by Dorothy Love
Mrs. Wheeler went on talking, but India’s mind had not moved past the woman’s erroneous assumptions and the stunning revelation that Philip had been married. Why had he never mentioned it?
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mrs. Wheeler. I’m only his . . .” India’s voice trailed away at the sight of Philip striding across the yard, his expression grim.
“Goodness, I must go,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “I don’t want to miss getting this parcel aboard the boat. I hope we meet again soon.”
She waved to Philip as they passed each other, then hurried toward the wharf.
Philip got into the rig and tossed a stack of mail at her feet. He slapped the reins and spoke more sharply to the horse than she thought necessary.
As they drove toward home, India chewed her lip, deep in thought. In her most unguarded moments she had allowed herself to dream of a future with him. Of a life they would build together. She had thought she knew his temperament and his passions. She had trusted him with her life’s story. But now he seemed like someone else. Someone she didn’t know at all. During the long sessions at Indigo Point when he had prepared for her trial, she had told him every detail about her life. And he had kept his secret. And now he was angry about something.
She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly into the blanket. “Is there something wrong?”
He indicated the stack of mail. “That thick packet on top is from the court in Savannah. Judge Bartlett will hear your case.”
“What happened to Judge Russell?”
“He’s taken ill.”
“What’s wrong with the other judge? Bartlett?”
“Bartlett is a tyrant in the courtroom.” Philip glanced at her. “Our job just became much more difficult, India.”
She struggled not to lose her breakfast. This news on top of Mrs. Wheeler’s startling revelation was almost more than she could bear. They rode the rest of the way in silence. When Philip drove into the yard, she got out without waiting for his assistance and hurried to her room.
Morning became afternoon. Dimly she heard Binah and Almarene going about their chores, and the muted chime of the dinner bell, but she was too sick at heart to eat a bite. As the afternoon waned she grew restless and went out again, walking along the footpath that paralleled the beach, and then, drawn by some nameless impulse, she cut across the stubbled grasses to the burned-out chapel.
The thick forest enveloped her, blocking out the thin winter light. As she neared the old ruin, the air grew heavy and still. India breathed in the scent of damp earth and the river—and a foul, dark odor like a breath from an old grave. The wind chilled her skin and soughed, ghostlike, in the trees.
She shivered. Hands in her pockets, she moved among the piles of rubble, looking for—what? She didn’t know. Something that would help her make sense of the mysterious lovers, the devastating fire, Philip’s hidden past, the disappearance of Binah’s sister Hannah June. The unoccupied room upstairs that seemed to be waiting for someone’s return. Perhaps it was her vivid imagination, her flair for theater, or plain old woman’s intuition, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something more than mere sentiment for a long-lost woman accounted for the locked door.
The ground gave slightly beneath her weight. With the toe of her boot, she dug into the damp, gray soil and unearthed a rusted door hinge, a broken iron cross, shards of colored glass. She knelt to examine delicate bits of amethyst, emerald, and crimson—remnants, no doubt, of the chapel’s stained-glass windows.
Voices sounded through the trees. Almarene and Binah came down the path. India crouched in the narrow space between the foundation and the chimney, holding her breath as they passed by, close enough that she could have touched them. When their voices faded, she got to her feet and spotted a faint gleam between two blackened bricks. India removed her glove and chipped at the metal until it came free. She brushed away a layer of dirt and ash and felt her breath catch. This was the remains of a necklace woven from fine strands of gold. A perfect match to the one Binah wore every day next to her heart.
Her mind racing, all senses on alert, India pocketed it and returned to the house as dusk was falling.
“India. There you are.” Philip stood in the doorway to the parlor as she entered the house. “I wondered where you’d gone. I apologize. I shouldn’t have upset you with my talk of Judge Bartlett.”
“It was unsettling.” But no more so than her discoveries of the past few days.
“We’ll be fine. I’ve tried cases in his courtroom before.”
“Did you win?” She removed her hat and gloves and slipped the necklace into her skirt pocket as she hung up her cloak.
He smiled. “Most of the time. I was just going over my notes, but Mrs. Catchpole has announced supper, and I don’t dare keep her waiting. It’s stew again, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right. I’m not very hungry.” She looked around. “Where is Amelia?”
“Finishing up a letter. My sister is an inveterate correspondent. I have trouble writing a proper note of condolence, but she can write pages and pages on almost any topic you care to name.”
He offered his arm, and they went into the dining room. Amelia ran lightly down the stairs and plopped into her chair. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You aren’t late quite yet,” Philip said as Mrs. Catchpole came in with the soup tureen. “But almost.”
Amelia grinned. “Where is Binah this evening?”
Mrs. Catchpole heaved a sigh. “Almarene was dragging around here like she was half dead and not doing a thing but gettin’ in my way, so I sent them both home. They ought to be grateful they have a way to earn money at all these days.”
Philip studied the housekeeper, one brow raised. “People in glass houses ought not to throw stones.”
The older woman spun on her heel. “I’ll be back with corn pone and butter.”
“Philip,” Amelia said when Mrs. Catchpole was out of earshot. “That was not a nice thing to say.”
“Perhaps not. But sometimes her attitude rubs me the wrong way.”
“Philip rescued her from a dire situation,” Amelia told India. “Her husband was a ferryman at Darien before the war. But he drank too much, and one night he went after her with a kitchen knife.” Amelia helped herself to a bowl of stew. “Philip heard about it and offered her a position here. She—”
Philip loudly cleared his throat just as the housekeeper reappeared with the rest of their simple meal. She banged a platter of cornbread and butter onto the table, followed by half of the buttermilk pie she had made for last evening’s meal. “Coffee’s not done yet. I’ll bring it in directly.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Catchpole,” he said.
While they ate, he described the plans for the resort, Mr. Dodge’s desire to expand the mill at Gascoigne Bluff, and the latest newspaper reports of progress on construction of the Brooklyn Bridge in New York.
He stopped midsentence as the coffee arrived, then set down his spoon and cocked his head at his sister. “Amelia. What’s the matter? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Yes, I did. The lumber mill needs to expand to keep up with demand now that Mr. Rock
efeller has organized his big oil company. Because Mr. Rockefeller wants to not only drill the oil, but control the transportation of it, which will demand the building of many railroad cars.” Amelia’s voice broke, and she looked away.
“All right,” her brother said. “You were listening after all. But something’s bothering you. Out with it.”
“It really has nothing to do with me. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” Amelia toyed with her spoon. “Mr. Lockwood rode over this afternoon from Butler’s Island and announced he’s leaving come spring.”
“Leaving Fan Butler’s employ? He only just started.”
“He’s leaving the island. Leaving Georgia. He’s going to Texas to work as a ranch hand.”
Philip laughed. “Surely he’s joking. Cuyler Lockwood, wrangling cattle?”
“He wants to join a cattle drive. Texas to Abilene, Kansas. He says it’ll be a grand adventure.”
“Perhaps it will be, at that,” Philip said. “Well, I wish him good luck.” He glanced at India. “You have been very quiet this evening.”
During the meal India had struggled to pay attention to the conversation. All she wanted was to escape upstairs to examine the fragment of the necklace she had uncovered, then decide what to do about it. “I’m sorry. Too much on my mind.”
At last, the pie and coffee finished, Philip retired to his study. Amelia and India went upstairs together.
At the door to her room, India paused. “For your sake, I am sorry to hear about Mr. Lockwood’s leaving. But that doesn’t mean he won’t return someday.”
“Oh, I don’t think he will,” Amelia said. “And I can’t blame him. There’s no future on this island for any of us.”
“Philip seems to think there’s reason for optimism.”
“Perhaps in the distant future, but not in my lifetime.” Amelia shrugged. “I’m stuck here. I have the worst luck in the world when it comes to love. I always fall for the wrong man.”
India thought again of the anonymous love notes. Had Amelia written them?
Amelia sighed. “Please excuse me. I’m suddenly very tired.”
“Of course.” India went into her room and lit the lamp. She poured water into the washbasin and gently scrubbed away the dirt and ash from the necklace. It lay in the palm of her hand, glittering in the lamplight, a tantalizing piece of the strange puzzle that was Indigo Point.
India waited an hour after she heard Mrs. Catchpole’s step on the stair before opening her door and peering into the dim hallway. No light showed beneath the housekeeper’s door, nor beneath Amelia’s. Tiptoeing to the opposite end of the gallery, India peered over the stair railing. The door to the study was slightly ajar. Philip was still at his desk, his head bent to his work.
In her stocking feet, India crept to the shrine room and turned the knob. The door was locked. She returned to her room for her largest hat pin, then went to work on the lock, a trick she had learned while living at the boarding house in New Orleans.
“What are you doing?”
India whirled around, her heart hammering. “Amelia! You scared the daylights out of me.”
“Apparently so.” Amelia, in her white linen night dress, her hair unbound, feet bare, stood in the hallway, ethereal as a ghost.
“I . . . I was looking for my hat pin.” India spoke calmly and felt her heartbeat slowing. She was an actress. After all, her ability to control every inflection, every gesture, was her stock in trade. She held up her hat pin. “It was a gift from my father, and I was worried I’d lost it when I went out this afternoon. But here it is, and I’m so sorry I disturbed your sleep.” India moved toward her room. “Now that it’s found, I can sleep. Good night.”
She closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. Another hour passed. Philip came up to bed. India heard him moving about his room, the opening and closing of wardrobe doors, the thud of his boots hitting the wooden plank floor, and finally the creak of the bed frame as he settled for the night.
After her close call with Amelia, India was on edge, every muscle tensed, her ears attuned to the slightest sound. She waited in the darkness until the wee hours of the morning. Satisfied that all were asleep at last, she took up her hat pin and returned to the locked door. It took only moments before she felt the lock move with a soft click. She turned the knob, and the door swung open.
The room was just as it was the first time she was here. Candles guttered in their red glass globes. The ball gown waited on the neatly made bed, the white kid shoes on the floor. The reliquary necklace rested atop the Bible.
Outside, the January wind rose, rattling the tree branches that scraped against the window. A deep silence descended. India felt as if she had entered some unholy place. Taking up the tallest of the candles, she stepped closer to the portrait hanging above the fireplace. The woman had been painted wearing the opulent gown now lying on the bed. Her delicate white hands were folded gracefully on her lap, her full lips curved upward in a slight smile. Her only jewelry, a silver reliquary on a black ribbon, rested in the hollow of her throat. Her hair was arranged into a perfect cascade of pale gold curls. Blue eyes gazed uncertainly into the middle distance, as if the woman feared giving too much away.
She was undeniably lovely, but something about her expression filled India with deep unease. It was possible, of course, that time had darkened the portrait and the artist hadn’t intended his subject to look so forbidding.
India moved even closer to the portrait, trying to remember where she had seen those eyes.
CHAPTER 14
THE DOOR BEHIND HER BURST OPEN. INDIA WHIRLED around, the candlestick still in her hand.
“Harlot! Get out! Get out!” The housekeeper advanced on India, a kitchen knife in one hand. The blade gleamed in the candlelight. “You have no right to sully this room.”
India’s heart kicked against her ribs, but she spoke calmly and took a step back. “Mrs. Catchpole. Please put that knife down. I mean no harm.”
The older woman released a harsh laugh. “All you’ve done since you got here is harm. It ends now.”
“What harm have I done?” India glanced over the housekeeper’s shoulder, praying that Amelia or Philip had heard the noise and would come to investigate.
“Oh, you know well enough. Tryin’ to make Mr. Sinclair fall in love with you.” Mrs. Catchpole’s pale eyes went to the portrait on the wall. “Tryin’ to take her place.”
“I’m not trying to take anyone’s place. Mr. Sinclair is my lawyer. It was completely his idea to bring me here. I’m grateful to him but I—”
“Liar! Shut up. Just shut up!” The housekeeper lunged, brandishing the knife like a sword. Instinctively, India raised one hand to defend herself and felt the blade slice through the underside of her forearm. She cried out as blood gushed from the wound and dripped off her elbow and onto her skirt.
The woman raised the knife again. India ducked and the candlestick fell from her hand. Caught off balance, Mrs. Catchpole tumbled onto the little forest of candles burning on the table before the fireplace. Her nightclothes went up in a whoosh of flame. She screamed.
“Fire!” India ran down the hallway and grabbe
d the water pitcher from her own room.
Philip and Amelia rushed into the hallway with buckets of sand.
“What’s happened?” Philip asked.
India ran back to the room where the housekeeper had managed to roll onto the floor, smothering the flames. But her nightgown had burned away, leaving a mass of crimson blisters on her back. She was half conscious and moaning.
Philip lifted Mrs. Catchpole and carried her to her room at the far end of the gallery, then headed to the kitchen for medical supplies. Amelia ran back to her room for more water and linens. Together she and India gently peeled away the burned fabric and applied cold compresses to the older woman’s burned flesh.
India wasn’t squeamish, but she felt suddenly boneless and lightheaded. She swayed on her feet.
“Dear Lord!” Amelia helped India to a chair. “You’re bleeding. What on earth happened in there?”
Philip returned with salve and bandages. Amelia took them from his hands and said, “I’ll finish with Mrs. Catchpole. Look after India.”
India had begun to tremble and couldn’t seem to stop. She was only dimly aware of being led to her room and of Philip’s gentle fingers as he knelt before her and cleaned the wound. He went to Mrs. Catchpole’s room and soon returned with salve, bandages, and a glass of amber liquid.
“Here. Drink this.” He held a glass of brandy to her lips, and she swallowed a sip. The alcohol burned all the way down, but it soon quelled the worst of her trembling.
He brushed her tangle of curls off her face. “Feeling better?”
“A little.”
Amelia came in, drying her hands on a towel. “I’ve given Mrs. Catchpole a dose of laudanum. There’s nothing more to be done. She should sleep until morning.”
