by Dorothy Love
“You see?” Alicia said. “Fascinating. Such a book would surely prove very popular.”
“Oh, I don’t have the talent or the organizational skills to take on the writing of a book,” India said. “My education was fairly haphazard after my aunt died. My father taught me all about running a theater company, thinking that one day the company he founded would be mine. But now I have no company to manage.”
Celia came upright on her chair, her eyes glowing. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”
She got up and began pacing back and forth in front of the black marble fireplace, her skirts whispering on the thick carpet. “It’s the perfect solution, especially now that Mr. Philbrick will be going away.”
“Celia Mackay, will you slow down?” Alicia said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“India should take over management of the Southern Palace. Nobody in Savannah has her background or her experience in the theater. Why should the owners bring in someone else when we already have the perfect person to do it?” Celia stopped pacing and beamed at India. “Mr. Kennedy is the co-owner of the theater, and he sits right behind me every week in his pew at St. Johns. I shall introduce you to him this coming Sunday.”
India felt a stirring of hope. She was capable of the job, if the people of Savannah were willing to give her a chance. She thought again of her ill-fated little acting troupe on St. Simons. Despite the resistance she had encountered there, she still believed that exposing children to the world of plays and stories was a good idea. Back in London, her father’s friend Mrs. Cons had a dream to use the arts to improve the lives of the poor. Suppose India arranged entertainments at the Southern Palace to support such endeavors? That would be worth doing.
“Well, India?” Celia said. “Will you allow me to present you to Mr. Kennedy? He can seem awfully gruff at times, but that’s mostly because he’s preoccupied with all his business interests.”
“You must say yes,” Alicia Quarterman said, pulling on her kid gloves. “It’s the only way we can repair the damage that was done.” She pecked Celia’s cheek. “I’m glad you are recovered, and I wish I could stay longer. But I must go. I’m terribly late to my appointment with the dressmaker.”
Celia laughed. “Heaven forbid you should keep Mrs. Foyle waiting.”
Alicia headed for the door. “No need to see me out, Celia. I know the way, and you must conserve your strength. You have a big job to do on Sunday, convincing Mr. Kennedy to hire Miss Hartley.”
She reached the door just as the bell sounded. She called back to Celia, “I’ll get it.”
A moment later, Philip Sinclair entered the parlor.
India’s heart lurched. He was impeccably dressed, his eyes clear, and his molasses-colored hair, still damp from his morning ablutions, curled about his starched collar.
“Mercy’s sake, Philip,” Celia said, crossing the room to greet him. “I wondered what had become of you. Frannie’s been asking for you all week.”
He kissed Celia’s cheek. “I’ve been in court all week. I just came from Judge Bartlett’s chambers and wanted to tell India the good news.”
India stilled and looked up at him, her expression calm, hoping her acting skills would be enough to prevent his knowing how glad she was to see him. “My record has been expunged?”
“As of this morning. Mr. McLendon was as good as his word and filed the necessary papers with the court. Judge Bartlett has vacated your sentence. Your record is clear.”
Though she had expected this news at some point, the reality of it brought the sting of tears to her eyes. Finally, in the eyes of the law at least, the entire episode was erased. The court of public opinion however was something altogether different.
“I can never repay you for everything you’ve done.”
He smiled. “Defending people is what I do. It’s always gratifying when a case breaks my way, but in this instance, particularly so.”
“Would you care for tea, Philip?” Celia asked. “It’s gone cold I’m afraid, but I can ask Mrs. Whipple to bring a fresh pot.”
“Thank you, but I can’t stay.” Philip stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. “There’s more news, India. Mr. Philbrick has decided to dispense with a jury trial.”
“So I won’t have to testify.” Another wave of elation moved through her. She was free to leave town. She could be on the next boat to Boston. She could return to London. If Mr. Kennedy refused to hire her to manage the Southern Palace, perhaps her father’s old friends would take her in, at least for a while.
Philip’s eyes held hers, something new and intimate in his amber gaze. A longing that matched her own. But she would be a liability to him in a city where reputation and social position counted for everything. She might be desperately in love with him, but she couldn’t jeopardize his future. Not after all it had cost him to save her own.
“You’re free to leave Savannah any time you wish,” he said, “but I hope you won’t go away too soon. I have an enormous favor to ask.”
“A favor?”
Celia got to her feet. “If you two will excuse me, I must speak to Mrs. Whipple about dinner.” She winked at India and hurried from the room.
India took her seat and looked up at him, a question in her eyes. Philip settled into the chair across from hers. “You know about the plans for the resort Mr. Dodge and I want to build on St. Simons.”
“Yes. It seems like an enormous undertaking.”
“It is. And sadly, there are few men around here who can afford to invest in it now. So we’re looking to the North. Mr. Dodge has invited a half dozen potential investors and their wives to come to the island to see for themselves what we have in mind.”
“I’m glad for you, Philip. It sounds very promising doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’m trying to keep my expectations in check.”
But she could sense his excitement at the prospect of seeing his beloved island renewed and his workers employed at something better than scratching out a living on worn-out land.
“How can I help?”
“There really is no place on the island to entertain a dozen people except at Indigo Point, and Amelia is quite overwhelmed with planning dinners and amusements for such a large number of guests.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I know it’s an imposition after everything that happened to you there, but I was hoping you would come back to the Point with me and lend my sister a hand.”
Back to the place of death and secrets? To the place where Mrs. Catchpole tried to kill her?
“Mrs. Catchpole is in a mental hospital near Atlanta,” Philip said. “She can’t harm you again.”
India looked up at him, feeling surprised and relieved. And more than a little guilty. “Well, I’m sorry for the poor woman, and sorry for the grief I caused her.”
“Neither Amelia nor I realized how her mind was failing, not until you came to the Point. Maybe we didn’t want to admit it. We excused her moods and the things that went missing from time to time, blaming it on her advancing age. But I can see now that her grief for Laura, misplaced though it turned out to be, went much deeper than we k
new.” He paused. “Amelia found her down by the springhouse, half-dressed and nearly catatonic. There was nothing we could do for her. She’ll be looked after now.”
His eyes sought hers. “Indigo Point is undoubtedly the last place you want to be, but Almarene is too infirm to be of much help. There’s only Binah to assist Amelia. I was hoping you might entertain the guests with some readings in the evenings. It would certainly give the ladies something to brag about once they return home.”
India clasped her hands tightly. He was right. The last thing she wanted to do was to go back to Indigo Point with its water snakes and alligators, its shabbiness, and its dark secrets. Back to the place where Philip had loved Laura.
Nor was she ready to perform again, for anyone. Besides, she needed to meet Mr. Kennedy on Sunday.
But she owed Philip her very life. How could she refuse his request?
“Of course if you think it would help—”
“It will. I know it will.” He paused, his eyes darkening with concern.
“This isn’t only about Amelia’s needing my help is it? Something is troubling you.”
“I had a visitor late last night. A fellow who frequents the drinking establishments on the waterfront.”
“I see. The men’s library has not been a complete success, then.”
“Don’t joke about it.”
“Forgive me. I’m too cynical.”
“Not all the time.” He leaned forward in his chair. “He claims that another man approached a friend of his, looking to hire someone to do you harm.”
She went still. “Now there’s a price on my head? What kind of a place is this?”
“It may be nothing more than a malicious rumor, or he may have been so far into his cups that he misunderstood the conversation entirely. But I won’t take that chance. I must return to the Point, and I can’t leave you here. I need to keep you safe, until I can figure out whether this threat is real.”
She dropped her head and massaged her temples. Maybe she would be better off not even talking to Mr. Kennedy about managing the theater. Maybe she ought to leave Savannah on the next train. Or the next ship, no matter where it was bound.
“India.” His reached for her hand. “There’s a steamer departing for the Point at six this evening. I know it’s short notice, but we have so little time before the investors arrive, and while it’s true I need to protect you, it is also true that Amelia is overwhelmed.”
“I can be ready.”
He got to his feet. “I’ll arrange for your ticket and call for you at five. In the meantime, stay right here with Celia. Don’t leave the house until I come for you.”
His warning sent a chill through her. Though he tried to discount it, this threat was real.
They crossed the room to the door. He removed his hat and coat from the hall tree and put them on. “I’ll see you then.”
“All right.”
He lifted her chin and smiled into her eyes. “I will keep you safe. I promise.”
He left and she returned to the parlor, only to hear the doorbell again. Another lady calling upon Celia, no doubt. Neither Celia nor Mrs. Whipple seemed to be about, so India opened the door.
Philip stood there holding a square white box tied with an enormous pink bow. “I nearly forgot. This is for you.”
“But what—” She lifted the lid. “A plum pudding!”
“At Christmas I promised you another pudding when you were set free.” His eyes sought hers and held. “And I always keep my promises.”
CHAPTER 27
FEBRUARY 23
INDIA PAUSED, FEATHER DUSTER IN HAND, AND PEERED through the window of the upstairs room she had been cleaning all morning. Another wagon laden with boxes and two fat mattresses rolled into the yard. When the driver set the brake and jumped down, India recognized Mrs. Wheeler, the woman she’d met at the steamer landing at Gascoigne Bluff the day she had driven there with Philip.
India called for Binah and then for Amelia, but neither responded. There was no telling where they were this morning. Everyone was working frantically to finish preparations before tomorrow’s arrival of Mr. Dodge’s investors. Since India’s return to Indigo Point, she had risen early each day to clean and dust the long-vacant rooms that would house their guests for the weekend. She had washed windows, laundered and ironed curtains, beaten rugs, and polished mirrors until they shone. Yesterday she and Amelia, Binah, and Almarene had set up a kind of assembly line in the kitchen, turning out four pies, six loaves of bread, and dozens of cookies made from the boatload of supplies delivered by steamer at Philip’s request.
The overseer at Fan Butler’s place had sent three men to help tidy the yard and set up extra chairs, beds, and cots provided by other families for the dozen expected guests.
India’s muscles ached from the unaccustomed labor, but it felt good to be doing something to help Philip. With a final flick of her duster, she left the room and ran lightly down the staircase to meet Mrs. Wheeler.
The older woman greeted her with a warm smile. “You’re back.”
“I am. Mr. Sinclair was shorthanded in getting ready for the weekend and asked for my help. It was the least I could do.”
Mrs. Wheeler bobbed her head. “Newspaper said the real killer confessed.”
“Yes. He says it was accidental, and I believe him. All the same, Philip says Mr. Philbrick will spend some time behind bars. If he’s lucky enough to avoid the hangman’s noose.”
“Too bad, but better him than an innocent woman. You must feel like your whole life is starting over again.”
“I do.” India untied the bandanna she’d wrapped around her hair and shook her famous curls free. “It’s a huge relief.”
Mrs. Wheeler gestured toward her wagon. “I brought you a few things. I understand Philip’s planning a fancy dinner for Saturday night. With entertainments following.”
“Yes. As fancy as it can be under the circumstances.” India indicated the piano in the corner of the parlor. “As far as entertainment goes, much depends upon whether the piano tuner Philip engaged actually shows up. We’ve been expecting him for three days.”
One of the men from Butler’s Island lumbered up the front steps and snatched his cap from his head as he approached the door. “Mornin’ Miz Wheeler. Mornin’, miss.”
“Good morning,” India said.
“Me and Ben finished raking them empty flower beds and washin’ all the winders. Reckon they ain’t much more to be done with this place.” He looked around with an air of satisfaction. “Indigo Point looks about as good as she’s going to look, I ’spect.”
“You’ve worked wonders,” India said. “I know Mr. Sinclair is grateful for your efforts. I’m sure he will see that you are paid for your work.”
“Before you go,” Mrs. Wheeler said, “could you possibly bring those boxes and the mattresses inside?”
“Sure thing. Where you want ’em?”
Mrs. Wheeler supervised the moving of the boxes into the dining room, and India led the man up the stairs to the small bedroom she’d just finished cleaning. He deposited the mattresses side by side on the flo
or in front of the fireplace and dusted off his hands. He took in the sparkling windows, the crisp white curtains, the arrangement of glossy green leaves in a white vase sitting on the fireplace mantel.
“Looks right cozy in here.”
India smiled. “It’s too bad some of the ladies must sleep on the floor, but it can’t be helped.”
She followed him down the stairs and waved as he and Ben left the yard. In the dining room, Mrs. Wheeler was busy unpacking a set of delicate blue-and-gold china plates, cups, and saucers.
India lifted a cup. “It’s beautiful.”
“I think so. My mother got these on a trip to Paris back in the forties. She traveled to the factory in Limoges and designed the pattern herself. When the Yankees came through here in ’58, stirring up the Negroes, I buried every last piece of it under the floor in the barn. Left it there until the war was over. It came through without a single crack. Every time I use these pieces, I think of Mother.”
“Perhaps they are too precious to be on loan,” India said, carefully setting down the cup. “I would hate for anything to get broken.”
“My mother always said there was no use in having beautiful things if you weren’t planning to use them.” Mrs. Wheeler’s pale blue eyes shone. “I can’t think of a better use than to help Philip impress those investors. If their money will build the resort he and Mr. Dodge are cooking up, then it’s worth a broken cup or two.”
“I’ll try to see that they are all returned to you in perfect condition.”
