A Respectable Actress (14 page)

“Yes, I have noticed that.”

“Mr. Sterling certainly charmed everyone around here. Even Mrs. Garrison.” Amelia's
skirt snagged on a thorny bush and she stopped to pull it free. “She certainly didn't
think he was unworthy of respect. But that's the problem with being a member of
the fairer sex. We are judged so much more harshly than men. They can get away with
anything.”

They reached the landing where the boat racers had assembled. One of the men read
out the rules, another gunshot was fired, and the race began.

Three boats from Butler's Island competed with three from
other properties on St.
Simons. Amelia gave India a running commentary about the lost plantations—Couper's,
Hamilton, King's Retreat—and how the men once had competed for prizes for growing
the best sea island cotton, the best rice. “Now the boat race is the only thing left.”

As the boats neared the buoy that had been placed downriver to mark the turning
point in the race, India lost herself in the excitement of the crowd, whooping along
with the rest as the boats made the turn and headed back. When one of the boats from
Butler's Island was the first to scrape bottom and pull onto the narrow strip of
beach, the crowd cheered. Another blast from a gun signaled the end of the competition.

All of the boaters, their clothes damp, their hats askew, clambered onto the bank
and joined the others in the clearing. Old Mr. Hornbuckle shuffled over to the winning
team and pounded their backs. “Good show there, boys. A mighty good show. Just like
in the old days, eh?”

A familiar laugh caused India to turn. She saw that one of the winning boaters was
none other than Mr. Lockwood. He seemed in fine form today. His eyes were clear,
his cheeks red from the cold.

Amelia saw him, too, and hurried over to greet him.

Mr. Lockwood removed his hat and offered a courtly bow. “Miss Amelia. You're looking
well. No more trouble with that fever, I trust.”

“None at all, Mr. Lockwood, I'm happy to say. That was quite a performance out there
today. You ought to be proud of your racing team.”

“They're a good bunch of boys. I'm out of practice when it
comes to rowing, but since
I'm managing Miss Butler's accounts now, I thought I should get to know the workers.”
He blew on his hands to warm them. “It's too bad Miss Butler wasn't feeling up to
coming out for the day.”

“Oh, I do hope it's nothing serious.”

“Just a cough is all, but she thought it was safer not to spend the day out of doors.”

Amelia drew India forward. “You remember Miss Hartley, of course.”

“Yes.” Mr. Lockwood touched the brim of his hat.

“Mr. Lockwood, have you seen my brother?” Amelia looked around the milling crowd.
It was nearly noon, and families were headed to their wagons and rigs for the food
they'd brought.

“He's helping John Taylor with his boat. He'll be along directly.”

“Would you consider joining us for dinner? We've plenty of food.”

“Thank you. I'd be obliged. I was so busy this morning I didn't pack a thing.”

“Oh, here comes Philip.” Amelia waved him over. “I'm glad you're here. I'm about
to starve.”

“Go find us a place by the fire, and I'll get our basket.”

Philip headed off. Mr. Lockwood offered his arms to India and Amelia, and they returned
to the clearing where Amelia had left their blanket. Someone had replenished the
fire. The flames danced in the cold January air. They settled themselves and waited
for Philip. India surveyed the crowd. Binah and Almarene were talking with a group
of their friends gathered near the wagons. Susan and Elizabeth, their cheeks reddened
and eyes downcast, were seated with their parents at the edge of the clearing. Mrs.
Garrison and her daughter were nowhere in sight. Soon, India saw Philip returning,
Mrs. Catchpole striding along beside him.

“Here we are,” Philip said, setting down the basket. “I hope the stew is still warm.”

He opened the basket and took out bowls and spoons, plates and knives. Linen napkins.
A dish of butter. Mrs. Catchpole opened the glass jars of stew and set out platters
of bread and a jar of jam, avoiding India's eyes all the while.

Finally the housekeeper got to her feet. “If you're all set, Mr. Sinclair, I think
I'll go on home. The Garrisons are leaving. I can ride with them.”

He frowned. “So soon? You're welcome to stay.”

“I'm too cold. And I have things to do.”

Philip smiled. “Suit yourself, but today is supposed to be a holiday of sorts. I'm
sure your chores can wait.”

“This one can't.” Mrs. Catchpole caught India's eye then.

India tried and failed to read the meaning in the woman's expression. Pity? Malice?
Condemnation?

“All right,” Philip said. “We'll be home in a while.”

The four of them ate with gusto. The stew was still warm, the biscuits light and
fluffy.

Philip polished off three biscuits and two bowls of stew before peering into the
basket in search of dessert. Which apparently had been forgotten.

He sighed. “I was looking forward to one of Mrs. Catchpole's pies. She makes the
best chess pie in the state of Georgia.”

“I like it too,” India said. “It's the one thing I learned to make
when Father and
I stayed at a boardinghouse in New Orleans. The trick is to use just the right amount
of cornmeal to form a crust over the custard.”

Mr. Lockwood leaned back on his arms and sighed. “That was delicious. Nobody makes
a stew as good as Mrs. Catchpole's.”

Amelia nodded. “I'm stuffed as a Christmas goose. Anyone care to join me for a walk?”

India started to respond before realizing this was Amelia's way of being alone with
Mr. Lockwood. And though she still wasn't completely convinced of the man's suitability
for her new friend, it was hardly her place to thwart Amelia's plan. “I think I'll
sit here a while and enjoy the fire.”

“Me too,” Philip said. “I'm still thawing out.”

“I'd be honored to walk with you, Miss Amelia,” Mr. Lockwood said. “On the way here
this morning, I spotted an osprey's nest. Largest one I've seen in a while. It isn't
far, if you'd like to see it.”

He helped Amelia to her feet, and they set off.

Philip wiped his hands on his napkin and began loading the empty plates into the
basket. “I heard about your play.”

“Bad news travels fast, as they say.”

“I appreciate your motives, India, but trying to turn these island girls into actresses
was a mistake.”

“Yes, I see that now. I wasn't trying to recruit them into a life of sordidness and
infamy. It was only a pastime, something to break the monotony of the days.”

“For you or for them?”

“I can't think about the trial all of the time. I'll go crazy if I do. Working with
the girls gave me something else to think
about. I feel terrible that I've upset
Mrs. Garrison. Not that I care one whit for what she thinks, but I fear she will
take out her anger on Claire, and it wasn't the child's fault.”

“What's done is done. But for the next two weeks, perhaps you should—”

She stopped him with an upraised hand. “I'll live like a cloistered nun.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry this is so difficult for you. Maybe it was a mistake bringing
you here. But I couldn't bear to think of you sitting in the Chatham County Jail
for weeks and weeks.”

“I'm the one who should be sorry for embarrassing you. I am grateful you brought
me here. Especially as my days of such freedom may be at a permanent end.”

“You mustn't allow yourself to think that way. Assuming Judge Russell hears our case,
we have a good chance of acquittal.”

“Oh, I pray so.”

“So do I.” He closed the basket lid. “What will you do, once you go free?”

“I haven't let myself think about it. I would like to finish my tour. I need the
money. I should have opened this week in New Orleans. But it hardly matters. I doubt
the theater managers will want me to continue. So many of them have worked hard to
bring respectability to their establishments. Having someone like me will only be
seen as a setback.”

She was aware that he was watching her closely. Her face warmed beneath his penetrating
gaze.

“You love the theater.”

“Yes. Of course there are difficulties and discouragements. But in that moment before
the curtain rises, as I'm waiting for
my entrance, the expectant silence in the theater
is exhilarating. Every night I have a chance to walk out of the shadows into the
light and change someone's life. To bring something of culture and beauty and promise
to the audience.” She paused, remembering. “The applause, the newspaper stories,
the flowers at my feet are lovely, but that isn't why I do it. I only want to make
people happy. That's all I was trying to do with these young girls. But I made a
mess of it.”

The crowd had begun to thin. People were packing up the remains of their meals, gathering
blankets and baskets and children. India looked up to see Amelia and Mr. Lockwood
returning from their walk.

“Are you ready to go?” Philip reached for her hand. His clasp was warm, confident,
reassuring.

He picked up their basket. She folded the blanket, and they headed for the rig. He
packed away their things and assisted her and Amelia inside.

Amelia picked up the reins and called out “Good-bye, Mr. Lockwood!”

“Miss Amelia. Miss Hartley.” The overseer tipped his hat and headed for his own mount.

Philip swung into the saddle and turned his horse. “Let's go home before Mrs. Catchpole
sends out a search party.”

India's stomach clenched. No doubt she faced even more condemnation from the housekeeper.

C
HAPTER
12

J
ANUARY
19

“T
ELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR LIFE IN THE THEATER
.” Philip tossed another log onto the fire before resuming his chair behind his desk and taking up paper and pen.

“I don't know what else there is to tell,” India said. “Like any profession, it has
its routines and irritations. And its pleasures.”

“Let's start with the pleasures.”

“Well, as I've already said, there is great satisfaction in a story well told, whether
on the page or in the theater. There is nothing more enjoyable than hearing the collective
breath of an audience that is surprised or delighted by a performance.” She paused
to sip her tea. “Seeing the expressions on their faces when I take the final curtain
call somehow compensates for the difficulties.”

He laughed and scribbled on his paper. “What about friendships?”

She sighed. “There is a certain camaraderie, of course, among the players. But there
are also jealousies and petty disagreements, and hurt feelings when one actor gets
a better notice than another. We are human after all.”

“Exactly. That's what I must convey to your jury. Those men are bankers and shipping
merchants and the like. To them the theater is an exotic and not altogether respectable
world. I must show them that you are just like them, a professional with a job to
do, and with the same kinds of concerns.”

India chewed her bottom lip. “Will they believe you?”

“I don't think it's immodest to mention that I have had many successes in the courtroom.
But we can't take the jury for granted.” He opened a thick folder lying atop his
desk and paged through it. “I've collected letters from your photographer friend,
Mr. Sarony, your theater manager in Philadelphia, and the lady who ran the boardinghouse
where you lived for a time. Those will be read into the record. In Savannah, we have
your dresser Fabienne.”

Philip studied her from across his desk. “It wouldn't hurt to find additional local
witnesses. People who will vouch for your character, or people who saw you at the
theater that night and can attest as to your mood and movements.” He sat back in
his chair. “Is there anyone you haven't already mentioned?”

India closed her eyes and recalled the details of that evening. Arriving at the theater
in the carriage, giving her card to the young driver, speaking to the stagehand Mr.
Quinn, then the return to her dressing room. The confrontation with Mr. Philbrick
regarding the fateful script change. Fabienne's arrival, followed by that of Mr.
Sterling and India's understudy. The young actress had latched onto Mr. Sterling's
arm and whispered in his ear just before they left.

“My understudy, Victoria Bryson, was there. She and Mr. Sterling were quite enamored
with one another.”

Philip made a note. “Good. We'll talk to her.”

India remembered the strange woman who had lingered outside her dressing room door
before disappearing like an apparition into the darkened hallway.

“There was someone else.”

Philip sat up, instantly alert. “Someone else backstage?”

“Yes. In the hallway outside my dressing room. She was watching Mr. Sterling. But
I didn't think anything of it. I've never worked in a theater in which admirers didn't
try to sneak inside to get a glimpse of the actors. I assumed she was waiting to
speak to him.”

“And did she speak to him?”

“Not in my presence. Miss Bryson was with him. They left my dressing room together.”

“Can you describe this woman?”

India frowned. “Not really. She was wearing a dark-colored cloak with a hood that
hid her hair. The hallway is not well lit, so I couldn't see her face clearly. I
got the impression she was rather brown-skinned.”