by Dorothy Love
Mrs. Mackay knelt beside her beloved companion. “You seem to have made another friend, Maxwell. But don’t make a nuisance of yourself, you hear?”
The dog thumped his tail against the floor. She rose. “If he gets to be too much trouble just let me know, and I’ll send him back to the kitchen.”
“We’ll be fine. And thank you again for taking me in. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the hotel to face those reporters.”
Mrs. Mackay’s face clouded. “That lot never knows when to back away. Please excuse me. I must see to Frannie.”
“Of course.”
The door closed. India removed her hat, her shoes, and her stockings and dropped onto the woolen rug beside the old dog. He snuggled next to her as if he had known her forever, his breath warm on her cheek, and she felt the tensions of the day drain away. She draped one arm across his chest and closed her eyes. Someday, when she was settled, she would get a dog of her own. “Won’t that be grand, Maxwell?”
He licked her hand as if to agree before they both fell asleep.
CHAPTER 25
FEBRUARY 7
INDIA WOKE TO FRANNIE’S FRETFUL CRIES AND THE awful sound of retching. She sat up in bed and blinked, waiting for her head to clear. Sometime in the night, Maxwell had retired to a spot on the hearth, and she had climbed into bed without bothering to unpin her hair.
Now the fire was out, and a thin shaft of gray morning light fell across the counterpane.
“Mama!” Frannie’s cries grew louder.
India pulled her dress over her head and hurried along the darkened hallway in her bare feet. Passing Mrs. Mackay’s room, she saw her hostess huddled over the chamber pot, her dark hair hanging like a curtain across her face.
“I couldn’t make it to the water closet.” Celia’s face was white as a winding sheet.
“What can I do to help?”
Celia wiped her mouth. “If you could see to Frannie for a moment—”
“Of course.”
India pushed open the door to the child’s room to find that Frannie had soiled her sheets. Tears shimmered in the child’s violet eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Let me help you.”
India stripped off the child’s soiled nightdress and removed the dirty linens from the bed. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She followed Frannie into the bathing room. Frannie spun a handle and warm water gushed into the tub. India found soap and towels, and while Frannie bathed, she returned to the child’s room to find a clean nightgown and made the bed with clean linens.
By the time she had settled Frannie into bed again, Celia was returning from emptying the chamber pot. She made it to the top of the stairs before her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the floor.
India helped her to her feet. “Shall I run a bath for you?”
“Please. I am too weak to move.”
While Celia bathed, India went downstairs and rummaged for tea and crackers. When the tea was ready, she took a tray upstairs. Celia was able to take a few sips, but Frannie pushed her cup away. “I don’t want any.”
“Would you like me to read to you?”
“No. I want my papa,” Frannie said.
“I know just how you feel.” India drew a chair closer to the bed. “Papas are the best at telling stories, aren’t they?”
Frannie nodded. “My papa knows a million stories.”
“A million? My goodness. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who knows that many. What’s your favorite?”
“The Black Pearl Pirate and the Ghost Ship of Spain.”
“That does sound exciting. Maybe you could tell it to me when you feel better.”
“I guess so.” Frannie shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
“Tell me where the wood is kept, and I’ll make a fire for you.”
“In the shed behind the old carriage house. But watch out for spiders and mice and ghosts.”
India checked on Celia, who seemed to be sleeping, and hurried out to the woodshed. Back inside, she laid fires in both the bedrooms. Soon the rooms glowed with warm light.
While Celia and Frannie slept, India tended to her own toilette and went downstairs. She made herself a pot of tea and ate a cold biscuit with strawberry jam. In the chilly library she opened the curtains to the gray February light and browsed the shelves for something to read.
But it was impossible to concentrate. She could think of nothing but Philip. She had become accustomed to his presence and his voice. At Indigo Point she had known when he was watching her, and she thought of him in the quiet hours before sleep when the old plantation house lay dark and still beside the sea. But she had seen the bruised look he’d given Laura in the judge’s chambers. Whatever Laura might have done had not been enough to completely extinguish his feelings for her.
India thumbed through a stack of ladies’ magazines and read at random from a poetry book until the afternoon had come and gone and the long shadows of another winter evening fell across the square. When the French mantel clock chimed the hour, she made her way back to the kitchen. Surely Celia and Frannie would wake soon, feeling better and hungry for something more substantial than tea and crackers.
Rummaging in the bins, she found potatoes, carrots, onions, and a few turnips and set about chopping them for soup. When that was done, it took several tries to get the cook stove going, but at last the pot began to bubble, sending the steamy fragrance of simmering vegetables into the room. In the bread bin she found half a loaf. She sliced it and fanned the slices onto a tray. She filled the teakettle and set it on to boil.
When everything was ready, she went upstairs to check on her charges. Frannie had soiled her bed again and was huddled in the corner clutching her porcelain doll, her little face streaked with tears.
“Stay put,” India said softly. “I’ll check on your mama, and then I’ll be back to look after you.”
She slipped into Celia’s room across the hall and stopped short. Celia was lying atop the covers, her nightgown soaked with sweat. Her cheeks were mottled and red, her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell with her shallow, labored breaths.
“Celia?” India chafed Celia’s hand, but her hostess didn’t move.
It was time to get a doctor.
India returned to Frannie’s room and rushed to change the bed and bathe the little girl. She returned her to her bed and tucked the doll in beside the sad-eyed child.
“Where’s Mama?” Frannie whispered. “I’m scared.”
“I won’t lie to you, Frannie. I’m scared too. Your mama needs a doctor. Do you know his name? Where he lives?”
Frannie shook her head, her damp hair fanned out on the fresh linen pillowcase.
“What about Mrs. Whipple? Where can I find her?”
“I don’t know.” Frannie rubbed her eyes. “Uncle Philip prob’ly knows.”
“That’s a good idea. Where does he live?”
“In a big white house. On Abercorn Street. It’s not far.”
India remembered seeing Abercorn on her carriage ride
s to and from the Mackays’, an easy walk from here. “Listen, Frannie. I’m going to have to leave you here for a moment while I find him. Can you stay right here with your doll until I get back?”
“Can Maxwell come in?”
“Sure. I bet he’d love to hear one of your stories while I’m gone.”
“No he won’t. He’s too old. He falls asleep all the time. But I still want him.”
India coaxed the old yellow dog into the child’s room. “I’ll be right back.”
She grabbed her hat and cloak and hurried down the darkening street. A chill wind blew between the buildings, flickering the flames in the gaslights just coming on. A few rigs and carriages trundled along the streets. India found Abercorn and in the growing darkness, tried to figure out which of the big white houses might belong to Philip Sinclair. She was just about to knock on a door to ask when she saw a gaslight coming on down the block, illuminating a small neat sign announcing the Law Offices of Philip Sinclair.
She ran the rest of the way and lifted the heavy brass door knocker. She called his name and knocked again. She heard footsteps, the slow turn of the doorknob. And there he stood, looking so disheveled that at first she nearly didn’t recognize him. His hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. His shirttail draped over a pair of rumpled trousers with a stain on one knee.
“India.” His voice was slow and raspy. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
She frowned. “Are you inebriated?”
“What if I am? Who has a better right?”
His pain was palpable, and India knew its source. The wife returned from the grave. Her heart hurt for him. She longed to comfort him, but Celia was in trouble.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but Mrs. Mackay is deathly ill with a fever, and Frannie is sick too. The housekeeper is away just now, and Frannie doesn’t know the doctor’s name. I didn’t know anyone else to ask.”
He seemed to sober up instantly. “Dr. Robbins looks after them. He lives just down the block.” He pointed it out. “In the terra cotta house on the corner. I’d go for him myself but I’m hardly in a shape to appear in public.”
“I can go.” She turned away. “Take care of yourself, Philip.”
“Wait.” He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to her hair. “I’m sorry you’ve found me in such a state.”
“It’s all right. After all of the risks you took for me, it’s unlikely I’d question anything you do.” She drew back to look up into his shadowed face. “Besides, you’ve had a great shock.”
“Yes, and I want to tell you about it. But not tonight. Celia needs you.”
He stood on the porch. “I’ll watch from here to be sure you get there safely.”
She could feel his eyes on her as she hurried down the street. When she reached the doctor’s house, she rang the bell and turned just in time to see Philip closing the door.
CHAPTER 26
FEBRUARY 16
“MAMA, ANOTHER LADY HAS COME CALLING.” KNEELING on the settee beneath the window, Frannie Mackay peered out at the gray winter afternoon, her nose pressed to the glass. “I think it’s Mrs. Quarterman.”
“Alicia’s here?” A smile lit Celia’s face. She was recovered but still pale after her weeklong illness. She had lost a bit of weight, too, but India could see that this morning’s social calls had pleased her. “You may stay to say hello, Frannie, and then I want you to go upstairs and work on your lessons. You are frightfully behind, and you know Miss Finlay will be cross if you are unprepared for your recitations.”
“I know. That’s what Grandmama said too.”
Celia’s mother-in–law, Cornelia Mackay, had arrived first thing this morning and spent an hour chatting with them and playing a game with Frannie. The elder Mrs. Mackay had added her own apology for the trouble India had experienced in Savannah and expressed the hope that she and all of the theater patrons would one day have another chance to see an India Hartley play.
No sooner had Mrs. Mackay’s carriage departed than another took its place, and a Mrs. Bennett came in, her cheeks pink from the February wind, her eyes bright with happy news. Her husband, Dr. Wade Bennett, had just been named head of the Philadelphia Medical College.
“Of course this means I have to live among the Yankees,” she said, taking up her teacup. “But at least Wade and I will have our summers on Pawley’s Island.” She smiled at India. “Are you a beach fancier, Miss Hartley?”
“I am. Though I never get to spend much time there.”
“Then perhaps you’ll visit us at Osprey Cottage. It isn’t in the best repair these days, but it’s a dear old place. My husband proposed to me there.”
Minutes later, she departed for a committee meeting at the circulating library.
Now, India rose from her chair once again as Mrs. Whipple announced Alicia Thayer Quarterman, who swooped Frannie into a bear hug and set her down again before crossing the room to embrace Celia.
“My dear. I am heartbroken that I was not in town last week when you needed me. Some friend I am! Are you quite recovered?”
Celia motioned to Frannie to go upstairs and smiled at Alicia. “I think so. India brought Dr. Robbins to the rescue and proved herself as adept at nursing as she is at acting.”
Alicia beamed at India. “I read in the paper that your verdict is to be set aside. You must be terrifically relieved.”
“I am.” India resumed her seat.
Alicia took the seat opposite her and arranged her silk skirts just so. Mrs. Whipple came in to serve more tea, then withdrew, shutting the doors behind her. Alicia lifted her cup and sipped. “If there is anything more civilized than hot tea on a cold winter’s day, I’m sure I don’t know what it is.” She leaned over to peer at the tray of sweets the housekeeper had left. “Celia, by any chance are those benne seed cookies?”
“They are. Mrs. Whipple makes them even when Sutton isn’t here, because we enjoy them so. Our old housekeeper—rest her soul—gave Mrs. Whipple the recipe. But somehow they never taste quite the same as Mrs. Maguire’s.”
Alicia popped a cookie into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “They’re still quite good, though.” She took another sip of tea. “What news have you of that handsome husband of yours?”
“I had a letter yesterday, written upon his arrival in Jamaica. He seems pleased with the way the manager has taken care of things in his absence, but you know Sutton,” Celia said with a fond smile. “He likes to be in the thick of things.”
Alicia whooped. “That’s an understatement.” She turned to India. “Did Celia tell you Sutton became one of the most important blockade runners during the war?”
“No. We’ve had little time for conversation these past days. But during the war I read about the blockade runners in the Northern newspapers.”
“Sutton Mackay nearly got his posterior shot off more than once, running medical supplies in here from Nassau,” Mrs. Quarterman said. “Lots of people across Georgia would have died if not for Sutton’s bravery and skill. The state of Georgia wanted to give him a medal. But he won’t accept a word of praise for it.”
“He saw it as his duty,” Celia said to India. “On our honeymoon we went to Liverp
ool to have his boat built.”
“I’m sure it was terribly romantic,” Alicia said with a wry grin. “Keeping company with a bunch of rough men in a shipyard in the dead of winter.”
Celia laughed. “It was, actually. Sutton has always made me feel a part of everything he does. I couldn’t have married a man who expected to put me on a pedestal and leave me there, seen and not heard.”
“Not likely, my dear. You are one of the most outspoken women I’ve ever met. But enough of that.” Alicia turned to India. “Tell me, Miss Hartley, when will you resume your stage career?”
India set down her cup and smoothed her skirt. “I’m not sure that I can. Given my notoriety now, I would prove too great a distraction. It wouldn’t be fair to the other players.”
Celia Mackay studied her guest, her violet eyes intent upon India’s face. “But my dear, the theater is your life.”
“It was. But I suppose now I shall have to learn another trade. Or work in a shop. It isn’t what I would choose, but it’s respectable work.”
Alicia Quarterman’s brows rose. “I hardly think someone of your stature can be happy in a shop.” She turned to face her friend. “Celia, we must think of something. If not for Miss Hartley’s scandalous treatment here in Savannah, she wouldn’t be in this fix. It’s our duty to right the wrong that has been done.”
“You’re very kind,” India said. “But I suppose in the same circumstances I would have been blamed regardless of where it happened.”
Alicia waved one bejeweled hand. “You could write a book. Not about the trial, of course, though I suppose certain people would certainly want to read about it. I’m talking about your life in the theater. Growing up on the stage in London must have been exciting and glamorous.”
India smiled. “There were moments of excitement when Father and I performed together at the Prince of Wales Theater or at the Lyceum.” She paused, remembering. “Lady Bancroft and I made our stage debuts at the Lyceum in the same season. Though of course she was Miss Wilton back then. But a life in the theater is much less glamorous than most people suppose. It’s a frantic life really, running from rehearsals to performances, keeping late hours, and sleeping with one eye open so as not to be robbed of your hard-earned pay.”
