft light that picked up the metallic shine of her necklace. She rose and dusted off her hands. “That’ll keep you warm till mornin’, I reckon.”

  “Yes, thank you, Binah.”

  “Can I ask you somethin’?”

  “Of course.”

  “How come you don’t like Miz Catchpole?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “’Cause you was frownin’ at her when we served supper tonight.”

  “Was I? I suppose I was thinking about something else.”

  Binah cocked one hip and grinned. “Like Mr. Philip?”

  “Maybe a little bit. I have a lo
t to think about these days.”

  The girl nodded. “Miz Garrison told Mama they might hang you for murderin’ that man in Savannah. But Mr. Lockwood told her she crazy. He said Georgia ain’t sent a woman to the gallows in more than a hundred years. And anyway, they usually hang black folks, not people like you. Then he said if anybody can get you off, it’s Mr. Philip. He said Philip Sinclair is the best lawyer in the whole state of Georgia. He said it must cost a fortune to hire somebody like him.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know, Binah.”

  “More than a hundred dollars?”

  “I would guess so, yes.” India watched the fire dancing in the grate. “Why so many questions? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Who, me? No, miss.” Binah touched the golden necklace at her throat. “Next week is Hannah June’s birthday. I always miss her extra bad ever’ time that day roll around. If I had me a lawyer maybe he could find her for me. Convince her to come on back home. What happened wasn’t her fault.”

  “I thought you said she merely decided to run away.”

  “No, miss. She wasn’t merry at all. But she—”

  “Binah!” Mrs. Catchpole loomed in the doorway. “What in the name of heaven is taking you so long?”

  The girl fled. Without a word, the housekeeper followed, her steps heavy on the wooden stair.

  India lit the lamp, retrieved the small book she’d found in the abandoned boat, and retreated to her warm bed. Perhaps a few minutes spent engrossed in a story would calm her thoughts. She opened the book and saw that it wasn’t a novel at all, but rather a series of notes written in two distinct hands and with two colors of ink. One a faded red, the other black and smudged here and there.

  BLACK INK: You cannot know how often I have thought of you since our parting.

  RED INK: And you cannot know what happiness your presence has brought to this dreary place. Can you come again? Send your answer and leave it. You know the place. Be careful.

  BLACK INK: What happiness is unleashed in my humble heart to know that you wish for my company. Thursday next? You must tell me where to get some red ink.

  RED INK: Thursday cannot come soon enough. As for the red ink, I learned to make it myself from necessity. It comes from the sap of gall-oak nuts.

  BLACK INK: You amaze me with your—HERE, INDIA PAUSED AS AN INK BLOT OBSCURED AN ENTIRE LINE. THEN—Wickedpurpose and malignant mischief. What could not be achieved by valor was achieved by privation. But let us speak no more of it.

  India flipped to the next page, which was torn and splotched with ink.

  BLACK INK: In the lemon grove?

  RED INK: Such wild declarations! They touch me much more profoundly than is good for me. Surely you know how strong is my admiration, and how wrong it is of you to exact such a promise in the face of my circumstances. And why I must not see you again.

  BLACK INK: I will not apologize for my intemperate declarations, for they come from a place of tender and holy affection which I cannot live without.

  RED INK: Oh, it is all so hopeless! I am thinking of oleander leaves. Castor beans and foxglove leaves. Any one of them in a large enough dose ought to do the trick.

  The logs in the fireplace dropped and settled. India blinked. Were these two nameless lovers willing to face death, like Romeo and Juliet, rather than be apart? Or was one of them planning murder?

  BLACK INK: Or else a bottle of benzene and a match. Simple enough. Tell me when the deed is done.

  Another ink blot obscured the next line, leaving only two letters, AS, visible. India turned to the final entry.

  RED INK: Fire is bright. Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light leaps in the flame from cedar plank or weed. And love is fire. PS: I think he knows.

  Let temple burn. India reread the lines she recognized as one of Mrs. Browning’s famous sonnets. She stared at the scrawled initials, her heart pounding. AS. Was Amelia Sinclair the author of the entries in black? Did she have something to do with the fire in the chapel? And who was the “he” mentioned in the postscript?

  Be careful who you trust. India got up to add a log to the fire. She had thought Mrs. Catchpole was the one to guard against. But perhaps Amelia’s sweet smile and unfailing charm covered dark secrets. India hid the letter book in the bottom of her trunk until she could decide what to do about it.

  JANUARY 24

  India rode with Philip to the bluff to meet the steamer and collect the mail. Last night’s torrential rains had turned the road into muddy puddles that splashed onto the rig with every turn of the wheels. The sky remained overcast, the sea a muted gray broken only by the dark silhouette of a northbound steamer and a lone fishing boat lying at anchor closer to shore.

  Only four days remained until their return to Savannah. With the start of the trial set for January 30, every moment spent out of doors was precious to her, no matter the weather. India took a deep draught of cold air. St. Simons was a place of great beauty, but it demanded much of those who had chosen to remain. Living here among the ruins of war required tenacity, ingenuity, and a stubborn optimism when there was no reason to suppose things would improve. She stole a glance at Philip and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Warm enough?” He reached across to reposition the blanket that had fallen from her lap.

  “Not really, but we must be almost there. I can hear the saws at the mill buzzing.”

  He gestured with one gloved hand. “Just around the next bend.”

  Moments later they came within sight of the mill. Wagons were lined up outside a long shed. A fire burned in a barrel around which three or four men stood, warming their hands and smoking cheroots. Another group of men, faces and hands covered in fine sawdust, were stacking lumber on the new wharf in anticipation of the steamer’s arrival.

  Two men in woolen capes and hats emerged from a small building and headed for the wharf as the steamer rounded a bend and emerged from the gray mist. One of the men lifted a hand in greeting as they passed, and Philip called out, “Morning, boys. Cold enough for you?”

  The older of the two paused and peered into the rig. “I’ve seen worse. Oh, pardon me, I didn’t know you had a passenger with you. Morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Miss Hartley,” Philip said, “this is Mr. Hamilton.”

  The man tipped his hat. “I saw you at the boat races last week. I was sorry your playacting with the girls got interrupted. It was entertaining, what there was of it.”

  India nodded, wishing he would take his leave.

  “Well,” Philip said, “We’re just here to collect the mail. I’ll walk down to the wharf with you.”

  He got out of the rig before turning back to her. “I won’t be a minute.”

  India drew the blanket about her shoulders and watched the constant swarm of men and wagons and machines, listening to the whine of the saws and the occasional swear word as the men came and went.

 
Another rig drew up beside hers and a woman stepped out. She was tall and . . . substantial, India decided, with a proud bearing and a sharp gaze that seemed to miss nothing. India struggled to remember whether she had met this woman at the Christmas reception at Indigo Point or at the boat races, but if she had, she couldn’t recall.

  The woman bent to take a parcel from her rig and smiled at India as she straightened.

  “Well, I swan to gracious!” she said. “Isn’t that Mr. Sinclair’s rig?”

  “It is.”

  The woman bobbed her head. “Ruth Wheeler. My husband worked for Mr. Sinclair back in the day. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “India Hartley.”

  If the woman recognized the name she didn’t show it. “How do? Where is that precious man, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”

  “He’s just over there. Waiting for the mail.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I promised to return some books to my sister in Charleston.” Mrs. Wheeler indicated her parcel. “She left ’em here at Christmas and has been after me ever since to send ’em back. I never have known a person who sets such store by books.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be happy to have them back.”

  The woman continued to stare, her expression open and curious. “I always wondered when Mr. Sinclair would take himself another wife. ’Course I understand how tragic it was, losing her the way he did, but my gracious, that was years ago, and it’s time he should be happy again.”