by Dorothy Love
“Thank you. So am I.”
“Mr. Kennedy asked me to bring your trunk over from the theater.” He jerked his thumb. “Got it there in the rig. Where do you want it?”
“The parlor will be fine.”
He turned away just as a familiar horse and rig drew up at the gate. Philip climbed out and started up the steps carrying an enormous bouquet of yellow and white freesias.
He handed her the bouquet. “I wasn’t as gracious as I should have been upon hearing Amelia’s news. Brought you a peace offering.”
“Come in.” She led him into the parlor before burying her nose in the fragrant blooms. “Such an extravagance. Where ever did you find these so early in the season?”
Riley Quinn returned, staggering beneath the weight of the trunk. He set it down near the fireplace and dusted off his hands. “Them’s some flowers you got there, miss.”
“Aren’t they though?”
India made the introductions. The young man stuck out his hand and looked up at Philip with an expression akin to hero worship. “Everybody in Savannah is talkin’ about what a fine piece of lawyerin’ you did to clear Miss Hartley. I sure am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Likewise, Mr. Quinn. India tells me you were quite a help to her last fall.”
Mr. Quinn blushed. “It isn’t every day we get someone at the Palace as famous as Miss Hartley. Everybody is itching to get back to work.” He turned to India. “When do you reckon we can reopen?”
“Soon, I hope. I was hired only two days ago. But I think we can mount one production before people start leaving the city for the summer. And next fall we’ll plan on a full theater season.”
“Oh, I get it. Sorta like whetting the appetite and getting people to looking forward to what’s next.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, you just let me know what I can do to help, miss.”
“I will, Mr. Quinn. Thank you again for bringing over the trunk.”
“No trouble.” Mr. Quinn nodded to Philip. “Good to meet you, sir.”
He hurried down the steps and drove off.
India filled the ewer with water from the pump in the bathing room and arranged the freesias. She set them on the parlor table and took another whiff of the light, sweet scent.
“These are lovely, Philip. But a peace offering was hardly necessary. I overstepped my bounds when I suggested Amelia hold a reception in Savannah. I could see that you were unhappy about her wedding plans, and I tried to effect a compromise. But I should have left that to you and your sister. I don’t blame you for being angry with me.”
He leaned against the fireplace. “I wasn’t as angry with you as I was with myself. I should have made more of an effort to find a suitable husband for Amelia. But I was busy with my law practice, and with trying to woo Mr. Dodge to Indigo Point. And then with your defense.”
“Mr. Lockwood seems steady enough these days. And he was courageous and inventive when it came to getting me out of Savannah.” She paused. “He told me you arranged everything.”
“It was risky, but not entirely without precedent. Some years back a woman convicted of murder in Missouri was taken from jail and spirited out of town while her verdict was on appeal. But her case didn’t end as happily as ours.”
He looked around the room, and India saw it through his eyes. “It’s rather barren at the moment,” she said, “but I intend to make it a real home.”
“Then I ought to get going and leave you to your nest building.” He smiled then, and she felt a rush of warmth stronger than the heat of any fire. If only he felt the same heat when he looked at her. But she couldn’t blame him for keeping his distance. Four months was hardly enough time to develop the kind of trust he needed in order to open his heart again.
“Philip?” She started to tell him of her suspicions about Mr. Philbrick, but he was already moving toward the door, his mind clearly on other things.
He turned back, one brow raised in question.
“Never mind,” she said. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.” He studied her for a moment. “I’m leaving this evening for Indigo Point.”
“Oh?” She schooled her expression, but inside she felt a stab of panic. Was this good-bye?
“Surveyors are on the way to lay out the resort.”
“It’s going to happen, then.”
“Yes. We got word a few days ago. But I wanted to be sure you were settled before I left.”
“That was kind of you. Will you be away long?”
“Hard to say. It depends on the weather and on how efficient the surveyors are. But you can always send a message with the steamer captain if you need me.”
“I’m sure I’ll be all right.” She swept a hand around the room. “I’m almost settled here, but I haven’t been to the theater yet. No doubt there will be plenty to sort out.”
When his rig disappeared from view, she opened the trunk. She took out her father’s few personal effects: a scrapbook of her theater notices, several bound copies of plays, a half-finished sketch he had begun before illness overtook him. A carte de visite taken at Mr. Sarony’s New York studio. A packet of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. That the essence of his life could be contained in so few things filled her with sadness. With a start, she realized that today was the first anniversary of his death. How could she have forgotten?
Bittersweet memories of their strange and magical life rushed in. Her father’s barely contained anticipation as the curtain rose on a new production, his childlike delight in the camaraderie of their fellow players. His deep belly laugh, and the hint of mischief in his eyes. The backstage smells of greasepaint and damp wool, the sharp crack of applause after a well-delivered line.
She set the book of clippings on the table next to the freesias and ran her fingers over the cracked leather cover. Some people thought of the theater as a tacky underworld of fantasy, but her father had regarded it as a portal to a wider world of thoughts and ideas. Perhaps through her work at the Southern Palace she could pay tribute to that vision.
India rose and propped his carte de visite on the mantel. And for a moment his presence in the room felt so strong she expected to hear him speak. Having these few reminders of her father made the nearly empty apartment seem more like home. She clutched the packet of letters to her chest, overcome with longing for a place of permanence. A place that was more than four walls and a roof. A place that would anchor her to her past and give her hope for the future.
A refuge that no theater on earth could ever provide.
CHAPTER 34
APRIL 13
IN CONTRAST TO THE BARREN CLEANLINESS OF HER private rooms, the manager’s office at the Southern Palace was a dusty, disorganized mess strewn with old scripts, stacks of bills, receipts, ledgers, books, and advertising posters. Cobwebs clung to the heavy curtains and to the worn wool rug covering the wide plank floor.
On her first day India spent hours cleaning and boxing up the last of Mr. Philbrick’s personal effects—a framed photograph of himself as Hamlet, his personal copies of Shakespeare’
s plays, and the last of his props and costumes, which had taken up every inch of space in the dressing room that adjoined the office.
Now, these tasks were completed. The gleaming window let in the bright April sunlight that fell in golden bars across the tidy desk where India sat, going over the profit-and-loss ledgers from last season. The more she read, the more convinced she became that Mr. Shakleford’s concerns were indeed well founded. For one thing, in many instances the receipts for a specific performance didn’t match the number of tickets sold. On evenings when the house was full, and every seat accounted for, the take would have been close to six hundred dollars. But often the amount deposited to the bank was considerably less. Some of the discrepancy could be accounted for by the complimentary tickets sometimes awarded to special theater patrons and out-of-town guests. She herself had provided tickets for her young carriage driver and his sister the night of the accident. Other cast members no doubt did so, too, from time to time. And it was possible that Mr. Philbrick retained a small amount of the nightly profits to cover unexpected incidentals that always cropped up during a play’s run. But if he had, there was no record of it.
She found a folder stuffed with contracts of the players hired for the season. Those contracts matched the amounts recorded in the ledgers’ accounts payable columns, but there were lists of expenses with no amounts attached to them. Unless they were recorded elsewhere.
For a man who had ruled the theater with an iron fist and supreme self-confidence, Cornelius Philbrick had proven himself a sloppy, incompetent businessman.
Voices in the hallway interrupted her work. She pressed her fingers to her eyes and went to the door to find Riley Quinn and his new assistant, Alexander Hatcher, wrestling with an unwieldy flat still reeking of fresh paint.
Mr. Quinn rested his end of the burden on the toe of his boot and wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “Just picked this up from the painters,” he told her. “It came out real good. What do you think?”
India stood back to study the elaborately detailed scene of the city of Ephesus. For her only production of the spring, she had chosen The Comedy of Errors, not only because it was lighthearted and required fewer scenes and fewer actors than any other of the Bard’s plays, but because she could make do with only a few large pieces of scenery to suggest the setting. This one, in vibrant colors of red, gold, and green, would do nicely for the opening.
“It’s wonderful, Mr. Quinn. Exactly the effect I wanted. Can you put it into place on the stage so I can see how it will look from the back of the theater?”
“Sure thing, Miss Hartley.”
Mr. Hatcher, a thin boy with a thatch of dark hair and black eyes that snapped with impatience, sighed. “Can we get on with it then, Riley? This thing is gettin’ awfully heavy.”
“Hold your horses.” Mr. Quinn grinned at India. “We’ll have it set up for you in half an hour, tops.”
“Thank you.”
The two men lifted the flat and carried it down the hall.
The seamstress India had hired to sew costumes for the two sets of twins featured in the play hurried to meet her. “Miss Hartley, I’ve finished basting one of the Dromio costumes, but you oughta look at it before I go any further. In case you want it different.”
“I’ll come and take a look now.”
India inspected the costume, which featured a row of gold-colored buttons over an icy gray satin tunic paired with tight breeches in a darker shade. She held the tunic up to the light and frowned.
The seamstress stood silently, her hands tightly clasped. “If you don’t like it, I can—”
“It isn’t your fault, Miss Sawyer. You’ve done exactly as I asked. But now that I see it, I’m not sure this color is right. I don’t want something so bright it upstages the other actors, but this seems a bit drab.”
“Yes, ma’am, I think so too. I can start over if you want to pick another color, but—”
“I’m afraid we haven’t the time or the money for that,” India said. “Perhaps some kind of scarf would work. Or—”
The seamstress held up a hand. “I’ve got just the thing.” From her commodious supplies basket she brought out a length of red braid shot through with silver threads. “What if I sew this to the neckline and along the outer sleeve?” She picked up the costume and laid the braid across the fabric. “Smartens it up a good bit, eh?”
India smiled, relieved. “Much better. Thank you, Miss Sawyer. When do you think the other costumes will be finished?”
“Another week should give me plenty of time. Almost everything is done except for the merchant’s costume and Dr. Pinch’s.” She removed a blue dress from a hook on the wall and held it up for India’s inspection. “This is what I made for the character of Nell. You said you wanted something as unflattering as possible.”
“It’s what the play calls for,” India said. “Nell is described as spherical, like a globe. This dress ought to make her seem positively rotund.”
Miss Sawyer laughed. “I sure have enjoyed working here since Mr. Shakleford and Mr. Kennedy put you in charge. You are a caution, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
India turned to go, her mind already returning to the problem of finances. The budget for her first production was so modest that some of the players would wear their own costumes, and Riley Quinn would have to handle the limelighting contraption on his own. At least there were few sound effects he couldn’t handle. She didn’t blame the theater owners for the small budget. She hadn’t yet proved herself as manager, and there still was the problem of the disorganized bookkeeping to figure out.
She stepped inside her office and gave a startled yelp.
Victoria Bryson whirled around, a small blue book in her hand. “Miss Hartley. You frightened me.”
“Same here,” India said. “What are you doing?”
“I . . . I wanted to ask you a question. About . . . my character.” The young understudy licked her lips and patted her hat, a blue-and-white concoction India had admired in a shop window downtown only last Saturday. She had been tempted to buy it for the theater reopening, but it was frightfully expensive and in the end she had passed it by. Obviously the cost had not deterred the younger woman.
“All right. What is it you wish to know?” India perched on the corner of her desk. Against her better judgment, she had cast Miss Bryson as Luciana, and the girl had been walking on air ever since.
“Well,” the girl began. “I was wondering. Luciana is Adriana’s sister, but I’m not sure how close the sisters are supposed to be. Does Luciana love Adriana, or is she jealous of her, because, you know, Adriana is married to a rich man?”
“What does the play tell you?”
“Ma’am?”
“The Comedy of Errors is just that,” India said. “It’s a farce. Hence the wordplay and the puns and the slapstick. It isn’t meant to delve too deeply into the human psyche.”
She swallowed her impatience. She had too much work to do to teach this ambitious but empty-headed young woman the finer points of characterization. “The task of the players is always to interpret the playwright’s intent. I’m sure if you carefully consider Luciana’s lines, you will figure out how best to fulfill Mr. S
hakespeare’s vision.”
“Oh.” Miss Bryson edged toward the door. “I will think about it. And thank you, Miss Hartley. You have been most helpful I am sure.”
In her haste, she caught a toe on the edge of the rug and went sprawling onto the floor, her skirts flying up around her.
India rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”
“I . . . I think so.” Miss Bryson got to her feet and straightened her hat. “Please excuse me. I’m late!”
India watched her through the window, then returned to her desk to find that the bottom drawer was slightly ajar. India frowned. She hadn’t looked in that drawer in several days. She was certain she hadn’t left it open.
Obviously, Victoria Bryson had been looking for something other than acting advice.
APRIL 14
The Chatham County Jail was the last place on earth India wanted to see again, but another thorough look at Mr. Philbrick’s bookkeeping had at last suggested a theory as to why the theater had earned so little last season. Unfortunately, the only one who could confirm it was the jailed manager himself.
Following his confession in Judge Bartlett’s chambers and his waiving of a jury trial, India had supposed his sentencing would take place right away. But according to the latest newspaper reports, Mr. Philbrick had decided to hire a lawyer after all, and now the sentencing was delayed while the lawyer, a Mr. Thurmond who kept offices in Reynolds Square, reviewed the case.
“Here we are, miss. The jailhouse.” The driver of the hired carriage opened the door and offered India his hand. “You want me to wait on you?”
“Yes, please. I’ll try not to be too long.”
He shrugged and tugged on his ear. “It’s your money.”
