A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “But I’ll miss all the fun.”

  “Francesca Mackay—”

  “Uh-oh.” Frannie sighed and said to India, “When Mama calls me Francesca, I have to go.”

  She scampered across the room and up the curving staircase.

  India watched her go, a longing for the kind of life and family Mrs. Mackay enjoyed building inside her. But it was not to be. Not now.

  Mrs. Mackay filled a plate and passed it to India. “Philip told me he had you removed from the hospital while he looked for a witness.”

  India ate a bite of the sandwich and dabbed at her lips with a heavy damask napkin. “Yes, the experience was something straight from a dime novel.” She briefly described Mr. Lockwood’s rescue and her three days on Isle of Hope. “Then Philip showed up there early this morning and said he’d found the person he’d been seeking.”

  Mrs. Mackay gave a brief nod. “He told me he’d found Laura. After all this time. I’ve known Philip for years, and I must say I’ve never seen him so undone.” Her violet eyes sought India’s. “He loved her so. This discovery has cost him dearly.”

  “I’m sorry to have been the cause of it.”

  “Laura always was mercurial, hard to figure out. She was quite beautiful, but she seemed not to trust herself.” Mrs. Mackay stared into the dancing firelight. “Perhaps it comes from her upbringing. Her father was a baker, and they lived modestly here in town. But Laura planned to rise above her station in life. She met Philip during a Christmas celebration one year and set her cap for him. I think he was intrigued because she was so different from the others in our circle. She was happy enough when they lived in the city, but she was miserable at Indigo Point, and she made sure Philip knew it.”

  Recalling the notes she’d found, India nodded. Laura Sinclair had not been cut out to be a planter’s wife. Especially when the war had decimated everything and all the planters struggled to hold onto their falling-down houses and worn-out fields. Clearly Laura’s marriage to Philip had deteriorated.

  But what about now? Did he still love her? How would he cope with such utter betrayal? Loss could bring a person down as surely as a fever, leaving permanent scars upon the heart.

  A sudden pounding on the door startled them. Before Mrs. Whipple could reach the door, it opened, and two uniformed policemen barged in. The older one, a man with graying hair and a slight paunch, strode into the parlor. “Miss Hartley. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

  Celia frowned. “Whatever for, Officer? Miss Hartley will appear in court whenever it’s required. And I must say I do not appreciate your invading my home like this.”

  A loud chorus of angry voices filtered in from the street. India peered out the window. A crowd had gathered outside the front gate, brandishing signs that read Justice Is Blind, and No Favoritism in Savannah’s Courts.

  The younger officer jerked his thumb. “That’s why, Miz Mackay. Word is out that Miss Hartley here is back in town. Judge Bartlett has been delayed and can’t meet until tomorrow. He told us to fetch the prisoner. He can’t afford to give the appearance of favoring one defendant over another.”

  “India?” Philip strode into the hallway. He had changed his clothes, and now he looked every inch the lawyer—competent, controlled, detached.

  He took her hand. “I’m sorry about this, but it can’t be helped. And it’s best not to defy the judge’s wishes.” He turned to the officers. “I’ll see that she reports to the jail.”

  The younger one looked uncertain. “We were told to fetch her, but if you say so, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Celia briefly embraced India, who followed Philip outside. With the officers riding right behind them, Philip handed India into his rig. “Can you bear another night in the county jail?”

  “I suppose I have to.”

  “Fabienne will bring you a change of clothes. And Dr. Webb will be by to check on your head wound.” His voice softened. “You gave me quite a scare when you fell. I was afraid you were seriously hurt. After all you’ve been through, I don’t think I could stand to see anything else happen to you.”

  “The shock of a guilty verdict was too much to take. I was counting on Colonel Culpepper’s testimony to win my case. Obviously they didn’t believe him.”

  “Judge Bartlett believes in going strictly by the book. Which may work in our favor tomorrow.” He flicked the reins. “Let’s go.”

  India sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap. She had allowed herself to hope that Philip Sinclair might one day become the love of her heart. The one she’d waited a lifetime to find. They’d known each other for such a short time, but already she loved his fine mind, his patience, and his quiet confidence. His humor and his faith in the law. But he was not hers. He could never be hers.

  She thought of the day at Indigo Point when he’d saved her from the cottonmouth, the day they’d found a single rose blooming in Mrs. King’s abandoned garden, the day he’d returned from Savannah bearing a plum pudding because she had expressed a fondness for it. She recalled the shock and concern in his eyes when Mrs. Catchpole had attacked her with the knife. She had hoped it meant something intimate and personal, but theirs was only a professional friendship, with Mrs. Mackay paying the bill.

  India shifted on the hard seat as the rig jostled along the street. His concern for her was nothing more than that of a lawyer for his client. And now that he had found his wife alive after believing her dead . . . well, India could only imagine what he must be feeling. Confusion, most certainly, but surely profound relief too.

  Another few moments brought them to the jail, and India saw with dismay that another crowd of reporters and townspeople had assembled to witness her return. Philip halted the rig.

  “Are you ready?”

  She felt vulnerable, as if her skin had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a mass of exposed nerves, but she stood and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply—a trick she’d learned years ago to calm her stage fright. “I’m ready.”

  The crowd surged toward her as they exited the rig.

  “Miss Hartley!” A reporter with a protruding belly and gin blossoms on his cheeks thrust his notebook into her face. “How did you escape from the hospital? Where have you been hiding?”

  “India! Over here!” Another reporter pushed through the crowd. “How does it feel to be found guilty of murder?”

  Philip shoved him aside. “Let us pass, please.”

  “Mr. Sinclair,” the reporter persisted. “I assume you’ll file an appeal. What are her chances of avoiding the gallows?”

  “Much better than your chances of avoiding a collision with my fists if you don’t get out of the way.” Philip tightened his grip on her hand. They pushed through the crush of onlookers and he led her into the jail.

  “I hate leaving you here,” he said, “but it’s only for one night. I’ll be in my office all night, so send word there if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  “An officer will be there in the morning to escort you to the courthouse.”

  “All right.”

  He let out a gusty sigh. “I know this has been a nightmare. But it’s almost over.”r />
  She wanted to believe him, but she was afraid now to hope. “How can you be so sure?”

  An officer appeared, nodded to Philip, and snapped the manacles around her wrists. “Come along, miss.”

  With a backward glance at Philip, she followed the officer down the dank and smelly corridor. Back to the same cell where she’d been held during the trial.

  The officer swung open the door and motioned her inside. He removed the shackles and indicated a tray sitting beside the cot. “Mr. Sinclair said he was bringing you in, so I had some food sent over. It’s probably cold as a witch’s . . . well, let’s just say it’s cold, but still edible, I expect.”

  She rubbed her wrists and pressed a hand to the bandage on her head. The last thing she wanted was more jailhouse food. But he had taken special pains to procure it. “Thank you, Officer.”

  “Sure.” He stepped out, and the cell door clanged shut. “For what it’s worth, miss, I sure am sorry for the way Savannah has treated you. Of course a man’s romantic proclivities are rarely justification for murder, but it was no secret that Mr. Sterling collected female admirers the way some people collect coins. He had plenty of enemies in this town, but now that he’s dead they’re trying to make him into some kind of saint.” He shook his head. “It ain’t right.”

  “I appreciate your saying so.”

  “It’s the truth.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “All I can say is, I hope that new witness clears things up for you.”

  She sank onto the cot. “I hope so too.”

  “Well, you just rest now, and call for me if you need anything.”

  He turned away, his footfalls heavy on the wooden floor. India dropped onto the lumpy mattress and closed her eyes. After three nights of trying to sleep on the floor of the fish camp, she was grateful for the relative comfort of the rudimentary cot. Despite the noise of other occupants, the slamming of doors, the hollow echo of footsteps, India slept until Fabienne’s voice woke her.

  “Mamselle.”

  India sat up, blinking in the dim light.

  Fabienne regarded her with sorrowful eyes. The infectious joy that usually animated her lovely features was gone. “I brought your things from Mrs. Mackay’s.” She indicated a policeman India hadn’t seen before. “The officer has them.”

  “Thank you, Fabienne.”

  The young Frenchwoman stifled a sob. “Forgive me, mamselle. I did not wish to speak against you, but that lawyer gave me a paper and said that I—”

  “It’s all right. Mr. Sinclair explained it to me. I know you meant no harm.”

  Fabienne pulled an envelope from her pocket and slid it through the bars. “It’s the money you left for me when you went away. I think you must need it more than I do.”

  India smiled. “I wish you’d keep it. You earned it. And besides, my bills are being paid by a friend. One I didn’t even realize I had.”

  Fabienne sniffed. “You are certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “Merçi, mamselle. Tomorrow I will—”

  “Miss.” The officer stepped forward. “This is a jail, and visiting hours are over. I expect you ought to go now.”

  “All right.” Fabienne pressed both her palms against the bars. “Good-bye, Mamselle. You must not worry. Le Bon Dieu will protect you.”

  She hurried away. The officer unlocked the cell and handed India her clothes. “Doc Webb is on his way over. The judge is worried about that head of yours.”

  Just then the doctor arrived, accompanied by Officer Avery. The policeman barely nodded to India as he unlocked her cell and waved the doctor inside.

  “Please be seated.” The doctor indicated the cot, and India sat.

  He began unwrapping the bandage, tugging gently to release the linen from the dried blood on her hair. He whistled softly. “That’s quite a gash you’ve got there. But it seems to be doing all right.”

  He took a brown bottle of liquid from his medical bag and dabbed some onto a clean cloth. “This is apt to sting a little.”

  India sucked in a sharp breath as the antiseptic hit her wounded flesh. She clenched her teeth as tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Sorry. But we don’t want sepsis to set in.”

  He applied salve and covered the wound with a clean bandage. “That ought to do it. Be sure to keep that dry.”

  “I will.”

  The doctor called for the guard, and soon India was left alone again.

  She pictured Philip in his office across town and was struck anew at the thought that his wife was still alive and that she might be India’s last chance for freedom.

  CHAPTER 23

  JUDGE BARTLETT STRODE INTO HIS CHAMBERS, BLACK robes billowing. With a curt nod to those assembled he sat down behind his desk and folded his hands. “This had better be good, Mr. Sinclair, because I am very close to throwing the book at you for harboring a fugitive”—he broke off and glared at India—“and for thwarting the prerogatives of this court. You’ll be lucky not to be disbarred.”

  “Begging your pardon, Judge.” Philip rose and placed a hand on the back of India’s chair. “Technically Miss Hartley is not a fugitive, and technically I was not the one who removed her to a place of safety in order to ensure that justice is done.”

  Philip glanced at Mr. McLendon before returning his attention to Judge Bartlett. “Before this day is done, you will thank me for this.”

  “Oh? What for?”

  “For preserving your perfect record of never having been reversed on appeal.”

  “A jury declared her guilty.”

  “Because you refused to declare a mistrial despite the strong possibility there was a second shot in the theater that night.”

  The judge waved his hand. “All right. Now, is the new witness prepared to give a statement?”

  “Yes, sir.” Philip motioned to a police officer stationed inside the judge’s door.

  The officer disappeared and returned with a woman dressed in a simple blue day dress, her face half hidden by an enormous feathered hat anchored by two large pearl hat pins.

  India gripped the arms of her chair and forced air into her lungs. Here was the very same woman India had seen loitering in the hallway at the theater wearing a distinctive purple cloak. The cloak India had discovered hanging on the hall tree in Arthur Sterling’s house on Isle of Hope.

  The officer showed her to a seat opposite the judge’s gleaming wooden desk.

  “State your name, please.” The judge opened a ledger and took up his pen.

  “Laura Sinclair.”

  The prosecutor came upright in his chair and grabbed his file.

  “Now, Mrs. Sinclair,” the judge began. “You are not on trial, but you are bound to tell the truth here just as you would be in court. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded, and India noted how her hands trembled.

  “All right. Suppose you tell me what you know about the incident in the Southern Palace Theater last December.”

  “I went to the theater that night, but I wasn’t intending to hurt anyone. Not when I first arri
ved. I only wanted to talk to Arthur . . . Mr. Sterling . . . to ask him about . . . a personal matter.”

  “And were you able to do so?”

  “No. He wouldn’t speak to me. He told me he was too busy. But then I noticed he had plenty of time for Miss Bryson. She is . . . was . . . Miss Hartley’s understudy. Something came over me then, and I knew I’d have to do something drastic to make him tell me why he no longer loved me.”

  Beside India, Philip made a small noise in his throat. But his face was a mask of professional objectivity as the judge motioned to Laura to continue.

  “That night, before the show, I was waiting for Arthur in the hallway, and I heard Mr. Philbrick telling him he wanted Miss Hartley to pretend to shoot Arthur on stage, because he thought the play was too dull to impress an important critic.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Arthur spoke with Miss Hartley. He joked with her about wanting to do him harm because he had upstaged her on opening night. When he left, I followed him to his dressing room, where I saw him kissing that tart Miss Bryson. After giving him five years of my life!” Her voice broke, but she gathered herself. “I knew then that his affections were not true. I couldn’t bear it. Not after everything I had done in order to be with him.”

  India thought of the red notebook filled with love notes. The burned chapel, the missing slave girl. The gold necklace she’d found amid the ashes. Did Philip believe her theory now? She stole a glance at him, but his expression was unreadable.

  Laura Sinclair looked up at the judge. “May I have a glass of water?”

  The officer poured from a pitcher sitting on a table behind the judge’s desk and handed the cup to her. She sipped and went on.

  “I knew Miss Hartley kept a gun in her trunk in the trap room.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The day of the dress rehearsal, I came to speak to Arthur. I was standing near the trap room when Miss Hartley came in to get some more hairpins from her trunk. She had to take out several smaller boxes to find them, and that’s when I saw the gun.”