A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  India helped the older woman finish the unpacking. Along with the china, Mrs. Wheeler had brought a pair of silver candlesticks and a large white vase.

  “I remember Mrs. Catchpole saying once that there never were enough containers for flowers,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “I brought these along even though not much is blooming in the dead of winter.”

  “Yesterday I saw some pretty mosses down by the old carriage house,” India said. “And some of the trees are still green.” She smiled. “It won’t be as nice as having flowers, but everything looks better in candlelight.”

  Mrs. Wheeler laughed. “Including this old wrinkled face of mine.” She paused. “I was right sorry to hear about the way Mrs. Catchpole attacked you. The poor woman hasn’t been herself since the night Mrs. Sinclair perished.”

  India froze. For a moment she was tempted to tell Mrs. Wheeler that Laura Sinclair was very much alive, and a possible murderer too. But even the most discreet of women could sometimes let secrets slip, and this was not the time to unleash more scandal on the island. “My wounds have healed. But I admit, I was terrified.”

  “Well of course! Anyone would be.” Mrs. Wheeler clicked her tongue. “Such a shame. Well, my dear, I ought to be going. I’m sure you all have much more to do before tomorrow.”

  India followed her into the yard. “Thank you for everything.”

  “No trouble.” Mrs. Wheeler climbed onto her wagon and released the brake. “I hope the piano tuner turns up.”

  Half an hour later he did. A small man with a thick mustache and a French accent to match, he introduced himself as Monsieur Bessette and with a wave of one hand demanded to be shown to the instrument.

  India led him into the parlor, where Amelia was busy polishing the mahogany tables. When they came in, she looked up and tossed her dusting cloth onto the table.

  “Thank goodness!” she said when the Frenchman introduced himself. “I was about to give up hope of your ever arriving.”

  He frowned. “Louis Bessette never breaks a promise, mademoiselle. Never.”

  He strode over to the piano, lifted the fallboard, and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. He shook his head and released a gusty sigh.

  “I know,” Amelia said. “It’s almost impossible to keep it in tune here. The damp air, you know.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “And what is even more unfortunate, this instrument is not a Pleyel.”

  “My father thought it was important to support an American piano maker,” Amelia said. “Though of course the Pleyel is a fine instrument.”

  “The finest!” the Frenchman said. “All others pale in comparison.”

  “Mr. Chickering’s piano is more than adequate for me,” Amelia said. “And he is very exacting. He accompanied the piano here from Boston himself to be sure it was not damaged on the trip.” She ran a hand over the polished wood. “It was wasted effort, really. I have no affinity for it, nor much patience for practicing chords and scales. I’m afraid I was not a very good student.”

  “Regardless, every instrument deserves to be kept in tune.” M. Bessette opened his toolbox. “If you ladies will excuse me, I shall see to this . . . Chickering, and do the best I can considering its inferior quality.”

  India and Amelia retreated to the kitchen, where Amelia flopped onto a chair and rolled her eyes. “Inferior quality. I’d have kicked his shins for that remark, except Philip is counting on having that thing in tune for Saturday night’s soiree.” She looked up at India. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to play in my stead?”

  “I would spare you if I could, but I never learned how. Father and I were rarely in one place long enough to acquire a piano and for me to take lessons.”

  “Some people have all the luck.” Amelia rose and poured tea. “Want some?”

  “I should finish setting up the bathing room. Mrs. Garrison sent over some more linens yesterday. If we’re lucky, each of the ladies will have her own clean towel. But the men might have to share.”

  “They won’t care,” Amelia said. “Men are thick as bricks. So long as there is plenty of food and their horses aren’t lame and their rifles work, they’re oblivious to anything else.”

  “Are you speaking of anyone in particular?”

  “You know I mean Mr. Lockwood. He has been gone for weeks, and I’ve had not a single word, though he promised to write. He doesn’t care that I am imagining all sorts of dire circumstances. He might be dead by now for all I know.”

  India was too exhausted and too upset by the appearance of Laura Sinclair to go into the details of Mr. Lockwood’s daring rescue. But Amelia looked so anxious that India couldn’t remain silent. “Mr. Lockwood helped Philip with my case. He was fine when I saw him in Savannah. He may still be on his way to Texas and hasn’t had the chance to write to you. I wouldn’t—”

  India broke off as Binah stormed into the kitchen, her young face contorted with rage.

  “Binah, what’s the matter?”

  “Just answer me one question,” Binah said.

  “Of course. If I can. What is it?”

  Binah opened her fist to reveal the gold necklace that matched her own. “This is Hannah June’s. Where did you get it?”

  CHAPTER 28

  FEBRUARY 25

  SEATED AT ONE END OF THE DINING TABLE WITH PHILIP at the other, India let her eyes roam over the candlelit table, the gleaming china and crystal, and the well-dressed guests. She released a sigh of quiet satisfaction. Mrs. Wheeler’s Limoges china blended nicely with the Sinclairs’ own pieces, and the candlelight illuminated the basket of mosses and ornamental leaves India had fashioned into a centerpiece.

  This morning while the gentlemen toured the proposed resort site with Philip and Mr. Dodge, India and Amelia had taken the ladies on a walking tour of the property, ending with a luncheon on the beach. True, February was not the most salubrious time for an out-of-doors excursion, but the day dawned calm, the sun came out by noon, and the ladies, wrapped in their furs and gloves, had not seemed to mind the early morning chill. They asked dozens of questions about the house, the old gardens, the sea birds, and the rumors they’d heard about alligators stalking humans.

  Surely some of them had read about India’s trial, but they were too polite to say so. If they wondered about her presence at Indigo Point, they kept those ruminations to themselves as well. In the late afternoon they returned to the house for tea, then retired for naps before dressing for dinner.

  Now, as Binah and her young cousin Myrtilda served course after course, India determined not to dwell on Binah’s discovery of Hannah June’s necklace.

  Even though India was annoyed that the girl had found it by pilfering her trunk, Binah deserved the truth—and soon, but not until India herself knew the whole story about what had happened in the chapel that fiery night. Judging from Philip’s relaxed demeanor and Mr. Dodge’s convivial dinner-table chatter, today’s tour had gone well. India did not want to ask any question that would disturb their rising optimism, though one of these days she would have to. For now, she concentrated on the conversation taking place around the table.

  One of the investors, a Mr. Terrell from New York, described the Atlantic City boardwalk
that had been completed only last year. “We’re entering a new era in America,” he said. “People are recovering from the war and wanting to travel and have fun again. Forward-looking towns like Atlantic City will reap the benefits. I don’t see why this little island ought not to get its share.”

  Mr. Dodge beamed. “I couldn’t agree more, sir. And as you’ve seen from the plans Philip and I have devised, our resort will offer everything the discerning traveler could wish for.”

  “St. Simons is lovely. But what about those alligators?” Mrs. Fleming, who had been the one to ask Amelia about the creatures during their morning walk, looked worried. “I don’t imagine mothers will be eager to expose their young children to such danger, regardless of the charm.”

  “We’ve thought of that,” Philip assured her. “We’ll build elevated walkways across the marshes and the tidal creeks. The known nesting areas will be protected. Signage will direct our guests to the safe areas. They will be able to glimpse the creatures in their natural habitat without endangering themselves or the wildlife.”

  He paused while Binah and Myrtilda removed the dinner plates and prepared to serve the pies and coffee. And when the conversation resumed, the talk turned to other matters. Mrs. Broomfield of Philadelphia recounted a recent meeting with a Mr. Burroughs who was writing a book on bird watching. Mrs. Tipton expressed her eagerness to see Arrangement in Grey and Black, a new painting by Mr. Whistler to be exhibited at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.

  “I am such a lover of all the arts, am I not, Hiram?” She looked down the table for confirmation from her husband, a thin bewhiskered man in a gray suit and a gaily colored paisley vest.

  “Indeed you are, my dear. Indeed you are.” He bobbed his head and tucked into his pie.

  “I’m simply wild about the theater,” Mrs. Tipton continued. “I can’t wait for the new season this autumn.” She turned her dark eyes on India. “Perhaps you can tell us, Miss Hartley, what plays are apt to be popular this year?”

  India set down her glass. “I couldn’t really say. The choice of material is usually left up to the individual theater managers. Most try to offer a balance of classics and modern drama along with lighter fare. And it depends, too, upon which performers are available at any given time.”

  Mrs. Broomfield finished her coffee and set down her cup. “Well, if the theatrical offerings are not to one’s liking, one can always count on Theodore Thomas and his traveling musical performances. We heard his orchestra perform in New York last season. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Brahms and Liszt more exquisitely played.”

  “Speaking of which”—Mr. Zachary, the oldest member of the delegation, set down his fork and beamed at India—“I couldn’t help noticing that lovely piano in the parlor. I do hope we are to be honored by hearing you play.”

  “Unfortunately I never mastered that skill, Mr. Zachary.” India smiled, and he smiled back, clearly smitten by her attention.

  “Amelia is the musician around here,” Philip said. “Though I have been known to saw my way through the odd violin piece from time to time.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sinclair, you are too modest, I’m sure,” Mrs. Tipton said. “But I, for one, would love to hear your sister play.”

  Amelia blanched, and India felt a stab of sympathy for her. Being expected to perform on cue was never a pleasant feeling, even when one felt in command of the material. And Amelia had freely admitted to being sadly out of practice.

  Philip caught India’s eye and gave a slight nod, her cue as his hostess to rise from the table. She stood, her professional smile in place, and the guests rose with her. They retired to the parlor, some of them bringing coffee with them, and arranged themselves on the chairs and settees. Some of the men perched on the deep windowsills while others leaned against the fireplace mantel.

  Philip stoked the fire and turned up the lamps, bathing the room in soft golden light that picked up the shimmer of the ladies’ jewels.

  India squeezed Amelia’s hand. “Just play something simple,” she whispered. “We’ll sing loudly, and if you miss a note, nobody will notice.”

  Amelia seated herself at the piano and rested her fingers on the keys. After a moment she began to play tentatively and to sing:

  Twinkling stars are laughing love

  Laughing at you and me.

  India and Philip and several of the guests joined in.

  While your bright eyes look in mine

  Peeping stars they seem to be.

  As Amelia gained confidence, she relaxed and the music soared, filling the shabby parlor.

  Troubles come and go, love

  Brightest scenes must leave our sight.

  But the star of hope, love

  Shines with radiant beams tonight.

  The last notes faded, and the guests applauded.

  “That was lovely, Miss Sinclair,” Mr. Zachary said. “Do favor us with another song.”

  Amelia played one of Jenny Lind’s songs, “By the Sad Sea Waves.” Then she and India sang a duet, “What Are the Wild Waves Saying?”

  When the applause faded, Amelia turned around, her smile triumphant. “I’m afraid that exhausts my repertoire, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Then perhaps Miss Hartley will give us a dramatic reading,” Mr. Tipton suggested.

  India recited the passages she had practiced, after which the gentlemen retired to the front porch for cheroots and brandy while the ladies remained in the parlor. Mrs. Zachary discussed the latest fashions she’d seen on her trip to Paris. Mrs. Broomfield described her numerous charitable endeavors in excruciating detail before describing her upcoming trip to Saratoga.

  When the mantel clock chimed, Mrs. Tipton stifled a yawn, then blushed. “Please excuse me, ladies. It isn’t the conversation that has affected me this way.” She smiled. “Just before we left on this trip I learned I’m to be a mother again.”

  “Why that’s wonderful news,” Mrs. Broomfield said. “Of course you need your rest. Shall I help you up to your bed?”

  “No, I can manage, but thank you.” Mrs. Tipton got to her feet. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Sinclair. Miss Hartley. I don’t know when I’ve had a more enjoyable time.”

  “Nor do I,” Mrs. Zachary said. “But it’s getting late, and we have a long trip home starting tomorrow. Perhaps we all ought to turn in.”

  One by one, the ladies clasped India’s hands and then Amelia’s, murmuring thanks before heading up the stairs. Soon, only Amelia and India remained in the parlor. Binah came in, her face sullen, to remove the last of the cups. She placed everything on a tray, then spun on her heel and marched out without so much as a single word or glance.

  “You’re going to have to give her an explanation, you know.”

  The edge in Amelia’s voice brought India up short. “I know it. And I want to. But I must speak to Philip first, and there hasn’t been time.”

  Amelia closed the piano and stacked her sheet music on the top. “In fact, I’d like to hear your explanation myself. Good night, India.”

  CHAPTER 29

  MARCH 1

  INDIA WOKE UP THINKING ABOUT PHILIP. A
BOUT THE intense way he looked into her eyes when they spoke, the way he leaned in to listen as if he didn’t want to miss a single word. She thought of the endearing way he laughed and the slightly messy way his hair curled over his perfectly starched lawyer’s collar, lending a certain boyishness to his appearance. Of the extraordinary measures he’d taken to keep her from harm.

  His weekend at Indigo Point had been a great success. The guests had departed on Sunday following a brief prayer service in the parlor.

  On this chilly Wednesday, the first of March, Indigo Point was returning to normal. Fan Butler’s men had returned to retrieve the things Philip borrowed from Butler’s Island. Yesterday Almarene had limped over to the house to bake bread and help Binah with pegging out the wash. Amelia had resumed her incessant letter writing, her papers and ink spread out over the dining room table every morning to take advantage of the pale sunlight coming through the tall windows.

  India threw back her covers and poured water into her washbasin. Today would be as good as any to talk to Philip about Laura. How he had found her and persuaded her to come to Judge Bartlett’s chambers. Why she had asserted that she was not his wife. Whether he had learned anything about the threat on India’s life.

  Was Laura the one whose footsteps India had heard in Arthur Sterling’s house on Isle of Hope? Certainly the distinctive purple cloak India had seen hanging on the hall tree was Laura’s. But if the rumors were true and Mr. Sterling had begun a romance with Miss Bryson, perhaps the young understudy was the one who was in the house that night. Maybe it no longer mattered now that India was free. But the unanswered questions gnawed at her.

  India dressed and went downstairs. It was still early. Perhaps she and Philip could walk on the beach after breakfast. Or go down to the boathouse. Someplace where they would not be overheard or disturbed.

  Amelia glanced up and nodded as India came through to the kitchen to pour coffee and fill her plate from the skillet Binah had left on the stove. India slid into a chair opposite Amelia, who seemed disinclined to talk. The silence stretched out, broken only by the scratching of Amelia’s pen.