by Dorothy Love
They reached the rig. Philip boosted India inside and picked up the reins.
She tucked in her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. “How did Mr. Fall wind up in Savannah tracking down missing persons?”
“Mr. Pinkerton had a strict code that forbade his operatives from taking on scandalous cases. Lucius took one anyway, to help a friend he believed was in grave danger. When Pinkerton found out, Lucius was dismissed.”
“That hardly seems fair. Of course rules must be respected, but things are not always black and white, are they?”
Philip smiled. “In the lawyering game things are rarely black and white. But Lucius has done all right for himself. I hired him for a complicated case I was working on back then. He came to town then and never left. He stays busy assisting several lawyers in town. And the odd private client. Last year he helped one of Mrs. Garrison’s cousins track down a lost inheritance. He could have retired on his fee from that case, but he loves the thrill of the chase.”
They drove out of the cemetery and headed for Madison Square.
India turned toward Philip. “Well, I admire Mr. Fall for doing what he thought was right.” She paused. “He’s so unusual-looking I wonder how he is able to blend into the background when he’s working. I know I would remember those eyes. So intense. He gives the impression he can see right through to your soul.”
“He comes from a wild mixture of a family. His grandmother was Swedish, which may account for his eyes. His mother was Seminole and his father was African—quite a successful Boston merchant back in our boyhood days. We’ve never discussed his appearance, but I imagine he might use it to his advantage. Sometimes it’s useful for a suspect to know he’s being sought. That makes him skittish and prone to mistakes.”
They neared Madison Square, busy in the spring afternoon. Couples strolled beneath the sun-washed sky, carriages and rigs plied the crowded street. Gentlemen tipped their hats before hurrying to their own pursuits. Under the watchful eyes of their mothers and nurses, children played in the leafy square.
India reveled in the simple pleasure of a Sunday drive without being accosted by reporters and curiosity seekers. Mr. Philbrick’s startling confession and impending sentence seemed to have satisfied the public’s need for justice. And other events taking place in Savannah had captured everyone’s attention. A series of fires on Commerce Row had everyone speculating about the identity of an arsonist. The ladies in charge of fund-raising for the circulating library had recently announced that the author of a new book about Kate Warne, America’s first female detective, had agreed to give a lecture in May. India Hartley and her troubles were swiftly becoming yesterday’s news.
Philip drew up at the Mackays’ house on Madison Square. He turned to her and took both her hands in his. “Thank you for coming with me. It made the whole thing easier to bear.”
“I’m glad to do whatever I can for you, Philip. I am forever in your debt.”
“I don’t want you to feel indebted to me. I want you to feel—”
“Philip! There you are.”
Amelia Sinclair, her cheeks as pink as her new dress, hurried over and peered into the rig. Philip and India got out, and Philip embraced his sister. “This is a surprise. What are you doing in town? If you’d let me know you were coming, I’d have arranged to meet you at the landing.”
Amelia laughed. “I didn’t know I was coming until last evening’s mail arrived.”
She fished a tattered letter from her pocket and held it out to him. “It’s from Mr. Lockwood. He made it to Texas and found work at a ranch called the Rocking C. It’s owned by a Mr. Jake Caldwell and his son, Wyatt. Only it seems Wyatt is running his lumber mill in Tennessee right now, and looking after his aunt Lillian. Mr. Caldwell told Mr. Lockwood that one day his son will come home to the ranch, but right now, he is terribly shorthanded and he hired Cuyler—I mean, Mr. Lockwood—to help with the cattle and such.”
Amelia paused for breath. “Mr. Lockwood intends to save up his money so that when Wyatt Caldwell comes home, he will have enough put away to start a ranch of his own. And the best news of all is that Mr. Lockwood wants to marry me.”
“I see.” Philip scanned the letter.
“I know you think he isn’t nearly good enough for me, but it isn’t as if the world is full of eligible gentlemen anymore. And Mr. Lockwood is kind, and steady, and obviously not afraid of hard work.”
India saw the hesitation in Philip’s eyes. Cuyler Lockwood had proved his mettle in helping her to escape to the Isle of Hope. And clearly, Amelia was smitten with him. But it was not her place to interfere in the Sinclairs’ personal affairs. She touched Philip’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should go inside and leave you to your discussion.”
“Oh, no, India,” Amelia said. “Please stay and help me convince my brother I know what’s best for myself.”
Philip handed his sister the letter. “Lockwood is not the worst choice you could have made. And if your mind is made up—”
“It is,” Amelia said. “I’ve already written to him to accept. I only wanted your blessing before sending it.”
Philip heaved a resigned sigh. “In that case, I suppose we’ve a wedding to plan. When did you have in mind?”
“I’m going to Texas and marrying him there.”
Philip frowned. “That’s hardly proper, Amelia.”
“Oh, who cares what’s proper? Those days are long gone. And besides, Cuyler needs to save his money for our future. He can’t afford to pay for a train ticket to come here, plus two tickets for us to return.”
“I’ll pay for the tickets,” Philip said. “Consider them a wedding present.”
“I do appreciate the offer, but honestly, who would I invite? There is only you and a few friends on St. Simons. And India, of course. The church at Fredericka is a wreck. We’d have to marry at Indigo Point, and considering everything that’s happened there, it would cast a pall over what is supposed to be a happy day.”
India could see the hurt in Philip’s eyes. Clearly he wanted to be a part of Amelia’s wedding, but she seemed just as determined to do things her way. “Perhaps you and Mr. Lockwood could plan to come home for Christmas. We could arrange a reception at the hotel. Maybe an evening affair, with greenery and candlelight. It could be quite lovely.”
Amelia beamed. “That’s a perfect solution. What do you think, Philip?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I have no say in any of this. If you ladies will excuse me, I must see to the horse.”
He climbed into the rig and drove away.
CHAPTER 33
MARCH 22
THE OFFICES OF SHAKLEFORD AND KENNEDY OCCUPIED a handsome pink stucco building nestled between a jewelry store and a men’s haberdashery. Tall windows with dark green shutters overlooked a small courtyard enclosed behind a wrought-iron fence. A discreet brass plaque affixed to the right side of the door bore the names of the two gentlemen who had summoned India to a meeting at ten o’clock sharp.
Celia’s carriage driver delivered India to the front door and settled down to wait for her.
She climbed the steps and rang the bell. Presently a small, round woman with gentle features, her dark hair threaded wi
th gray, opened the door and ushered India into a spacious, high-ceilinged room. Brown leather chairs, glass-fronted bookcases, and wooden tables piled with ledgers, magazines, maps, and yellowed telegrams filled the space.
“Forgive the mess,” the woman said. “I try to keep things tidy, but Mr. Kennedy has his own way of organizing things, and he gets upset if I put his papers and such where he can’t find them. May I bring you some tea?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble.” All morning India had battled a bad case of nerves. So much depended upon this interview with Mr. Shakleford. A nice cup of tea might help calm her trembling hands and slow her racing heart.
“No trouble. I won’t be but a few minutes. Mr. Shakleford is running late, as usual. Just make yourself at home.”
She left, and India perched on the leather chair nearest the window. Outside on the street a gray cat was inspecting Celia’s carriage, and a group of small boys played with a ball. Rigs and carriages traversed the busy street. Two women carrying enormous dress boxes climbed into a rig and drove away.
A distant train whistle broke the silence. India thought of Amelia, who had left yesterday for Texas, accompanied by Binah, who had decided to see something of the wider world after all. Almarene had gone to stay with Mrs. Garrison’s sister. India pictured Indigo Point completely deserted now, so burdened by the war’s destruction, the elements, and its own sad history.
She hadn’t seen Philip since last Sunday, when Amelia had arrived to announce her intention to wed Mr. Lockwood. India hoped he wasn’t blaming her for encouraging Amelia in her plans. As if she, India, held sway over anyone. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had displeased or hurt him somehow. The thought worried her. Because something profound happened when she was with Philip, a sense that she was where she belonged.
Perhaps he was only busy. Yesterday’s Morning Herald had carried another story about Mr. Philbrick’s impending sentencing. Though she was grateful he had admitted his role in Mr. Sterling’s death, something about his story didn’t ring true. His assertion that he had done it all for the love of Laura had stunned everyone, including Laura herself. Of course there were cases of secret admirers. India had encountered a few of her own over the years—men enamored with the exotic glamour of the theater. But Mr. Philbrick didn’t seem the kind of man to be swayed by sentiment. Money seemed to be the thing uppermost in his mind. Or it had been the night he ordered the change in the script.
The door opened, and the woman returned with a tea tray. She set it down on the small side table next to India’s chair. “Here you are, miss. It won’t be long now. Mr. Shakleford has just arrived.”
India poured a cup and had just taken her first sip when Mr. Kennedy blustered in, followed by a stocky, barrel-chested, wide-shouldered man. His brown hair was thin, receding a bit. His features were robust, his manner expansive.
“Miss Hartley.” Mr. Kennedy bowed over her hand. “Lovely to see you. May I present Mr. Shakleford.”
Mr. Shakleford offered a brisk nod. “Miss Hartley. Mrs. Warren has brought you tea, I see.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we get down to business?”
The two men took their seats.
“I’ve described your plans to my partner,” Mr. Kennedy began. “But he has a few questions.”
“All right.” India released a shaky breath. Her profession was to inhabit another’s skin, to assume a different demeanor and different emotions. To mask her own feelings. But this meeting was more crucial than any stage performance. She had no other prospects for her future. When her meager savings ran out, she would be at the mercy of her creditors.
Mr. Shakleford leaned forward in his chair. “You managed a touring theater company with your father.”
“For several years, yes. I kept the accounts, paid the bills, kept track of the schedule. My father and I also wrote several plays, which were produced in smaller theaters in the East.”
“Mr. Kennedy tells me you have big plans for the Southern Palace.”
India described her hope that the theater might be used for education as well as for entertainment. “It’s a beautiful theater, Mr. Shakleford. It would mean so much to people who have never before had the chance to attend a play. And as I’ve expressed to Mr. Kennedy, I hope we might improve the lives of the less fortunate. In an indirect way at least.”
“How do you mean?”
“In the same way that the Sons of Temperance are improving the lives of many families by offering the menfolk an alternative to drinking and brawling.”
“You mean the men’s library.”
“Yes. I believe that deep down, most people want to do the right thing. Sometimes they have never been taught what the right thing is. My plan is to offer classes at the theater, to teach people to make better choices, just as many men now are choosing books over the bottle.”
India paused, afraid that she had said too much. Surely she sounded like some overbearing, wild-eyed do-gooder.
Mr. Shakleford chewed his lip. “It’s an ambitious plan. And far be it from me to stand in the way of social progress. But I have to keep an eye on the bottom line. And I’ll be frank. I haven’t quite understood why our profits last season were so meager, when the theater was full almost every night.”
India carefully considered her next words. “I wasn’t at the Southern Palace very long before the tragedy happened. But one thing I noticed was that Mr. Philbrick seemed to have hired a number of people to perform very small jobs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, there were people who only moved scenery. Others whose only job was to repair costumes or build props. In my father’s touring company, of necessity everyone was able to handle the many tasks required to mount a production. I don’t see why we can’t train a few talented people to do more than one job. Or assign certain responsibilities to the bit players, as my father did. It would not only better organize rehearsals, it would also save money.”
Mr. Kennedy spoke for the first time. “Well, Hiram? Has this young lady satisfied your questions as to her abilities?”
Mr. Shakleford stood and crossed to India’s chair. He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations, Miss Hartley. You’re the new manager of the Southern Palace.”
Mr. Kennedy cleared his throat. “Now, Miss Hartley, there is the matter of your salary, which we can discuss later. Mrs. Mackay tells me you are in need of accommodations.”
“I am. I’ve been her guest far too long, and now that I will be spending more time at the theater—”
Mr. Shakleford raised one hand, palm out. “You can have the manager’s apartment across from the theater. I can’t guarantee what kind of shape it’s in. Mr. Philbrick is a bachelor, you know, and speaking as a bachelor myself, we are not the tidiest of men.”
“I’ll see to it that Philbrick’s things are removed and the rooms are cleaned this afternoon,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Poor devil won’t need any of it now.”
Mr. Shakleford accompanied India to the door. She climbed into Celia’s carriage for the short ride to the Mackays’ feeling almost giddy. Her name was cleared, her future settled. She watched the scenery rolling past, her mind busy with new ideas and new plans for her theater.
If only Philip wasn’t angry with her. But perhaps her good news would put him in a better frame of mind.
As the carriage rolled toward Madison Square, India mentally replayed her conversation with the two investors. Mr. Shakleford was right. It didn’t make sense that the theater showed such a slim profit despite strong ticket sales.
India couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was certain that something was terribly wrong.
MARCH 24
The rooms so recently occupied by Mr. Philbrick had been cleared and thoroughly cleaned, and now the air smelled like soap and lemon wax. India set down her valise and looked around, scarcely believing that she was home at last. The rooms were modest—only a small parlor, a bedroom, and a tiny bathing room—but the compact space suited her needs perfectly.
In the front parlor a silk rug in muted tones of gold and celadon lay across a gleaming wood floor. Two cozy chairs upholstered in deep green velvet sat before the fireplace. On the opposite wall a pair of handsome glass-fronted bookcases waited to be filled.
India removed her hat and gloves and carried her valise into the bedroom. Here, a high narrow bed made up with fresh white linens and a pale blue coverlet was positioned at an angle beneath a single window that afforded a glimpse of a distant church steeple. The only other furnishings were a wardrobe and a small side table that held a plain white ewer and basin.
She unpacked and hung her dresses and shawl in the wardrobe, placing her spare pair of shoes beneath.
A rig drew up outside, and a man in a gray coat knocked at her door.
“Mr. Quinn! What a surprise.”
The young stagehand snatched off his cap and ducked his head. “Miss Hartley. It is purely a pleasure to see you again. And I sure am glad everything turned out all right for you.”
